“Leave the women alone,” Colin said. “You have our coin. Go and leave us be.”
The taller scummy bandit caught Abby’s arm as she tried to help Mary up.
“Nay, this one be mine.”
Even at arm’s length, his sweaty, unwashed scent soured in her nostrils. She tried to worm her way out of his clutch.
“No’ so fast, lass.” He jerked her in so close, her back banged on his chest. Something hard caught her shoulder blade. She cried out.
Chapter 12
As if his angel’s voice was some kind of signal, hot blood pumped through Iain’s veins. All the bandits seemed enthralled with what the small bandit was doing. Their laughter grated on Iain’s nerves, but keeping his anger in check, he stepped quietly but deliberately toward the wagon.
By their speech, Iain knew they were Scottish Lowlanders, but Lowlanders didn’t generally wear the tartan. They could have been Campbell spies, though their mixed tartan dress confused him. Only two were the same, and the thought struck him that they had stolen the tartans or mayhap even plucked the clothes off dead men.
Bloody traitors.
Without taking his eyes off the bandits, he nodded to Colin, who in turn tipped his head to his sons.
Throwing the blanket off his weapon, Iain jerked his sword from its scabbard.
He advanced on the cootie holding Abigail. She fought like a cat, but the boar-like man twisted her arm, his pig nose sniffing her hair. His eyes widened in confusion at her curses, but a mean smile showed blackened teeth.
She cried out again and tried to scratch him with her free hand, but he hit his open hand across her face.
At the man’s touch on Abigail, hot angry blood flashed like lightning through Iain’s veins. That man dared to lay a hand on her. Iain moved to drag the oaf off her but before he could get close enough, the rest of the bandits ran at him.
Thankful his training included using his left hand as much as his favored right, Iain switched to whatever hand was closest to the nearest bandit. Each jarring connection of blade against blade tore through his chest, causing pain to radiate from his injury. He disarmed the brigands one at a time as they came at him. Colin and his sons joined the fray, and the clang of swords rang through the air.
A young lad stepped in Iain’s path. Iain glared at him and lifted his sword. The lad’s eyes widened in fear, and he ran from the road into the bracken.
With one more step forward, Iain held Abigail’s captor’s eyes with his. The man blinked, and Iain whirled, slicing his blade through the air and across the back of the man’s hand holding the lass.
The bandit cried out and let go of Abigail. She fell to her knees away from his grasp as he held his bloody hand and glared pure hatred at Iain. Grimacing, the ruffian plunged his good hand into his shirt and whisked out a knife. “Ye want to play hero? Come and play.”
Iain frowned. The ejit actually thought he had a chance. A knife against a sword? He was so intent on the confident man, Iain didn’t see another bandit fall on him from behind. As the lout wrestled Iain for his blade, Iain kept part of his attention on the one with the knife. The man drew back his arm, ready to throw his weapon.
Iain immediately brought his foot up and kicked hisattacker’s groin, hard. The man crumpled forward. Abigail screamed, and Iain ducked, the knife whizzing over his head.
Switching his grip on the hilt of his sword to his good hand, Iain pushed the hurt man aside and strode toward the man who had wielded the knife.
Knife man’s eyes darted in all directions, but with no aid at hand, he had the sense to run for his life.
Abigail fell into Iain’s chest, and he brought her in close with his sword arm. She sobbed. “It’s all right, lassie. Stay here.”
Reluctantly, he let her go. He had to get rid of the remaining bandits, before he could comfort the frightened lass.
Colin’s roar echoed as he whipped his sword through the air and set on a bandit. The brothers were busy battling the others.
Iain joined them. His adrenaline masked the agony of his injury, but his sword’s weight increased with every movement. He had to rid the caravan of the marauders before he collapsed with exhaustion. He rushed the redheaded leader and easily parried the bandit’s every attack. The man clearly wasn’t an experienced fighter.
He pressed his blade to the man’s throat and noted the fear rising in his opponent’s eyes.
“Please,” the red-haired man pleaded.
Iain huffed and withdrew his sword. “Get oot.”
The man fled in the direction his band members had taken earlier.
