Free Reluctant (Heroes of the Highlands) (The MacKays #3) by Kerrigan Byrne

as their Laird if you’ll have them.” Her desperation on their behalf surprised even her. But defeat wasn’t an option. Kamdyn was first and foremost a MacKay, and she’d do what she could to protect her Clan. If that meant by these unorthodox means, then so be it.
    Rory rolled his sinewy shoulders and ran a hand through hair bronzed lighter by years in the sun. “Ye doona ken the position ye put me in, wee one,” he said more gently. “These men, they willna be welcome in my Clan after the wrongs they’ve done. Not only because of me, but because of the people they’ve sinned against.”
    “I don’t think that’s true,” Kamdyn argued. “If they fight next to MacKay today, I believe that will be a start. They’ll bleed for you, Rory, some of them will die only for the promise of a Clan and a name. Imagine their loyalty once you’ve given them one.”
    The Laird MacKay was known and respected for his practicality and fair-mindedness and Daroch for his faultless logic. They looked out over the men assembled at the base of the mountain, backlit by a grey autumn sky. Some of their faces were hopeful. Young. Others older and more cynical. Their sins shone like defiance in their eyes and were carried as different weights on each shoulder. But they awaited their fates out of earshot, next to a force many times greater than them, their weapons down.
    “They’d have to return what they’ve taken,” Daroch said, ignoring the quelling look from Rory.
    “Done,” Soren agreed with a nod of finality.
    The two MacKay men, who’d become as close as brothers over the years, held silent court with their eyes. Daroch threw his head toward the Sutherland horde. They were advancing again, splitting their forces around the mountain, making a move to flank and divide the MacKays.
    “And make public amends for their crimes,” Rory gritted out.
    Murdock stepped forward. “All those who followed us here have already agreed to that per the Laird of Shadows’s wee Banshee’s request.” He dropped to his knee before the Laird. “We’ve given our word.”
    “We’ll see if that means anything.” Rory pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods save me from battlefield promises.”
    “Only time can prove us true,” Murdock said wisely.
    With a short nod, Daroch turned to Kamdyn with a brow raised. “The Laird of Shadows’s wee Banshee?”
    “Let’s kill some Sutherlands, shall we?” Kamdyn said with forced brightness. “The day’s light is wasting.” She marched toward the approaching army, towing a gigantic, ambling Berserker in her wake.

Chapter Twelve
    Soren was glad Kamdyn did not fight. Though the magic in her hands was as deadly as his entire army, the pacts between Faerie and human could not be usurped, even by Clan loyalty. Besides, his little Banshee’s hands were not made for killing. They were gentle. They were kind. Her scream, however, that could do plenty. Sutherlands melted before it, clutching their heads as though to keep the blood inside. And still, she’d killed no one. Not directly.
    He would be her sword. He would be her wrath. He was the shadow of death awaiting the sentence from her soft lips, and once she gave it, his execution was swift and merciless.
    The Sutherlands would remember their defeat at Druin na Coub for a thousand years at least. And though his name would morph over the centuries, it would be the Laird of Shadows who’d defeated them.
    Splitting their forces had been the Sutherlands’ gravest mistake, for they found an extra two hundred and fifty fresh and bloodthirsty warriors at the head of the MacKay army to the north. To the south, they fell beneath the Laird MacKay’s smaller faction due to some ingenious explosive accelerant crafted by a brilliant Druid, paired with a Banshee’s keen, and the axe of one Berserker who thoroughly enjoyed his blood-soaked vocation.
    Soren’s final gift to his mate was the safety of her Clan. The word would spread that the mighty Laird