Trapped with the Devil of the Highlands (Falling for Highland Villains #3)

Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

For every bit of fear ye’ve made me sweetlin’ feel, ye’ll feel it tenfold.

The roiling, choking smoke turned the hulking wretch into a mirage, Camden’s blade grazing the breadth of Laird MacNally’s shoulders. The vile beast roared, his back arching against the pain that had assuredly followed. It was not, however, enough for Camden. He could not remember the last time he had missed, and he had been aiming for the man’s neck.

“Ye should’ve stayed well away!” Laird MacNally bellowed, lumbering around as blood dripped from his shoulders to the floor.

He was the only thing standing between Camden and what he wanted, but like so many battles before, Camden was confident of his victory.

“Are ye talkin’ to yerself?” Camden taunted, readjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword.

“Ye’re surrounded, Laird Cairn,” Laird MacNally sneered. “Did ye think I’d come without me men? I’ll have ye gutted and sent back to yer maither like I did to yer faither.”

Icy fingertips froze the blood in Camden’s veins. “What did ye say?”

“I had fire in me blood. I had but recently become a laird, invited to me first clan gatherin’. I couldnae resist stealin’ a kiss. A lot of fuss over nothin’ if ye ask me,” Laird MacNally panted, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. “Yer faither would still be alive if he hadnae been so daft as to challenge me. I suppose his son never learned that lesson.”

Everything slowed, the thud of anger pounding in Camden’s ears. He had not forgotten the name of the man who killed his father—he had never been told it. All his mother had ever said was, “He was nay one. A measly laird from a measly corner of Scotland, where I hope he rots.”

His mother had been trying to prevent history from repeating itself, desperately skirting around the inheritance of revenge, staying silent to reduce the chance of her losing the only family she had left. Perhaps she had been right to remain tight-lipped, knowing her son too well. He would have gone to kill the man without hesitation, had he but known his name.

But the world has a way of turnin’ in circles.

Now, Camden stood in the same position as his father, vengeance in his heart, braced to claim justice for not only his father but the two women he held dearest.

“Are ye done talkin’?” Camden glanced at Paisley, who had crouched down beside the nearest wall, the collar of her nightdress over her mouth. “Or would ye like me to give ye a moment to say a few final words before I do what me faither should have?”

His mother was safe at Castle Cairn, his father was dead and buried—all that truly mattered was getting Paisley out of there. He would give everything if he had to.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Paisley raised the knife Camden had given her, like she was asking if he needed her help. He shook his head discreetly.

“Yer faither said somethin’ similar,” Laird MacNally said with a sneer. “It was all bluster from him, too. I?—”

Camden lunged, his blade slicing through smoke and flesh. He was bored of the wretch, years of wanting to end the life of his father’s killer finally coming to an end, with the added prize of seizing justice for Paisley too.

Laird MacNally staggered back, a scarlet smile curving across his barrel chest. He stared down at it as if he did not know what it was, touching his meaty palm to the red wetness.

“Paisley, go!” Camden roared while Laird MacNally was distracted by his wound.

She blinked at him, hesitation etched on her face.

“I swear on all I hold dear, Paisley—includin’ ye—I’ll tie ye up and have nay mercy on ye if ye dinnae do as ye’re told!” Camden barked, sliding past Laird MacNally, putting himself between the woman he cared for and the man who sought to claim her.

He heard her gasp, followed by the patter of her retreating footfalls.

Dinnae look back, sweetlin’. Find yer parents—run to safety.

He let out a short breath of relief as those same footsteps returned. Glancing over his shoulder, stomach sinking, he understood why. Laird MacNally had not been bluffing—he had not come alone, and his men had flooded into the convent.

They moved through the smoke like wraiths, leering at Paisley as they herded her back to where she had come from.

“Ye cannae take us all,” Laird MacNally rasped, swiping a bloodied hand over his brow. “Foolish of ye to come alone, but that was yer faither’s mistake too.”

Camden shrugged, displaying a cavalier confidence that he did not feel. “I’ve faced worse odds.”

