Chapter Twenty #2
Helene cast an appreciative eye up and down the babbling brook. For a moment, she closed her eyes to its soothing sounds, then lifted her lids to observe water rush, ripple, and trickle over and in between stones and rocks of all shapes and sizes, some covered in a green carpet of iridescent moss.
Mindful of the late hour, she set about filling the waterskins and laid them down on the grass.
She shrugged out of her jacket and waistcoat, placing them next to the waterskins, followed by her neckcloth and woollen bonnet.
She lifted her long braid and let out a deep sigh, relishing the feel of cool air on her ears and neck.
On her knees beside the brook, she scooped up and drank handfuls of crystal-clear water.
She cleansed her face and wiped her hand behind her neck and down her throat, delighting in the tingling cold liquid running down between her breasts.
If not restricted by waning daylight, she’d have completely stripped off to sit in the shallows and enjoy the bracing water sluicing over her entire body.
With her chin tilted skyward, Helene exhaled another deep sigh and closed her eyes, only to flash them wide open.
Something seemed amiss. Her head cocked to one side, a knot of unease in her gut.
The air was not only still, but silent. Unusually silent, devoid of the trilling or high-pitched rapid notes of birds and the buzzing of winged insects.
Her surrounds had fallen eerily silent, save for the rushing sounds of water.
A chill worked its way up her spine. She stood, turned about, and stared down the length of a sword, its tip two inches from her face.
Helene froze, stricken by fear.
The gap-toothed, bearded, stocky brute holding the sword’s hilt leered at her with unmistakable intent.
‘Well, well. What do we ’ave ’ere, then?’ he drawled. Small, deep-set eyes glimpsed her clothes on the ground. His free hand pointed to the tartan woollen bonnet. ‘That there ain’t the likes of what we Englishmen wear, now is it?’
Frightened, she stood like the deaf mute she’d pretended to be thus far on the journey.
‘It be the kind what those heathen Scotsmen wear, eh?’ Glittering grey eyes raked her from head to toe. ‘But you ain’t no man, are you, darlin’?’ He lightly traced the tip of his sword from her right temple to the corner of her mouth. ‘And you’re a long way from home.’
Helene’s heartbeat thrashed in her ears and her mind raced.
‘Well, it makes no matter what you’re wearing, darlin’. It’s what lies beneath that interests me.’ He licked his lips and took a step back, the sword still holding her in check.
‘I ain’t never poked a Highland lass before, but you’ll do just fine. Your shirt. Take it off.’
Lachlan! Helene screamed his name inside her head. If spoken out loud, she risked being run through with a sword. Think. She had to think. If she could eliminate the threat of the man’s sword, she might stand a chance of escape.
‘Take it off, you heathen bitch!’
The onset of an idea kept Helene calm, and it was all she could do not to outwardly react or show any understanding of his terse command. She pointed to her ears and shook her head from side to side, then to her lips and mouthed the words, ‘I can’t speak.’
Comprehension dawned, and his eyes rounded like trenchers. He gave a throaty laugh, and the look he sent her was a mix of pure evil, lust, and cruel subjugation.
‘Even if you could scream, there’s no one about to hear you.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ll bury me cock in you more than once, me darlin’, and then some more.’ The sword dropped to his feet.
Helene schooled her expression to that of a trusting innocent and prayed he would fall for her ruse.
When he lunged at her, Helene was swift to react, lifting her arms and bracing her hands against the man’s shoulders.
She raised her right leg and kneed him in the groin.
He groaned, his shoulders falling forward.
Helene followed through with an elbow to his jaw, dazing him long enough for her to turn and run.
She screamed Lachlan’s name, startling and sending birds bursting from the treetops.
Just when she thought herself free of her attacker, excruciating pain seared her scalp and brought her to a standstill. He’d caught and wound her braid like rope around one hand, and his free arm grabbed her about the shoulders.
‘Lying sawney bitch! You ain’t no deaf mute,’ he yelled in her ear. ‘I’ll fuck you ’til you’re dead!’
Helene took a step to her left and swung her right arm down, hitting her fist with force between his legs. He yelped in pain and loosened his grip on her shoulders.
