Chapter 17
Eilidh lurched to the side with a scream, scrabbling for her dirk as the figure lurched toward her, his movements clumsy. She kicked out at his shin and felt only cloth beneath her boot.
This was a bandit, not a soldier, she realized with a flicker of relief. She might actually have a chance of getting out of this alive.
“Stop fightin’, lassie, and I’ll kill ye easy,” the bandit snarled as he grasped at her skirts, dragging her back in his direction with fistfuls of cloth.
Eilidh screamed again and slashed with her blade, but panic made her careless, and the bandit seized her wrist and smashed it down against the ground hard enough that her fingers went numb and her dirk dropped from her grasp.
“No!” she cried, reaching out with her free hand to gouge at his eyes.
Her attacker dodged enough to preserve his vision, but not so much that he avoided her nails leaving a trio of bloody red streaks on his cheekbones.
“Stop it,” he commanded.
Eilidh redoubled her efforts, instead bucking and kicking and fighting with all her might. Even so, the man got a hand around her throat, and she was only able to get out one more scream before his fingers clenched, beginning to cut off her air.
She shoved at his arm and hand as much as she could, but he was bigger than she was, and gravity was on his side; he was pressing her down into the dirt in a way that made it hard for her to get any purchase.
Dimly she realized that Grian was screaming, and she regretted tying her horse to a tree; her mount would have been a fierce defender if he had been free.
Just as her body began to cry out for air with true desperation, a shadow exploded out of the night, crashing into the bandit and toppling him off Eilidh—and off his feet, sending both forms crashing into the underbrush.
Eilidh sucked in great, greedy gasps of air as she pushed to her feet, prepared to fight until the bitter end.
She had barely gotten her knife back in her hand when she heard the gurgling cry of the bandit that signaled that his throat had been cut. She lifted her blade between herself and the newcomer, wary of anyone who had so easily dispatched the attacker that had very nearly bested her.
But then a sliver of moonlight revealed his face, and she dropped her blade and threw herself into his arms, blood spatter and all.
“Ciaran,” she cried, her voice a little hoarse as her arms went around him. “Ye came.”
For a moment, she forgot her anger in the rapid onslaught of her relief. The only thing that she could think was that she had needed him, and he had come. He’d appeared; blood, fire, and fury. And he’d destroyed the man who had been threatening her as though he’d been born to do nothing else.
“Eilidh,” he murmured, his hand coming briefly to her hair. He held her for a long moment, then he seemed to recall himself. He put his hands on her shoulders and made her step back a pace.
“What are ye doing here?” he demanded even as his gaze searched her for any signs of injury.
She could tell when he spotted what would no doubt be a terrible bruise on her neck, as his eyes went dark with violent promise.
“Ye could have been hurt. Ye were hurt.”
She raised her chin defiantly. “And ye saved me,” she insisted.
Ciaran closed his eyes briefly like the words wounded him. He still had not, however, removed his hands from her shoulders.
“Lass,” he said, and the word sounded like a plea. “I told ye. I’m nae a good man. Why would ye follow me?”
She had come this far. She would not back down.
“Good or no,” she said, “ye are the right man for me. Ye are my man, damn it, Ciaran Gunn! Fate gave ye to me, and I intend to keep ye.”
His eyes were still closed, as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. Eilidh found that, rather than hurting her, this gave her a strange sort of hope.
“Fate,” he echoed, and she was prepared for him to argue with her. But then he let out a breathy laugh. “Mayhap it is fate,” he said. “I did everything I could to avoid ye, and yet here we find ourselves.”
“Together,” she said fiercely. “Where we are meant to be.”
“But it isnae safe—”
She cut him off. “Ye gallus mon, I would rather be hurt at your side than safe without ye.”
Maybe he could tell how intensely she meant it, for he opened his eyes then, his gaze soft as he looked at her.
One of his hands came up to cup her cheek, and she didn’t even mind that there was blood on his fingers.
Rather, a part of her liked it. She felt a grim sort of satisfaction that this man—her man, as she’d said—had not hesitated to kill for her.
“Fate is too cruel sometimes,” he said.
She turned her face to kiss his palm, and an agonized expression crossed his features.
“It’s nae cruelty,” she said. “It’s just right.”
A shudder of surrender went through him, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her close instead of pushing her away. Eilidh barely had time to properly soak in the sight of him before his lips were on hers and they were kissing.
It was marvelous, she thought through the heady rush of pleasure, that each of their kisses could be so different.
Because this one, even though it was their second one in this forest while a vanquished enemy lay nearby, was not at all like the hurried embrace they’d shared after the last battle they’d fought and won together.
No, this kiss had promise. It told of a future. She hadn’t quite realized how much their lovemaking had felt like a goodbye until this moment—which felt like a lifetime’s worth of hellos.
