Chapter 23
THE ARROW AND THE END
Bewildered, both that his arguments had worked in swaying the English army and that Dudley was running like a coward, Oliver twisted over his shoulder.
He used the scant few spare seconds he had to ensure that Lachlan and Aila were no longer under threat of attack.
He need not have worried. A handful of Lachlan’s most loyal men were already forming a barricade around their Laird and Lady, while another few were ushering the wounded woman inside the castle.
The wall of men followed after them, making sure that Aila would not be injured any further.
Lachlan paused in tending to his wife’s needs only long enough to send Oliver and James a stern nod, waving them to continue the fight without him.
“Dinnae let him get away! Dinnae let him escape!”
James’ shouted, his orders as Captain of the Kincaid Guard, were followed immediately. Men began gathering their weapons, charging towards the forest.
“Too slow,” Oliver muttered. “They will all be too slow.”
Dudley was on a horse—a war horse at that.
He would be long gone before any of the foot soldiers made it to the tree line.
The only hope they had of catching up to the man was if Oliver and James had already been on the backs of their own horses, sprinting after the Baron.
Letting out a string of curses that would have made his mother blush, Oliver turned to stalk over to his horse when a hand came directly into view, stopping him midstep.
“Need a ride?”
He glanced up, Sorcha’s smirk bringing a smile to his own face.
“Aye,” he answered, a sarcastic edge to his words. “I was thinking a run through the woods might be just what we need.”
“Funny,” she teased right back, extending a hand down so he could climb into the saddle behind her. “I was thinking the verra same thing.”
She hardly waited for him to get settled before digging her heels into her horse’s sides, sending the stallion racing after Dudley. Oliver found his balance and adjusted his grip on his sword once again.
“I will not let him get away with this. Not again. Not anymore,” Oliver promised her.
He kept his lips close to the shell of her ear, letting his words brush along the back of her neck before pressing a vow of a kiss to her salty skin.
“We will put an end to this.”
“I ken,” she told him, soft and determined. “And Dudley kens it, too.”
Pounding horse hooves thudded across the ground behind them.
Oliver turned to see James and Taryn, riding together, racing after Dudley just as he and Sorcha were.
James sent him a fierce nod, lifting his sword, finally acknowledging and accepting that they were all on the same side, all in pursuit of the same goals.
Dudley might have had a head start, he might have had a war horse of his own, but his was nothing compared to the beasts the two couples rode. In the span of a dozen heartbeats, they were closing in on the Baron and his four remaining guards.
“Do not let them get any closer,” Dudley shouted, venomously.
Heeding his order, the four guards turned on their horses and charted a path directly for the two couples.
“Hold him steady,” Oliver murmured to Sorcha as they both prepared to fight again.
“Dinnae fash,” she assured him. “I am nae afraid of these weasels.”
In seconds, they were surrounded by the English once more.
With one man on his right and another on his left, Oliver had to make a choice.
After spending the past few hours fighting side by side, he now had to believe that Sorcha would be more than capable of holding her own against one of the guards while he dealt with the other.
“The left is mine,” he growled, raising his sword.
Sorcha leaned, tilting her shoulders out of his way just enough to give him the space he needed to bring his sword down in a graceful arc. Her own weapon stretched out, meeting the blade of the Englishman she fought in a deafening clash.
Up. Down. Block. Reach. Twist. Up. Down. Block.
Over and over he repeated the dance, keeping half an eye on James and Taryn’s fight while feeling Sorcha move in front of him.
The guards kept their horses moving, circling around the couple, but Oliver did not let his eyes leave his opponent.
In a move so clean it looked as if they had spent years practicing it, Oliver laid flat on his back, stretching across the hind quarters of the horse while Sorcha stood in the stirrups and twisted around, her sword hovering in the air overhead.
She launched at one guard, blade slashing against his chest, while the other moved at a safer distance behind his ally. Arms stretched over his head, Oliver took the man’s moment of painful distraction to pull himself back into a seated position, his sword dragging through the man’s gut as he went.
