He leaned down low over the courser’s neck to avoid the branches and limbs that splayed out in all directions of the forest that circled the base of the hills, and prayed. Prayed he’d counted wrong. Prayed that he reached her in time.
But a moment later he heard a piercing sound that would haunt him for the rest of his life. A shrill, terror-filled scream tore through the misty dawn air, stopping his heart and catapulting him forward into the dark, unfamiliar abyss of fear.
Janet had every intention of following his orders. But when the piercing clash of metal on metal shattered through the air, her head instinctively turned at the sound.
She stopped to look for only a minute, but the sight that had met her eyes was not one she would soon forget. It was battle, in all of its gruesome, horrifying chaos. Twice before she’d seen the violence of warfare—the night at the bridge when she’d tried to rescue her sister and the day in the forest with Marguerite when she’d first met Ewen—but the fierceness, the brutality of it, startled her anew. The sight of swords swirling, dirt flying, blood spurting in a gnarling mass of men and beast struck terror in her heart. As did the sounds. The very loudness of it. The violent clamor of steel and death.
Like a steel-clad plague of locusts, the English swarmed the two Highlanders. By all rights it should have been a slaughter. She couldn’t breathe, fearing Ewen would be cut down with the first stroke. But she’d forgotten, or told herself she must have exaggerated, his skill in her mind. The extraordinary strength and deadly intent. The brutally cold purpose by which he went about his task. Sir Kenneth fought the same way, not like a knight but like a barbarian. It wasn’t too hard to imagine them striking terror across the seas in a Viking longship.
The two Highlanders might be overmatched in number, but they were far superior in skill. In the first shadowed blink of daylight, in the midst of that chaos and horror, with their blackened helms and dark-colored plaids flaring like ghostly robes, they looked like deadly, menacing beings from another world.
They looked like…phantoms.
The realization stunned her for a moment, but then, remembering Ewen’s admonition, she turned and ran. Ran until her legs ached and her lungs felt as if they would explode, through the trees and underbrush, along the rocky riverbank as it wound through the forest.
She’d gone no more than a mile when she heard barking behind her. Fear tightened her already straining chest. She looked over her shoulder, saw the hound racing up behind her, and against every instinct in her body that screamed danger—run!—she forced herself to slow.
The dog was trained to hunt. To pursue. It would not stop, and she could not outrun it.
She would not be its prey. With her hand on the hilt of her blade, she turned to face it. Half-expecting it to leap on her, she was surprised when it stopped about ten feet away. They stared at one another in a silent face-off. Beast and man. Or in this case, woman.
Animals had always liked her. She tried to remember that as she stood perfectly still, except for the heavy rise of her chest sucking in air.
The deerhound was big, its gray head at about the level of her waist. Its mouth was pulled back, letting her see every one of its impressively long teeth, but its black eyes were more curious than angry. Could a dog be curious?
Its shaggy fur was dirty and matted, and it looked to be in need of a good bath, but it was a nice-looking animal, with the long, lean lines of a hunter, if perhaps on the skinny side.
With the hand that was not holding the hilt of her blade, she reached into the leather purse at her waist and dug out a piece of dried beef. Cautiously, she held it out, murmuring soothing sounds as the dog eyed her speculatively. Her heart hammered as the dog slowly made its way over to her. Not wanting to tempt fate, she put the beef down on the ground. The dog pounced on it. Devouring it in seconds, it looked up at her again, giving a little bark of encouragement.
In spite of the circumstances, she laughed. It was a cute little devil, once you looked past the size and teeth.
Tentatively, she held out her hand, letting the dog sniff her, murmuring her apologies. “I’m sorry, that’s all I have.”
It barked again, and then panted expectantly, sitting at her feet. When she reached out to pet its head, it crooned.
Janet laughed. “Why, you’re not so terrifying—”
Suddenly, a horse and rider broke through the trees. A startled gasp stuck in her throat, the gleam of mail identifying him as the enemy. The man reached for her, obviously intending to pull her onto his horse, when suddenly the dog leapt, its teeth clamping onto the mail-clad arm, trying to drag him off. Somehow dog and beast became tangled under the back hooves of the horse, causing the horse to pitch forward.
She heard a hideous snap and the pained howl of the dog. She turned away quickly, but instantly realized what had happened: the dog had been crushed under the horse, the horse had broken its leg, and the rider…the rider had been tossed off but was slowly coming to his feet. Swearing, he pulled out his sword and swung it down on the tangled mess of dog and horse.
She screamed and turned away.
“Damned stupid cur,” he growled. With one swipe, the pained crying of the dog stopped. He followed it with a second, and the anxious rustling of the horse as it tried to stand stopped.
Knowing he would come after her next, she tried to run, screaming again, when his steely hand caught hold of her arm.
He spun her around, his sword lifted above his head. “Where do you think you are going, you stupid rebel bitch—”
Janet didn’t think, she reacted. She was fortunate he’d grabbed her by her left arm, because it was the right she needed to jerk the blade from its scabbard and thrust it up with all her might between his legs, hoping to find the gap in the mail.
Just as her knife plunged, she heard a horrifying thump. His eyes widened. His hand tightened on her arm, and then released as he fell to her feet, a spear sticking through his neck.
Ewen had never experienced that kind of rage. The sight of Janet clasped in the rough, steely hold of the knight did something to him. She looked like a flower about to be crushed in a steely vise, her delicate bones no match for the strength of the big, mail-clad warrior and the sword that could at any moment take her head.
A black rage came over him. Bloodlust. The urge to kill. His vision narrowed as if he were peering through a dark tunnel with one objective in sight. He adjusted the spear in his hand. He didn’t let himself think that if he missed, she would die. He didn’t have time.
Forty, thirty, twenty feet away…he threw with all his might.
