Page 180 of Wicked Highland Heroes

From the corner of his eye, Talbot glimpsed the flash of another sword and spun as the newcomer’s steel clashed with David’s sword. The newcomer parried, left, then right. Another sword swung toward Talbot’s head. He deflected the blade and drove his sword into the man’s belly. Another man lunged, but a third man jumped in and swung his sword, slicing the man’s hip.

Talbot turned. The first Highlander who had given aid was being attacked by two others. Talbot rammed his sword into the side of the closest attacker. The Highlander helping him forced his opponent back two paces before slicing a long cut along the man’s arm and wrist. His opponent bellowed, but the Highlander brought down a blow so heavy the clang of steel hurt Talbot’s ears. The blow broke the man’s grip on his sword and he dropped to his knees.

The onlookers nearest the fight stepped toward them.

“We must leave,” the first Highlander who had helped Talbot shouted.

The second Highlander backed up alongside Talbot, sword ready. Talbot retreated with his two comrades. When they neared the door, they whirled and burst through at a run. Men piled out of the tavern and gave chase. Talbot followed his companions down a zig zag of narrow streets until the shouts of their pursuers died. Talbot’s comrades finally stopped on a quiet lane in front of run-down cottages. The three men collapsed against the nearest wall and drew in deep breaths.

“Ye have a way of leaving an impression,” the man who had first helped him said.

“I was minding my own business when those brutes got in my way.”

The sun had lifted in the horizon, and Talbot got a good look at his rescuers. Both men were tall and broad shouldered. The one who had jumped into the fight first had red hair with a beard, the second was dark and clean shaven.

“I am surprised you aided me,” Talbot said.

“Ye mean, you are surprised we aided an Englishman,” the second man said.

“Aye,” Talbot admitted.

“I canna’ abide an unfair fight,” the first man said.

“‘Tis no’ sporting of them,” the second agreed.

“I am Talbot—”

“St. Claire,” the first man interjected. “Aye, we know.”

“It would seem the bounty I set on my brother’s head has made me more popular than him,” Talbot muttered.

“That is one way of putting it,” the first man said. “I am Ingram Berclay.”

“Ralf Wardwn,” the second said.

“I would offer to buy you a drink, but I fear it would be our last,” Talbot said.

Ralf laughed. “I know a place.”

Talbot followed them to a quiet inn farther from the docks. They sat in a corner of the inn’s tavern and when ales arrived, Talbot said, “My brother is just as English as I am. I would think my attackers would be glad to collect a bounty of silver on any Englishman.”

Ralf grunted. “If he was a dead Englishman, aye. Though, I suspect if those characters knew where your brother was they would collect the money, then kill ye both.”

Talbot nodded and took a draught of ale. “I suppose neither of you have any idea where my brother might be?”

They both shook their heads.

“Probably halfway to England by now,” Ingram said.

“So I thought,” Talbot said. “But I saw him tonight. That is what brought me to the tavern where I met you.”

“He was there?” Ingram said in obvious surprise.

“I lost him in the streets. I went into that tavern looking for him.”

“Are ye sure it was him ye saw?” Ralf asked, and Talbot detected something more than curiosity behind the man’s question.

“It was him.”