She whispered a curse between gritted teeth—men could be such idiots!—and was about to lambaste Dugald when the fight took a desperate turn. Hacon knocked the sword from a rapidly weakening Niall’s hands, and Niall fell sprawled on the ground. Hacon pinned him there, one booted foot on the panting man’s chest, then placed his sword against Niall’s right wrist.
“Jennet, ’twas this hand the mon touched ye with, was it not?”
“What matter if it was?” She had the sick feeling she knew what Hacon planned to do, and it was clear he was in no state of mind to see the consequences.
Hacon looked down at a gray-complexioned, sweating Niall. “I wouldnae want to cut off the wrong piece of this dog.”
“Dugald,” she whispered. “Ye will feign a swoon right now or I shall cease to keep that goat ye are so fond of away from you.” After one brief horrified glance her way, Dugald went limp, his sudden weight in her hold making her stagger and sit down hard. “Hacon! Dugald has swooned.”
Frowning at her, yet keeping a close watch on Niall, Hacon muttered, “He wasnae badly wounded.”
“Nay? Would a strong mon like Dugald swoon over naught, like some weak lass? Hacon,” she said with a touch of desperation, “I need help. Isnae Dugald more important than this quarrel with Sir Chisholm?”
Cursing softly, Hacon sheathed his sword and strode over to her side. “Where is Ranald?” he demanded, helping her arrange Dugald more comfortably on the ground.
“He is keeping a watch on Murdoc.” With Hacon’s assistance, she took off Dugald’s jupon and folded it beneath his head. “I needed that more than I needed another guard. He is o’er there, just beyond those three cowering women. Now, I shall need some clean water.” After tipping out the water she had used to tend Niall, she thrust the shallow pan into Hacon’s hands.
“He still doesnae look badly wounded,” Hacon mumbled even as he moved to get her the water.
“Can I cease this game now?” Dugald whispered when Hacon had walked away.
Seeing Niall making a hasty if unsteady retreat, she replied, “Aye, ye can wake up now.”
“Weel, I dinnae see why ye asked it of me. Hah! Asked? Ye blackmailed me, ye did.”
“Sir Chisholm had just had a head wound cleaned and stitched. Couldnae ye see how unfit he was to do any fighting? But then, mayhaps I judge your cousin wrong. Mayhaps it wouldnae trouble him later, when his anger eased, that he had fought and maimed a mon who could barely stand. I but thought he was one to prefer a fair fight.” She met Dugald’s sour look with one of utter innocence.
“Your father didnae beat you often enough. Nay, Hacon wouldnae like it, but ye didnae need to threaten me with that goat of Satan. Ye could have just explained yourself.” He finished in a whisper as Hacon returned.
“So, ye have recovered,” Hacon murmured as he crouched at Dugald’s side and handed Jennet the water.
“Aye.” Dugald hissed a curse as Jennet began to bathe the wound on his sword arm.
“’Twas but the loss of blood,” she said. “It can often make a mon suffer a moment of weakness. ’Tis naught.”
She frowned when a man’s shadow fell over them. Dugald and Hacon grew very still, tense and wary. Their full attention was on the man who had just stepped up to them. Finally, Jennet looked too and frowned.
There appeared to be little about him to cause such a reaction. He was, she mused, an ordinary man, eminently forgettable. His height and stature were average, his hair thinning and dull brown, his features neither fair nor ugly. Then she saw how he stared at Hacon and inwardly shivered. This man loathed Hacon. The emotion added chilling life to his otherwise unremarkable hazel eyes.
Suddenly she tensed as dreaded memories crowded her mind. She had looked into those eyes before—nine years ago. As clearly as if it was all happening again, she became that terrified child tucked away in a hidden niche of the cottage, staring into those eyes. The man held a knife to her mother’s throat and laughed along with his companions. Jennet could hear that small, boyish voice deriding her mother for giving him and his friends little pleasure. It was that voice which had condemned her mother to death for that failure. The knife had moved, her mother had jerked once, and then the man had stood up, the bloodied knife still clutched in his mailed fist. It was then that he had looked her way, had held her gaze for a full minute before strolling out of the cottage, his boisterous companions at his heels.
This man was one of those who had so brutally murdered her mother. Jennet struggled against revealing her knowledge, against the urge to scream “Murderer.”
“So, your mon was but scratched,” drawled the man, his voice that of an immature boy despite the heavy brown beard on his face.
“Aye,” replied Hacon. “The lack of assistance didnae cost him his life this time, Sir Balreaves.”
“Nay, but it appears it nearly cost him his sword arm.”
“’Twill heal.”
“True, but ye will be without your faithful shield for some days, Gillard. Ye will need to be verra alert. Verra alert indeed.”
“Do ye threaten me?” Hacon slowly reached for his sword.
“What reason would I have to do that?”
“Ye think ye have.”
