Page 94 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Neilina could see the sweat on them, the blood on Marcas's coat, the madness bright in Cailleach's eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks as she scrambled to the side, away from the fighting.

"She'll be the death of ye, MacKinnon."

Marcas's jaw clenched.

"Then so be it."

Cailleach heaved against their locked blades and shoved him backwards. Marcas stumbled, his heel catching on a broken board, and Cailleach came after him with burst of speed that suggested he had saved the best of himself for this.

Neilina pressed herself against the wall, her heart hammering so hard it hurt, and searched the room. Marcas's sword lay near the far corner, a long, bright line against the dark stone. Too far. Cailleach was between her and it, and every step she took toward it would be one he would see.

Cailleach struck at Marcas. Marcas blocked, but she saw it now, the way his arm came up half a breath late, the way his weight had begun to sag. The next blow caught him across the side. He cried out, a raw sound torn out of him, and blood bloomed beneath his coat, spreading dark and fast across the wool.

"Marcas!"

He dropped to one knee.

Cailleach raised his sword in both hands.

Neilina’s legs moved without her thinking about it. Something at the edge of her sight had caught her attention, a long, jagged length of wood lying where the table had broken, one end splintered to a point. She seized it with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, rough against her palms.

Cailleach brought the blade down. Marcas threw himself sideways and rolled, and the steel sparked against the stones where he had been.

Neilina swung.

The wood struck Cailleach across the back of the head with a sound she would remember for the rest of her life, a dull, solid crack that shuddered up through her arms and into her shoulders.

He staggered and his sword slipped from his hand and clattered across the floor, and for one suspended moment he stood swaying with his back to her, one hand rising uncertainly to his skull.

Marcas looked up. Their eyes met across the wreckage of the room.

Neilina was breathing hard, both hands still wrapped around the broken wood, her whole body trembling. She stared at him as though she'd forgotten how to let go.

"Get up," she whispered.

Marcas did.

He rose from the floor with one hand pressed to his side and a look on his face she had never seen before, and Cailleach turned, blood running down behind his ear, his lips already shaping her name in fury.

"Ye—"

Marcas hit him.

The first blow sent him reeling. Cailleach lunged for his fallen sword and Marcas kicked it out of reach. The man whirled, snarling, and went for Neilina instead. Marcas caught him by the back of the coat and hauled him around, and they crashed down together onto the stone.

Cailleach struck him across the face. Marcas answered it. They rolled, grappled, struck again, each blow landing with the ugly, wet sound of flesh on bone, until Cailleach's hand dropped to the knife at his belt and the steel flashed.

Marcas caught his wrist. "Nae."

He twisted, and the knife fell with a bright, ringing clatter.

Cailleach thrashed beneath him, spitting blood. "I’ll use her⁠—"

"She belongs tae herself, and the land isnae yers anymore"

Marcas drove his fist into his jaw. Cailleach's head snapped back and went still for half a second, long enough for Marcas to drag in a breath. Then the man's eyes slid past his shoulder and settled on Neilina.