Page 67 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

Leighton only laughed. “We’ll see about that.”

Michael flicked a glance at Brodie. Just the briefest look. A signal.

They had what they needed. Now it was time to fight.

Michael moved the moment the first blade swung.

Steel clashed, a sharpclangsplitting the air as he parried, twisting his wrist to drive his opponent’s sword aside. The man barely had time to react before Michael stepped in. He buried his blade deep into the man’s gut. A choked gasp, then silence. He ripped the sword free, the body crumpling at his feet. There was no time to think.

Another came at him. It was a broad-shouldered brute with wild eyes and a raised axe. Michael ducked low, feeling the wind of the swing whistle past his head. Before the man could recover, he surged forward, slashing across his chest. Blood sprayed, dark against the pale light of dawn. He didn’t wait for the body to fall.

The battle had erupted around him, chaotic and merciless. His men fought with practiced precision, but Leighton’s forces were brutal, fighting like men with nothing to lose. And that made them extremely dangerous. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, the ground quickly turning slick beneath their boots.

“Is that the best ye’ve got, Michael?”

Leighton’s voice rang out above the fray, smug and untouched.

Michael pivoted, his gaze cutting through the chaos to find him. He was standing at the edge of the fight, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. He hadn’t lifted a blade. Not yet.

The bastard was watching, mocking them.

“Ye look tired,me laird,” Leighton called over the clamor of steel and screams. “Mayhap ye should sit this one out. Let real men do the fightin’.”

“Like ye’re doin’?” Michael managed to spit, but then a new opponent lunged at him.

The man was sloppy and desperate. Michael easily sidestepped, then slammed his elbow into the man’s jaw and drove his sword into his chest. He wrenched it free and turned just in time to parry another blow.

His muscles burned, his breath came in sharp bursts, but he didn’t stop moving. A blade sliced too close, nicking his upper arm. Pain flared inside of him, but he barely felt it. He countered with a brutal slash, sending another man to the ground.

Brodie was near, locked in combat with his face bloodied but fierce. Beyond him, Michael caught a glimpse of Freya. She was pressed against a tree, her eyes darting wildly, searching. She was holding a dagger.

Good lass.

“Well, well, I must say, I expected more,” Leighton mused, stepping closer but still out of reach. “Ye always did have a reputation, Michael. Thought ye’d put up more of a fight. Or is it only when ye’re takin’ a man down from behind?”

Michael exhaled slowly, forcing his rage down. He had never attacked a man from behind and that bastard knew it.

Leighton wanted him reckless. Wanted him to charge forward, to act without thinking.

Nae yet.

Another attacker came. This time, it was a wiry man with twin daggers. Fast. Skilled. Michael barely blocked the first strike before the second sliced toward his ribs. He twisted, the blade skimming his side instead of plunging deep.

The man grinned. “Slippin’, are ye, me laird?”

Michael drove his sword through his throat.

“Nay,” he said flatly as the man collapsed.

A flicker of movement, and then pain flared across his back. A coward’s attack, a blade slicing just enough to sting. He spun, slashing in a wide arc, and caught his attacker in the stomach. Another one down.

He kept carving his way through this chaos. Every swing of his sword was precise, ruthless. Another man fell, then another, but there were always more.

Leighton had placed his strongest fighters between them, but it didn’t matter. Michael fought with the fury of a man who had waited too long for justice for his son. His muscles burned, his breath came harsh and ragged, but he didn’t falter.

He could see the bastard now, just beyond the last line of defense. Leighton was smirking, standing as if he were watching a game. He had his arms still crossed, untouched by the bloodshed around him.

Michael cut down another man. Then another. And finally, there was nothing and no one between them.