She pitched forward and tumbled down the slope, landing in a heap of leaves and dirt. Pain flared in her palm when the rough twigs bit her, then stung her forearm where a stone skinned it open. She scrambled to her knees and pushed upright as he was coming close.
He was already at the top of the slope, coming down with his sword low and steady. Her hand found a rock the size of an apple beside the stump. She grabbed it and flung it as he dropped the last step.
It struck his cheek with a crack like wood in a fire. His head snapped to the side, and blood welled, quickly and brightly, along the cut. He froze for a heartbeat, more from shock than pain, eyes gone sharp as knives.
“Bold,” he uttered. “Wrong quarry.”
He advanced fast. She moved the way Jack had taught her, or tried to.
When a man reaches, step aside, take his wrist, and use his weight.
She caught Arthur’s sleeve and shifted, but her heel slipped in the wet soil, and her grip loosened. He wrenched free and shoved her shoulder, sending her to the low rock behind. The jolt ran up her spine and left a coppery tang in her mouth.
“Again,” he grunted. “Try again if ye like. I have the time.”
“Listen to me,” she pleaded, shaking the numbness from her fingers. “For a breath, only that. I will love the child. I already do. Let me walk back with ye, and we will make peace for her sake.”
He let out a small, harsh laugh. “Ye have nay right to even say her name, do ye ken that?” He stepped closer, his sword pointed at her. “If I let ye live, ye will die at his side soon enough. Not only does yer husband draw death, but he keeps it too. Believe me, Emma, I am doin’ ye a kindness.”
“Ye daenae ken him,” she said. “Nae now.”
“He killed me daughter,” he hissed. “That is what I ken, and that is enough.”
Emma pressed back against the rock. There was nowhere left to run; that much was evident. The trees stood thick to her right, the slope behind, and Arthur in front with his sword rising slowly.
The world narrowed to the bright line of steel and the pulse at her throat.
“Hold still, lass,” he said. “I will make it quick.”
“Daenae,” she whispered. “Please.”
He raised his sword, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
This was it. This was the end.
Not once did she think she would die on a random morning in the woods. But it turned out fate had other plans for her, so she must succumb to?—
Wait, what is that scent? Is that?—
“Arthur!” a voice…hisvoice sounded from the trees, low and rough, close as a hand at her ear.
Her eyes flew open, and they both turned.
Jack was standing just as sharp as ever, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his feet planted firmly in the soil. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes flashed with a level of anger she had never seen before. The kind she didn’t think him capable of.
“Oh, see. Yer husband has decided to join the party,” Arthur drawled.
“The only one who’s going to die today is ye.”
Emma felt her heart sink into her stomach.
Jack followed the break of twigs and the churn of wet grass as if a rope was pulling him through the trees. Shrubs brushed hisknees, and mud took his boots and let go again. He kept his sword low and his eyes on the ground, where her light steps cut across heavier tracks.
“Emma,” he called, his breathing ragged from running. “Emma, answer me.”
A shout cut through the pines. It was a man’s voice, close and dangerous. Her voice came thin and afraid, and he veered toward it. He then climbed a short rise and saw them on the slope below, her back to a rock, and Arthur closing in with his sword lifted.
Jack stepped into the open and let his rage sharpen to a point. “Arthur!”
