Page 11 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

Torquil's men shifted, hands moving to weapons. They outnumbered Lachlann twelve to one.

"Two."

"Ye're alone, MacNeil," Torquil said, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice now. "And I have half a dozen men. Dae ye really want tae die over this?"

"Three."

Lachlann moved.

Alba had seen him train before, had watched him practice with sword and dirk in the yards at home when he visited Calum. But this, this was different. This was Lachlann as she'd never seen him: a warrior in full fury, moving with lethal precision through Torquil's men like death incarnate.

He struck the first man before anyone could react, blade opening a red line across the warrior's throat.

The second managed to raise his sword in defense, but Lachlann's blow shattered through the guard and took him in the chest. The third got a dirk into Lachlann's shoulder, but if it hurt him, he gave no sign—just grabbed the man's wrist, twisted until bone snapped, and threw him into two others.

It was over in seconds. Bodies on the ground, groaning or still. Lachlann standing in the center of the carnage, blood dripping from his blade, breathing hard but steady.

And Torquil, backing away with Alba still in his grip and a dagger now pressed to her throat.

"Stay back," Torquil warned, and Alba felt the cold kiss of steel against her skin. "Stay back, or I swear I'll⁠—"

"Ye'll what?" Lachlann took a step forward, and there was something predatory in the movement. "Kill her? Then ye lose everythin' ye wanted—her lands, her clan's alliance, whatever sick fantasy ye've been nursin' in that twisted mind of yers."

"I'll hurt her, then. Scar that pretty face so no other man will want her."

"And I'll kill ye slowly fer it." Another step. "But ye're nae goin' tae hurt her, Torquil. Because ye're a coward, and cowards dinnae have the stones tae follow through on their threats when they're cornered."

Torquil's hand trembled against Alba's throat. She could feel his fear, could smell the acrid scent of his sweat mixing with wine and blood. He was realizing, too late, that he'd made a terrible mistake.

"I... I'll tell everyone," Torquil said, his voice rising. "I'll go tae the king, tell him ye attacked me without provocation, that ye stole the lady I was courtin'."

"Dae it." Lachlann's smile was vicious. "Please. Give me an excuse tae hunt ye down and finish what we started here taenight."

For a long moment, no one moved. Alba could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, could feel the dagger's edge biting into her skin hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

Torquil's arm tightened around her waist, and Alba felt him shift his weight, preparing to retreat toward his horse. But Lachlann was already moving, closing the distance between them with predatory focus.

"Stay back!" Torquil warned, pressing the blade harder against Alba's throat. She gasped as the steel bit deeper, warm blood trickling down her neck.

Lachlann stopped, but his eyes—those storm-grey eyes—were calculating, watching every twitch of Torquil's muscles, every shift of his weight.

"Ye're nae walkin' away from this," Lachlann said quietly. "Let her go, and I'll make it quick. Keep holdin' her, and I promise ye'll beg for death before I'm done."

"Big words from a man who's outnumbered," Torquil sneered, though his voice trembled slightly. He started backing toward his horse, dragging Alba with him. "One more step and I'll slit her throat right here."

Lachlann's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of dirt and stones from the ground. In one fluid motion, he hurled it directly into Torquil's face.

Torquil flinched instinctively, his head jerking back, his grip on both Alba and the dagger loosening for just a heartbeat.

It was all Lachlann needed.

He lunged forward, his hand closing around Torquil's wrist—the one holding the dagger—and twisted viciously. Torquil screamed as bone cracked, the blade falling from his nerveless fingers.

At the same moment, Lachlann's other arm wrapped around Alba's waist, yanking her away from Torquil with such force that she stumbled into his chest.

"I've got ye," Lachlann murmured against her hair, already moving, putting his body between her and Torquil. "I've got ye, lass."

Torquil clutched his broken wrist, his face contorted with pain and rage. For a moment, he looked like he might charge at them despite his injury, despite the fact that Lachlann now held his bloodied sword pointed directly at Torquil's heart.