Chapter Eleven #2
She felt the man’s eyes on her back as she rode down to the loch, but when she turned to look back he had gone.
She wished she had some food. She could have asked back in the village, but she suspected they would have none to spare.
She rode a little way along the strand, allowing the horse to drink its fill.
She did not dare stop longer now that she knew she was on Wilfred’s land.
Robert Methven might have sent Wilfred and his men away with their tails between their legs yesterday, but they would surely be back and they would want revenge.
There was a shout behind her and she wheeled around.
To her horror, three men on horseback were coming out of the knot of pine trees directly toward her.
One, on a prancing gray, she recognized immediately as her cousin Wilfred Cardross.
He had found some clothes and evidently he was planning on getting his hands dirty this time.
Lucy yelled an alarm. She had no idea if anyone could hear her and still less if anyone would come to her aid, but it was worth a try. It also had the benefit of unsettling Wilfred’s highly bred gray, which reared up and almost unseated him.
She grabbed one of the pistols, her fingers slipping on the buckles of the saddlebags in her haste, and aimed it at the man to the right who was hurtling toward her.
Her hand was shaking and the shot went wide.
She had never been much of a marksman. Alice had always bested her at the archery butts.
The man reached her a few seconds later and grabbed her, toppling her from the saddle.
She tumbled painfully to the ground, winded, the pistol spinning from her grasp.
Instinct prompted her to scramble up, to try and run, but her assailant caught her by the arm and spun her about.
She could feel the ground vibrating under the hooves of the other approaching horses.
The man hit her hard across the face. She stumbled, falling over on her back, the rock jarring her. Stones scored her palms. Shock and pain intermingled. No one had ever raised a hand to her before in her life. Suddenly her situation was very real; real and terrifying.
She heard Wilfred’s querulous voice:
“I told you not to hurt her!”
The man swore in reply.
Lucy rolled over. She was not going to lie here at Wilfred’s feet like a helpless offering. Sheer determination and a refusal to be beaten had brought her this far. She could not lose her nerve now.
Something hard dug into her hip: the hilt of Robert Methven’s sword.
For a moment she was absolutely still. Then hot, fierce fighting spirit swept through her and she grabbed the pommel and leaped up, spinning around, holding the weapon in both hands, taking her assailant completely by surprise with a long, slicing cut to his arm.
He howled in pain, staggering back, and with an oath the other man threw himself from the saddle, drawing his own sword as he ran toward her.
It was two against one. Lucy set her teeth and set to work.
* * *
ROBERT HEARD LUCY’S shout, a sound that for a brief second froze his blood. He abandoned the nag on the edge of the woodland and burst through the trees, the claymore in his hand. He thought he would never forget the sight that met his eyes.
Lucy was standing facing him, holding his sword in both hands. One of her assailants was already down, bleeding copiously, his sword arm hanging useless at his side. The other thug was circling Lucy warily while Wilfred Cardross was advancing on her from the left.
Wilfred was speaking.
“Lucy, my dear,” he was saying, “this is foolish. Put up the sword and let us talk. We are kin—”
Lucy did not spare him a single glance. “Do be quiet, Wilfred,” she said, never taking her eyes off the man in front of her. “You are putting me off my stroke.”
With a yell Robert hurled himself on the first man, who spun around to face him, his face a mask of shock and terror.
The claymore might have been old, but it was sound.
The fight was short, sharp and bloody. Robert fought dirty.
He had no time to do otherwise. He crowded in on his opponent, giving him no space to use his weapon properly, throwing him off balance.
The man stumbled and Robert followed up ruthlessly, knocking the sword from his hand, his blade slicing through the man’s thigh.
With a scream of pain the man fell, scrabbling back, abject terror in his eyes, as Robert raised his sword to his throat.
“Robert! Watch out!”
At Lucy’s shout Robert spun around. Wilfred’s other clansman had grabbed the second pistol from the saddlebag and was aiming it at him from his prone position on the ground.
Robert kicked the gun from the man’s hand and the shot went wide, hissing past his shoulder with an inch to spare.
The man staggered to his feet and made after his colleague toward the horses, limping and swearing.
