A Highlander Christmas (11 page)

Lord, how she wished it could be forever.

She slid her fingers from the back of his head, over his jaw and down to his chest. His heart beat furiously against her fingertips.

His palms moved down her sleeves until he gathered her hands in his own. He gazed intently down at her. “Being apart from you for just two days has been torture. I want you beside me, Maggie. Forever. After the duel is over, come home with me.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. The comprehension of what he’d just asked slammed into her with such force that her knees wobbled. And with it came the accompanying knowledge that beyond anything she had ever desired in her life, she wanted to follow him north. She wanted to leave the MacDonalds behind. Logan’s home was far away, but it didn’t matter. Anywhere with Logan would be home to her.

There was nothing left to keep her connected to the clan she’d been born into—not anymore. Everyone she’d loved was gone. Well, except for Torean, who’d so easily offered her to Innes Munroe without a thought to her happiness.

Still, a tight little band of resistance remained, squeezing at her heart.

“But if you lose, Torean will—”

“I won’t lose.”

“Tell me,” she pressed. “What if you lose? What will happen then?”

“If I were to lose—and I
won’t
—I would be forced to leave without you.”

She studied his sparkling, narrowed eyes. And at that moment, she knew the truth, and her resistance snapped. “You’d abandon me to Innes.”

She didn’t mean it as an accusation, but as a statement of fact. No matter what, Logan would be true to his word. If he won, he’d happily take her as his trophy, but if he lost, he’d walk away as he’d promised. Having suffered the attentions of Innes—the most dis honorable man she’d ever known, a man who’d lie, cheat, and steal if it served his goals—this proof of Logan’s nature solidified her respect for him.

He, however, took her words as accusation. His features stilled, turned hard as the castle’s granite walls. “I am
not
going to lose.”

Of course, he was right. He wouldn’t lose a duel with Innes Munroe. He couldn’t. He was so much more than Innes, inside and out.

He would win, and when he did, he wanted her with him. Beside him.

“Aye,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Take me home with you, Logan. I want to be with you forever.”

Innes and Logan faced each other on the quickly erected stage, their seconds standing a few paces behind them. The population of the castle crowded the courtyard, pressing in against the ropes delineating the edges of the fighting area. Maggie stood beside her cousin at the center of one of the ropes. Extended family members and clansmen pressed in on them on all sides. The atmosphere was raucous, most of the onlookers already half drunk and ready for a bit of fine entertainment.

As Logan’s second, Donald MacDonald, stepped forward to finish strapping on his scabbard, Logan made a final once-over of his enemy. He had no inclination to waste time. He didn’t doubt that he could overcome the pasty-f aced, pockmarked, flabby man in rapid fashion. This assessment had nothing to do with boastful-ness and everything to do with the truth of the situation. Logan and Munroe were completely mismatched.

He would finish the duel quickly. Then he and Maggie would leave this place. The thought of returning home with her by his side fortified him, made him more impatient than ever to go.

In the spring, they’d be husband and wife. Maggie would be the lady of his house. And by spring, Maggie might be carrying his child. His son.

Before he’d met this woman, he’d avoided any and all thoughts of marriage. His brother had teased him that he’d be a bachelor for life, a state that sounded perfectly agreeable to Logan. Not only had the female sex generally discomfited him, but he had no responsibility to his clan to marry or procreate.

Now as their laird, he was responsible for producing an heir, but that didn’t factor into his decision either. Even if he didn’t possess a single head of cattle, even if he possessed a hundred older brothers waiting in line for the lairdship, Maggie would have been the woman who made him want to end his bachelorhood. He wanted her.

Torean MacDonald shouted for silence, and when the noise of the crowd died down, he held up his hands. Logan kept his gaze fixed on his opponent, though he saw that MacDonald had raised a small tartan square in his hand.

“And . . . begin!” MacDonald shouted, throwing down the cloth. Logan and Munroe drew their swords from their leather scabbards with a whoosh, and a cacophony of cheers and shouts erupted from the crowd.

With a low battle cry, Logan lunged forward, his gaze focused, narrowed. This duel was to first blood rather than to the death. Earlier, Torean had drawn Logan aside and explained that he desired Munroe alive for political reasons. Logan had easily acquiesced to Torean’s plea for mercy. Whether Munroe lived or died, Logan was going to take Maggie away to safety. Ultimately, the bastard’s death wasn’t a necessity.

In the end, both parties had sworn that the victor would give quarter as soon as the loser asked. And the loser would ask for quarter as soon as first blood was drawn.

With those rules in mind, Logan chose a spot on Munroe’s cheek. He’d score him there, scar the bastard for life as a reminder to all of what he was.

Munroe was slower than Logan. He’d scarcely raised his sword before Logan lunged halfway across the ring, his sword held at head level. Awkwardly, Munroe blocked Logan’s feint to the left side of his face.

