Highlander's Touch (19 page)

“Cease moving or it’ll only hurt more,” he ground out in her ear. “Do ye know what they call me?”

Shona bit down hard on her lip, refusing to answer. Refusing to even believe this man existed. She pictured herself back in her cottage, grinding her herbs. And in that vision, she saw Ewan lying in bed, only he wasn’t ill. This time he was beckoning toward her.

“They call me the Butcher. And I’m going to flay ye alive.”

MADNESS consumed him. Ewan and his men were tearing the forest apart as the sun slowly succumbed to night and now they were trying in the dark with makeshift torches.

They’d been able to track the MacDonalds using their prints as far as a riverbed where they must have crossed.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Ewan growled, reining in his horse.

Bhaltair flicked his ears back, feeling the anger and frustration coursing through Ewan’s body.

“Bastards!” How the hell did they keep getting away from him?

Always one step ahead. Well, not this time. This time, he was going to come crashing down on them. If he ever fucking found them.

He swiped his sword at a branch and the limb crashed to the ground beside his horse causing Bhaltair to flick his tail back and forth—hitting Ewan in the back.

Somehow, the rash violence of slicing the tree calmed his rage enough that he could think. When he gazed out over the riverbed he saw a flicker of light. Another torch? No it was bigger than that—had to be a campfire.

“Douse your torches,” he ordered. “Someone has made a camp across the river.”

“It has to be the Butcher and his men,” Baodan said.

The torches sizzled out as the men dipped them into the water.

“And they have Shona.” Ewan urged Bhaltair into the water intent on crashing in on their camp. A niggling in his gut bade him to quickly stop. He had to start thinking with his head and not his heart. Crashing through the river wouldn’t save her. It would only alert the bastards he was coming and they’d ride off. “We canna get to them this way,” he muttered. “They will see us coming.”

“Aye, Captain,” Baodan said. “I believe the bed thins out a mile north.”

“I remember that as well. Let us go and cross there. We’ll sneak up on their camp from the north. Take them all out while they sip their whisky and jerk their cocks.”

Ewan stared out over the water a moment longer. Their fire still blazed, so they’d not caught sight of the torches, nor heard them speaking. Dear god, he hoped that Shona was all right. For every wound the Butcher and his men inflicted upon her, he would see it reciprocated to them tenfold.

THEY crossed the water two miles up instead of one as they’d planned, since the rainstorms earlier in the week had left the river fuller than usual. The wind shifted, sending a welcome blast of air over Ewan’s sweat-covered body.

Their horses picked their way carefully through the shallow water, barely make a splash as they went. Careful to stay hidden from any MacDonald scouts, they crept slowly toward the camp. The closer they got, the more he could hear the sounds of men moving about, their low chatter and the occasional snort of a horse.

A female voice caught his attention—her sharp shout, “
Nay
,” chilled his blood.

He shot his gaze toward Baodan, waiting for his man to restrain him from surging forward. The wait was not long. They surrounded him, and a hand was placed on Bhaltair’s reins.

“Let us count our enemies first,” Baodan murmured.

Ewan gritted his teeth, staring into the dimness of the woods, noticing for the first that the moon was full allowing him to see more than he normally would without a torch. At least the sky was cooperating with them.

Meanwhile, the sounds of more than one female in distress drifted from the camp making not just himself, but all the men, tense with the need to pound the bloody MacDonalds into the ground.

Three of his men fanned out to count the blackguards at the camp, and when they returned, their hands glistened with blood.

In low tones, they gave their report. “We took out the lurking scouts. There are over a dozen men around the campfire, some sleeping by the trees, and others... engaged. But no sign of the Butcher.”

“What of a fiery-haired lass?” Ewan asked.

“There are several lasses…” The guard trailed off, shifting his gaze from Ewan’s.

“Fuck,” Ewan said, he knew what that meant.

The jackanapes were engaged… Bloody hell, the bastards were violating the women as they spoke, and Shona could very well be one of them. Thank goodness for the assistance of the other warriors. They were about to head straight into battle and though he could take on more than one man at a time, he wouldn’t be able to defeat a horde of MacDonalds no matter how angry he was.

“We go now,” Ewan said.

Ewan signaled the men to surround the camp, and he himself circled around to the southern side of the camp. They split up. Without a second thought, Ewan yanked his claymore from the scabbard at his back. No battle cries were called. They rode soundlessly into the camp, dispatching of MacDonald maggots along the way.

By the time they’d made it through the first ring of wretches, the ones closer to the fire had gathered up their weapons and were prepared to fight.

Ewan whirled his sword in the air, a grin of bloodlust on his lips as he prepared to take out at least five more of the wastrels, but a sound in the bushes beyond the camp drew Ewan’s attention. The noise couldn’t be pinpointed, but the enemies surrounding him picked up on his attention and moved to stand between him and the din beyond the bushes. He arced his sword in the air, taking out one and then a second of the MacDonald bastards intent on sending him to his grave. The third ducked, but found his end beneath Bhaltair’s raised hoof.