Robert let him go. They were cowards all, Wilfred Cardross’s men.
As for Wilfred himself, Lucy was running rings around him and looking as though she was enjoying it.
Her blade came up so fast at one point she almost skewered Cardross’s Adam’s apple.
Wilfred brought his sword up just in time to parry the attack.
Robert checked himself on the point of intervening.
He had thought Cardross’s superior height and reach would give him the immediate advantage, but Lucy was like quicksilver, faster and more agile.
Cardross was fighting in earnest now, but his cousin was too good for him, cool, ruthless, classical in her style.
Robert, who had once had the fastest reactions of any man and a skill honed through living dangerously, acknowledged that he was not sure he would be able to beat her in a fair fight.
She was smiling. Robert had never seen her like this. It seemed impossible that Lady Lucy MacMorlan could turn into this wild creature with the demonic light of battle in her eyes. He was surprised to find it intensely arousing.
He stood back to enjoy the show. Lucy’s blade swept in a low arc, dangerously close to Wilfred’s groin. Robert laughed. That would be the end of Wilfred’s plans for future generations.
Wilfred had had enough. He ducked under Lucy’s sword and ran for his horse.
“Go, then, you craven coward!” Lucy yelled after him as Wilfred and his men hurled themselves onto the horses and galloped off, the stones scattering from their hooves.
Robert went up to her. She was panting, her breasts rising and falling rapidly with a combination of anger and exertion.
Her red-gold hair fell about her face. Her eyes still shot sparks.
They met his, bright blue with passion. The need to kiss her, the desire for her, punched him like a blow to the solar plexus.
He was a second away from pulling her into his arms when he saw the marks on her face, and fury and shock sliced through him in equal measure.
He fell back a step, raising a hand, and touched her cheek. “They did this to you?”
The fierce expression in her eyes changed, as though she had only just remembered what had happened. She touched the tips of her fingers gently to her cheekbone and winced.
The anger in Robert was like a live thing. He had never felt such protective fury in his life before. He turned to pursue Cardross and his men into the woods, but Lucy caught his arm and clung on.
“Let them go,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Robert said.
“No, it does not. Not now. Please, my lord.”
He heard the vulnerability beneath the words. She was looking cold and pale now as reaction set in. He covered her hand with his and felt her tremble.
“You called me Robert before,” he reminded her.
She smiled faintly. “It was not a moment for formality.”
“And I thank you for the warning,” Robert said. Cardross and his men were almost out of sight now. All that was left was the dust from the horses’ hooves hanging in the air.
“You could have let him shoot me and saved yourself the trouble of refusing my offer for a third time,” he said.
Lucy frowned. “Don’t jest,” she said.
“I’m not,” Robert said. “Why did you help me?”
She turned to look up at him. Her gaze, clear and full of candor, searched his face. “We were on the same side,” she said.
“Were we?” He felt encouraged that she thought so. Last night, in the room at the inn, they had been locked in opposition. She had run away into danger rather than wed him. Yet it seemed she did not think of him as her enemy.
He felt her shiver again. The breeze was cold down here by the water.
“Come along,” he said. “We must get you to shelter and get off Cardross’s land. Next time he’ll be back with more than a couple of men.”
Lucy unbuckled his sword belt from about her waist and handed it to him carefully.
Now that the heat of battle had gone from his blood, he noticed her attire for the first time.
Gone was the elegant duke’s daughter in her debutante pastel colors and modestly cut gowns.
She was wearing a motley collection of clothes, chiefly a striped red, white and blue cotton scarf, a pair of boy’s breeches that fit her very snugly and a white blouse cut low enough across her breasts to affect both his concentration and his anatomy.
It was fortunate he had not noticed earlier.
She started to fiddle with the scarf at her neck, straightening it and tucking it into the neck of the blouse. Robert, torn between admiring the blouse and the breeches, realized that he was staring. Lucy had noticed the direction of his gaze, as well.
“What?” She held the scarf tightly together, obliterating his view.
Her blue eyes fizzed with annoyance.
Robert cleared his throat. “Very patriotic,” he said. Then, as she raised a haughty eyebrow: “The red, white and blue scarf.”