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“We’ve no quarrel with you. Nor with your men.” Garrick took off his gloves as he spoke—the only preparation he dared to make. To reach for his sword would be to invite battle, though it did appear that such a conflict might be inevitable.

A bird’s call echoed over the sound of Bayard’s snort. He must calm the situation.

“I cannot say the same.”

He had not heard the man’s faint accent before, but this time it was clear. The leader was Scottish, a borderer, and seemed to know him. Without warning, his opponent spurred his mount forward. Garrick pulled his sword from its sheath and yelled, “Defend! Protect!”

Just like that, he and his men were engaged in battle. Another man reached Garrick before the leader could. The sound of clanging swords behind him forced his sword arm to move as if possessed by the Devil. He’d slain the man, or at least unseated him, before he was able to look behind him.

They’d taken Emma far enough away to avoid the fighting but not so far they could be cut off from aid. Good. Though the ground glistened with freshly fallen snow and the air cut through his chest like a blade of ice, all else was the same. Though the men and the weapons were different, the screams sounded the same. It mattered not if they were at the Scottish border or on an open field in Acre. However, he and his men were outnumbered this time.

But not for long.

He heard their shouts even before the borderers turned their backs on Garrick and his men. Graeme de Sowlis had arrived. But how could he have gotten here so quickly?

Cutting down two—no, three—more men, Garrick fought his way to their leader. But before he could dismount, intending to capture the bastard, the cowards fled. Those who were left scattered in every direction. The trees, though many were bare, would make it difficult for his men to cut a straight path to any one man. As quickly as they’d come, the raiders were gone.

Turning Bayard around, Garrick rode as quickly as the destrier would allow back to the circle of men. “She is well?” he asked anxiously.

“Aye, sir.”

He couldn’t see her. Garrick needed to see her.

“Let me through,” he shouted, and they did. Parting to either side of him, the wall of mounted knights revealed a proud but shaken young lady.

“Emma? Are you hurt?”

He knew she was not. Could see it for himself. But he needed to hear it from her lips.

Garrick jumped from Bayard and reached her in just a few strides.

“It’s over,” he said, stating the obvious.

“What happened?”

Emma, who still sat atop her horse, was covered in a thick cloak and hood, only her face visible.

“I don’t know,” he said, reaching his hand up to her.

She took it. “Who were they? And why did they attack us?”

He squeezed her hand, the first contact they’d had since last eve.

“Garrick?” Graeme said from behind.

He let her hand go and turned around to see more than fifty of Graeme’s men with him.

“How did you get here so quickly?” Garrick asked. “And with so many?”

“We were already on our way to you. They were spotted by the extra scouts I stationed along our borders after the rumors reached us yesterday. Though it seems they are not rumors after all. Who were they?”

With one last quick glance at Emma, who nodded in answer to his silent question, Garrick allowed himself to be pulled back to the scene of the battle. More than five of the attackers lay dead. None with any markings upon them.

“I would ask you the same question. They are your countrymen.”

Graeme kneeled down by the body lying closest to him. “You’re sure?”

“Aye. Their leader spoke to me briefly before they attacked.”