Page 66 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

From the shadows, men emerged. There were half a dozen at first, then more. A dozen, at least. They moved like wraiths, their blades glinting in the dim light of approaching dawn.

Freya sucked in a sharp breath behind him. Brodie muttered a curse.

Michael remained still, his gaze cold as he counted the figures slipping through the trees. The odds had shifted.

Leighton grinned, spreading his arms wide. “What’s the matter, me laird? Did ye think ye’d have the upper hand?” He tilted his head mockingly. “A shame, really. Ye always did overestimate yerself.”

Michael said nothing. He could feel his men at his back, waiting. Watching.

They couldn’t charge in. Not yet, at least. They were outnumbered, and every man behind him knew it. If he wanted them to survive this, he needed time. Time for his men to think, to plan, to find a weakness.

And the best way to get time?

Make the bastard talk.

He exhaled slowly, keeping his expression cold. His stance shifted, just enough to appear casual and unconcerned.

“All this,” he drawled, his tone edged with mockery, “just because I threw ye in the dungeon? Tsk. And here I thought it was because ye were a piss-poor healer.”

Leighton scoffed, shaking his head. “Aye, ye always did think ye were clever, Michael.” He took a slow step forward, his men shifting around him like wolves scenting blood. “But this? This was never about the dungeon.”

Michael watched him closely, waiting.

Leighton’s smile was sharp and bitter. “I’ve been waitin’ for this for seven years,” he said, his voice suffocatingly thick with loathing. His eyes burned with something far deeper than mere vengeance. “Seven years since ye killed me brother.”

Michael went still.

Brother?

The realization struck fast and hard, but he gave no sign of his surprise. His mind reeled back, sifting through memories, trying to make sense of it.

“Ye cannae expect me to remember every man whose blood stained me blade,” Michael said in an effort to make him evenmore furious, because furious men couldn’t think properly. Furious men made mistakes.

If Leighton’s eyes could kill, they would have done so the instant those words left Michael’s lips.

“Laird MacLean,” Leighton said. “Me brother. Me blood. And ye butchered him like he was naythin’ but a common thief.”

Michael’s jaw clenched.

“MacLean was a traitor,” he said, his voice colder than steel. “He sold his own land for English gold. Let his people suffer while he filled his own coffers. He deserved his fate.”

Leighton’s face twisted with fury. “Lies!” he spat. “Ye did what ye always do, Michael. Ye decided who lived, who died, who was worth savin’. Ye’re nay better than the kings ye claim to despise!”

Michael remained silent, watching the way Leighton’s hands flexed over the hilt of his blade. The bastard was seething, losing himself in his own rage.

Good.

“I planned to kill everythin’ ye love,” Leighton sneered. “Yer son should’ve died in that fire. That should’ve been the end of it. But nay. The boy lived. Then ye cured the poison, all because of that bloody wench.” He jabbed a finger toward Freya without looking at her. “Ye ruined everythin’.”

Michael’s blood burned, but still, he didn’t react.

“So what now?” he asked, keeping his tone mild, as if the answer didn’t matter. “Ye settle for killin’ me and the lass? Seems a poor excuse for vengeance, Leighton. A bit… desperate.”

Leighton’s nostrils flared, but his lips curled into a smug grin. “Oh, make nay mistake. This will be enough.” He lifted his sword slightly, as his men shifted, tightening their formation. “Ye die. The wench dies. And when yer clan is left without its mighty leader, I’ll take me time burnin’ the rest to the ground, endin’ me revenge with destroyin’ yer legacy.”

Michael gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable.

“Then ye best be certain, Leighton,” he said. “Because if ye fail tonight, there will nae be a place left on this earth where ye can hide from me.”