As those thoughts passed through his mind, Dawson moved forward, grinned down at Liam, and lifted his sword. He didn’t give any more wait as he drove the blade through Liam’s gut.
Dawson crouched low so they were eye-level. “What ye own is now mine,” Dawson said low but with a grin still on his face.
He tried in vain to stay conscious, those words a warning as much as they were a promise. But in the end, it was the darkness that surrounded him before finally laying claim.
His fight was now over.
Chapter One
Thirty-five years later
Blood and sweat ran down Bronson’s face with each swing of his sword. Clan Lyon—his people, his men—fought beside him just as fiercely. He was a warlord, a man who had an army of Scottish strength behind him, ready to die and take what was rightfully theirs. This had been his father’s land ages ago, but now that Bronson was the ruler of his people, and not timid as the leaders before him had been, he was taking it back. He was no longer a child but a man who had hatred inside him, rage that burned brightly.
He swung his long sword with a mighty roar and sliced the man coming at him right through the middle. His enemy fell to his knees, looked right at Bronson, and started gurgling blood and saliva. The fluids spewed from his mouth and covered his chin and chest before he fell to the ground face-first. The rain came down harder, covering the ground and causing the dirt to become mud. Bronson stared at the body before his feet. He felt no remorse over taking yet another life, because if he didn’t take their lives, he would be the one face-first in the mud, lifeless. He slowly lifted his gaze from the corpse and stared at the scene before him. It was a bloody, violent, and gruesome picture of what it was like to fight for something that was rightfully his. Bronson looked at himself. His legs were blood stained, as was his kilt, which at one time had been a vibrant blue and green color. It was now stained rusty red and brown from the blood and dirt, but he was proud of his appearance, because it meant he had fought with his heart. He lifted his gaze once more and scanned the land. Bodies littered the field of Harrowsworth, the last village that had stood up against him and his men. It had taken him decades, and a lot of blood spilled—both from his enemies and from men of the Clan Lyon.
There was no weakness in Clan Lyon, and although the years had been many since he stood in this very spot and lives had grown in the surrounding villages, this was still Lyon territory. A warlord never backed down, didn’t surrender, and never forgot. His father had fought with his life for this land. It had taken a very long time for Bronson to get to this point in his life where he was within grasp of owning what was his by birthright once more. He felt the strength inside him renew tenfold.
“My lord, our enemies have all fallen. Ye’re victorious.” Cal, one of his strongest fighters for Clan Lyon, stepped up beside him.
“Nay. This is no’ about being victorious, Cal, but about reclaiming what was always ours.” Bronson lifted his gaze and stared at the body-and-blood-covered field. “They dinna fight like they wanted tae keep this land.” He looked at Cal. “They dinna deserve to own it.”
Cal grunted and nodded in agreement. “Aye. If they loved this land, they would be the ones left standing.” Cal smiled sadly. “Yer da would be verra proud of this moment, Bronson.”
“Aye,” Bronson said, keeping his emotions in check, because right now they needed their leader to be the strongest he had ever been. Showing emotion was a weakness, and Bronson was not weak. The rest of his men came closer, their bare chests, kilts, faces, and swords covered in their enemies’ blood. Some had some nasty wounds, but they were all standing. This was his clan, his men, and his bloodline. They fought hard and killed their enemies, not because they wanted senseless deaths on their hands, but because they were fighting for the right to keep what was theirs.
These men who were broken, battered, and in pieces around them had not been worthy of living on this land—of being on his family’s land. They had been rapists, thieves, and had pillaged the villages around the country and taken what wasn’t theirs. That was the difference between what Bronson was doing and what these bastards had done.
Clan Lyon was honorable and didn’t kill without reason. They never took from a woman what wasn’t freely given. But this was the last piece of territory that belonged to his family, and Bronson had finally reclaimed it. Now it was time for him to find a good woman and a piece of land on his territory that he wanted to settle down on. He needed a wife, was ready for one after all these years of violence, one who would bear him strong, powerful sons to help protect the land they had final taken back.