Page 12 of Scandalous Passions

“Wh-what is happening?” she asked as icy terror gripped her, a stark contrast to the heat of moments before. Was it a raiding party? They could have no better champion than Sir Lachlan, but he was one man. Their driver was no warrior.

Janet didn’t lie. “The wagon is under attack.”

…

Never had Lachlan felt such ferocious rage, such pure bloodlust, as he did right now.

Lady Janet and Lady Marjorie had been threatened. But whoever these raiders were, they would never succeed. They would not abduct or hurt the ladies under his protection. He wasn’t a child, a frightened little boy who could be knocked aside now. He was the Highland Beast, the king’s champion, a hardened warrior who had killed countless men in battle. And in his current state of unrequited love and unsated lust for Lady Janet, the additional swirling confusion around his attraction to Lady Marjorie, he positively ached for a fight.

Lachlan unfastened his mantle and slid from his saddle, his longsword thumping against his thigh as he hit the ground. Storm, his pitch-black mount, nickered softly and pawed the ground. Eager, just like his rider.

“Guard the wagon,” he snarled at the ashen-faced driver, who nodded, dagger already in hand.

Then his gaze roamed the line of trees. The snap of twigs under feet and flashes of black and brown cloaks promised at least three people. Maybe more. But their ineptness eased him; skilled assassins didn’t clomp their way through forest or get so close. This was personal.

Moments later, four men burst forth from the trees, one bellowing, “A Kerr!”

A grim smile twisted Lachlan’s lips. So, his mannerless friend from the Great Hall had decided to attempt vengeance for his undignified departure. Or ransom the ladies. It would be the last mistake he ever made.

“Bastard knight!” called Lord Kerr as he and three men halted about twenty feet away, each brandishing a sword. “Give us the women, and we shall kill you mercifully. We have a taste for Jezebel and virgin this day.”

“Ride on,” Lachlan growled.

“You are but one man. You think to defeat four? Foolish bastard!”

In a movement so practiced he could have performed it half-asleep, Lachlan retrieved the dagger strapped to his thigh and hurled it. The second man in the row flopped to the ground, bright-red blood spraying from the neck wound.

“Three,” he replied, baring his teeth like the Beast he was. These Lowlanders were rock-headed to believe they could defeat him on the soil of his ancestors.

Lord Kerr stared at his fallen friend, his face paling. Then, with a high-pitched cry, he charged forward, sword raised, his two remaining men at his side.

Unsheathing his own sword, Lachlan waited. These fools could stumble over the slippery leaves, the barely dried mud, the unkempt road, and raise a sweat. They had chosen to engage rather than depart. He would not grant them a single boon this day.

Lord Kerr’s accomplices hindered rather than helped. It soon became clear they were accustomed to threatening rather than fighting; they swung their expensive swords in wide arcs that left their chests and bellies exposed, and their thrusts were weak and easily turned aside. Almost lazily, he helped them both unto judgment with two brutal slashes that spilled their innards onto the ground.

“Penniless, landless bastard,” spat Lord Kerr, now a defiant army of one. “Fed scraps from the noble table like a dog your whole life. I won’t kill you quite yet. Just maim. I’ll let you watch me fuck your women, over and over. They’ll scream and cry, but you’ll be able to do naught. Except know how badly you failed.”

Lachlan merely stared, his gaze unblinking. The word “bastard” had long ago lost the power to hurt. Besides, the man would not get near the king’s precious jewels, let alone hurt them. “Kill me?” he challenged. “Try, then.”

The Lowlander lunged, and their swords clashed, the metallic shriek overloud in the stillness of the roadside. Lord Kerr was far more competent than his men and driven by hurt pride, unflagging in his attack. But Lachlan had the superior height, reach, and strength advantage, and the older man soon dripped blood from several deep cuts.

“Son of a whore!” said his enemy, feinting left, then right, stabbing at Lachlan’s left shoulder. The sword tip parted the fabric of his shirt and doublet and took some flesh with it, a stinging reminder of his mortality.

His temper reignited, Lachlan’s sword arced and slashed through the air in a deadly dance and at last forced the Lowlander to his knees. “Yield.”

“Never.”

“Yield.”

Lord Kerr laughed. “I’ll return, you know. You’ll not be free of me. I’ll bring the best warriors in Scotland, and we’ll butcher you slowly. Tar and feather—no, crushed on the wheel like the baseborn sinner you are. I should like to watch that. I’ll make your women watch too. The king will get them back for gold, but they’ll be broken. So very broken. And they’ll deserve it, the whore and the traitor’s daughter…”

The word hung in the air like heavy mist, and the Lowlander looked at him in confusion. Then his body fell one way, his head the other.

Lachlan sucked in slow, deep breaths to ease his racing heart. Today his victory was a rather hollow one; while he had killed countless on the battlefield and resolved many a “delicate matter” for the king, this was a little different. He had slain a Scottish nobleman. There would be much to explain and seek penance for.

“Driver!” he called, and the man ran over. “Wrap and bury them. With a cross. And a prayer…for their souls.”

“Aye, sir!”