Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Maureen’s erratic movement caught the attention of one of the raiders, and his grin split wide as his gaze fell on her. He turned from a sobbing couple and came for her with lazy confidence, reaching out as though she were no more than yet another loose purse on a table.
His hand closed on her cloak.
Maureen gasped and jerked back, the wool tearing beneath his grip. Her foot slid on spilled ale and for a heartbeat she thought she would fall at his feet. Terror and rage flared sharp and hot, cutting through the fog in her head.
“Let go of me!” she cried, striking at his arm with all the strength she had.
He laughed – a hoarse, crude sound – and turned her toward him, tightening his hold. “Look what I’ve found,” he called to his fellows. “A wee prize fer some fun on the road.”
Her guards surged forward then, their blades drawn, shouting her name, steel flashing–– but the raider yanked her toward him, wrenching her shoulder with his force.
The other bandits, their attention distracted by the movement near the kitchen, left their thievery for a moment and rushed to the aid of their comrade, piling onto her guards, engaging them in a fierce fight.
Although her men were sorely outnumbered, they were seasoned warriors, trained and battle-hardened. She glimpsed Alasdair’s face in the throng as her men fought hard, driving the raiders back.
The room roared around her, sound collapsing into a rush of blood in her ears.
And then, suddenly, impossibly—
The stranger was beside her.
It seemed only moments since she had first glimpsed him across the room, relaxed and careless.
Now his tall form was between her and her captor, his body a solid wall.
There was no warning, no hesitation. His fist drove into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack, followed by the brutal efficiency of a blade hilt to the temple.
Blood gushing, the raider crumpled to the floor without a sound.
The stranger seized Maureen by the arm and hauled her back, not roughly but with undeniable force, shoving her toward the wall and placing himself squarely in front of her.
His stance changed utterly – he squared his shoulders, his feet planted solid and unwavering, his blue eyes cold and assessing.
The easy charm was gone, replaced by a warrior’s lethal ferocity.
“Stay there,” he bellowed, not looking back.
Maureen obeyed, huddling behind him against the wall, her breath coming in short, unsteady gasps.
Her heart was hammering so hard she feared it would tear free of her ribs.
Yet beneath the fear, against all sense, something else flared.
A strange certainty that this man was placing his own life at risk without a second thought.
The realization of his strength, of his presence shielding her without question lent her a measure of courage.
Another man materialized from the melee, taking his place beside her protector. An order cut through the chaos, crisp and commanding.
“Joseph. Tae me left. Now.”
Joseph was already there, following the command without question, his blade drawn, his eyes hard. He took the man’s flank with the practiced ease of a lieutenant. Together with her guards, they pushed forward, forcing the raiders back and away from the huddled patrons.
Steel rang on steel. A man fell. A bench splintered. Someone screamed in pain.
They fought with ruthless precision, with no wasted movement, no impetuous fury, only control.
Her protector in the lead, the men drove the attackers away from the center of the room, turning the tide inch by brutal inch.
Maureen watched from her vantage point by the wall, her nails digging into her palms as she tracked every movement, scarcely able to draw breath.
Then she saw it.
One of the raiders slipped around the edge of the fight, his blade raised high behind Alasdair’s back ready to strike yet unnoticed in the press of fighting.
“Nae!” she screamed in sudden fury.
Unthinking she hurled herself forward, her hand closing around a heavy bottle from the table in front of her.
As the raider’s sword began to fall, she leapt forward and swung the bottle, emboldened by a strength born of rage and fear.
The bottle shattered against the man’s skull. Glass exploded. He went down in a heap, senseless before he hit the floor.
There was a moment’s silence as if all those in the inn held their breath for a heartbeat.
The stranger who’d shielded her half-turned at once, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met across the chaos. He nodded almost imperceptibly and then, to her astonishment his lips quirked in a half-grin, signaling his approval of her furious impulse.
Trembling, Maureen leaned against a nearby table, part of the broken bottle still in her hand, her heart pounding wildly. For the first time since setting foot on the mainland, it dawned on her that whatever fate awaited her here, it might not be as simple as she’d once imagined it would be.
“Fall back!”