“Ciaran Gunn,” she murmured against his lips. “How lucky am I to have found ye?”
He sipped once more from her lips, then pulled away with clear reluctance.
“We shall discuss which of us is the lucky one another time,” he said with a gleam in his eye that promised Eilidh that such a conversation would be less discussion and more argument. She looked forward to it. “For now, I have to get ye back to safety as quickly as possible. Are ye good to ride?”
Eilidh was faintly bruised from her altercation, but none of her injuries were severe, thanks to Ciaran’s timely arrival.
She knew she’d feel stiff and sore when the aches had had time to settle in, but for now she felt little more than a twinge as she mounted Grian’s back.
Shadowbane sniffed curiously at Grian as the two horses began to go back in the direction that Eilidh had come only a few hours prior, as though confirming for himself that his companion was well.
They rode in the moonlight.
The night was as lovely as any Eilidh had ever enjoyed, peaceful and bright and with just enough of a breeze to keep her from overheating with the exertions of another long ride so soon after the last.
It was the kind of night that could make a dreamer out of a girl far more sensible than Eilidh Donaghey had ever been—or, indeed, had ever wanted to be.
So, for a little while, she let her imagination off its leash.
And why shouldn't she? she wondered to herself as she pictured a life with Ciaran, pictured days spent kissing and laughing, and nights spent wrapped in one another’s arms. This was the end of the fairy tale, wasn’t it? The part where everyone lived happily ever after?
Oh, aye, there was still a war to win, but she had never truly doubted her family’s ability to stand strong in the face of Gordon’s poison.
She had even less reason to doubt it now, not with the fierce warrior she adored riding at her side.
And it was perhaps a bit daunting to think about what happened after the end of the story, to imagine what the days and weeks and years might look like—but it was a good sort of wondering that filled her. It was anticipation.
Because finally—finally—she knew her place in the world.
It was at Ciaran’s side.
She was smiling contentedly to herself when the first whistle hinted at danger in the instant before an arrow jolted into a nearby tree.
“What?” The startled exclamation had no sooner left Eilidh’s lips than the single arrow turned into a volley falling down on them like deadly rain.
Ciaran gritted out an oath.
“Mercenaries,” he cried to Eilidh. “Run.”
She reacted to his order on instinct, spurring Grian into a canter, bending low over his neck to avoid the arrows that kept whizzing past. Bent down like that, it took her a moment to see them—black-clad warriors, all but hidden in the shadows.
And gaining on them. Gaining fast.
The path, which had been challenging for one or two riders, quickly became treacherous with a whole score of them.
The mercenaries seemed unbothered by the risk to their mounts, though, as they crowded Eilidh and Ciaran in from both sides.
Ciaran threw a knife expertly, knocking one man from his saddle, but it scarcely mattered, not when two more took his place like the Hydra from myth.
Eilidh clutched her own blade in her hand and kept her focus on expertly maneuvering Grian through the dangerous terrain. She’d never practiced throwing her blade while racing through the darkness, and she didn’t dare be parted from her weapon now.
“Go,” Ciaran urged from where he and Shadowbane raced next to her, the two horses neck and neck. “Go, go.”
It sounded like a prayer, like he believed if he said it enough, they would get away.
Only Eilidh knew better. She knew that he was hoping merely that she would get away.
They mounted a hill, and Eilidh clung to the fervent hope that this would let them finally escape. The mercenaries would be caught behind them in a bottleneck; she and Ciaran could use their smaller numbers to their advantage for once.
But she drew up short, Ciaran a heartbeat behind her, when she crested the hill.
There were more men below. Enough to entirely block the narrow pass that greeted them on the other side of the slope.
There was nowhere left to run.
Behind them, the pursuing mercenaries spread like wolves corralling a kill, their grins wide and vicious. Eilidh sidled Grian closer to Ciaran and Shadow as Ciaran drew his sword.
She trusted in his abilities, but even so, Eilidh looked at that sword in alarm. He couldn't mean to try to fight his way through so many, could he? He would be killed!
She didn’t think she would survive seeing him killed right before her eyes.
“Bide,” Ciaran said, his voice low, to Eilidh.
She nodded, only then realizing that she’d grabbed his free arm, the one not brandishing his sword. She kept her chin high as she faced down the leering warriors, who waited with a horrible sort of patience that made dread churn in Eilidh’s gut.
Then, at the base of the hill, the ranks of men parted, and a single figure came out.
He was clearly their leader, and Eilidh supposed that he was imposing in a disgusting sort of way.
He was unkept and wild, but it was the cruelty gleaming in his gaze that made Eilidh desire to shrink away from him.
He smiled. She disliked it intensely. The leader’s words, however, were not for her.
“Ah, Ciaran Gunn,” he greeted familiarly. “It seems ye have finally brought us the chit—and fulfilled the mission that Gordon’s sent ye on.”