“Let go of her.”
The command came from above. Isabella could not see him, but she was weak with relief at recognizing Hamish’s deep, gravelly voice.
“Yer like a faithful hound, Hamish McIvor, always runnin’ ter the rescue.”
“And ye are a snarling cur, Alaric. I say again, let go of her, else ye will regret it.”
Isabella heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed.
“Now,” Hamish added.
She almost sobbed when the unbearable pressure on her scalp released. Instead, she pushed down with her elbows and scrambled out of the heather until she could stand upright. She turned to see Hamish standing over Alaric, who was on his knees in a patch of snow, looking anything but repentant.
The tip of Hamish’s sword pointed at Alaric’s chest. His stance was wide and his cloak billowed out behind him. He glowered down at his captive before casting a glance in her direction.
“Did he hurt ye?”
Her eyes still watered from the pain, but she knew there was no lasting damage. She shook her head, pride preventing her from rubbing at the sore spot on her scalp.
“He did not.”
Hamish tapped Alaric with the sword. “Lucky for ye,” he murmured.
“Are ye truly goin’ to kill me with that?” Alaric’s eyes gleamed malevolently. “I dinna think ye have it in ye.”
“Sit still, man. I have not yet decided yer fate.”
Hamish grimaced and Isabella thought that she understood his predicament. They were miles from anywhere and Alaric surely could not be trusted. But could Hamish kill a man in cold blood?
From his expression, Alaric clearly did not think so. He twisted to one side and let his dark eyes rove over Isabella, making her squirm and long for the cover of the cloak she’d left hanging in the tree.
“I said, sit still,” Hamish growled.
Alaric chuckled. “Dinna fret so. I am only looking at the pretty lady who has ye dancing to her tune.”
Hamish shook his head. “I should kill ye and have done with it. Ye have brought me naught but grief.”
“I brought ye here, did I not? ’Twas my idea to kidnap the wench.” He threw another leering glance at Isabella.
Isabella looked away, not wanting to hear any more. The idea that Hamish and Alaric had once conspired together, against her, made her skin prickle uncomfortably. She felt the force of Hamish’s gaze turn upon her, but she could not bring herself to meet his eye. Instead, she looked at the grey pony who was idly cropping at the grass beneath the tree.
A sudden movement from Alaric made her turn her focus back to the two men. Alaric had taken advantage of Hamish’s lapse in attention to lunge forward. Whatever he was doing caused Hamish to grunt with alarm, and as Alaric reached for something in Hamish’s boot, Hamish jerked down to stop him.
The next seconds passed slowly for Isabella. She saw the glint of a blade in Alaric’s hand. She saw that same blade plunge, unbelievably, into Hamish’s upper arm. She saw the crimson spurt of blood and Hamish’s grimace of pain and shock.
Then there was a flash as Hamish’s sword flew in a graceful arc to land in Alaric’s chest. Time slowed further as the young warrior swayed forward, before crumpling and laying still.
Hamish stepped away from the fallen man, dropped his sword and grasped his bleeding arm. It took a moment for Isabella’s rightful senses to return, but she ran toward him as soon as she was able.
“Are you hurt?”
“’Tis naught but a scratch.”
His pale face belied the claim. As did the plume of blood showing through his shirt. Isabella clasped her hands withdesperation. Frida would know exactly what to do in this situation.
She narrowed her eyes.
What would Frida do?
