Page 46 of Taming the Highland Beauty

The Englishman kept his feet. “Good.” He grinned at Callum. “A worthy opponent at last.”

Callum dashed a hand across his brow to keep the sweat from rolling into his eyes. He kept his body low as he watched the Englishman’s body for the next attack and cleared his mind of all else except survival. In a heartbeat, the dark-haired man charged with the force of a raging bull.

Callum blocked the strike. At the blow, the sharp ringing of steel filled the air, and it took Callum a moment to recover his momentum to strike again. His sword arm was aching, his body bruised, cut. He was more used to playing his mandolin than wielding a sword, but despite his lack of practice and the pain radiating through him, he pressed the attack. His sword clashed against the Englishman’s once, twice.

The man’s eyes filled with rage, and he lunged forward.

Callum blocked the strike, then slashed again and again as the air grew choked with dust. His breathing was ragged as he paused just long enough for the Englishman’s blade to sweep in an arc across Callum’s shoulders, severing the tail of his tartan. Callum lurched back just in time to spare his body, then spun out of the way.

It took a moment for Callum to regain his footing, but when he did, he brought his sword up and sliced through the man’s sword arm, exposing muscle and bone. The man dropped to the ground, crying out in agony.

Callum had no time to mourn the fallen man or offer aid as another Englishman entered the fray. Duty compelled him to fight his way through the courtyard. Men who charged him fell like leaves before a gale. Yet, as one fell, another took his place, then another, and another. But Callum prevailed, his movements growing increasingly confident.

In the distance, near the open gate, Callum spotted Lieutenant Gilbert. Their eyes met across the chaos of the battle. Again, driven by duty, Callum strode forward to confront a man he had hoped would not become his enemy.

Callum stood face-to-face with the lieutenant and his jaw clenched with anger. The English officer had dared to invade Dunvegan Castle, the sacred home of the MacLeods. “Why are you here when we had reached an agreement?”

“We were simply following orders,” he replied.

Callum scoffed. “Orders from a king who knows nothing of our traditions, our way of life.”

Gilbert smirked. “Perhaps, but that was before you revealed your true nature, MacLeod. You and your men have been attacking our troops from along the shoreline. That was confirmed this morning when I watched you sail out of the harbour on your brother-in-law’s ship.”

Alastair’s scouts had reported that the English were close. Now Callum knew just how close they had been. “Was there any such attack while we were gone?” Callum asked, keeping his sword at the ready.

“No,” the lieutenant replied, lowering into a fighting stance.

“Then how can you accuse us of something for which you have no proof?” Callum raised his sword in a salute.

Lieutenant Gilbert offered him a sneer in response. “Why else would you be out there if not for no good?”

Callum shook his head. “Any peace between the English and the Scots is doomed to failure if you do not rely on facts.”

The lieutenant narrowed his gaze as both men circled each other. “What facts?”

“You knew that Marcus just arrived back at Dunvegan. You were there when he returned. And you also had to suspect his ship was somewhere close by, has been close by since his return. If you were spying on the MacLeods, you would know this.”

The lieutenant’s blade arched towards Callum in a disembowelling sweep, the blood grooves on the weapon whistling their deadly melody. “What does all that have to do with anything?”

Callum dropped back and let the blade swing through the empty space where his body had just been. “Did any attacks occur in the last few days?”

“Yes,” the lieutenant said as his weapon swung wide. “Last night there was an attack on the forty-first regiment near Portree.”

Callum jumped inside to open space and drove his elbow into the Englishman’s face. With a half turn, the razor edge of his sword cut across the lieutenant’s sleeve, laying open a swathe of the red uniform and exposing the arm beneath. “How do you suppose we sailed all the way there and back to leave shortly after sunrise today?”

Lieutenant Gilbert’s sword slashed again, aiming for Callum’s thigh.

“The fact is that it cannot be done.” Callum, spun and came around, kicking the lieutenant from behind, forcing him to the ground on both knees. The Englishman’s sword thumped against the earth and rolled an arm’s length away. His opponent knew his head was within the reach of Callum’s sword.

The lieutenant’s face paled.

“If that is why you are here, fighting the MacLeods tonight, I suggest you call off your men. And work on gathering better information before your men suffer any further injuries.”

The Englishman nodded. He knew now he had made a grave mistake coming after the MacLeods.

Callum picked up the lieutenant’s sword before helping him to his feet.

The lieutenant signalled to his flagbearer to call off the attack. The call went out. At the sight of the lieutenant standing beside Callum, with his weapon in the Highlander’s hand, the other Englishmen ceased their fighting.