“One down,” Sorcha declared in triumph over the sound of the soldier slumping to the ground. “One to go.”
In the few seconds it took for the second Englishman to realize what they had managed to accomplish, Oliver chanced a look over at James and Taryn.
They too had felled one man. Judging by the smear of red that coated James’ chest and Taryn’s arm, it had not been a victory easily won.
But they continued to fight hard. Oliver intended to do the same.
They moved more quickly this time, acting on offense. Sorcha steered her horse closer to the guard, while Oliver strengthened his arms for a final time.
“He is headed for the stream. It will be too full for him to cross,” Sorcha told Oliver. “Dudley has cornered himself in.”
“Then let us be done with these games so we can see he meets with justice.”
Pushing the horse forward, Sorcha steered them closer to Dudley, forcing his guard to fight to keep up with them. Oliver spun on the horse, riding with his back pressed against Sorcha’s, facing the enemy head on.
He swung hard and fast, no longer interested in drawing this fight out any longer than he had to.
Waiting and watching, he blocked the man’s attacks with a thin line of patience, looking for the perfect opportunity to strike.
The Englishman was obliging, lifting his sword-hand a moment later, leaving his middle open and undefended.
Oliver pulled his dagger from his belt and hurled it into the air.
With his other hand, he slammed the hilt of his sword up, into the man’s wrist, forcing the guard to drop his sword.
Oliver barely had time to take another breath before the man fell out of his saddle, eyes glazed over with death.
The rhythmic pace of the horse’s gallop put Oliver into a momentary trance, unable to pull his gaze off the man.
Whether he liked it or not, every single man who had died on the field today was a fellow countryman.
Oliver had spent his life torn between the English and Scottish people.
With the fighting over, he was beginning to feel the full weight of all the destruction that had been wrought today.
“Are ye all right?” Sorcha’s concerned voice cut through the clouds in his mind. “Are ye injured?”
Blinking, Oliver forced his thoughts back to the task at hand.
Shaking the tension from his shoulders, he spun back around and nestled himself against Sorcha.
Craving closeness that he couldn’t explain, to himself or anyone else for that matter, Oliver reached for the reins, letting his hand cover Sorcha’s, his arm curled around her waist. His sword, red and dripping, laid flat against his leg.
He breathed her in, centering himself in his task once more.
“I am fine,” he said at last.
Darting a glance to his left, he noted with pride that James and Taryn had been equally successful in defending themselves against Dudley’s guards. Their pace had slowed, but they still trailed after Oliver and Sorcha.
“He will nae get away this time,” Sorcha promised.
Whether she had meant the words for herself or for his sake, he didn’t know. But it bolstered their courage either way.
The trees, thick and lush with spring, made the chase feel as though they were running after a shadow, ever-changing and elusive.
But as the oaks and aspens condensed, their trunks colliding with thick bramble, there was only one path wide enough for a horse to pass through.
Sorcha expertly wove them through the woods, closing the distance between them and Dudley.
His shouted, frantic curses carried through the air.
Oliver did nothing to stop his grin from spreading.
“There,” he whispered, pointing in the man’s direction.
Just as Sorcha had predicted, Dudley had backed himself into a corner.
The trees were too densely packed, the terrain too rocky to either side of them.
Behind the Baron was a stream. During the summer and fall months, it looked to be a peaceful enough brook.
But with the winter snow melting quickly, feeding into the water, it had grown into a raging river—too deep and too swift to even try to cross.
Oliver and Sorcha emerged from the path and into the small clearing in front of the river just as Dudley turned back around, coming to terms with the trap he had gotten himself into.
His eyes, blue and blazing, were wild. His pupils had become pinpoints until Oliver could no longer see the small black circles. The Baron’s mouth pulled up at the peaks, forming a nasty sneer that would have looked fitting on a boar, thrusting its tusks towards them in anger.