"Mama!" Amy jumped free and hurled herself into her weeping mother's arms.

Michael leaned against the wall and drew deep, shuddering breaths as he watched their reunion. What would it be like to experience such tender mutual love? He hoped Amy realized how lucky she was. It looked as if she did,

He turned and picked up his sword. "Time to be going. Haldoran is here, so we must get away without being seen."

"Yes, sir, Colonel." A wide grin on her face, Amy turned to him, her hand in her mother's. Catherine's face was glowing.

Even Michael allowed himself to feel hopeful as he led his charges away from the house. In a few more minutes, they would be safe. Only a few more minutes…

Chapter 39

Though the sun was rising and objects were clearly visible, Michael didn't try to keep his small party behind cover. Speed was more important than stealth. After they crossed the Neck to Great Skoal, they would be able to disappear into the scrubby bushes, but until then they were vulnerable. He carried the sword in his hand, hoping it wouldn't be needed.

When the sound of crashing waves indicated that they were close to the Neck, he said, "Amy, did you come this way when Haldoran brought you to his house?"

She made a face. "The Neck. It's narrow and scary. I'm glad it's light enough to see the way across."

"Then you know to be careful."

"I will." She tightened her clasp on her mother's hand. "I don't like heights."

Catherine chuckled. "I'm afraid I don't, either, my love."

"Then it's fortunate you won't be crossing," a lazy voice drawled. There was sudden movement in the bushes on both sides of the track. Five men stepped onto the road, swaggering with the confidence of well-armed bullies. Haldoran and Doyle were on the left while the other three convicts stood directly in front of the fugitives, blocking the way to the Neck.

Knowing he had only an instant to act, Michael leaped at the convicts in front of him. His first sword stroke slashed the trigger hand of the man whose jaw he'd broken in their earlier encounter. Without pausing, he spun and stabbed the second convict in the shoulder. As the fellow reeled backward, Michael jerked his blade free and swung on the third convict, chopping deeply into the fellow's thigh. As his victim crumpled to the ground with a howl, Michael yelled, "Run!"

Catherine and Amy bolted through the gap Michael had created and raced onto the Neck. Not wasting a glance after them, he turned to face his opponents.

The first three men hadn't yet recovered, but Doyle was aiming his rifle, murder in his eyes. As the gun blasted, Haldoran struck the flat of his sword on the barrel, sending the ball harmlessly into the earth. "Don't kill him!" he barked. "I want to do that myself."

He stalked forward, his blade raised and ready. The early morning light gleamed on the superb Saracen weapon he had wielded against Michael once before. "That point goes to you, Kenyon. You attacked as quickly as when I caught you and Catherine in the laird's bedroom. I should have remembered the tactic."

"If you weren't an amateur, you would have." Michael backed onto the Neck, watching the other man like a hawk. The eyes would signal the moment and direction of an attack.

Haldoran scowled. "I wish I could take my time, but I'll have to kill you quickly so we can catch Catherine and her brat."

"You'll have to come through me to get them," Michael said flatly. "That may be harder than you think."

"Oh?" Light-footed and eyes gleaming, Haldoran stepped onto the Neck. "I defeated you before and you weren't exhausted then. I know damned well you were goading me when you claimed later you'd let me win. This time, there will be no question of my victory." He lunged with lightning swiftness.

Warned by the flicker of his opponent's eyes, Michael parried. Fatigue had dulled his reflexes, and he barely managed to block the blow in time.

Haldoran responded with a series of brutally powerful thrusts. The blade glittered Wood red in the rising sun as he slashed forward, nearly breaking through his opponent's guard. As Michael retreated, Haldoran sneered, "That isn't much of a sword. Where did you find it?"

"In a smuggler's cave. It's a standard-issue naval weapon," Michael panted. "A real soldier doesn't need elaborate weapons."

Haldoran struck again. When Michael warded off the blow, he was aided by the gusty wind, which kept his opponent off balance for a moment. Michael took advantage of the brief respite to glance over his shoulder. Catherine and Amy had vanished. Profoundly relieved, he returned his attention to his enemy.

