Despair filling him, Cameron considered leaving her to hide in the bedchamber until he could summon Conall—but the door flew open and slammed against the inner wall so suddenly that he sucked in his breath in surprise.
He had no more than an instant to blink and she was upon him in a swirl of white nightgown and long limbs. The candlestick raised high and what he swore was a battle cry bursting from her throat.
Somehow he dodged her weapon, but not fast enough to prevent the metallic edge of the candlestick from grazing his head, the sharp, stinging sensation making Cameron roar in fury.
“Woman!”
Aye, conversing was one thing, but facing an opponent determined to strike him down was entirely another. Cameron grabbed a slim arm and wrested the candlestick from her. Yet if he had thought that might end her attack, he was wrong, when she grabbed the hilt of his sword and drew it so swiftly from his belt that he stared at her in utter disbelief.
Never before in his life had that happened—Cameron so stunned that he nearly lacked the presence of mind to jump back when she swung at him as ably as any swordsman he’d ever seen.
Her eyes locked with his in the heat of combat.
Her bare feet set wide and planted firmly on the floor as she stood tall and swung again, this time barely missing his abdomen as he jumped back a second time.
Her expression not like anything he had seen before on a woman, implacable and fiercely determined as she lifted the sword high and swung again—Cameron awestruck now as he dodged death a third time.
As if an apparition from centuries past, he could not take his eyes from her and he didn’t dare. He had heard tales of Viking shield-maidens that fought side by side with men, his own ancestors of Norse blood. She raised the sword again, yet Cameron could see from the shakiness of her grasp that she had tired, her breathing harsh and ragged.
Still she came toward him while he took another step back, and no matter how magnificent she appeared, he’d had enough of his sword being used against him.
He waited for the right instant with the blade descending toward his shoulder, dodged and then pivoted to grab the hilt from her hand—just as he heard Conall’s voice down the hall.
“By God, brother, I thought she was going tae kill you!”
Cameron didn’t answer, his own breathing harsh to his ears as he levelled the sword at the base of her throat to dissuade her from making another move.
Still an opponent to him in his mind, for no matter her evident exhaustion, her tightly balled fists told him that she hadn’t given up on fighting.
Her gaze, darkened to a turbulent blue, fixed upon him.
“Lady De Burgh, no matter what you must think, you’ve no enemies here. We’re all loyal tae King Robert. Earl Seoras, the bastard who imprisoned you, is dead and Clan MacDougall defeated. I’m the laird now, Baron Cameron Campbell, and I swore tae Finnegan, just before he died, that I would protect you—”
“Finnegan is dead?”
Her stricken voice as light as a whisper, Cameron saw her falter as Conall came up behind him, his brother’s whoop of astonishment ringing around them.
“Did you hear yourself, Cameron? I’d swear you’re cured—och,catch her!”
Cameron already had, one arm flying around her waist to prevent her from collapsing to the floor even as he sheathed his sword.
An instant more and he’d swept her up to carry her down the hall, her face stark white as Conall strode alongside him.
“You’re bleeding, Cameron.”
“Aye.”
“Your own sword?”
“Candlestick.”
Conall’s low whistle grating upon him, Cameron said nothing more, Aislinn De Burgh once more limp in his arms.
His heart thundering at how much he had said to her, his own astonishment at himself tenfold that of Conall’s.
Yet Cameron wasn’t cured, sweat dripping from his brow and causing his flesh wound to burn, which made him curse vehemently.
At once he saw her flinch, so she hadn’t fainted, but mayhap was overcome by shock. Clearly she cared for Finnegan, and coupled with exhaustion from attacking him, the grim news had proved too much for her.
