“There!” he barked.
He didn’t wait for agreement. He angled his horse down the muddy slope at a reckless speed, with his men on his heels. The scouts whipped their heads around too late. Shock flashed across their faces.
“Sinclair bastards!” Baird growled, drawing his sword.
He drove his heels hard into his horse’s flanks. His guards followed, splitting wide to trap the scouts between them. The Sinclairs reacted instantly in a sharp cry and their reins yanked tight. One scout broke left. Another spurred right. The last twobraced for the collision. Baird aimed straight for the one with the black-stitched bridle, who by the look of him, seemed to be the leader.
The scout swung a hatchet as Baird’s horse barreled past. Baird ducked, but the blade grazed him in a searing slice across his upper arm. He hissed, feeling the pain sharp and hot under his skin. But he did not slow. He wheeled his horse around, ignoring the warm trickle of blood sliding toward his elbow. Pain sharpened him. It clarified him.
One of his guards clashed with another scout further down the path, the two men striking with brutal efficiency. The other one wrestled a third scout off his saddle, both of them hitting the mud hard.
The leader turned his horse again, aiming straight for Baird. This time Baird charged head on. Their horses collided with a bone-rattling thud, both men half-losing their seats. Baird’s sword struck the scout’s forearm, disarming him. The hatchet flew into the brush.
But the scout was fast, faster than expected. He leapt from the saddle, tackling Baird with a ferocity that sent the laird crashing backward onto the wet earth. Baird’s injured arm screamed.
The scout straddled him, and his knife was drawn from his belt. “Ye should’ve stayed home, Kincaid.”
Baird blocked the downward strike with his forearm, ignoring the sting of reopened flesh. They grappled in the mud, eachtrying to gain the upper hand. The scout slammed an elbow into Baird’s cheek. Stars burst behind his eyes. Baird responded with a savage punch to the man’s jaw, feeling the crunch of bone. The scout reeled, dazed, and Baird seized the moment. He surged up, flipping them untilhewas the one pressing the man into the mud.
The scout spat blood and snarled. “Sinclairs will burn yer lands.”
Baird drove his fist into the man’s gut. “Nae today.”
Before he could strike again, a shout rang out behind him.
“Three of them are getting away!” his guard yelled.
Baird twisted only to see three dark figures on horseback slipping between the shadows, then vanishing into the thick forest. He almost tore after them. But his vision blurred for a second, because now, the wound on his arm was pulsing hot, with blood dribbling freely beneath the torn sleeve.
He couldn’t leave Davina unprotected, not with three enemies now loose in the woods. He turned back to the scout under him, the one he could still control.
“Bind him,” Baird ordered, pushing him to his feet with a grimace.
His guards hurried over, securing the scout’s arms behind him, and tying the rope tight. The man writhed and cursed, but theguards held firm. Baird took a step back and swayed for half a heartbeat.
One of his guards saw it. “Yer arm, me laird… ye’re bleeding hard.”
“It’s naught,” Baird snapped.
Another lie. His entire sleeve was soaked with crimson, and his fingers tingled where the blood loss had begun to reach them.
But he straightened, breathing through the pain. “Get him up. We’re taking him back.”
The guards hoisted the bound man onto the horse, ignoring the spit and snarled insults. They rode toward the place where he’d left Davina with his guards, with the captured scout still muttering curses through bloodied lips. Baird’s injured arm throbbed with every jolt of the horse, but he ignored it. He kept ignoring it, until the trees thinned and he saw the cluster of guards waiting ahead.
Davina was standing beside her reclaimed horse, her hands gripping the reins. Her gaze was fixed on the path with such fierce worry that Baird’s chest tightened. The moment she spotted them, her eyes swept the line of returning riders, searching and counting. Then, she saw the blood.
“Baird!” She rushed forward, not taking her eyes off of his bloodied sleeve. With each step, she grew paler and paler.
One of the guards dismounted first, trying to reassure her. “He’s all right, me lady…”
“That isnaeall right!” Davina snapped, cutting him off. She reached Baird before anyone else, her hands flying to his arm without hesitation, instinctively protective. “Ye’re hurt… ye’re bleeding! Why didnae ye come back sooner?”
Baird forced himself to sit straighter in the saddle, ignoring the wave of dizziness that pressed behind his eyes.
“It’s naught,” he said gruffly. “Just a scratch.”
“A scratch?” Her voice cracked. “Yer entire sleeve is soaked!”
