Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The thieves were a blur in Isabeau’s vision. Two of them lunged at the stranger, their blades flashing in their hands, and Isabeau’s breath caught. The man moved just as fast, cutting down the largest of the thieves with one, swift swipe of his dirk.
Never before had Isabeau seen such speed and confidence, such skills.
Never before had she seen someone strike down another man with such ease, like he was nothing but a sack of grain.
The thief crumbled to the ground, falling dead before he had even hit the soil, and the stranger was quick to set his sights on his next target—the young man who had looked at her with that detestable sneer.
He’s so strong… he looks like a statue brought tae life.
The younger one hesitated for a moment after seeing the show of brutality before his eyes.
But then, his blade met the stranger’s with a clang, the two of them clashing with echoed roars.
Isabeau watched them, her head held high off the ground, her neck craning as she tried to keep up with their fight as the other two men held her still, eager to see what the stranger would do—if he would manage to kill the other, if he would free her from these men.
But if he frees me, will I only be held captive by different hands?
Was that stranger a good Samaritan, someone who saw her suffer and wanted to help her? Or did he want to take advantage of her himself, to do to her the very same thing those men wanted to do?
Isabeau didn’t know, and she wouldn’t find out—not until the man had killed them all, if he could even do that. But her odds were much better if she was against one man than four, no matter how dangerous and ruthless said man was.
But why would he hurt me after savin’ me?
The men’s blades clashed again and again, their shouts deafening in the quiet road.
Isabeau watched them with a racing heart, her chest rattling with it, her throat tight, her eyes burning.
The stranger moved like a man possessed, like a wild, rabid animal whose only goal was to kill—and kill he did.
His blade plunged into the man’s chest, slicing him open, and he watched as he stumbled backwards, clutching at the wound.
He hadn’t even hit the ground before the stranger turned to her, his blade dripping with blood.
“Damn ye,” one of the men holding her said under his breath as he yanked Isabeau up to her feet, the sudden motion making her dizzy.
It took her a second or two, but then she struggled to get free, twisting in his hands, only for the man to hold her tighter, tight enough for bruises to bloom over her arms, over scars that had already healed and others that were still healing.
But when the other who remained pressed the tip of his blade against her side, she stilled, her blood running cold.
“Take another step an’ I’ll kill her,” the armed man warned. Even through her cloak and bodice, Isabeau could feel the sharpness of his dirk, the sting of the blade.
The stranger tilted his head to the side as if confused. “What makes ye think ye can?”
The man’s voice, a deep, honeyed baritone sent a shiver down Isabeau’s spine. There was something terribly confident, almost cocky about the way he spoke to the other man, but Isabeau had no trouble believing that he could best the other, even when he was using her as a shield.
Isabeau screamed as blades met before her eyes, the man holding her refusing to relinquish his hold on her arms. The stranger, though he faltered and paused every time his blade came too close to her, as if fearful that he would harm her, kept the men at bay.
He fought the two thieves at once, twisting and turning on his heel as he tried to parry the blows.
The blood rushed in Isabeau’s veins, pounding in her ears.
The air around them was filled with the shouts of the three men, with the cries of terror that crawled out of her as the man tried to drag her away from the fight, unable to fight back or even find her balance.
Her feet stumbled, her spine curved, and the more she tried to fight back, to force the man to let go of her, the tighter he held on to her.
But then, distracted as he was by her efforts, he was the first of the two to be struck down.
The stranger’s blade caught him across the back, carving a deep wound into his flesh, and after mere seconds, Isabeau was finally free—only for the last man’s blade to slice through her stomach in the chaos.
Pain came first—sharp, white-hot, and sudden.
Isabeau gasped, the sound punched out of her lungs as the thief’s blade slashed across her.
She couldn’t tell how deep it was, but it was enough to bring her knees buckling under her.
The scream never made it past her lips. Only a breathless sound, fists trembling as blood began to soak through the layers of her bodice.
