She screamed, unable to keep herself quiet as he pulled her outside.
Away from Máire. Away from her mother.
The angriest yell she’d ever heard sounded from her feet. Though her vision blurred in pain, Niamh still could see Morrígan, preparing for attack. Just as she did with the mice. She must have followed Niamh from the keep.
Lord bless that little warrior. She really thought she could do it, too. Niamh saw it on her face.
The cat spat and hissed, jumping at the brute’s feet and legs. He swore, kicking Morrígan away, far harder than the wee thing needed. She flew backward, hitting the pile of firewood stacked beside the cottage and crumpling to the ground.
Niamh shrieked, doing her best imitation of the cat and tearing viciously at the man holding her, trying not to think on how Morrígan fared after that blow. She knew she could do little to free herself, but hopefully she could at least make things more difficult for him.
She reached for her captor, spinning toward him.
And missing wildly.
Now that she faced away from her cottage, however, she could see the village on fire before her.
And running through the burning wreckage, sword in hand, was a man she never thought she’d see again. Her heart faltered. Her mind spun.
How could it be?
And yet there he was, the man who’d filled her dreams since the day they’d met seven years ago.
He charged toward them, a violent promise on his beautiful face.
*
Dallan had neverbeen angrier in his life, and that included when he had discovered his best friend was bedding his sister.
The chances that he would see Niamh again, and at such a crucial moment, were beyond reckoning. Yet here he was, rushing up to save her as though they’d never parted paths.
The bastard never saw him coming. He was too focused on Niamh, something Dallan understood all too well.
“Down!” he shouted to Niamh, who obediently fell to the ground, shrieking as her plait pulled taut in the man’s grip.
He fell in a crumpled heap beside Niamh as Dallan’s sword slid back out of him, covered in blood.
For several breaths, neither moved. Niamh looked just as shocked by his appearance as he had been by hers. As the urge to hug her came over him, Dallan forced them both to action.
“You need to get out of here,” he growled, offering her his hand and pulling her up from the ground.
“Máire!” she shouted, as though just recalling her maid. “The other man, he took her inside.” Without waiting for Dallan, she spun around and charged back inside the house.
“Woman!” Dallan shouted in frustration, reaching for her and missing as he attempted to keep her from getting herself killed.
She ignored him. Unsurprisingly.
He rushed to get to the man before her, entering the small cottage and following the screams to a back room. It seemed he’d arrived just in time.
Again.
He shouted to distract the man who was clearly attempting to remove Máire’s clothing. The maid proved feisty, though, and Dallan noted the multitude of scratches on the man’s face and arms.
The man turned toward Dallan, wielding a short sword, a dagger, and one hell of a grumpy face. He lunged. Dallan parried, then charged him, pinning him against the wall so that Niamh and Máire could get out of the room. In a few quick exchanges of their blades, Dallan had easily bested the man, as would be expected of one of the Fianna.
He didn’t tarry even a moment, returning quickly to the main room of the cottage, which was filling with smoke at an alarming rate.
Niamh and Máire kneeled beside an old woman, whom he recognized as Niamh’s mother, Líadan. She’d been wounded, atrickle of blood dripping down her forehead and onto her cheek. All three women noticed his presence at once, turning in unison to stare at him with varying degrees of shock and gratitude.
