Scoundrel’s Redemption (Highlander’s Pact #3)

Chapter Twenty-Three

A fter Teagan was confident the lasses and children would be safe in the tavern and bid Greer farewell, he joined everyone just beyond the village.

“Though I wish we could travel further out,” Edmund said, “’tis unwise to leave so many innocents undefended. So, ’tis here we must make our stand.”

“’Tis a good place.” Adlin eyed the thick woodland around them. “’Tis always better to fight among the trees than out in the open.”

“Aye, Da.” Tiernan grinned. “Especially when it comes to the Sassenach.”

They were right, and many a Scotsman had figured that out. The English didn’t do as well on terrain like this.

“There they are.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes at the faint movement in the distance. “Tracking ye, just as Cecille hoped.”

Teagan couldn’t help but grin with anticipation. He longed for the moment he could finish off at least one of Greer’s monsters. A monster, as they soon learned, who had a sizeable amount of men with him. Greer’s cousin Alfred rode alongside Bartholomew, his expression hard to read.

“I dinnae see Randolph,” Edmund muttered, switching to his inner Scot. “Where is the bloody bastard?”

Uneasy, Teagan scanned the Sassenach warriors and shook his head. “I dinnae see him either. ”

“Where is she, Scotsman?” Bartholomew called out. Despite being confronted with a line of Scottish warriors comparable to his own, the Englishman looked down his nose at Teagan. “Where is my wife?”

“Ye mean my wife,” he called back. “For we were married last night, Sassenach.”

Though fury blazed in Bartholomew’s gaze, he held his ground. “You will not incite me with lies.”

“’Tis no lie,” the holy man called out. Robed and all, he’d insisted on being there lest Bartholomew needed proof. “I married them myself under God’s eyes. Mistress Greer is wed to Teagan MacLauchlin, and ye, good sir, are nae welcome here!”

“Why should I believe you, Scot?” Disgust flashed in Bartholomew’s eyes. “Bible or no, you are every bit the barbarian your countrymen are.” His gaze homed in on Teagan again. “Return Greer to me, and I will not bring the wrath of England down on you and yours.”

“The wrath of England?” Edmund guffawed, snorting. He peered around as if looking for more men behind Bartholomew. “Have ye all that at yer back then? For, it doesnae look it.”

“Traitor,” Bartholomew ground out. “Was the safety of your people, your family, worth all this? These filthy Scots?”

Rather than respond to the Englishman’s taunts, Edmund slid a look Teagan’s way. “What say ye, friend? If he isnae going to be run off, might we get around to battling?”

“Aye, I’m all for it.” He cocked a brow at Adlin and Tiernan. “What about ye? More talk or more fighting?”

“There isnae any reasoning with ignorance.” Adlin unsheathed his blade. “So, I say fighting.” He considered the line of Sassenach. “My guess is more will flee than fight.”

“Aye,” Tiernan concurred, noting the unease in the eyes of Bartholomew’s men. “We willnae see too much strife this day.”

“There ye have it.” Teagan grinned at Edmund, raising his voice so that all heard, so damn eager his fingers twitched on his blade. “Fighting it is!”

“Unreasonable heathens,” Bartholomew shot back. He unsheathed his blade as the wall of Scots cried their various war cries and charged those who thought themselves superior, on Scottish soil no less.

Teagan spurred his horse with but one target in mind. It seemed Bartholomew felt the same because moments later, they clashed swords before the Englishman swung down, determined to battle afoot. With good reason, too. Greer was right. He excelled with a blade, and fighting this way gave him more options.

As men fought around them, they circled one another, gauging each other’s weaknesses, be it in one’s grip or footwork. Unfortunately, he detected none in the Sassenach. In fact, the moment he and Bartholomew engaged one another, he knew things wouldn’t go as smoothly as he’d hoped. That said, he needed to dislodge his opponent’s weapon. Where he doubted the Englishman had brute strength, his sword was very much an extension of his arm.

Tuning out everything around them, Teagan focused solely on the rapid movements of Bartholomew’s sword, sensing, yet again, no weaknesses. Even his footwork was flawless.

