Chapter One #3
A sudden gleam of silver on the horizon made him pause. From a distance, it appeared to be chainmail armour. He moved his horse to the edge of the trees, resting his hand upon his bow.
A group of men—possibly a dozen—approached the hill from the coast. Norman scouts, he guessed, from their armour. Balor cursed beneath his breath, hoping the men would travel north without noticing the two lone women. He remained within the trees but selected an arrow from his quiver.
He already knew he couldn’t fight all of them. Tension tightened inside him when six of the men started up the hillside. For a moment, he debated whether to interfere. The men hadn’t threatened the women yet and, for all he knew, the Normans could be related to the MacEgans.
Even so, he didn’t trust anyone. He held his position at the edge of the woods and nocked an arrow to his bow. If any man dared to hurt the women, Balor would put an arrow through his spine.
His blood raced as he watched, biding his time. From this distance, he couldn’t hear what they were saying. But he could guess what they wanted from the women.
Moments later, two of the soldiers seized Mairead and began to take her away. Damn them for this. Fury blazed within Balor, and he dismounted, racing towards them. The horse would only draw attention, so he began climbing the opposite hillside.
Mairead’s cousin stood alone, surrounded by four men. One wore armour trimmed in gold, probably one of the leaders.
For a moment, he was torn between protecting the king’s daughter and protecting her cousin. A heaviness caught within him at the realization that one of them would die.
And for him, there was only one choice of who should live—Mairead.
She struggled against the men, while Balor took cover behind a large limestone boulder and readied his bow and arrows. When the men dragged her downhill, he took aim at one of them. But Mairead twisted against them, and he couldn’t release the arrow without the risk of striking her.
At the top of the hill, Mairead’s cousin had seized a sword and was fighting back against her attackers. Velaria struck down two of them swiftly, and from the way she moved, it was clear she knew how to defend herself.
In contrast, the king’s daughter wasn’t at all prepared to fight. Mairead stumbled upon her gown, and when they reached the bottom of the hill, the first soldier lifted her on his horse and swung up behind her.
Rage darkened Balor’s mood. By the blood of Belenus, he would slaughter the man who dared to touch her.
He hurried back to the trees, mounting his horse and preparing to follow.
Cold fury brimmed within his veins as he imagined how slowly he would kill these men.
They weren’t going to take her—not as long as he could track them.
But after the rider passed the rest of the scouts, one of them shouted out a command in the Norman language to split up.
Most of the group moved farther north on horseback, while her captors took Mairead towards the coast. The riders didn’t remain on a straight path, weaving their way one direction, then another to cover their tracks.
Wait, he warned himself. If he broke through the trees too soon, it would attract the attention of the larger group. Stealth was his ally now. Balor leaned against his horse, urging it faster. He kept his attention on Mairead, trying to reach her swiftly.
There were only two soldiers, and he could easily take them down. He’d spent years training to fight, and he wouldn’t stop until he got the king’s daughter back.
Behind him, he heard the thundering sound of an approaching horse. Balor glanced back, and another rider began to close in on him from the south. A foul curse expelled from him as he fired an arrow towards the man.
But the rider lurched sideways at the last moment, and the shot missed.
In the meantime, the other two men had reached the coast with Mairead as their prisoner.
A small boat rested on the beach, and they were bringing Mairead towards it.
If they reached the water, his chances of overtaking them were gone.
Just a little farther. Balor leaned in against his horse, needing to get there faster. But the moment he reached the strand, the other rider caught up to him. The man swung his sword, and Balor threw himself off the horse, rolling away before the blade could take off his head.
He jerked to his feet and unsheathed his own blade, furious because he was losing time while they were taking her away.
The Norman soldier swung his weapon again, and Balor blocked the strike.
He was at a disadvantage to the mounted rider, and he deliberately moved in front of the horse, trying to spook the animal.
Just as he’d hoped, the horse grew agitated, rearing up. The soldier fought to regain control, which gave Balor time enough to slash the man’s thigh and bring him to the ground.
Damn the gods, he was running out of time.