His hand shot out to grab Paisley, pulling her behind his back. “Stay there,” he whispered urgently. “Stay pressed to me, and if ye see a gap, run.”

“They’ll kill ye,” Paisley panted, her voice cracking.

“Have a little faith in me, will ye?”

He was squarely in the battle of his life, and he knew it. Camden took a deep breath, letting the world around him slow down on his own terms.

Beneath the crackle and hiss of the nearby blaze, he concentrated on closer sounds—the whistles and grunts of infrequently tested soldiers; the lumber and scuff as they stopped to receive instruction from their Laird; the rattling wheeze of their ‘mighty’ leader, sliced on both sides.

Laird MacNally drew his own sword with slippery hands and promptly lunged at Camden, no doubt hoping to drive the blade through Camden’s chest and end the fight immediately.

Camden twisted out of the way, Paisley still behind him, and as Laird MacNally stumbled forward with the momentum, Camden struck.

I’ll see ye in Hell.

He swung his blade upward, delivering what should have been a fatal blow. But, at the same moment, Paisley tugged on his shirt too hard in her alarm, throwing him off balance. The sword caught Laird MacNally’s arm instead, tearing another animalistic roar from the wretch’s throat.

A roar that summoned the stampede of more soldiers.

Camden squinted through the swirling smoke as figures shifted in the haze, his heart racing, blood rushing to his ears as he braced to take on an entire army if he had to.

“Laird Cairn! For Laird Cairn!” an almighty shout in a jarringly familiar voice cut through the smoke and confusion.

The figures charged forward, claymores raised, sweat and soot streaking their wild-eyed faces.

Camden did not know whether to laugh or cheer them on as they crashed into the fray and Laird MacNally’s men finally snapped out of their lazy, waiting stupor.

Marcus and his elite guard had arrived, and not a moment too soon.

“ This is why ye tell me where ye’re goin’!” Marcus skidded to a halt next to Camden as Laird MacNally staggered backward to join his own men, hiding among them like the coward that he was.

Camden swung one arm backward, wrapping it around Paisley’s waist, holding her to him. “How did ye ken I was here?” he asked his man-at-arms.

Marcus coughed out a breath. “Ye remember when I told ye about the man watchin’ from the woods and then from the mountains?”

“I remember tellin’ ye I was busy, and that ye were to kill him.”

Marcus waved a hand at the throng of men that Laird MacNally had disappeared into. “Turns out, it was him. We pursued him all the way here, saw the fire, saw the other men waitin’ for his command, saw the nuns pourin’ out, and then I saw ye. Put two and two together. Miss Nunford—very clever, M’Laird.”

The Cairn men clashed with the MacNally wastrels, blades clanging, shouts and groans rising like the smoke that grew thicker by the minute.

“Dinnae encourage him,” Paisley muttered in her bravest voice.

Marcus grinned. “Get her home, M’Laird. We’ll tend to this. Ye cannae let yer men have the thrill of the chase without the satisfaction of the kill.”

Ordinarily, Camden would have insisted on staying and joining the fight, leading the vanguard with his infamous talent with the sword. But, ordinarily, he did not have someone who needed his help more than his men needed his skills.

“Make sure Laird MacNally dies. I dinnae care about the rest. Let me ken when it’s done,” Camden said, promptly whirling around and scooping Paisley up into his arms.

She did not attempt to protest or wriggle free as he carried her away from the fighting. She clung to him instead, her face buried in his neck, whispering directions through the labyrinthine hallways.

The encroaching fire stalled them again and again, forcing them to turn back and find another way, until Camden feared they would never find a way out. A fear he would not have dared to voice, for if this was to be their final battle, at least they were together.

If that final moment comes, I willnae leave this world without tellin’ ye… without tellin’ ye what I feel.

What he felt for her had introduced itself at last, letting him know that it was not a stranger but an earnest friend as it stepped over the threshold of his heart. A welcome visitor he would never ask to leave. So, it would be a pity if they had no time to explore it together.

He held that thought as he ran on with her… and finally felt the cool caress of fresh air against his hot face.

