“I know I heard something.” Derek’s ears tuned to the sounds around him and he closed his eyes ever so briefly, holding his breath, desperate to hear again what he was almost certain he’d heard before.

A gasp. A whimper. The sound of a collision.

When he opened his eyes, he found Hugh looking just as concerned.

They exchanged glances, then slid from their mounts and handed the reins to the nearest men.

He was careful where he placed his feet, reflexes kicking in as he avoided leaves and twigs, nearly holding his breath.

The animal sounds around him had all but ceased, even the song of the birds. They knew something was wrong, just as he did.

Where were they? Who were they? How many were just beyond the next tree, behind the next shrub? Lying in wait…

A twig snapped. Then another.

He whirled in the direction of the sound, his dirk ready, every muscle tensed.

His eyes locked with hers, his heart soaring and sinking all at once.

She was dirty, scraped and scratched, one side of her face swelling from where she had clearly been hit. Her tunic was torn, covered in needles and bits of pinecone.

But she was alive.

“So. Here we are.” MacBride stood behind her, one arm tight around her shoulders and chest, crushing her to him.

He was sweating profusely—it rolled down his face, soaking into his tunic, and his heavy breathing caused Derek to wonder if he were about to have an attack. A large man such as he, running after a tiny lass probably twice as fast as he.

“Here we are,” Derek agreed.

Hugh stood to his left, scanning their surroundings, likely watching for the other men whose tracks they’d followed.

Everything was so clear, so sharp. Down to the delicate buds on the branches of the trees behind MacBride’s head.

Derek saw everything, heard everything. The way it used to be just before battle, when his senses had focused with unnatural intensity and allowed him to be the victor.

He could think clearly, too, which was just what he would need to do. Her life was in danger.

It wasn’t just his life anymore. He was fighting for much more than that. He needed every bit of clarity he could get.

“Ye know why this has to happen, don’t ye, lad?” MacBride gasped, his entire body heaving in an attempt to suck in the air it so desperately needed.

But the blade he pressed to Margery’s delicate throat didn’t shake. Just a bit more pressure and it would break the skin.

Derek stayed perfectly still, gauging everything around him.

Hugh and the rest could take care of MacBride’s men. This was his fight, right here in front of him. This was the man he would kill, or likely be killed in the attempt.

“I know,” he nodded.

“Nobody leaves me high and dry, as you did.”

“I never meant to mislead you.”

“Drop the dirk,” MacBride ordered, his voice sharper than before. He was beginning to get hold of himself, which didn’t bode well.

Derek did as he was told, and Margery’s soft whimper told him of her growing despair. To her, it would look as though he were giving in, when he was doing anything but.

Footsteps sounded around them. MacBride’s men.

Whoever they were, they would be no match for Hugh. They weren’t trained the way Hugh’s men were. Derek remembered those days, spending hour after hour in the field, learning to fight. Back then, it had all been in defense of the clan.

That training had served him well against the Norwegians. A trio of sailors should seem like a practice exercise in comparison.

But then again, there was that blade, and that precious throat.

Somehow, even the sight of an advancing Viking hoard hadn’t stirred his blood the way a glint of sunlight off that blade did.

“I’ve brought with me a contract,” MacBride explained. “And on it, I want your mark. It states the ships are mine, lad, to do with as I wish. No questions, no provisions. Very simple.”

He had expected this from the moment it became clear MacBride had trailed them from Kirkcaldy. “I suppose I’m to expect no payment in return?”

MacBride snorted, jerking the arm which held Margery in place. “This isn’t enough for you? This ripe young thing? Don’t worry—we didn’t spoil her for ye. Though I can’t say we wouldn’t have if she hadn’t run when she did. A feisty thing.”

He leaned in over her shoulder, a bead of sweat dripping from his chin and hitting her shoulder where the tunic had torn.

She shuddered, turning her face away. That slight movement caused the blade to press even deeper into her flesh.

She winced, gritting her teeth, and a thin trickle of blood ran slowly over her white skin.

Derek’s nostrils flared, his fists clenching instinctively.

He had harmed her.

“Well? What’s it to be, lad? Your mark, or her life.”

“You wouldn’t kill a defenseless woman,” he murmured, allowing himself to look at her for the briefest moment, trying to reassure her.

“Wouldn’t I?” The man’s laugh was harsh, dangerous. It told of many terrible stories, many deeds far more violent and nasty than the one currently unfolding.

He had to get Margery away. He now understood what depths MacBride was willing to sink to. It would take nothing at all for him to slit her throat, to toss her aside like a piece of garbage and allow her to bleed to death under a canopy of tree branches.

She was staring at him, eyes wide, face deathly white.

He met her eyes, then looked down. Met them, then looked down.

At MacBride’s feet.

Again and again.

The slight nod of her head told him she understood.

He met MacBride’s gaze again. The man’s confusion was evident.

Derek drew a deep breath. This could go one of two ways. Either the man would release her, or he’d slice into her. The odds favored release, but there was simply no telling. He hoped she was smart and fast enough to get away from him in time.

“Now!” he ordered.

Margery lifted her leg and slammed her heel down with all her might, grunting from the effort.

Something snapped in MacBride’s foot, and he bellowed like a wounded steer, his arms going slack.

“Find cover!” Derek shouted, and Margery ducked and ran with one hand over her throat.

He was already in the act of throwing himself at the oversized man, catching him off-guard and sending the two of them sprawling in the dirt.

“Derek! The knife!” Margery screamed, and he caught sight of the gleaming blade just in time to throw his arm up in defense before MacBride could bring it home. It went flying, skittering somewhere in the brush.

“I’ll kill you!” MacBride grunted, closing his hands around Derek’s throat.

He brought his arms together between MacBride’s and forced them apart, then closed his fist and smashed it against the man’s nose.

The sight of Margery’s trickling blood flashed around the forefront of his mind just before he pummeled the man once again.

The sounds of fighting filled his head, telling him Hugh and the others were battling MacBride’s men.

Margery screamed.

When Derek turned to see what had caused it, MacBride used the opportunity to pick of a large rock and smash it against the side of his head.

Gray spots danced in front of his eyes which he tried to blink away. Something warm ran down the side of his face which he knew was blood before the smell of it hit his nostrils, but it mattered little.

He blocked a second blow before MacBride had the chance to deliver it, getting to his feet drawing back one leg to deliver a kick to the man’s ribs.

MacBride rolled to his side, curling into a ball to defend himself. Then, something must have caught his eye; he scrambled on his hands and knees, scurrying toward something.

The dirk!

Derek ran after him, throwing his body over that of the larger man just before he could reach the weapon.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he realized too late that Margery, too, had understood what was happening. She’d run for the dirk and was just reaching for it when MacBride grasped her ankle, bringing her down.

“Bastard!” Derek roared, rolling the man over to deliver yet another blow.

Sharp, almost blinding pain struck his side, and he realized—again, too late—that MacBride had managed to reach the dirk after causing Margery to fall. And that dirk was currently deep in his flesh.

An ear-splitting cry pierced the air.

“No!” Margery shrieked, throwing herself over the both of them and pummeling MacBride with both fists about the head and shoulders, screaming obscenities in between ragged sobs.

MacBride cried out in surprise, raising his arms to fend her off.

Releasing the dirk.

There was no choice.

Derek grasped the handle and withdrew the blade, dripping with his own blood.

Only to plunge it into MacBride’s chest.

The man seized, eyes opening wide, mouth gaping in pain and shock. He began to tremble, shaking from head to toe, gasping for air which would never save him.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

He went limp, eyes still staring up at the clear sky.