“Good, boy,” Ewan crooned.

He whipped Bhaltair toward the bushes. What he broke in on took his breath and replaced it with angry fire. Ewan bellowed his outrage. His chest filled with the burning rage.

The Butcher stood with Shona, her hands tied behind her back and her skirts bunched around her waist and slung over his arm. He had a blade at her neck and another hovering over the curls of her sex.

The bloody bastard laughed low and evil. “Is this what ye’re looking for? Take another step and I’ll slice her pretty cunt into ribbons and then I’ll slash her from ear to ear. Ye can watch her bleed while I fuck her into hell.”

Ewan gritted his teeth, dismissed the plummet of his belly, his gaze catching Shona’s. Even though tears filled her eyes, there was still spirit there. The bastard hadn’t broken her yet. But Ewan might with the false words he now had to utter. He sent up a prayer that she’d forgive him for what he was about to say.

Screwing up his face into feigned disgust, he laughed. “What makes ye think I came for the girl?” Ewan pointed his sword at the Butcher. “There are plenty of cunts at the local tavern for fucking. Why would I waste my time on this sorry wench? I came for ye, Butcher. Toss that hussy aside and fight me like a man.”

The Butcher’s gaze faltered, and then he shoved Shona to the ground. Ewan forced himself not to leap down and catch her before she landed face first in the dirt. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

“Get off that horse ye limp cock and I’ll show ye how a real man fights.” The Butcher grinned, showing a missing canine tooth he’d most likely lost biting into one of his victims.

Shona scrambled behind a tree, far enough away that the Butcher couldn’t get to her before Ewan, but not far enough away in his own opinion. He wanted her sheltered at Castle Gealach. The sooner he gutted this bastard, the sooner he could get her to safety.

“
Fuirich
,” Ewan said, making sure Bhaltair remained where he was and ready to assist when and if he gave a signal.

Keeping his eye on the Butcher, he dismounted and stepped forward. A scar raked jaggedly across his enemy’s face and Ewan swore by the time this fight was over, he was going to make a matching mark on the opposite side.

“I’m going to watch ye bleed,” Ewan said.

“That I doubt.” The Butcher gave a smug grin, which Ewan returned.

The bastard was too full of himself. Arrogance was never rewarding and Ewan was going to use that to his full advantage. Battle, wars, and summits were all best fought with the mind first, and then brute force.

They circled each other; neither taking a jab, while off behind them sounds of swords clashing, bones crushing and men dying rang out. Was the Butcher taking Ewan’s lead or was he smarter than he’d given him credit for?

“Make your move,” the Butcher said, his smirk growing wider. “I can circle ye for hours.”

Ewan sneered. “As can I.”

“Then we’ll be weary—”

But Ewan cut him off, striking forward with a dagger he whipped out of his belt. Butcher jumped back, but not in time. The tip of the blade caught him on his chest, tearing through the fabric and slicing him shallowly above his nipple.

The Butcher feigned indifference. “Where did ye learn to fight? At the brothel with your whore of a mother?” The Butcher grabbed his prick and waggled it.

Ewan blew out a sad breath. Even in a life and death situation the arse made time for cocky jabs. And that one, never felt good. Ewan couldn’t remember his mother. In fact, he couldn’t remember much before he met Logan as a lad. It was very well possible that she was a whore, which meant anytime anyone said anything negatively about her, he grew angry.

“The only whores I learned anything from were your mother and your sisters,” Ewan taunted.

“Enough babble, I’m going to kill ye now.” The man quit circling and advanced.

Ewan was ready for him. He’d built up enough strength in his wrists and forearm to use his long claymore one handed and his dagger in the other. Without the skill, he would have had to fight two-handed with his claymore because of the length. That wouldn’t do fighting the Butcher. This jackanapes was likely to pull a viper from his sporran and thrust it in Ewan’s face, or worse, divide into four like a demon and attack him from all sides. That was the only explanation for a man as vile as the Butcher—that he was spawned from the devil.

Their swords clashed, sparks flying with the force of the connection. Ewan centered his concentration on the man before him. The Butcher was a skilled fighter, better than most. That fact had been obvious with how long he’d survived and been employed by the chief of the MacDonald clan. There were no tales told from the lips of men who’d fought against him, only from those who’d witnessed the Butcher’s devastation.

Ewan was not going to lose. His tale of victory would come from his own lips and he’d send the man’s head to his master in a chest.

The sounds around them disappeared as Ewan focused in on his goal—kill the Butcher. He advanced, parried, struck and retreated. Vengeance filled him. He fought for every innocent victim who’d succumbed to the devil’s sword, fists or other weapons. He fought for Shona, and for what he’d seen and what he didn’t see. Ewan’s blade sliced into the Butcher’s shoulder, his arms, his hands. He ducked from the man’s increasingly angry attacks, using his dagger to slice at his enemy’s legs.

He managed to avoid most of the devil’s counter-attacks, taking a few minor scratches and the brunt of a sword-hilt against his jaw.