One of the raiders bellowed the words from near the hearth but his voice was all but drowned by shouts and cries and the clash of steel against steel. But his call for retreat came too late. By then the skirmish had turned against the raiders.
A blast of rain and freezing wind swept into the inn as the two men who were guarding the door flung it open and made a desperate break to escape, their boots slipping on the blood and ale-slick floor.
One went down under a MacDonald blade before he reached the threshold. The other vanished into the storm.
The rest fared no better.
Alasdair’s men pressed forward, their blades flashing. And all the while the stranger fought relentlessly, showing no mercy to any misguided raider who attempted to bring him down – striking, lunging, parrying without turning a hair, as if he knew naught but battle.
Within moments the raid was decisively over and the raiders were routed, leaving a bloody mess and the cries of wounded and dying men.
The surviving attackers fled into the darkness, leaving behind a pile of broken furniture, and a group of horrified bystanders.
Maureen’s ears were ringing as she looked around.
Smoke from the hearth curled sluggishly toward the rafters.
Someone sobbed. Someone else retched and vomited.
The innkeeper sank to his knees beside his overturned strongbox, staring blankly at the scattered coins as though endeavoring to convince himself they were real.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, the man Maureen had come to think of as her protector, did not hesitate.
He stepped forward, his calm voice carrying throughout the room without effort. “Bar the door. Now.”
Two men obeyed instantly, dragging the heavy beam into place. The man crossed the room in long strides, surveying the wounded with a practiced eye.
“Joseph, see tae him.” He pointed to one of Alasdair’s men who had been dealt a deep blow to his shoulder. “He’s nae dead, but he’ll bleed out if that cut isnae seen tae without delay.
“Ye there.” He turned to another of her men, “Take two of yer company and watch the road. If any of them circle back, I want warning.”
Orders flowed from him as naturally as breath. No one questioned him. No one hesitated.
It was… strange.
Who is he?
Maureen watched, her pulse still racing, marveling at the transformation of the man she’d initially dismissed as a rake – flirtatious, unconcerned.
When he’d approached her, she’d thought him handsome to be sure, but not to be taken too seriously.
She’d dismissed him as a rake, at home in the comforts of a parlor or ballroom.
Now she saw him as a leader. A fearsome warrior who would brook no trouble or any defiance of his commands.
The innkeeper deferred to him without protest. Even Alasdair and his band of soldiers accepted his command without question, looking to him before acting.
Strangers straightened when he spoke, recognizing his authority.
He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply was there––a composed, controlled, presence, absolutely in command.
Joseph remained at his shoulder, blade lowered but poised and ready should his leader demand his sword.
“The raiders appear tae have fled, me laird,” he murmured.
His leader nodded solemnly. “Good.”
He turned back to her, his gaze finding hers where she stood, half hidden, beside the wall.
He hastened to her side, his dark brows drawn together in concern. “Are ye hurt?” he asked softly.
She shook her head, though her hands still trembled. “Nay. I… I…dinnae believe I am harmed.” She managed a tentative smile.
He looked her over carefully, not touching her, his eyes flicking to the torn edge of her cloak, the faint smear of blood on her sleeve that was not her own. Only when he seemed satisfied did he incline his head.
“Are ye certain lass? Ye’ve lost all color in that bonnie face of yers.”
Despite herself, she felt a tug on her heart as he spoke.
Yet there was something different now in the way he addressed her. The teasing and flirting were nowhere to be found, replaced by a measured courtesy and respect that touched far more than his easy charm ever had.
The laird, for she had heard him called that, took remnants of the bottle she’d been clutching gently from her hand, his fingers closing around the glass with quiet assurance.
“I saw ye act tae fell the lad who threatened yer guard,” he added quietly, his eyes meeting hers. “That was a brave thing ye did.”
There was no censure in his tone, no hint that her actions had been unseemly – only a calm assessment, as though courage were a simple fact rather than something remarkable.
Her cheeks warmed under his praise, though she was not sure why it meant so much. “I could nae stand back and see him strike down Captain Alasdair,” she said simply.
A corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile. “Few would have had the courage tae step forward as ye did.” The smile appeared. “Ye’re a brave lass as well as a bonnie one, Eilean.”