“I’m going to enjoy this, you little hellcat.”
Meg scooted back in the mud, but he kept coming. Laughing. She could feel the heavy pounding of her heart in her chest. She glanced around, but there was no one to come to her aid. Those who remained of father’s men were locked in their own battles. She grabbed fistfuls of mud in her hands and tried tossing them in his eyes, but this only made him more furious.
They couldn’t die. What would happen to Ian? She felt the hot prickle of tears in her eyes. Without Meg and her mother, there was no one to protect him.Think,she told herself.Use your head.But the logic and reasoning she’d always relied on failed her. There was no escape.
In the black glint of his merciless eyes, Meg saw only death.
Please,she breathed.
And in the skip of two long heartbeats, the answer to her prayer exploded through the trees on a fearsome black warhorse.
A knight. Nay, a warrior. Not in shining armor, but in the yellow cotun dotted with bits of mail that identified him as a chieftain—though his size alone would have set him apart. Even without his padded war coat, Meg knew he would be one of the largest men she’d ever seen. Tall and muscular, with a chest like a broad shield. As if forged from steel, every inch of him looked hard and forbidding.
And dangerous.
A trickle of fear slid down her spine. For a moment, Meg wondered whether she’d merely exchanged one villain for another.
Their eyes met and held. She gasped, startled by the most crystalline blue eyes she’d ever beheld, set in a face of rugged masculinity partially hidden beneath the heavy stubble of a week-old beard.
The entire exchange lasted only an instant, but she quickly read the absolute command in his gaze. A look that was oddly reassuring despite his ferocity.
For the first time, she noticed that he was not alone; perhaps half a dozen men had ridden in behind him. A more fearsome band of warriors she could not imagine. To a one they were strong, well muscled, and utterly ruthless looking.Broken men,she knew with an instinctive certainty. Men without land or a clan who roamed the Highlands as outlaws. Yet for some reason, they did not inspire her fear. Her eyes returned to the warrior. Because of their leader? she wondered.
With no more than a tilt of his head and the dart of his eyes, the warrior issued his orders. His men moved as a unit, swiftly taking their positions with the discipline of Roman centurions and an ease that certainly belied their rough appearance.
Despite their lesser numbers, Meg knew without a doubt that the tide of battle had just turned. This man would not be defeated. Only a fool would challenge him.
With his men in position, the warrior headed directly for her. Finally realizing that something was wrong, her attacker glanced over his shoulder. The horrible laughing stopped. Taking advantage of the distraction, Meg ran to her mother’s side, gently dragging her back toward the trees, nearly sobbing with relief to see that the color had returned to her cheeks and her eyes had begun to flutter. All the while, she kept her eye on the man who was their savior.
He reached over his shoulder with one hand and drew an enormous claymore from the baldric slung across his back as if it weighed no more than a feather, though the blade alone would have reached to her chin. Still using only one hand, he raised it high above his head, wielding the weapon with remarkable ease, and landed a heavy blow to the ribs of her attacker. Meg heard the crunch of bone as the villain crumpled to the ground.
The warrior leapt off his mount, then pulled a dirk from the scabbard at his waist and unhesitatingly drew his blade across her tormentor’s throat. Relief washed over her. She should regret the loss of life, but she could not. Their eyes met, and she felt a connection so strong that it startled her.
“Thank you,” she mouthed, too shaken to sound the words.
He acknowledged her gratitude with a nod. Then, with a fierce war cry—the words in Erse, which she could not make out—he raised his sword and charged headlong into the fury of the battle, wielding the blade with deadly finesse and accuracy, cutting down all who stood in his path. Her stunned clansmen rallied behind him.
As she attended to her mother as best she could, Meg’s gaze flicked back and forth to the battle taking place all around them.
And to the warrior.
His strength and skill were truly awe-inspiring.
Feeling oddly detached from the mayhem surrounding her, Meg stared in horrified fascination as he killed three men with steely efficiency. Each movement was a precision death stroke. For such a large man, he moved with surprising grace. Like a lion. Two ruffians attempted to corner him, striking at him from either side. He raised his claymore. The blade flashed above his head like a silvery cross before the crash of steel on steel sounded as he deflected their blows one after the other. The brigands were skilled fighters. Working in tandem, they landed blow after blow. Surely he must be tiring? But the warrior seemed to be enjoying it, as if the added challenge only invigorated him.
Using his claymore with one arm to hold back one man, he wielded his dirk with the other, dispatching the second man with ease. Furious, the remaining villain rushed at him. Sliding to evade him, the warrior lost his footing and skidded in the mud, enabling the other man to knock him down. Meg gasped, holding her breath, as the villain prepared to deal his death blow. But in the most brave, or reckless, display of daring she’d ever witnessed, the warrior waited until the claymore was mere inches from his head before slipping his dirk in the ruffian’s gut and rolling deftly to the side.
Stunned, Meg watched as he sprang to his feet.
Almost instantly, another ruffian attempted to take him from behind.
“Watch—” Even before Meg had time to shout a warning, her warrior spun and plunged his dirk deep into the other man’s side.
The warrior seemed indestructible, as if nothing could touch him. But there was something to his prowess that went beyond strength and skill. The battle seemed to consume him. He fought like a man without fear of death. Not recklessly, he was too controlled for that, but with unfettered purpose. An edge of danger hovered over this untamed warrior that she could not ignore.
It didn’t take long for the remaining ruffians to recognize the futility of their endeavor. Scattering like bugs from beneath a rock, they fled.
The warrior looked around as if to assure himself that she was safe. Their eyes met again. Meg felt as though she’d been struck by a bolt of lightning; every nerve ending prickled with awareness. Her mysterious warrior was more than simply handsome. His features were the fodder of legends, classically handsome yet ruggedly masculine at the same time. Wavy brown hair, its true color obscured by the dampness, hung in a blunt line just past his chin, setting off a strong, squared jaw. Rain streamed down a broad forehead, along the curve of his high angled cheekbones, and over a finely chiseled nose. Though his mouth was set in a tight line, his fierce expression could not hide the full, sensual shape of his lips.
