Page 51 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

The patches she remembered seeing were indeed by the river, but not as close to the castle as she’d thought. Nearly half a candle-mark passed before she found what she was looking for, and the afternoon was passing far more quickly than she liked as she picked, clipped and gathered the plants she needed. More than once, she was tempted to simply return with what she had, but each time, a sense of duty stopped her. The herbs were needed - she couldn’t skimp on her efforts just because she might be cold or nervous.

She then found wild sage and sorrel, and she collected those as well. She had about half a basket full, perhaps a little more, when the sound of hooves and a horse-bridle made her look up.

A loose group of riders was emerging from the trees. At a first glance, they might have been hunters from a nearby village. But they wore no clan colors, and their clothing was ragged and rough, their hair matted and tangled around wild, almost feral faces. Their horses were in little better condition than the men themselves, and all of them were carrying unsheathed weapons.

Niamh shivered, but it had nothing to do with the chill in the air as the afternoon inched its way toward evening. The men looked dangerous, and it was clear they were watching her.

She bent to grasp a last bunch of herbs, determined not to show fear, and heard them come closer. She looked up.

That seemed to be some sort of signal, or else they were simply far enough away from the treeline to act. With a wild yell from one man, the entire group sprang forward, weapons upraised as they charged at her.

Niamh did the only thing she could do. She turned and ran for it, looking for a place where she could have a chance of fending them off. The castle was too far away for her to reach before the men reached her. Not when they were mounted and she was afoot.

She spotted a large, stony outcropping, high enough that she might get her back to it, and they’d have difficulty coming around behind her. Niamh sucked in a ragged breath and forced a little more speed from her aching legs.

Her foot hit a loose stone and she stumbled, a sharp burst of pain slashing up her leg. Niamh gasped, but managed to stagger the rest of the way to the outcropping before she dropped her basket and turned to face the oncoming brigands, dirk in one hand and shears in the other.

Whatever they wanted from her, be it gold she wasn’t carrying, or something worse, she was determined to make them pay as dearly as she could for trying to take it. And if, at the end, she thought she might lose her honor, she could pierce a large vessel and deprive them of the sport.

The first rider came close, and she slashed at him, aiming for the legs and belly of the horse, or the knees and calves of the rider. Hurt the horse, it might fall or throw its burden. Hurt the rider, even better.

There was also a chance she could cut the cinch cords and have the saddle slide free, or the stirrup ties. Any damage would do.

She missed, but her stab came close enough to make his horse dance back with a whinny. The men laughed, the sound cold and ugly in her ears. “Looks like we have ourselves a wild one here, lads!”

“Is she as wild under a man as she is facin’ one?” Someone shouted the words, a sneer in their voice. Niamh shuddered.

“Bring ‘er down, mayhap we’ll fin’ out, afore we gut her an’ take everythin’.”

Another man feinted at her, and Niamh stabbed at him with the shears. She caught cloth, but did no true damage, and his boot kicked the implement out of her hand and left her fingers numb.

The circle closed in tighter, and she saw an ugly sneer on a man’s face as he prepared to charge at her. He raised a crude spear above his head…

The rider collapsed in a spray of blood as a long hunting arrow slammed through his throat. Another went down at the same time to a second arrow. Niamh had just enough time to see both men fall before a wild roar split the air, and two more riders crashed in among the brigands like a pair of avenging angels.

Alistair was holding a hunting spear in hand, and before the bandits had time to react, he rammed it through two of them, sending them both off their horses in a fountain of crimson that splashed across face and clothing alike.

The smell was enough to madden the horses the brigands rode, and many of them reared and tossed their riders. The three bandits that turned to escape were ridden down in an instant. Another tried to run across the moors, but an arrow from Ewan’s bow cut him down before he’d made it fifty paces.

Alistair had left the spear in the two brigands and drawn his sword. He cut down two, then booted the third in the head, while Ewan dealt with the fourth. Then he pulled up, panting hard and looking like a madman. “Tie him up. We’ll tak’ him back tae the castle and find out what he was about, and if there are more o’ them.”

Silence fell, except for Niamh’s shuddering gasps and the rough breathing of the two MacDuff men, along with the wheezing of the downed bandit. Then Alistair swallowed hard, and swung down off his horse to approach her. “Are ye hurt?”

Niamh stared at him, wide-eyed, and at the blood covering his hands, arms, and clothing, and couldn’t utter a single word.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

His blood was still humming with battle haze, the adrenaline of terror and rage fading from his system as Alistair approached Niamh. She was looking at him with wide eyes, surrounded by the bodies of the men he’d killed, her back tight up against the stone outcropping behind her.

He and Ewan had been following the bandits and cleared the trees just in time to see her turn and stab at the horse. He’d been terrified they’d not get there in time, and at the same time, almost too scared to shoot, knowing that if he missed he could hit her. Then he’d seen the brigand raise his spear, and it hadn’t mattered any more.

Niamh still hadn’t answered him. Alistair took a step closer to her. “Are ye hurt? Can ye walk?”

A moment later, he cursed himself. Even trained warriors, when they faced their first battle, might suffer from battle shock. Watching a man die before you was no easy thing, not even if they’d meant to kill you before they fell, or if you’d meant to kill them. How much harder would it be for a gentle soul like Niamh, never trained to the arts of war?

He’d seen men lose control of their bladders or their guts in such circumstances, and it was a miracle that she hadn’t collapsed in a faint. But expecting her to walk, when she was clearly shaken and suffering from shock, was too much.

He held out a hand. “Come on lass, yer safe now.”