She shuddered in a tight breath that barely reached her lungs, but he immediately stopped his assault, tipping his head and studying her with intently. Her bindings! He could feel her bound chest. When she tried to hold her breath, the pain was too intense. A painful high-pitched moan escaped.
He scowled in displeasure and scooted low enough that he could yank at the V of her tunic.
“This better not be true.” He worked at the leather belt, tugging the material, and shifted his knee lower. His hold of her slackened. Brighit slipped her small weapon up between his knee and her body. As she bent her elbow out, moving it as far as his relaxing hold would allow, he freed the material of her tunic to reveal the tight binding at her breast.
“And what have we here?” His tone changed, as did his expression, and a flash of excitement lightened his eyes. “Allow me the pleasure of releasing yer bondage, little one.”
Her blade cleared her hip. When he reached for the knife at his waist, his exposed side offered her the perfect target.
She buried her dagger into his tight flesh with all the strength she could gather. It made a sickening sound.
He stilled as if frozen in ice before he turned his face toward her, a look of incredulity in his eyes. Filled with wrath and an unquenchable desire to survive, she pressed the blade deeper still, stopping only when the hilt snagged at his rib. Hot, sticky blood covered her fist, but she held fast, clamping her jaw, his eyes locked onto hers.
It took an eternity for the man to die. Brighit dared not move. She dared not breathe.
At long last, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on her, forcing her hand to release its death grip on the weapon or snap at the wrist.
Relief swept over her, but it was short lived when realized she was trapped beneath his dead weight. Whimpers of frustration filled the air as she bent her knees up in a desperate attempt to dislodge him. Brighit heaved her body up, her hips pushing against him. He was as heavy as a horse. Shoving against his lower body, she finally managed to roll him off.
Her mouth gaping open and her eyes focused heavenward at the stars twinkling overhead, she took one, two, three deep breaths of fresh air. Sighing loudly, she closed her eyes at the pleasant sensation of freely filling her lungs. She blew out a breath before standing. Pulling her tunic back into place, she adjusted the belt, refusing to think about the tremors in her bloody hand.
Her attacker lay flat on his face, his body not moving. Bending closer, she thought to check if he was truly dead, but a movement in the distance caught her eye. A lone rider sat mounted on a huge beast at the top of the hill. Stray puffs of breath from the horse’s muzzle were the only sign that the rider was indeed real and not summoned by her imagination. She didn’t recognize him.
She straightened her clothing. Her breath ragged, she glanced back at her victim. He could easily have killed her. Or worse.
The horse snorted as the mounted rider began to move closer, covering the distance between them with plodding steps. She began shaking uncontrollably. For the smallest moment she considered calling out to him, reasoning with him, mayhap even asking for his help, but she tossed the idea away just as quickly. There would no help from him even though she had no doubt that he’d witnessed the entire event.
With a low whistle, Brighit called to her horse. Valiant came from wherever she’d been grazing, oblivious to the plight of her rider. The man stopped a few feet away, his face masked in shadows. He was dressed in the traditionalléine, the longbraitwrapped around him to ward off the cold and held at his shoulder by a large, shiny brooch. She waited for him to speak, to try and stop her, to ask if she was going to bury the man she’d killed. He said nothing.
So she mounted, put her heels to the horse and sped off. Though she expected the sounds of pursuit, there were none. No horse’s whinny. No leather creaking. No foot falls. Today she’d killed a man and she would have to live with that fact for the rest of her life. She followed the path back to the MacNaughton land, away from the violent scene. Back toward her boring life. Refusing to glance over her shoulder the entire ride, she wondered if she’d ever feel at peace again.
Chapter 6
As planned, the masses gathered to witness the vows given and received by Darragh and Brighit at the door to the small chapel. The crowd was silent, whether from tension over the proceedings or overindulgence from the night before, Darragh wasn’t sure. He had spent the whole night tossing and turning, and yet Brighit seemed even less awake. Though he had long recognized she had no great love for him, he hadn’t expected her to break into cavernous yawns barely hidden by her veil. It did not help that her domineering father looked ready to snatch her away at any moment.
The ceremony was only being performed to appease the strict religious beliefs of Brighit’s parents. It was far from simple and already a source of resentment for him. What little patience he possessed for the proceedings was quickly stripped away by his bride’s seeming lack of interest.
“Blessings on ye both.” The elderly priest did not call for the kiss of unity but instead kissed each of their cheeks. First Brighit’s, right over the veil, and then his.
“Thank ye, Father.” Darragh answered, always polite.
“Ye’ve made a fine match.” With that, the priest started to turn him away from his bride while Thomasina led Brighit away, several women falling in around them.
Darragh dug in his heels. “A moment, please, Father?”
The room hushed, all movements stilled. His mother’s eyes widened in warning, but Darragh ignored her. “Have ye forgotten? This is a wedding.”
The priest puckered up his face in concentration before shaking his head at Darragh. “No. I do not believe so.”
“The kiss?”
When the priest smiled and shifted closer to him for another kiss on the cheek, Darragh pulled back in exasperation. “Not me. Between husband and wife?”
Clearly perplexed, the man looked to Thomasina for an answer.
“Not her.” Darragh refused to try and hide his irritation any longer. Speaking to the priest as if he were an idiot, he said, “May I bestow a kiss on my wife? A sign of unity? Sealing the agreement with a kiss?”
“Oh, well, I suppose.” The priest huffed as if he’d never heard of such a thing. But marriages were about the contract signed between two families, not the church. If Thomasina had wanted some elaborate blessing on them, Darragh would not gainsay her, but he would have this symbolic act as well.
