“Surely you aren’t afraid of a hapless female,” she said with a raised eyebrow. “I have need of a place to relieve myself.”
“I said sit down.”
“I’m afraid the situation is becoming rather desperate,” she said with an embarrassed flush.
“It is about to become more desperate if you don’t do as I have ordered,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
With lightning speed, she rotated her leg, kicking the pistol from his hand. Shock registered on his features as the gun landed with a thud on the ground.
Simon was on his feet in seconds. Kirk raised his arm before Simon could get to him and viciously backhanded Isabella, sending her reeling. Simon’s heart lurched when she did not immediately get up.
He rammed his shoulder into Kirk’s midriff, slamming him into the dirt with force that rocked them both. Unleashing the anger that simmered, he drove his fist into Kirk’s jaw. Yanking him up by his collar, Simon punched him again, and blood spurted from Kirk’s battered nose.
Kirk kicked him in the chest, and Simon fell backwards. Kirk jumped on him, and the two men rolled over and over in the leaves and sticks as blows were exchanged.
Simon poured every ounce of hatred and his thirst for revenge into his effort. He rolled on top of Kirk and curled one hand around Kirk’s neck while he used the other to pummel Kirk’s face.
But Kirk was fighting for his life, and he wasn’t going to be overcome that easily. He jerked his leg up and kneed Simon in the groin. Pain exploded through his abdomen, and he flew backward as Kirk shoved him off.
He scrambled backwards on the ground, trying to catch his breath and collect his wits to go back on the attack. When he could see through the haze of pain, fear quickly overrode his anger.
Kirk, bloodied and battered, knelt behind an unconscious Isabella, holding her dagger to her throat. “If you come any closer, I will slit her throat,” he gasped out.
Kirk’s voice turned pleading once more. “I don’t need you, Merrick. It’s the princess and the relics they want. For once in your life, turn your back. Return to England. Forget what happened here. No one need ever know. She means nothing to you. Let her go.”
“That is where you are wrong,” Simon said in a deadly voice.
Simon inched back, and his fingers brushed against the pistol Kirk had dropped. Knowing it was his only chance, he curled his hand around the cold metal and pulled it slowly to him until he gripped it comfortably in his hand.
In one smooth motion, he brought his hand around, took aim at Kirk’s head and fired with no hesitation. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air. Kirk fell away from Isabella, the dagger slipping from his hand.
Simon rushed over, ignoring Kirk’s lifeless body, and knelt beside Isabella. He gently smoothed the hair from her head and saw the bruise already forming at her temple.
Knowing he had no time to waste before whoever Kirk was meeting arrived, he scooped her up in his arms. Not sparing Kirk a glance, he hurried in the direction of the monastery.
A flood of emotions threatened to overpower him, but he staunched the tide, determined to get Isabella to safety. But his anger ate at him until he feared going mad. Tears burned his eyes, and he ground his teeth in an effort to hold them back.
When he topped the hill in front of the monastery, he hunkered down, shielding her with his arms. He surveyed the terrain, looking for any threat to him and Isabella. If luck was with him, Montagne’s men would have accompanied him to his rendezvous with Kirk.
But luck wasn’t.
A small contingent of guards on horseback patrolled the gates, swords drawn. Getting inside may well be the biggest challenge he would ever face. But his entire career had been fraught with difficulties, and he didn’t expect it to become any easier now.
He glanced down at Isabella’s face, his concern growing at her prolonged state of unconsciousness. Standing up once more, he walked just below the ridge of the hill until he stared at the side of the monastery. He hurried forward, ducking behind brush and trees along the way. When he reached the great stone wall that served as an impenetrable barrier to the monastery, he laid Isabella on the ground and positioned her in comfort.
Rising, he pressed himself to the wall and felt for his knife. He moved to the corner and peered around. He counted three guards. One on foot, two on horseback.
Moving his head back, he rested it against the wall and considered his options. If he could lure the closest guard on horseback around the side, he could surprise him and dispatch him quickly.
Sidling back to the corner, he let out the most pitiful wail he could muster. If the situation wasn’t so dire, he would have laughed at the horrid impression of a newborn baby. But it worked. The sound of hoof beats drew nearer, and he readied himself to go on the attack.
As soon as the horse appeared around the corner, he threw the dagger, hitting the soldier in the shoulder. The soldier’s hand flew to the knife and he wobbled atop the saddle. Simon grabbed at his shirt and pulled him down to the ground.
Not giving the soldier any time to react, he leaped on him, smashing a rock down over his head. The soldier slumped and Simon retrieved his dagger from the unconscious man. Then he scrambled up to await the next guard who would likely appear any moment to check on his partner.
It wasn’t long before the second horse appeared around the corner, but Simon had to no clear shot. When the soldier saw Simon and his fallen comrade, he vaulted from the saddle and drew his sword. Simon groaned, glancing down at his paltry knife.
In one swift motion, he dove for the discarded sword of the previous soldier, rolling and quickly bouncing back to his feet. He circled his opponent, warily sizing him up. The soldier was larger, but Simon hoped he was quicker. And more desperate.