Helene broke free of his hold, doubled over, and snatched the sgian-dubh from her boot. Lachlan’s words reverberated in her brain. Attack or be attacked. She spun around, and with what strength she could muster, she thrust forward and up.
Beady eyes widened in startled surprise.
Helene let go of the blade and recoiled in horror.
He glanced down to see the knife protruding from his belly.
Stubby fingers curled around the bone handle and yanked the knife free of his person.
Shock registered on his face, then morphed into disbelief when he stared at the bloodied blade and then at Helene.
He dropped the knife and clutched his gut.
Crimson stained his clothes and hands. He stumbled forward and dropped to one knee, his eyes glinting with murderous resolve.
Helene spun on her heel and ran into a wall of hard muscle.
Lachlan! Thank God! She held on to him for dear life.
However, she was mistaken, and all hope of being rescued evaporated the instant her vision focused and she stared at an unkempt bearded face with the same deep-set grey eyes as the man she’d stuck with her knife.
Wearing a battered tricorne hat, he stood tall, solid in stature, and fixed a grip on her shoulders so tight she thought her bones would shatter.
Attack or be attacked! Helene spiked her knee up. He instinctively arched back. In a counter move, she raised her fist to deliver a hook to his cheek. He caught her hand in his and laughed hot vile breath over her face.
‘Feisty little Scottish scum! Think you can stick a man like a pig and get away with it? I don’t think so!’
He let go of her fist and slapped her hard across the face.
Helene’s head snapped to one side, and she lost her balance, stumbling backwards and falling to the ground.
Air whooshed from her lungs. In the time it took her to catch her breath, he’d uncinched and shed his sword belt and strode towards her.
Lacking strength to rise and run, Helene dug her heels in the ground, hands clawing the earth in a frantic effort to scuttle back and away from him.
His heavy weight fell upon her, and a futile attempt to sit up was met with a splayed hand to Helene’s chest, keeping her down.
Amidst the struggle to free herself, she heard a rasping voice to her side. ‘Get off her. I saw her first.’
The man straddling her barked, ‘You might have seen her first, little brother, but I’ll have her first. When I’ve had me fill, she’s all yours.’
Helene heard material rip, and the forest’s cool air swept over her bared chest and stomach.
Terror as she’d never known it sent her arms flailing as she struggled to buck him off.
He caught both her arms, brought her hands together, and restrained her wrists in one large, hard-skinned hand.
With his other hand he squeezed her breast so tight it made her eyes smart.
She summoned the last of her strength to scream Lachlan’s name before seeing her attacker raise his arm, fist clenched. Helene closed her eyes and braced for the blow.
A roar rent the air. A sound unlike any Helene had ever heard.
It was raw, primal, and spine-tingling. Her hands were suddenly free, and the unyielding weight pinning her down lifted.
She opened her eyes to see her attacker rise above her and fly unceremoniously through the air to land atop his brother’s writhing body.
There, standing at her feet, was Lachlan. A sob of relief escaped her hoarse throat.
In a flurry of movement, he reached down and pulled her to her feet, drawing the opening of her shirt together and covering her breasts.
Pure rage emanated from his wild eyes, in the set of his jaw, and on the hard planes of his face.
Every inch the enigmatic Highland warrior, Lachlan’s war cry had been as chillingly lethal as he looked.
‘Kill him, brother!’
The strained, pain-laced words came from the first of Helene’s abusers.
He sat on the ground, hands pressed to his belly to stem the flow of blood.
The second man was on his feet. His lips curled back, baring rotten yellowed teeth.
He spied his brother’s sword on the ground and snatched it up, snarling like a cornered animal.
Lachlan pushed Helene behind him. ‘Get back!’
She ran to hide behind the wide girth of an ancient oak only to stop in her tracks and wheel around. Terror struck her anew. Lachlan was unarmed. No sword. No pistol. No dagger. How would he defend himself against the man bearing down on him with sword raised and ready to cut him down?
Helene could only watch in horror as Lachlan stood there unmoving.
As the sword came down, he drew his arms to his chest, leaped out of the way, and disarmed the man. He kicked the sword in Helene’s direction and threw the man face down on the ground.