Sometimes the Englishman drove him back. Other times, he had the upper hand.

“Ye need to get that blade out of his hand soon, brother,” Keenan would persist. “If not, he will wear ye down, and that will be the end of it.”

He was right. Time was limited.

Yet everything he threw at the man, Bartholomew countered. The Sassenach spun away after one incredibly close thrust only to come at Teagan all that much harder. Sweat broke out on his brow. His muscles strained. They swirled, evaded, their movements swift, endless, and tiring.

Slowly but surely, a pompous grin slithered onto Bartholomew’s face as he drove Teagan back. Then back some more. “Did you really think yourself better than me, Scot?” He chuckled. “Surely now, you see the error of your ways. The foolishness of your actions.” The Sassenach cocked his head as though thinking about that. “But then perhaps not.” He flicked his sword even faster, laughing madly before he dislodged Teagan’s blade at last. “For you Scottish animals are—”

“No, stop!” Greer cried, drawing Bartholomew’s attention away just long enough for Teagan to scoop up his sword.

“Bloody hell ,” he cursed when he realized Greer had grabbed hold of Duncan, who, dagger in hand, obviously thought to come to their aid.

Just like she’d done at the beginning, Greer took up position in front of the lad. Only this time, she had a pompous, bloodthirsty Bartholomew barreling down on her.

“N-nay,” Alfred roared, stepping in front of her. Though trembling like a leaf, he held his blade at the ready and narrowed his eyes on Bartholomew. “Stop r-right there, I say! Stop in the name of all that is g-good!”

Suddenly immobile, caught in a memory, a violent moment in time, Teagan could barely think, let alone take action. Just like that, because of Alfred’s stance, he had returned to that horrible day. Saw the horrors in the village. The broken bodies of women and children. Their lifeless eyes staring at the sky. The pure degradation left in the wake of living, breathing men, turned monsters. The ruthlessness and evil of which people were capable.

Worse yet, he saw the man on the woman once more.

The brutality she had suffered.

Somehow that memory merged with Bartholomew shoving Alfred aside and grabbing Greer.

The two realities became one, and Teagan saw pure red.

Felt pure rage.

He heard a furious roar from far off and somehow knew it was him.

He had made that tortured sound .

He had become the monster.

Teagan had no idea when he moved, only that he must have because, the next thing he knew, he’d disarmed Bartholomew and pulled him away. Away from Greer, just like he had pulled the man away from that poor woman years ago.

“Ye bloody beast,” he swore, speaking to both the man from his past and Bartholomew. “Ye’ll not hurt her again,” he ground out. “Ye’ll not hurt any of them.”

Somewhere in the distance, he heard Adlin wondering if they should stop him, and Edmund and Malcolm unanimously saying no . None of it mattered, though. Nothing could stop him from unleashing pure hell on Bartholomew with his bare fists.

“Remember ye are nae alone, little brother,” Keenan whispered into his mind, a voice of reason amid the chaos. Amid sheer unbridled hatred. “Ye’ve a wee bairn and the lass ye love watching ye.”

“Love?” Punch. Punch. Punch. “I know nothing of love.”

“Aye, ye do, or ye wouldnae have felt so strongly then nor now,” Keenan would reply. “Ye couldnae feel such heartbreaking rage if ye didnae know love verra well.”

“He’s right,” Greer whispered into his mind.

“Ye’re right there, lass.” Punch. Punch. “So ye cannae be in my mind.”

“She can because she loves ye,” Keenan would say. “She can because she understands yer ability to love.”

“Love?” He stopped punching and gripped Bartholomew’s tunic, trying to focus. “What do I know of…”

All of a sudden, his vision snapped into focus, and he saw the groaning Englishman beneath him. Not bloodied beyond recognition quite yet but definitely struggling.

“I do know of love,” he murmured at last, seeing very clearly indeed. “Ye, however, Sassenach, know no such thing.”

With that, he did the only thing he could, and it was not what anyone would have expected.