Coughing and spluttering, he staggered out into a square of neat lawn, the mouth of an open door yawning on the other side. So close to freedom and the safety of the forest that he could almost taste the mulch.

“Camden!” Paisley screamed, clawing at his neck.

A bite of pain caught him in the calf, his balance faltering, his gait unsteady. It took all the strength he had to stay upright, setting Paisley down before he twisted around to gauge what had happened.

Ye bastard!

Laird MacNally huffed ragged breaths into the air, a heaving bull with a broadsword in hand. Fresh blood glinted on the edge of the blade, while a wet warmth trickled down the back of Camden’s leg, from the back of his knee to his ankle.

“It didnae have… to be… difficult,” the older Laird puffed, his shirt soaked with his own blood.

“Nay,” Camden replied, pushing Paisley further behind him, “it didnae.”

He ran with all his might, ignoring the scorching pain in his leg, closing the small gap in an instant. Like a joust without a horse, Camden pushed the last of his power into his legs and leaped into the air, man and blade soaring, arcing, and coming back down to earth as one.

He landed a short distance past Laird MacNally, and the foul beast gurgled strangely.

Got ye…

Camden turned around in time to see the old Laird swaying, his wicked hands pawing at his throat. Beyond Laird MacNally, Paisley stood wide-eyed, the color draining from her face.

Forgetting his own satisfaction, Camden hobbled back to his sweetling and yanked her into his arms. His hand slid over the top of her beautiful, fiery red hair and pulled her head into his chest, shielding her eyes from what was about to happen. She was too innocent; she did not need to see the death of another man at his hand.

“Ye’re safe,” he murmured. “Ye’re safe now.”

She made herself small in his embrace, her hands gripping his shirt. “I had forgotten him,” she whispered. “I thought he was just… a nightmare.”

“Aye, well, ye’re awake now, and that nightmare willnae trouble ye again,” Camden promised, dropping his sword so he could hold her fully. “I’ve got ye, sweetlin’. I’ve got ye, and I willnae let ye go.”

She breathed hard against his chest. “But… how did ye ken? How can… ye be here? Did I pray for ye without realizin’ it?”

“I told ye once that a person’s life is luck, nae some divinely guided thing. I didnae tell ye that it’s stubbornness too. I couldnae stop thinkin’ about ye, so I came back, and luck brought me back at the right moment,” he told her, wiping the soot from her cheeks. “Luck and runnin’ into yer parents.”

Her head snapped up. “Me parents?”

“They couldnae stop thinkin’ about ye either,” he explained softly. “I’ll tell ye everythin’ later, but we ought to leave before that fire starts developin’ a taste for grass.”

Paisley did not move, her grip tightening on his shirt. “But it’s nae right,” she wheezed. “So many lives—they dinnae need to be lost for me.”

“Sweetlin’, I would burn the world to the ground for ye.”

She shook her head, mouth twisting as tears beaded on her eyelashes. “I wouldnae want ye to.” A hiccup racked her chest. “I… I remember everythin’, Camden. I remember what he said, who he was. If I’d married him, it would have ended a years-long conflict. I could have ended it, but?—”

“Nay,” Camden said, pressing a finger to her lips. “Ye’re mine, sweetlin’. I’d start a war if any other man dared to touch ye or say ye were his.”

“But—”

“The quarrels of men arenae yers, sweetlin’,” he told her, swooping her up into his arms. “If there’s one thing ye’ve taught me, it’s that nay lass should be a pawn in a man’s games. Yer faither understood that. And once ye’ve heard what he has to say, I have a question to ask ye.”

Paisley’s eyes widened, her arms looping around his neck. “A question?”

“Aye. Dinnae let me forget.” He winked and carried her out of the convent, pursued by a black cloud of suffocating smoke that reached like claws, furious that it had just lost its prey.

Holding her close, spotting a crowd of worried nuns watching the fire rage along with Laird and Lady Morris, Camden carried his precious cargo toward them with hope and gratitude swelling in his heart. And a shiver of something altogether more potent that he now had a name for but had not yet dared to speak aloud.

If ye still wish to be a nun after this, sweetlin’, I might have to join a monastery meself.