Chapter Twelve
Katrina, Kenna, and Arran all held their breath as they heard movement outside the wagon. Arran’s fingers clenched around the hilt of his dagger.
There was an instant, when the canvas cover was pulled aside, that Katrina thought they’d gotten anxious over nothing. Maybe one of the horses had thrown a shoe. Maybe the wheel had gotten stuck on something. After all, it was only the cloaked driver.
She almost smiled and let out a sigh of relief.
But then she looked at his face. And even with the hood of the cloak shadowing his brow, she knew those eyes, those blue blue eyes.
Ice flooded her veins.
Blake.
“Arran!” she shrieked.
Her warning gave Arran a split second longer to react than he might otherwise have had. He used that moment to push Kenna and Katrina behind him, and to swing up his knife just in time to meet Blake’s thrusting blade.
“MacFarlane?” Arran gasped, recognition dawning in his face.
In the cool moonlight and with the hood covering his face, Blake’s grin was a terrible thing to behold.
“Surely ye didnae think ye could get away from me that easily, did ye, Lennox?”
It all happened so quickly that Katrina could barely track it. Arran fought, fast and furious, his movements fluid and sure, his jabs and parries aimed with precision.
He was fast, but Blake was faster.
It didn’t take long for her to realize that this was not a battle that Arran could win. Not against the Bloodhound.
“Give it up, Lennox,” Blake growled, sounding more put out than consumed with battle fury. “Ye cannae win this.”
“Go to hell,” Arran snarled back, sounding significantly angrier.
Katrina feared that Arran would absolutely fight to the death… and she worried that his dedication would be put to the test here and now.
Arran was fighting with all his might, fighting to protect the women behind him, but Blake wasn’t giving it his all.
He wasn’t aiming to kill; all of his cuts that landed only opened tiny shallow cuts on Arran, while all the returned slices were dodged with ease.
Katrina sucked in a breath, scarcely daring to hope, scarcely able to admit to her terror, as one of Arran’s blows landed, opening a long scratch on Blake’s chest.
Blake let out a snarl of pain and rage. He kicked out hard, his strike landing on Arran’s leg just above the knee. Arran swore as his leg buckled, sending him to his knees.
It was a decisive strike. One that would end the battle.
Or, rather, it would have, if not for Kenna.
Kenna hadn’t seen what Katrina had seen, or, rather, she lacked enough understanding of who Blake was—of what he could do—to see that he didn’t intend to kill Arran. All she saw was the man she loved, susceptible to a killing blow.
She threw herself at Blake with all the courage she could muster with nary a weapon to her name.
Blake was so unbothered, both by Kenna’s attack and by the primal scream of rage that she released as she went, that he scarcely even looked at her as he put out his arm—the one that didn’t hold the knife—and shoved her roughly back down to the ground.
Arran roared with rage to see his wife treated so roughly, and pushed himself back to his feet, only slightly favoring his injured leg.
“Get your filthy hands off her!” The words tore from Arran like they drew blood on the way out of his throat. Even Blake blinked at the vehemence in his tone. “Kenna!”
The dual attack took Blake just enough by surprise that he had to flail, somewhat more messily than he had before, cutting Arran’s arm more deeply than any of his other slashes had landed.
This wouldn’t end well. Katrina knew she had to do something. She clenched her hand around the knife she’d stolen from Blake and took her opportunity.
She didn’t give herself time to think before she ran at the Bloodhound, driving the blade into his shoulder.
She felt the sickening sensation of steel skidding against bone as her jab slid along his shoulderblade.
His shout of pain was louder this time, and when he stole a glance behind him, she wondered if that wasn’t a hint of betrayal in his gaze, rather than just pain.
But that couldn’t be.
“Goddamn it, Katrina!” Blake whirled upon her, his good arm coming up to block any other weapons she might have.
Arran seized upon Blake’s distraction, yanking out the blade embedded in his shoulder, pulling it messily, widening the wound that Katrina had made. Blake staggered, then, his eyes whipping between Arran and Kenna on one side and Katrina on another.
Again, Katrina knew this was a moment where she needed to do what was right.
“Run!” Katrina screamed at Kenna, reaching out in the same moment to yank on Blake’s shirt so that he couldn’t pursue them.
She clung furiously to his injured side while Kenna and Arran began to run, first slowly in deference to Arran’s bruised leg, then more quickly.
Blake tried to shake her free, but she dug in her fingertips, and his arm was bleeding heavily enough that it had to be causing him significant pain even trying to war with as unequal an opponent as she made.
By the time he managed it, Kenna and Arran were already disappearing into the trees.
Slowly, he rounded on Katrina, fury burning in his eyes, setting them to the hot blue of the center of a flame.
“I warned ye, Katrina,” he said. She wished he had yelled it. She would have even taken a growl of anger. Instead, his words were slow and precise.
She took a step back, out of fear or regret she didn’t know, but his step forward was larger pushing her further back.
“I was defending my friends,” she stammered. “I willnae apologize for that.”
He looked over at his shoulder, which was still bleeding freely, as though he had forgotten about the wound entirely.
“I warned ye,” he said again, “not to run. I told ye that I would follow ye. I told ye that I would catch ye, no matter how far ye went. I thought ye understood, but maybe I gave ye too much credit for those wits of yours.”
She swallowed.
“Ye cannae have really expected me to stay,” she said, backing up again. It was pointless, of course. There was nowhere for her to run. “Ye abducted me!”
“Aye,” he agreed. “And now, I will do it again. Because apparently ye arenae the woman I thought ye were. Maybe Brodie really is the husband ye deserve.”
The words landed with the force of a blow, and Katrina went sick with dread over the possibility of him really doing it, of Blake truly dragging her off to be shackled to Brodie for the rest of her days.
The horror of it froze her in place, and when Blake took another step forward, it brought them face to face.
Then, Blake’s face went ashen, his lightly tanned skin going almost gray, and Katrina found that this horrified her all the more. He had just enough time to give her one look of surprise and confusion before he collapsed.
Katrina lunged to catch him, cursing this impulse as his bulk brought her to the ground with him.
Her muscles, especially cramped as they were after a night in the carriage, were no match for his weight, and he was boneless in the way unconscious people were; she knew, before she maneuvered herself to look at him properly, that his blue eyes would be closed.
When she got out from beneath him, panting and covered in mud and the blood oozing from his wounds, she took a moment to gasp for breath and think about her next steps.
She should run.
The smart thing would be to run.
Maybe, if she left now, she could even find Kenna and Arran—though she had doubts about that as soon as the thought crossed her mind. True, they wouldn’t be far ahead of her, but they would be covering their path, and she wasn’t a skilled hunter or tracker.
Besides, if she left Blake here, he would die.
The notion bothered her—likely more than it should.
It was her healer’s instinct, surely. It had to be that. And not any other unwanted and utterly inappropriate feelings. She was a healer, she would be bothered if anyone died, cold and alone, bleeding out on the ground.
“Damn it,” she muttered to herself as she looked at the giant of a man, the cart and its patient horse—goodness, she hoped Blake hadn’t killed the original driver—then back to the man. “Damn it, damn it, damn it all.”
It took an age. She was slick with blood and mud and sweat, but she kept going. Her arms ached, her back burned, but she kept going.
Blake was no help. In the vanishingly few moments where he was semi-conscious, he mumbled something incoherent.
Once, he looked at her, smiled and said, “I was looking for ye,” before his eyes rolled back in his head again.
Eventually, though, he was in the carriage. She hauled her aching body into the front of the wagon, then clambered up into the driver’s box.
And then she drove her enemy off to find safety, cursing herself the entire way.