Page 90 of The Highlander Who Loved Me

Davina stood frozen and terrified, wanting to help, but knowing she would only be in the way. A chill slipped down her spine when she heard the attacker’s shout of triumph, but as the pair regained their feet, it was James who held the knife.

She saw a vivid red blood smear across her husband’s arm. Her knees began to shake and she fought to compose herself. She shifted out of the attacker’s line of sight, not wanting to give him any ideas.

If he caught her, the intruder would have a powerful weapon to use against James. For she knew with certainty her husband would not hesitate to sacrifice his own life to save hers.

Suddenly, the man charged, bellowing like someone possessed by a demon. James met him full on, then at the last instant pivoted to his left. James struck hard, burying the dirk deep in his attacker’s unguarded middle. As the man clutched his stomach, his mouth opened and closed and he staggered a few steps, then dropped to his knees.

Eyes glazed, he toppled forward, hitting the floor with a resounding thump. The deep wound began to bleed immediately, draining away his life’s blood. Davina’s own stomach turned as a rush of bright red stained the man’s chest and tunic, pulsing onto the floor.

“Are there any others?” James cried.

Davina’s anxious gaze darted about the hallway. “I dinnae see any.”

“The fire?”

“It’s out.”

James cursed vehemently under his breath and hauled Davina into his arms. He held her for a long moment and then Davina felt his embrace tighten. “James, love, ye are holding me so tight I can barely catch my breath.”

“If I had failed ye again . . .”

“James, ye never failed me.”

“James! Davina!”

“Malcolm?” James called. “Are we under attack?”

“Nay,” Malcolm answered. “We’re getting boards to lay across the charred beams so you can climb down. Are either of ye injured?”

“James was assaulted,” Davina cried.

She heard the sound of a sword being drawn, a loud thump, and amazingly Malcolm stood in front of her. She blinked, realizing he must have vaulted over the ruined section of the landing to reach them.

“Careful or ye’ll fall through,” James shouted.

Malcolm gingerly took a few steps forward. Deep concern touched his face as he glanced from her to James and then back to his brother. “Are ye hurt?”

“A scratch.” James shrugged, glancing down at his bleeding arm.

Streaks of bright crimson belied James’s assessment of his injury. With a soft cry of distress, Davina lifted his arm, then realized she had nothing to bind his wound. Malcolm solved the problem neatly by passing a clean strip of cloth to her. Davina was so relieved she didn’t even question how he came to be carrying it.

Ever the difficult patient, James tapped his foot impatiently while she bound his arm. She knew it would need to be properly washed and dressed with salves, but for now was content to stop the bleeding.

Malcolm’s lips thinned into a grim line as he gazed down at the body. “Do ye think he set the fire?”

“It seems highly likely, yet he waited at the other end of the hallway once it flared to life,” James replied. “Why? Surely he realized he would be trapped.”

“Perhaps he meant to draw ye from the chamber, but the blaze grew too quickly,” Malcolm suggested.

“Well, we certainly cannae ask him about it now,” James cried, throwing down the dirk in frustration. “I was hoping he would live long enough to tell us why he did it.”

“Or more importantly, who paid him.” Malcolm moved closer to the body. The attacker lay facedown, a pool of dark blood surrounding him. Using the tip of his boot, Malcolm rolled the body over. The man’s head lolled awkwardly to one side, his eyes glassy in death. “Do ye recognize him?”

Davina gasped. “My God, he’s just a lad, no more than fifteen or sixteen. Why would he do such a thing?”

“Most likely he was paid,” Malcolm speculated.

Davina wrapped her arms around James’s waist and leaned her cheek against his strong shoulder. The smell of smoke and blood clogged her nostrils. Tears rose. She’d almost lost him. First to fire and then to an assassin’s dirk. It didn’t bear thinking.

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