Page 133 of Promised to the Forbidden Laird

Trust me.

I will reach ye.

His own terror pressed against his ribs, but he forced it beneath command. Fury burned through him, cold and murderous, yet he held it there. One careless step would spill her blood across the place where they were meant to speak their vows.

Donaldina’s gaze remained fixed upon his. Then, something changed in her expression. Roy saw the decision in her eyes a heartbeat before she moved.

She drove her heel backward into Cormac’s knee. His hold loosened.

Roy moved without thinking. He crossed the distance before Cormac recovered. His sword struck the dagger aside with a force that jarred through his wounded shoulder and down his arm. Steel spun across the dais and struck the stone steps below.

Cormac seized Donaldina’s gown and dragged her with him. The fabric tightened around her throat.

Roy caught her wrist and pulled. For one terrible instant. Cormac’s grip held. Then, the sleeve tore beneath his hand. Donaldina stumbled forward and struck Roy’s chest. Pain flared through his shoulder, but he scarcely felt it. His arm closed around her, for one breathless moment of relief. Then, he drew her behind him.

Father Maol was knocked sideways against the altar as one of Cormac’s men attempted to flee the sudden clash. The ceremonial cup overturned. Salt scattered across the dark wood. The woven cord intended to bind Roy and Donalinda’s hands fell among the ashes, half buried beneath soot and blood.

Roy placed himself between Donaldina and Cormac. There was no time for tenderness, no room for comfort, but Roy managed to tighten his fingers once around her hand.

Then, Cormac attacked. Roy turned the first blow, though the force of it sent pain through his wounded shoulder. Cormac struck again, abandoning discipline for fury. His sword cut downward, sideways, then thrust toward the blood darkening Roy’s coat.

Roy gave ground a single pace. Donaldina moved with him.

“Me lady,” Malcolm urged, as he reached her and took her arm. “Back.”

She resisted, and Roy could sense her hand tugging at his coat. A part of him wished she would stay close enough to feel her presence. However, Cormac’s blade struck again, this time deliberately targeting his wounded shoulder.

Roy turned it aside again. Blood gathered at his cuff and darkened the edge of his hand, making the sword hilt slick within his grip.

“Donaldina,” he urged.

He did not turn. There was no time for argument.

She released him. The absence of his coat beneath her fingers felt like stepping away from shelter into open wind.

Malcolm drew her behind an overturned table where several guests crouched beneath the protection of MacNicol guards. Donaldina remained standing despite his attempt to lower her. She would not lose sight of Roy.

Cormac drove forward.

“Look at what ye have done!” he shouted. “MacIver and MacNicol beneath one roof, pretending old blood can be washed clean with vows.”

Roy answered with steel. He caught Cormac’s blade near the hilt, twisted and forced him sideways. Cormac struck the altar, scattering the ceremonial bread across the floor. One loaf rolled from the dais and came to rest beside a fallen sword.

Around them, the balance within the hall shifted. Hamish rallied the MacIver warriors near the eastern passage. Malcolm’s men closed the main aisle. MacNicol archers forced the remaining attackers away from the guests while servants dragged the wounded behind the shelter of the long tables.

Red and green moved together, not separately and certainly not by accident. A MacIver warrior shielded an injured MacNicol elder with his own body. Two MacNicol men dragged one of Hamish’s wounded soldiers from beneath a collapsed bench. Commands passed between them without hesitation over which clan had the right to give them.

Cormac saw it. Hatred distorted his face.

“Ye think this is unity?” he demanded. “It is surrender. The Crown binds one clan tae another until none remember how tae stand alone.”

Roy advanced. Cormac’s sword met his again.

“The Highlands survived because nae King could hold them,” Cormac continued, retreating beneath the force of Roy’s blows. “One clan against another. One chief checking the next. Division kept us free.”

Donaldina stared at him. At last, the truth of him stood fully exposed. It had never been love, not even the corrupted, possessive thing he once attempted to name love. She had been blood, land and legitimacy, a MacNicol bride through whom he might rule Dun Ard and preserve the old fractures, calling their weakness freedom because division offered men like him room to rise.

Cormac had not feared the Highlands would be destroyed. He feared a united Highlands would no longer require him.