Applause and shouts roared at him from all angles, but Logan kept his gaze firmly focused on his enemy. He whipped his broad-sword around, raising the tip to the spot he’d chosen just below Munroe’s eye.

Munroe’s free hand flew up, flinging a cloud of dirt at Logan. Grimacing, Logan blinked and stepped back to shake it off and rub the back of his arm over his grit-filled eyes. He growled with rage. What was the bastard doing? Delaying the inevitable? Trying to distract him with dirt?

When Logan opened his eyes again, a curtain of gray covered the world. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

He was blind.

Maggie clenched her fists at her sides. Her heart beat wildly against her breastbone. Sweat beaded over her brow, though the day was far from warm. She stood beside Torean, close to the marked edge of the ring in which the men fought. Bodies pressed in on them from all sides, and the air reeked of sweat and grime mixed with oiled leather and the damp wool of clothing.

After his first aggressive attack, which she was certain would bring Innes down, Logan retreated a step, shaking his head like a dog tossed into the loch might try to fling away water. It was as though Innes’s flailing, awkward motions had confused Logan. And then Logan froze, his sword held upright, his expression bewildered. For a moment that seemed to drag on forever, he hesitated.

A feeling of wrongness exploded like molten metal within Maggie. “Logan?”

With a sneer pasted on his face, Innes strode forward, his weapon aimed at Logan’s chest. Instead of stabbing Logan, however, he whacked at his upraised sword. Logan recovered quickly, lifting his weapon and swiping it before him as if to protect his face. It made a whizzing noise as it sliced through the air.

Again he froze, holding the sword upright, making no attempt to attack. The panic lodged in Maggie’s gut cooled into a steel block lodged in her stomach, dragging her down. She remained rooted to the muddy ground, unable to move.

“Logan!” Maggie’s fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically at her sides. “Go!” Torean’s hand curled over her shoulder, but she didn’t pay any attention to him. “Attack him, Logan!”

But Logan didn’t move, didn’t attack. Innes came forward again, and with a flourish of his sword, swiped it in a downward angle across Logan’s shirt.

Logan sucked in a breath. Maggie moaned softly. Red spilled over his chest, pasting his sliced shirt to his skin. He brought his fingers up to touch his bloody chest, blinking hard as if trying to focus his vision. His sword arm dropped to his side, and Maggie took a sobbing breath.

“Do you yield, Douglas?” Innes asked loudly.

Logan clenched his teeth.

“
Do . . . you . . . yield
?” Innes screamed.

A muscle twitched in Logan’s jaw.

“No!” What was happening? Acidic tears pricked at the back of Maggie’s eyes. “Don’t yield! Don’t give up. Attack!”

Torean’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “He cannot, Maggie.”

“What?” she breathed.

“They vowed beforehand to grant quarter after first blood.”

Maggie’s breath froze in her throat. She stared at the two men on the stage. The ruckus of the screaming onlookers around her dimmed to a background hum.

Logan had lost. Even if he wished to fight Innes to the death, even if he could kill him right now with one well-placed blow, honor wouldn’t permit him to renege on a vow.

Innes raised his sword and swiped it down the opposite direction on Logan’s chest, creating a bloody X.

“Do you yield?” Innes shouted. He was all but jumping up and down with victorious glee. “Do you? Do you?”

Logan fully turned his sword away from Innes, pointing it behind him. “Aye,” he growled. “I yield.”

The crowd groaned, unhappy that its entertainment had been cut so short. Maggie blinked through cloudy eyes as Innes raised his hands, bowed, and beamed in triumph.

“I’m going home,” she said harshly.

Maggie stood in front of the long head table in the great hall, her hands on her hips, facing Torean and his closest advisors. Including Innes Munroe, who sat two seats away from her cousin. The bastards had promised her that Logan was all right, that he’d survive his wounds, but they hadn’t allowed her to go to him. Because, of course, she was Innes’s chattel now.

Logan had been taken straight from the duel to the castle healer. After the doctor dressed his wounds, he would continue on his journey north as agreed.

Logan had somehow lost. She didn’t understand it—he seemed to have simply given up. When she confronted Torean with the oddness of Logan’s behavior in the duel, her cousin just gave her a strange look, then turned away to continue the discussion of the fight with his men.

None of it made sense.

In the end, though, Logan’s behavior during the duel didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d lost. Her heart had shattered. Logan was leaving. Innes intended to rape her into submission, and Torean intended to permit it.

A shudder twisted down her spine as she met Innes’s gaze. His intent was obvious in the way he eyed her over his roasted goose leg.

Over her dead body, she thought dispassionately, staring at him through narrowed eyes as he leered back at her. Goose grease smeared his thick lips and dripped from his chin, and meat chunks were wedged between his yellowed teeth.

From the beginning she’d known it was folly to place her life in the hands of men. Logan’s intentions had been honorable, but in her heart she’d known it wasn’t his responsibility to save her.

It was up to her to free herself from Innes Munroe. But how? Hopelessness swelled in her chest.