The stranger’s eyes locked into her own for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. It was as though time stopped between them, and when he finally dragged his gaze away from her and back to the last man standing, his face twisting into a mask of fury.
The man who had wounded her didn’t stop to look. He was too busy parrying the deadly storm of steel the stranger unleashed with every step forward.
“Ye bastard,” the stranger said through gritted teeth, his words coming out between breathless pants as he attacked the other man again and again, showing no mercy. “Daes it make ye feel good, hurtin’ an innocent lass? Daes it?”
The other man didn’t speak. Isabeau doubted he could, with the way the stranger was attacking him. But she couldn’t help but stare, her lips slightly parted, her heart thumping with every breath she took, as grateful to him as she was intrigued by his existence.
It was over in seconds. The stranger grabbed the man by the shoulder and shoved his blade through his stomach, then deeper, before finally twisting the blade with a cruelty that chilled her to the bone.
But Isabeau couldn’t care too much about that—not when dizziness gripped her, sudden and unbeatable.
The pain in her stomach throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and warm blood fountained out of her, drenching her dress. The world began to go dark and fuzzy around the edges, and in the end, she crumpled onto the cold dirt of the forest floor, jaw clenched against the groan that escaped her lips.
Within moments, the stranger was there, crouching down next to her, the scent of sweat and steel and blood lingering on him like a shroud. He knelt beside her, his shadow swallowing her whole.
Her heart stopped when she saw the flash of his blade once more.
But this time, he aimed for the bonds around her wrists, cutting off the rope, before he moved on to her ankles, finally freeing her.
Isabeau rolled to her back on the ground, a hand coming to press against the wound on her stomach, her palm instantly tacky and warm from the blood.
He was so close to her now that Isabeau could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
From up close, the first thing she noticed about him was how handsome he was—his forehead high and regal, his jaw sharp under a smattering of dark stubble, his generous mouth twisting in concern.
He saved me. Had it nae been fer him, I would be dead now.
But what if he leaves me here?
Then she would certainly die, if not from the blood loss, which was bound to claim her, then from an infection. Getting to a healer was no easy task, it was not something she could deal with herself.
“Let me see.”
The voice was low, roughened by the wind. Isabeau should have flinched. She should have pulled away, but something in the tone—commanding, yes, but not cruel—made her hold still. Her heart thundered, her vision flickered at the edges, but her pride flared sharp under it all.
Isabeau’s gown clung to her, heavy with blood. The fabric at her midsection had torn, baring a strip of pale skin and the angry red gash that stained it. The pain pulsed, jagged and unrelenting, but it was the man’s hand—reaching, not hesitantly, but purposefully—that finally made her flinch.
She shuffled back, one arm wrapping instinctively around her ribs to shield the wound.
“Dinnae touch me.” Her voice cracked but held steel beneath the tremor. “I’m fine.”
The stranger didn’t draw back immediately. His eyes flicked to the wound, then to her face, as though gauging which was more stubborn—the injury or the woman bearing it.
“That cut needs lookin’ at,” he said flatly. “Ye willnae make it far with it bleedin’ like that.”
“I’ve made it this far.”
“Barely.”
His words weren’t cruel, but they cut all the same. It was a cold assessment, devoid of pity.
“I’ll take ye tae a healer,” the man said, insistent. “Where’s the nearest village?”
“I dinnae need yer help,” she said, suddenly furious—at the pain, at the blood, at the way her limbs trembled despite every order she gave them to be strong. She didn’t trust this man—she didn’t trust anyone.
“Ye dinnae have much o’ a choice,” he pointed out. His voice was quiet, but there was something sharp in it, something that made her stomach clench. “Ye want tae bleed tae death in these woods, that’s yer right. But if ye want tae live, we need tae get that wound stitched right the now.”
Isabeau faltered, her hand tightening around the torn fabric of her dress. She knew he was right. The cut was deep enough; every breath stung, and her gown was already drenched in blood. If she didn’t clean it and close it soon, infection would do worse than any blade.
She didn’t want to die there, not in the cold, not with strangers’ blood still drying on the leaves.