Just as his enemy struggled to rise, Balor raced to the water’s edge, past Mairead’s fallen May crown on the sand. The men dragged her towards the small boat while she continued to struggle against them. One lifted the anchor and shoved the boat into the waves.
Balor took aim with his bow and shot the first man in the back, dropping him into the water. Mairead cried out in alarm, but the second man took his blade and brought it to her throat, making it impossible for Balor to shoot.
‘If you release your arrow, she dies.’ The Norman held her against him as the tide began pulling them farther away. Within seconds, the distance between them grew even more as the water pushed them back.
Balor didn’t lower his weapon but waited for the right moment. All he needed was a clear shot, and the man was dead.
Mairead paled, her hands clenched in her skirts. Her gaze met his, and she blurted out, ‘Please help me.’
The moment she spoke, her attacker struck Mairead across the face, bloodying her lip. She sank against him, and Balor released the arrow.
It grazed the soldier’s cheek, leaving a line of blood as the man seized the oars, pulling hard against the water while Mairead lay slack against him.
And Balor didn’t know if it was possible to swim fast enough to catch up to them.
* * *
It was the hardest thing Mairead had ever done, pretending to be unconscious and weak. Within her sleeve, she held a blade, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. Outside the boat, she heard more fighting before a man cursed and a splashing noise struck the water.
Then the boat rocked as another man climbed inside. Her heart pounded as she wondered if it was the Irishman. She prayed it was.
She’d already recognized him as the same fighter she’d watched on the night Alanna had told her fortune.
But it also seemed as if she’d seen this man before, though she didn’t know where.
How had he known that she and Velaria had left Laochre?
Had he been awake and followed them? She couldn’t help but be grateful for it.
The waiting was agonizing, not knowing whether the Irishman had come to rescue her. At last, she felt a hand reaching for her, and Mairead jerked at the unwanted touch, opening her eyes.
But the Irishman was gone, leaving her with two Norman captors.
Dismay flooded through her when she realized she would have to break free of them and make her own escape.
Her father and uncles had trained her to fight back, though she’d done a poor job of it earlier.
But at least now she had a weapon they knew nothing about.
‘You’re a pretty one,’ the bearded man said in the Norman tongue. ‘I’ll enjoy tasting you.’
She’d cut out his tongue if he dared try such a thing. They probably didn’t realize she understood their language. And that might be an advantage. They might speak freely, thinking she wouldn’t know their words.
‘Stabfaidh mé thú,’ she shot back in Irish, threatening to gut them.
The second man remained stone-faced. ‘Hold her down.’ She wanted to spit in his face, but she forced herself to keep her struggles to a minimum, just enough to make them believe they’d won.
Don’t show your strength, she warned herself. Wait for the right moment.
She wished she weren’t wearing a léine and overdress.
Although the rose-colored silk was one of her favourites, it was better suited to her father’s court than trying to run away.
The skirts were far too long. Her mood darkened at the thought of what would happen to her now.
Terror lanced what was left of her courage, even as she tried to remain cool and collected.
‘We could give her to King John, after we’ve finished with her,’ the first soldier said. He inched her gown higher, baring her legs. ‘He’ll enjoy this one in his bed when he arrives with his armies.’
Her blood chilled at the mention of the King of England. John had been named Lord of Ireland, but he’d mostly left them in peace. Why would he be returning now?
But all thoughts of the king fled when the first man tried to jerk her legs apart. Mairead struggled against him and let out a loud scream. While he was distracted, she gripped her blade behind her skirts, knowing she would have to wield it against these men.
Time seemed to go motionless, and her heart pounded. There was no choice except to fight back. She’d never wanted to kill a man, but if she didn’t strike hard, he fully intended to violate her. And she refused to be his victim.
Her teeth were chattering with panic, and tears of rage slid down her cheeks. But before she could stab her attacker, the boat suddenly rocked violently. The man lost his balance and fell forward, just as the Irishman emerged from the sea, dripping wet.
