“Dinna ye meet the man before?” Aldred asked.
“Not dressed in such finery.”
The mead was flowing among Olaf’s men, and they were a thirsty lot. Despite the occasional glance coming their way, they’d moved farther away, obviously not seeing them as a threat.
Lachlann remained rigid except for his fingers nimbly attacking the knots. His chest was tight and he couldn’t swear he’d taken a single breath since he’d seen Ethne’s expression of regret and been unable to get to her. He had to get back inside. Fast. He needed to protect her from that savage.
“He was here before,” Niall droned on. “Malcolm and Aidan brought them in for the night, but an argument ensued. That’s Domelch’s handiwork, the burn on his face.”
Aldred made a sound of surprise. “She’s a tough one.”
Lachlann was painfully unsuccessful at blocking out them and their speculation.
“From a royal line of the Picts, or so she claims,” Niall said. “She’s the one who told me the story. Their rope is not well made. I almost have it untied.”
“Me, too,” Aldred said.
Olaf’s men had shifted to their right, nearer the trail’s edge to watch the sea as they enjoyed the mead Malcolm had probably left outside for when they returned from the funeral. One group of three was closer to Lachlann. All were well armed. Good. That would give him and his friends weapons to save Ethne.
“Ready?” Niall asked.
But Lachlann was already up, shoving back the largest man in the nearest group. He planted his fist firmly into the man’s face, his other hand grabbing the hilt of the sword as the man fell. With a sweeping arch of the weapon, Lachlann sliced through the belly of the closest man. Intense satisfaction raced through Lachlann’s veins. The entrance to the cave and Ethne, a few feet away.
Ducking and swaying, he avoided the downward swipe of the third man’s sword and was able to turn the man’s dagger, still gripped in his own hand, up into his heart.
The nearby struggle with the other islanders held no interest for Lachlann. His eyes remained on the cave. Let Niall and Aldred take down the rest. He needed to be inside.
With the sticky blood of his victims still on his hands, he squeezed the narrow hilt of the long sword in his right hand and the leather-strapped handle of the dagger in his left. He paused in the entrance only long enough to get his bearing and allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. This gave the men seated against the wall time to stand ready. It couldn’t be helped. No sign of Ethne or Olaf.
Rushing forward, Lachlann threw the dagger with practiced precision into the chest of the closest target coming at him, and the man dropped to the ground. Two men remained aside from Ciaran. Lachlann readied his sword as he scoured the darkened pallet for any sign of Ethne. A slice to his forearm had him wincing. He needed to focus. He ducked low, sidestepping Ciaran’s frontal assault, to elbow the gut of the islander who’d drawn blood.
“Olaf!” Ciaran’s words echoed in the small chamber even while Lachlann’s dagger penetrated his gut. He slumped to his knees. Dead or unconscious, it meant only that Lachlann could save Ethne now.
When his gaze landed on Olaf, who was just rising from Domelch and Malcolm’s sleeping area, the sound of Aldred and Niall joining Lachlann from outside faded from his mind. The material dropped back down to hide the area behind him where Ethne must be. The man tied up his trews as he walked toward Lachlann. The sick realization that he had not been in time tightened his gut.
“Ah, ye’ve come to join us!” The man spoke as if he had all the time in the world, even as his men dropped around him, three dead or unconscious on the floor already. When his gaze stopped on Lachlann, he added, “She’s a tasty morsel and not to be missed, but then ye know that as I’ve just found out.”
A war cry erupted from Lachlann’s lips as he charged. He drove his shoulder into the Olaf’s stomach to ram him into the hard, stone wall, and he dropped to the ground, but Lachlann didn’t relent. Landing a fist solidly in his face, Lachlann barely reacted to pain shooting up his arm while the man’s skin puckered and tore with the motion. Olaf howled in pain.
“I’d stop if ye value her at all!” someone called from the area behind him. A voice Lachlann didn’t recognize at first. “Back away, or I’ll run her threw.”
When he turned and saw the tall man with thinning hair, it took him a moment to place him as one of Aidan’s men.
“Talorc?” Lachlann was surprised he even remembered the man’s name. He’d swear the man had not been there when they’d first come in.
He held a nasty-looking blade to Ethne’s throat while he worked her up to a standing position, using her as a shield. Her clothes were disheveled and gaping open at the top. Her eyes were wide with fear. Lachlann dropped his weapons and raised his open palms to the man.
Talorc snorted. “I’d have bet my last drink that ye never even noticed me. I’m beside myself with such flattery, ye arrogant sod.”
The man who’d barely spoken at all had become livid at Niall, Lachlann, and Aldred’s prolonged presence. He’d certainly upset Aidan with his not-so-wild accusations.
“Why do ye hold a knife to the throat of one of yer own?”
Lachlann’s gaze never wavered from Ethne’s face, even when the man dragged her with him to help Olaf, who was struggling to get up. Olaf yanked his clothes back into place and strode right up to Lachlann. The single punch to his gut doubled him over, knocking the air out of him. Olaf gripped Lachlann’s shoulders while he kneed him in the groin with a loudumph.Lachlann dropped to the ground, his hands tight between his legs. Burning pain radiated through his genitals, burning all the way down both thighs and up to his teeth.
The sound of laughter barely registered through his fog of pain along with the presence of Aldred and Niall. A hand to his shoulder. Niall helped him up. Lachlann still couldn’t see straight.
“Ethne is not one of us.” It was Talorc speaking. “She is only here because she is Malcolm’s sister. Domelch insisted we endure her presence after doing away with their parents.”
