But it wasn't just his physical dominance that set him apart from the others. It was the ruthlessness in his gaze, the hard, uncompromising bent of his square jaw, and the strength of his bearing. He wore a steel knapscall, his jet black hair just long enough to show below the rim. Thick and wavy, it framed his chiseled features to perfection. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a wide, sculpted mouth were set off by deeply tanned skin. Only a nose that had been broken more than once and a few thin, silvery scars gave proof to his profession. He was a Greek god carved not from marble, but from hard Highland granite.
He met her gaze for an instant, and a charge shot through her with all the subtlety of Zeus's thunderbolt. It rippled through her like a warm current from her head, down her spine, extending to the tips of her fingers and toes, shocking her with its intensity.
Green,she thought inanely. In the midst of the most terrifying experience of her life, she noticed the striking color of his eyes. Not the obvious skill with which he wielded his sword or the way he ordered his men with the barest gesture into formation or even—God forbid—whether he intended to finish the job that the MacGregors had started, but that his eyes blazed like the rarest emeralds sparkling in the sun.
He held her gaze for another moment before shifting to the man she'd stabbed.
The situation came back to her in a staggered heartbeat and she froze, waiting to see what he intended. One beat. Two. Her heart rose higher in her throat.
Relief washed over her when an arrow shot by one of his men landed in the tree inches from the MacGregor's head.A friend. Thank God!
“Help us! Please help us!” she shouted. But her words were unnecessary. The warriors had already drawn their swords and started to attack the outlaws. It didn't take long to measure their skill and see their superiority. Her cousin's remaining guardsmen fought with renewed vigor, energized by the additional sword arms.
It was as if the wind had shifted; the attackers had become the attacked.
The dark knight dismounted, his horse an encumbrance in the narrow clearing, and came to the aid of one of her clansmen, swinging his sword down hard to fend off an attacker. The steely clash reverberated through the dense forest, and Lizzie could have sworn the earth shook with the force of the blow. He fought with savage grace, wielding his sword with skill and ease.
Forsooth, this was a swordsman who might give her brother Jamie a challenge.
A small cry drew her attention from the dark knight.Alys!Frantically, the other woman was searching the fighting men with her gaze, looking for her husband, and Lizzie knew she had to do something.
“Alys, come.” She grabbed her icy hand. “We must get out of the way.”
“But Donnan …” She turned to Lizzie, her face crumpled with such despair that Lizzie's heart broke for the pain she would suffer. “I don't see my husband.”
“The men are spread out, I'm sure he's fighting up ahead,” Lizzie lied. “We can't look for him now. It will be over soon and then we'll find him.”
She started to lead her away, only to find her path blocked. The MacGregor ruffian she'd stabbed had managed to get to his feet and unsheathe his sword. He held it with one arm, as the other was wrapped around his waist to stanch the flow of blood streaming from the wound in his stomach.
The rage in his expression shook her to her toes. He raised his sword above his head …
Everything stopped. Time. Her heart. Her breath. She didn't feel anything. For a moment, it didn't seem real. She could have been standing on a balcony watching players on a stage below. The girl was too young to die. She'd barely lived. There were so many things still before her. A family of her own. A man to love. A child to hold in her arms. All that she'd yet to do was reflected in the shimmer of steel poised precipitously over her head.
I don't want to die.
The urge to live broke through the shock of impending death, and Lizzie started to back away, ready to do whatever it took to protect herself and Alys.
The sword started down …
“Don't,” a man boomed from across the path. His deep, husky voice held the cool ring of authority. Lizzie knew it was the dark knight even before she looked. When she did, she saw him still a good distance away, but he'd exchanged his sword for a bow and had it aimed right at the MacGre-gor warrior's heart. “I won't miss.” Cold certainty made it a promise and not a threat.
Her heart stilled.
The two men squared off in a silent battle. Tension stretched between them, thick and heavy. Finally, the Mac-Gregor brigand lowered his claymore.
One of his men appeared at his side with a horse. “We must away.”
The MacGregor looked as though he wanted to argue, but with one last glance at Lizzie that promised future retribution, he mounted his horse and let out a fierce cry:“Ard Choille!”The Woody Height, Lizzie translated from her childhood memory of the Highland tongue. Probably the clan battle cry, she realized.
His warriors responded immediately. Like wraiths, they vanished into the forest as suddenly as they'd appeared. Only the flutter of leaves trailing behind them gave proof to their existence.
That and the dead bodies of her clansmen littered across the forest floor.
She muffled a dry sob in her mouth.
It was over. But she was too numb to feel relief. She was too numb to feel anything at all. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting air fill her lungs.Breathe. Just breathe.
When she finally opened them again, it was to search for the man to whom she owed her life.