His aggressor clambered to his feet and charged at Lachlan with a grievous growl. The sickening thud of their bodies colliding forced Helene’s hands to her ears, and yet she couldn’t look away as Lachlan delivered blow after blow, fuelled by revenge and retaliation.
She winced at the stomach-turning sound of his fist against bone and the subsequent grunts and groans of his assailant. The man’s bloodied face from a broken nose left Helene feeling nauseated.
The beating ceased and the man crumpled in a heap on the grass.
Lachlan’s broad back heaved from the exertion of the fight.
He stared down at the man and let fly with what sounded like a damning tirade in Gaelic.
The man scrambled away on his stomach as if he knew Lachlan had marked him as a dead man.
Sudden movement caught Helene’s eyes, and in a twist of heart-wrenching horror, the man Helene had stabbed teetered on his feet, having retrieved the other sword. He retracted his shaking arm, poised to hurl the weapon towards his brother.
Helene screamed a warning to Lachlan. He flicked his gaze towards her. In so doing, he didn’t see the exchange of swords from one man to the other.
Helene yelled, ‘Behind you!’
Lachlan swivelled and sidestepped the surprise attack.
Without thought for her own safety, Helene ran with speed and swiped up the sword Lachlan had previously kicked in her direction. She tossed it towards him, and he caught the middle of the long blade in his left hand before deftly grasping the hilt in his right.
Helene glanced at the man she’d stabbed—weak and immobile on the ground—and back to the duelling pair.
The hardened, seasoned warrior in Lachlan emerged.
Sparks flew with the clashing and clanging of steel.
His opponent was no match for Lachlan’s strength, agility, and skill with a sword.
Helene held her breath and felt Lachlan’s wrath with the accuracy of each strike, cut, and slash to the man’s body.
She stood as if in a trance, horrified by the sight of blood and the sound of torn flesh, yet at the same time perversely satisfied to watch her attacker’s imminent demise.
If not for Lachlan, she’d have suffered a fate she daren’t imagine.
How many women before her had suffered, if not died, at the cruel hands of these vile creatures?
Lachlan delivered the final blow, skewering the sword deep into the Englishman’s chest. Helene’s stomach heaved at the slushy sound of punctured flesh, and again when Lachlan withdrew the sword. The man made a gurgling sound and coughed up blood before collapsing to the ground. Eyes wide. Dead.
A shout of anguish escaped his dying brother.
Lachlan flicked cold, merciless eyes on the man, who could do nothing but spray loud caustic curses at himself and Helene.
Insulting, offensive, and obscene. The stream of abuse continued as Lachlan approached and stood over him with sword raised, two hands on the hilt, ready to silence him forever.
‘Wait!’
Lachlan swung his gaze to Helene, confusion in his eyes.
A sudden breeze kicked up, rustling dead leaves and pine needles on the forest floor and sending a shudder of movement through the branches.
Shadows from tall trees loomed larger and leaned in, like a courtroom of ghosts summoned from the past. Insects chirped, the sound resembling a rapid drum beat in sync with Helene’s hammering heart.
As her eyes bored into the man on the ground, she caught the sickly scent of wood rot. She held no pity, no remorse, and no regrets for having used her sgian-dubh against him in self-defence. Pity her blade had missed its mark. It didn’t matter—he’d die nonetheless.
She’d never hated anyone except herself, but in this moment, she felt the full force of the emotion for the bastard who railed abuse at her, at Lachlan, at Scotland. Brutal words weighted with violence, hatred, and hostility.
‘Helene?’
She heard impatience and bloodlust in Lachlan’s voice, knowing he waited for a sign from her, a signal, like the age-old gladiator tradition of thumbs down for death.
Calm, she stepped up to his side, took from him the sword, and plunged it deep into her attacker’s heart.
Blessed silence.
‘I had to do it, Lachlan.’ Her voice was soft, faint. ‘For you. For me. For every man, woman, or child whom these two lowlifes have harmed or violated.’
Tender hands covered hers. Moments after Lachlan prised her fingers free of the sword’s hilt, Helene’s world turned dark.