“Stay here.” His tone left no room for argument.
She found one anyway.
Her head snapped up. “What are ye doing? Ye’re bleeding.”
His hand pressed hard against the wound in his arm, and blood slicked his palm, but he ignored the pain. “Forget about me arm.” His voice lowered, now filled with fury. “I am going after the bastard.”
He could hear Lily’s shrill scream. He wouldn’t stop hearing it until the man who’d caused it was no longer among the living.
It reverberated through the trees and settled in his chest like a blade, but he didn’t stop running. Not now. Not when the archer was only a few yards ahead in his line of sight.
Alasdair ran like a man possessed. His sword slammed against his thighs, but he didn’t stop to give it a second thought. His boots tore at the ground, and his shoulders ripped through branches as he followed the dark figure.
He breathed hard, feeling his blood pound in his ears. The smell of pine and fresh air filled his nostrils, and the sky grew darker by the minute.
The archer, on the other hand, moved quickly. He slipped between the trees, and his hood brushed the low branches. He turned back once, his eyes sharp and narrowed. Then, he bent, grabbed a rock, and flung it over his shoulder.
Alasdair dipped his head and jumped to the side. The stone thudded into the earth where he had been a breath before.
Another log rolled down toward him, but he leapt over it, his teeth clenched. The wound in his arm throbbed with each push forward, but he did not slow down.
Clouds pressed low, swollen with uncertain storms, and the light dimmed even more in the forest. If he didn’t know better, he would think the dark clouds were more than the occasional empty threat brought by Mother Nature herself.
The archer darted left, scrambling up a slope, and Alasdair followed, his lungs burning, his body driven by rage. When they reached a clearing, he lunged.
His arms wrapped around the man’s waist, and both of them went crashing down the slope. Leaves and dirt gathered around them as they fell, and the man twisted, jabbing his elbow into Alasdair’s jaw.
Pain shot through his teeth.
Alasdair grunted, turned his head, and answered with a punch to the ribs. He felt a bone crack beneath his knuckles. The archer snarled, rolled, and shoved him away. Then, he grabbed a stone, raised it high, and drove his knee into Alasdair’s chest.
Alasdair threw up his leg and slammed his knee into the man’s back, breaking his hold. He seized the moment, catching his wrist and twisting it until the stone fell from his hand.
The man howled.
They rolled again, their faces streaked with dirt. Blood from Alasdair’s arm smeared the earth. The archer threw another wild punch, catching his cheek. Alasdair’s vision blurred, and he tasted iron. He ducked, caught the man low in the stomach, and drove him back.
Once he got a proper hold, he straddled the archer and pinned his arms with sheer force. Then, he pulled out his sword and pressed the cold steel to his throat.
His chest heaved as he growled, “Who are ye, and why are ye after me wife?”
The man stared up at him, his lips curled into a bitter smile, his breath hot against the blade.
“Answer me,” Alasdair hissed, pressing the sword harder against his skin. “Who sent ye?”
The archer spat. “Ye think yerself a laird? Ye are nae a true MacRay.”
Alasdair pressed even harder. “I daenae hear an answer.”
“Ye are a bastard born of lust, Alasdair. Ye are nothing but a pretender.”
Alasdair’s grip tightened.
“Tell me what I need to hear,” he said, his voice almost as dark as the clouds. “Or I will carve it out of ye.”
The man’s eyes flashed. “What ye need to hear?”
Alasdair’s eyes narrowed as the man broke into a soft laugh.
