The clanging of metal and shouts of pain echoed through the land just outside the castle. On the battlements, Matilda and Iliana shot arrows. And from a window—not just any window, from Noah and Douglass’s bedchamber—arrows shot through and landed in the enemy’s hearts. Douglass was not going to go down without a fight.
Two attacked Ian from behind and Ian whirled, hacking at their chainmail. He cut one down with his claymore, and then another. Swinging his massive sword in a wide arc until he was clearing a path for his own men to get closer.
His second reached the trebuchet, and with a mighty thwack cut through the rope pulley system, rendering the deadly instrument useless.
Ian made his way through the throngs of battling men, cutting this way and that, until he was face to face with the villain.
“We can give ye Adam,” Ian said as they circled one another, the rest of the fighting men staying back. “He’s on our ship. Take him and leave.”
“’Tis not Adam I want,” Arsehole sneered. “I have come back for my bride.”
“She’s no’ yours. I have wedded her. Bedded her. Ye’ll never have her.”
“I will if I make her a widow this day.”
“Ye willna leave here alive, unless it is with Adam on the ship.”
Arsehole snorted, spat on the ground narrowly missing Ian’s boot. “You think your savage army is going to be able to hold up to mine? My men are more refined.”
“Refinement is the last thing needed on the field of battle.”
“Is that so? Then what is it you think necessary to win?”
“Strength. Cunning. Skill.”
Arsehole laughed. “Cunning, that’s a good one. You may have strength.” He pointed his sword at Ian’s arm’s indicating the size. “And skill,” he glanced around at the obvious destruction. “But cunning you lack.”
“Only a weak man feels the need to insult another man’s intelligence.”
“Is that not what you did?”
“Nay. Ye asked what I thought it took.”
The Arsehole narrowed his eyes. “Then to the death.”
“If that is your wish. Where shall we send your remains?”
“You won’t have need of that.” Arsehole cocked his arm, looking almost like he was going to throw his sword at Ian, a fighting stance he’d not seen before that made him wonder if either the man was mad, or had discovered some new and improved way of fighting.
Unfortunately, it appeared to be the former.
Arsehole rushed him, and Ian easily stepped aside, put out his foot and the imbecile went sprawling, narrowly missing running himself through by an inch.
“Are ye certain ye dinna want to take me up on my offer? We would escort ye to the ship and allow ye and Adam to leave without issue.”
The man sputtered and leaped to his feet, surprisingly agile considering the thick chainmail on his person. Perhaps he was simply tired.
“Never!” Arsehole ran toward Ian again, sword out, spittle on his lips.
Once more, Ian dodged, put out his foot and the bastard went flying, this time into a group of men busy hacking at each other, who tossed him backward. Ian caught him on the back, steadied him and retreated a distance from Arsehole’s sword.
“It’s never too late,” Ian offered again. “Happy to let ye leave. All ye have to do is issue the order for your men to cease their fighting.”
No words came from Arsehole this time, simply a growl and a shout and he did throw his sword. Incredibly stupid. Ian ducked and the weapon sailed over his head, landing in one of the other Englishmen.
“That was bad form, mate,” Ian said with a frown.
The Arsehole rushed him, weaponless, completely out of his mind. Ian swung with a fist, clocked him on the chin with an arched hit upward and watched him fall in an unconscious heap.
