Laird of the Mist Read Free

dull-witted bastard.”
    Callum heard the side of Angus’s sword smack against Brodie’s head, and Brodie’s subsequent oaths before he pounded his fist into Angus’s chest. The chieftain ignored his kinsmen and observed the object of their disagreement. The mounted warrior certainly looked like a lass. He’d never seen a lass fight before, though many times he wished he had. His mother’s screams still haunted his dreams. He’d been a lad when Duncan Campbell’s father raided his village and his men raped and branded the women, though no hand had been lifted against the earl’s men.
    But here was a woman who had the spirit to actually fight to save her life.
    “’Tis a lass,” he said, more to himself than to his men. “Mayhap Argyll’s niece.”
    “Aye.” Graham nodded, watching her lush raven mane swing around her shoulders while she whirled her horse around and deflected another mighty blow. “She tires against the McColls. I know she’s a Campbell,” he said with only a hint of regret, “but it looks like a good enough fight. Shall we aid her, Callum?”
    Graham smiled at his friend’s slight nod, and then he flicked his reins and took off a moment after Callum kicked his stallion’s flanks and raced toward the melee.
    The MacGregor chief cut a straight path to the lass, swiping his claymore through anyone in his way. His men fanned out around him, killing the rest. The closer he came to her, the harder he rode, his dark hair snapping behind him like a pennant. Her arms were growing weary. She was having difficulty lifting her blade to parry the flurry of strikes hammering down on her. He told himself, while he hacked at a McColl riding up behind her, that he was rushing to her defense to keep her alive so that she could tell him Duncan Campbell’s whereabouts.
    She whirled on him just as he reached her, and Callum felt something in his gut jolt. Her skin was pale alabaster against a spray of soft obsidian waves, dampened by exhaustion. Her eyes were beautiful as black satin, and when she looked up at him, they told Callum she had just lost hope in surviving this day.
    He did not expect her to swing at him, looking as defeated as she did. For an instant, he merely gaped in stunned disbelief at the blood soaking his thigh. Then he lifted his claymore over his head and brought it down hard on another McColl. The lass turned away from the force of his deathblow, but a moment later she returned her gaze to his. Callum responded to the great relief in her expression by wheeling his mount around and calling out to his men to guard her on every side. There, they shielded her until the only men left in the yard, besides them, were dead or wounded.
    When Callum turned his mount around to face her again, her sword slipped from her fingers. He glanced at it, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Are ye injured?”
    She blinked as if emerging from a daze. Her breath still came heavy enough to part her lips.
    “Are ye hurt?” he demanded again.
    She shook her head nae. “Are you?” Her gaze slipped to his thigh. “My deepest apologies for wounding you. I did not know who you were, or—”
    “Are ye Duncan Campbell’s niece?” he interrupted.
    She either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore his query. “I must find Amish and John. They are old and—”
    “Woman,” he cut her off again, this time his voice hard enough to make her blink. “Are ye Argyll’s niece?” When she nodded, his expression went hard. “Where is he?”
    She looked around at the fallen, presenting him with the delicacy of her profile. “I had hoped he was here. But he must have run off with one of my sheep.”
    A hint of amusement crossed Callum’s expression before he angled his head and barked out another order to the four men around her. “Brodie, check the keep with Angus and Jamie. If ye find Argyll, bring him oot to me.”
    “Who are you, that I may properly thank you for aiding me?”
    Callum’s gaze swung back to her.