Chapter 18 #2
Reid gritted his teeth, determined to fight his own battle, to move past the ache blazing at his back. Clara’s grandda didn’t need to protect him. Reid could bloody well do it himself.
Two men came at him at once. He managed to dodge one's attack, but the second caught him just under the ribs with a sword. Reid’s gambeson deflected the blade, but the hit was still strong enough to thump the wind momentarily from his lungs.
A dagger flew through the air and sank into the throat of one of the men Reid fought. The man collapsed forward, leaving one lone man for Reid to contend with.
Something uneasy trailed down Reid’s spine.
He managed to reclaim the dagger from the dead man while blocking a blow from his living opponent.
That dagger throw was no accident in the middle of combat.
It had been a clean shot by someone whose aim had been intentional.
Reid tamped down the prickle of fear at his suspicion and pushed back into the fray, trying to ignore the burning ache in his back with each lift of his sword.
The man he fought was eventually dispatched but another turned toward Reid and raised his war hammer. There wouldn’t be enough time for Reid to clear its path. He pulled away, but the wall of men behind him prevented him from moving. The dagger in his hand might be his salvation.
Before he had a chance to come up with retaliatory action, another dagger sailed through the air and landed at the back of the man’s hand. He screamed, and the hammer tumbled harmlessly from his grip.
This time Reid knew for certain daggers thrown so close together could not be coincidental. Which could only mean one thing.
Cold fear trickled down his spine.
Reid cursed.
“What is it?” Ross demanded at his side, battle-axe still swinging even as he tried to peer above the heads of those fighting in front of them. “Are there more of the bastards coming?”
“Nay,” Reid gritted out. “Clara is here.”
The battle-axe stopped moving for a moment. An English soldier broke through and lashed out with a sword at the chieftain.
A dagger flashed through the air between Reid and Ross and plunged into their opponent. They both looked over their shoulders toward the shadows of a lone cottage.
Ross growled under his breath. “Go to her and get her away from here. I dinna care if ye have to tie her to a bloody tree.” He glared at Reid. “Ye know what the English will do to her if they capture her.”
Nausea swirled in Reid’s stomach. He didn’t even want to think of what these violent men would do to his gentle, tender wife.
He pulled away from the fight, making his way through the Scotsmen behind him and the Englishmen who fought against them.
Footsteps sounded behind Reid. He spun about as a man whipped his war hammer through the air. Reid crouched low and thrust the dagger he’d reclaimed upward into the man’s gut. The Englishman cried out and fell forward. Reid pulled the dagger free and stuck it into the leg of his boot.
After confirming the man would not rise again, Reid ran to the shadows behind the cottage.
Clara sat atop a horse in a guard’s uniform that was at least three times too large, secured with a belt glittering with dagger hilts.
Her helm was missing, and her dark hair was tousled about her face where several strands had pulled free from her braid.
He knew it was Clara who had thrown those daggers. He knew it.
But seeing her there, dressed like a soldier, as a man ready to fight, to die—it cut him deeper than any injury he’d ever had.
“Clara,” he choked. “Why are ye here? I told ye to stay at the keep.”
She shook her head, eyes filling with tears. “I couldn’t stay there, helplessly waiting for ye to return. Reid, ye’re still injured.”
“I’m still a warrior,” he growled, angry at himself for his inability to fight to his full potential and that his wife felt the need to protect him.
He glanced around to ensure no one rode toward them with the intent to attack. “Ye need to return to the keep.”
“I wouldn’t be able to get through the gates,” she said. “Ye heard them when we rode out. Once we left, we wouldn’t be allowed back in until after the battle.”
Reid hissed out an exhale of irritation.
An Englishman rode by, his eyes alighting on Clara. The bastard drew his horse to a stop and reeled about, riding toward them once more, this time with intent.
“Get in the cottage, Clara,” Reid said.
She opened her mouth to protest.
“Go,” he said firmly.
She slid off her horse and pushed through the door to the cottage. Finally, she disappeared inside.
Thank God for small favors.
Jesu, the lass was going to get him killed.
Reid tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword as the Englishman rode toward him. All at once, he noted the tunic the man wore, blue with a yellow sun.
Lord Rottry.
This Englishman must fight for him.
The realization was so stunning that Reid nearly missed the whoreson as he swept past.
Nearly.
His blade caught the Englishman’s calf. Reid’s opponent cried out in pain as he pitched from his horse and writhed on the ground. Reid rushed over to him.
“Do ye serve Lord Rottry?” he demanded.
The Englishman spit in Reid’s direction.
Reid put his foot on the man’s neck. “That bastard killed my whole family when I was a lad. An unarmed man, woman and child. All innocent. For sport.”
“No Scotsman is innocent,” the man croaked from beneath the hold.
“Is he here?” Reid pushed his foot harder.
The man’s eyes bulged, and he gave a frantic nod. “In the melee,” he grunted.
Reid looked toward the swarm of men as they wrested against one another for an upper hand in the battle.
Suddenly, the man swept his legs against Reid in an attempt to take him down.
Reid, ever ready for a fight, had his body tensed for such an attack and did not so much as flinch at the blow.
But he did bring his sword down on the bastard’s neck.
His long-awaited vengeance would finally be had. But first, he needed to figure out how to get Clara to safety. She could not remain in the battle, no matter how skilled she was with her daggers.
He glanced back toward the melee once more.
Rottry was among the English, and Reid would find him.