He wasted no time in slicing his blade across her attacker’s throat. The look in his dark blue eyes held intensity and a silent vow. He’d swum this far and would stop at nothing to defend her.
Something inside her warmed to the thought, and for a moment, she could only stare at him in shock.
His features were handsome, but in a rough, unkempt way.
His fierce jaw outlined a face that intrigued her.
He wasn’t like the polished noblemen her father had chosen as suitors in the past. Blue eyes of pure rebellion stared back at her and dark, wet hair hung against his nape.
Her thoughts scattered when the other Norman soldier withdrew his blade and slashed at the Irishman.
Mairead backed away, still keeping the blade in her hand.
The Norman struck out while the boat swayed dangerously.
She questioned whether to let them fight—or should she intervene?
Her question was answered when the Norman’s blade sliced the Irishman’s forearm.
‘Is that all you can do?’ he taunted the Norman soldier. He beckoned to his enemy, as if he relished the idea of a fight.
But the smug expression on the soldier’s face made it seem as if he was only toying with his opponent. The Irishman slashed his own blade, and the Norman blocked the blow—just before he slid his own dagger between them.
In that vicious fragment of the fight, Mairead feared the worst. Her champion was going to lose, and after he did, this Norman would punish her.
She couldn’t let that happen. Her stomach roiled with terror and nausea, but she had to act now.
Raw instinct and her father’s training flooded through her as she stabbed her own blade into the side of the Norman’s exposed neck.
As her blade cut through flesh, she remembered her father’s warning never to pierce it from the back, for fear of the knife striking against bone.
Blood spilled over her hands as she ended the man’s life. The Irishman caught the Norman’s body and tossed it overboard, the blade still in his neck.
‘Good,’ he murmured.
Her body shook with tremors, but Mairead dipped her bloody hands over the side of the boat, trying to wash them. Bile rose in her throat, but she choked it back.
Oh, God. She’d killed a man. Though she’d known that there might come a time when she would have no choice, it shook her to the core. Tears flooded her eyes, and she hardly knew what to do now.
Be strong, she warned herself. Now was not the time to fall apart.
She looked back at the Irishman, half expecting him to offer words of comfort or ask if she was all right. Instead, his gaze had turned thoughtful as if he was trying to make a decision.
‘Thank you,’ Mairead muttered, ‘for trying to save me.’ She dried her hands on her skirts and then asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘Balor ó Phelan,’ he answered.
The moment he revealed his identity, she struggled to veil her reaction.
She had heard a great deal about Balor ó Phelan during the past few months—and none of it was good. She’d overheard stories about him, and some said he’d killed dozens of men.
‘They call you the Demon of éireann, don’t they?
’ Mairead said softly. But for a demon, he was ruggedly handsome.
Even now, his blue eyes held amusement, as if he knew a secret she didn’t.
Her gaze drifted over his broad shoulders and muscled forearms. She remembered seeing him without his armour, his abdomen ridged with strength.
And Heaven help her—demon or not—she liked what she saw.
Balor gave a single nod and took the boat oars as he positioned himself at the stern. ‘They call me many things.’
‘And are they true?’ Among the tales she’d heard, the bards claimed that not only was he a killer, he was also reckless—a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
A slight smirk pulled at his mouth. ‘Probably.’ He began rowing, the oars cutting through the waves.
She didn’t know what to say to that. Then she ventured, ‘Today you behaved like a hero. I’m grateful for it.’ She tried to smile, holding her knees as she regarded him.
‘I’m not a hero, Lady Mairead.’ He pulled the oars hard, and it was then that she noticed they were going in the opposite direction of Laochre towards the nearby settlement of the ó Phelan tribe.
She didn’t want to believe what she was seeing. ‘But you saved me from the Normans. I thought—’
‘You thought wrong. I’m taking you to Dunmalus.’ His arms flexed against the power of the waves, drawing her eyes to his lean strength.
Then it dawned upon her what he was doing. ‘Are you—you’re not trying to take me as your hostage, are you?’
Balor’s gaze drifted over her. ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing, my lady.’