Page 60 of Highlander’s Bride

“Nae!”

Angus was fighting his own battles, and Raghnall saw from the corner of his eye that the rest of Euphemia’s troops had seen them, and a huge wave of men were coming at them.

Now or never, they had to finish it.

And he would. Because now he had his own reason to get even with Euphemia. Bryanna wouldn’t be in this situation if not for Euphemia attacking the castle and then taking her hostage.

A wave of pure, white-hot rage broke through Raghnall’s body in an all-consuming blast. He stabbed his opponent in the face, piercing his eye, and let him fall.

Then he looked at Euphemia, who stood, helpless, furious, panting wildly. The two men who had been guarding Bryanna stood protectively around Euphemia, but no one would stop Raghnall now. He would not let the same thing happen to Bryanna as had happened to Mòrag. He would not let her die.

And if Euphemia and anyone else stood between Raghnall and Bryanna’s chance to live, he’d do anything.

Anything.

He’d gladly give his own life.

Roaring, he launched at them, scything a wide horizontal arc as he ran, slashing the air before him like a madman. Forgetting all caution, his logical mind slipped into darkness. And all that was left of him was this raw, pulsing rage.

He was that rage. That ancient, marrow-deep call for life and death that every man had to face.

He was the spirit of Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of war and death, and the Celtic god of war, Neit.

His own war cry rang in his ears. The world stopped existing. There was only slashing, jabbing, piercing, and striking. There was blood and broken bones and torn flesh.

And there was steel.

And then the two piercing icy-blue eyes found him. He stood, panting. Men were coming—he saw the wall of them approaching—and if they reached him, it was all going to be over. The two guards were dead, and Raghnall tasted blood on his tongue, and he thought that he had, perhaps, bitten into one of their throats like an animal. He spat the blood, and with three giant steps he walked to her, his sword ready to strike.

Euphemia unsheathed her own claymore and lifted it, and their blades clashed. But her arms were weak, and there was pain in her face. Raghnall pressed his sword down, and beat her sword out of her hands as though she were a child.

He raised his sword, pointing it right at her throat, naked above the armor and completely unprotected.

She was done; he saw it in her eyes.

“Raghnall!” Angus called as he ran towards him. “They’re coming.”

Raghnall grabbed Euphemia, clasping one arm around her shoulder and pressing her back to him. He held his blade to her neck.

He turned to where Angus was pointing. From two sides—the side of the inner wall that was still held by the Mackenzies and the outer wall—Ross men were coming.

“Call them off,” yelled Raghnall. “Tell them to go back. Ye’re the Mackenzie prisoner now. Tell them to stop!”

He felt Euphemia shake in his arms. “Nae.”

“Tell them to stop, Euphemia!” roared Angus as he looked at her. “’Tis over.”

She swallowed, her neck moving against Raghnall’s blade. “Nae. no one humiliated me like ye have. I will never stop.”

“Ye dinna have a choice, Lady Euphemia,” Raghnall said. As the men stopped before them, Raghnall thought there must be two or three hundred of them still. Too many against just two.

“Turn back!” said Angus. “Go away, and we wilna hurt yer mistress. Move one finger—”

“Shoot him!” yelled Euphemia. “Archers, ye have the perfect shot! Shoot him!”

“Stop!” Raghnall yelled. “Dinna even think of it! Or ye will return with the body of yer mistress, and how would ye explain it to the Earl of Ross? Ye think he’d take it kindly?”

The men’s hands were on their swords, and their bows and crossbows.