Exhaustion had dulled his wits, his speed, even his desire to survive. The only thing left was the steely core of skill forged in the hardest of schools. Endless drill and more skirmishes and battles than he could remember had taught him to strike, to parry, to lunge, even when his sword seemed too heavy to lift and his muscles trembled with strain.

They fought in grim silence, the ring of their weapons piercing the dark roar of the waves and the occasional cries of gulls. They were both sweating now. Though Haldoran was always on the verge of making a fatal thrust, he never quite succeeded. Somehow Michael's tired arm and leaden feet always managed to parry and withdraw before the other man could strike.

Michael found bleak satisfaction in his modest successes. He would not win this fight. Even if by some miracle he defeated Haldoran, he'd be shot by the waiting convicts. But every moment he endured gave Catherine and Amy more time to escape.

When he fell back another step, Haldoran snarled, "Stand, damn you! Fight like a gentleman, if you know how."

It was an enormous effort to answer, "All I can do is fight like a soldier-to win."

Enraged, Haldoran charged forward. The razor-sharp tip of the Saracen blade grazed Michael's forearm, slicing through the bulky jersey and probing for a vital spot. Hastily Michael retreated-and his right heel landed on open air. The Neck had tightened to its narrowest width, and completing the step would be fatal.

He twisted to the left like an acrobat. The movement saved him from going over the cliff, but he ended sprawling on the edge of the precipice.

Haldoran smiled with vicious satisfaction. "Say your prayers, Kenyon." He stabbed down toward Michael's throat.

Barely in time, Michael raised his sword to block his opponent's blow. The Saracen blade struck the naval sword with a ringing shriek and splintered the inferior metal. Most of the blade spun away, leaving him with a hilt and a ragged steel stub.

His mind accepted that the end had come, but his trained body was incapable of surrender. He grabbed a fistful of pebbles with his left hand and hurled them into his enemy's face. Haldoran swore and fell back, clawing at his eyes. As he did, Michael made a sweeping motion with his left leg. His ankle smashed into the other man's legs.

Haldoran fell sideways. Michael raised himself to his knees and struck his opponent's sword hand with the viciously edged stub of his own weapon, severing the tendons. Haldoran cried out as the sword fell from his grasp. For the first time, his face showed fear. Growling like an animal, he kicked the broken sword from Michael's grasp. Then he dived forward and locked his good hand on Michael's throat.

They began wrestling feverishly, rolling back and forth on the brink of the precipice. But the balance of power had shifted. Berserker wildness surged through Michael, carrying him beyond fatigue and fear to a place where action was all. Relentlessly he forced Haldoran back toward the cliff.

As their locked bodies teetered on the edge, Michael stared into his enemy's eyes, seeing the fear grow. He spat out, "Amateur." Then he broke Haldoran's hold with a violent thrust that propelled the other man toward the edge.

Haldoran grabbed at Michael, for support or to take them both to their deaths, but Michael chopped the other man's wrist with the edge of his hand. Fingers still scrabbling desperately, Haldoran pitched into space. He screamed all the way down, his terror reverberating from the cliffs and hills, until the sound ended with horrifying finality.

It was victory, of a sort. But as Michael lifted his head and saw the gun barrels aimed at him, he knew that the end had finally arrived.

At least he was dying for a reason. Live long, Catherine, and live well

Catherine and her daughter took cover in the shrubbery when they reached the far end of the Neck. As they fell to their knees, gulping for breath, Catherine cautiously parted the branches so they could see what was happening. There had been no more gunshots. Was that a good sign, or did it mean that Michael had fallen?

She caught her breath as she saw Haldoran lunge at Michael with a sword. As Michael threw off the blow, Amy whispered, "Will Colonel Kenyon win?"

"I don't know. He's a wonderful fighter, but he's been performing superhuman feats for days. He's exhausted while Haldoran is fresh." Catherine flinched as her cousin's blade swept toward Michael's belly. Michael evaded the slash by a hair's breadth and fell back again. The duelists were halfway across the Neck, and two of Haldoran's men were advancing a safe distance behind, their guns ready.

Tears running unnoticed down her face, Catherine said painfully, "We must leave now. When the fight ends, Haldoran's men will come after us no matter who wins."

"I call them the trolls. They're awful." Amy made a face of disgust. "We can't abandon Colonel Kenyon, Mama."