Warlord

Innards spewed forth from the now gaping wound Bronson had created, and the man fell to the ground. He turned back around and saw McCarrick lifting his sword. Bronson brought his blade down, and cut it clean through his enemy’s shoulder. McCarrick’s arm fell to the ground, severed and now lifeless as McCarrick soon would be. Blood gushed from the wound, and the man howled in pain. But that scream turned into a hysterical laugh.

“Ye stupid fool. Ye can kill me, and this land may stay yours, but yer pretty little new wife will be dead in the bed ye share with her.” He grinned, showing his bloody teeth, and chuckled again. That laugh turned to a dying choke as blood gurgled out of his mouth.

“What the fook are ye talking aboot?” Bronson demanded, his anger and fear causing this monster inside him to rise to the point it almost burst free.

McCarrick spewed blood out and fell to the ground. He braced his arm on the dirt and arcs of redness came out of his severed limb. “I suppose ye would find out soon enough,” McCarrick wheezed out, clearly barely hanging onto his life. He lifted his head and stared at Bronson. “I dispatched one of my men tae take out yer pretty wife.” He grinned. “And it should already be done.”

Bronson saw red, lost it, and lifted his sword. Everything was a haze as he swung his blade and cut off McCarrick’s head. He breathed in and out heavily, and it was when he heard Cal speaking beside him that he turned and stared at the man. Cal’s mouth moved, but Bronson couldn’t hear what he said. He heard his heart pounding in his ears, felt it in his throat, and sensed the world tilting beneath his feet.

“I need tae go tae Genevieve.” His throat tightened, but Cal was a smart man and didn’t question Bronson. The other man nodded, and even if the battle hadn’t already been over with, Bronson’s men could have finished off the last bastards still hanging onto their lives. His wee wife was in trouble, and all he could think about was getting to her. He was not ready to have their life together cut short. Bodies of Clan McCarrick covered the ground, but Bronson didn’t stop to speak with his men. He charged toward his horse, climbed on the steed, and headed for the manor. Fear filled him, and he placed his hand over his heart. She needed to be okay, because if she wasn’t, may the gods help everyone around him.

Chapter Seventeen

Genevieve lay in the bed, staring at the canopy. It was just starting to become light outside, and although she was so very tired, she couldn’t sleep. Fear and worry kept her awake. McKenzie sat beside her bed, knitting something tiny. Genevieve looked over and smiled. It appeared to be a blanket, and she couldn’t help but place her hand over her belly.

“Ye are doing well, child?” the older woman asked and looked at Genevieve but didn’t stop knitting.

“I’m well.” She smiled and pulled the hide up closer to her chin. Her father had left not too long ago, and although she hadn’t wanted him to worry, there wasn’t much that was kept close in a small village like this. And then when McKenzie heard of what happened, she had told her father. It had spread like wildfire, but she did feel better after she saw her da. It was nice seeing someone she loved more than anything, one who had always been there for her no matter what.

“Child, ye need tae rest, for yerself and yer babe,” McKenzie said and smiled. Her old, weathered face wrinkled, and she reached a hand out and patted Genevieve’s arm.

After the older woman had checked her for injuries, she confirmed Genevieve was indeed carrying Bronson’s child. Happiness and euphoria filled her, but that soon vanished when she thought of her husband still out on the battlefield. Worry was a heavy, pounding beat inside her. “Maybe I should sleep, but I canna, knowing Bronson is still out there.” She turned and glanced at the woman who had been like a grandmother to her. “I canna rest without knowing how he fares, and the fact that the messenger couldn’t find him on the field does not bode well.” She couldn’t cry, although she had tears that were nigh to bursting free.

McKenzie set her knitting down and grabbed her hand. “Child, yer husband is a fierce and powerful man, and no’ just on the outside. He is smart and has been living this life for a verra long ti—”

Before McKenzie could finish, there was shouting on the other side of her door, and then it was bursting open. A cry left Genevieve, because all she could think about was another one of the Clan McCarrick men coming to finish the job. But the man who stood in the open doorway was not an enemy, but her blood-covered and crazed-looking husband.