Page 59 of The Highlander's Pirate Bride

“Aye. I’d a mind tae finish him wi’ my claymore before he had a chance tae end me.”

A shudder rippled through her at the prospect of the fight to come. They were sorely outnumbered. Even though Maxwell was a fierce and brave warrior who had survived many a battle before this day, and she was able to wield her dirk and her ebony weapon with sufficient skill to gut or brain an opponent, there were at the least fourteen men on board the birlinn and they were only two.

She handed her oar to Maxwell while she scrambled for his two-handed claymore and handed that to him as well. His dirk was already at his belt, as was hers. She sought around under the seat for her trusty ebony rod and laid it on the bench beside her.

As the birlinn drew closer, Maxwell took up his sword, ready to meet the enemy head-on. There was no point in continuing to row, the speed of the birlinn meant it would be alongside them in minutes.

He swung the oar to take them in the direction of the shore with the faint hope that the birlinn would stay back, fearful of the rocky shoals surrounding the isle. But they followed relentlessly.

“Look ahead.” Maxwell pointed up the coast. “’Tis the bonny hills that mark our way into theBàgh á Chaisteill, the bay where me braither’s castle lies.”

She craned her head. “Aye. I see.” She swallowed a large lump that had formed in her throat at the sight. Their pursuers had almost reached them.

So close tae our sanctuary but with so little hope of making it.

As the birlinn drew alongside, Maxwell got to his feet, grasping his claymore.

“Stay behind me, lass.”

She stayed low, having no inclination to get in Maxwell’s way once he started swinging his mighty claymore. With one hand she grasped the ebony rod and, with the other, she took her dirk from her belt. Any man foolish enough to tackle them would risk a bloody fate from the wicked, double-edge blade of Maxwell’s sword, his keen, sharp, dirk, or the slim, cruel weapons she brandished.

Maxwell called up to the birlinn where the men were gathering in the prow. A rope was thrown over, landing on the end of their wee boat. Maxwell kicked it flying into the water.

“Who of ye brave fellows will be the first tae die by me sword?”

There was a rumbling and a loud grumble from the assembled men on board the birlinn. Aileen smiled grimly. It seemed there were no men willing to leap into the fate awaiting them on the little boat.

It dawned on her that the size of their craft could be to their advantage. Although there were many men on board the birlinn, as long as they were unable to fasten the rope and capture their small vessel, they had a chance. Only two men at the most, could board their sailboat without tipping them all into the sea.

Maxwell held the claymore aloft. He was laughing now. “C’mon lads. Will ye nae partake of me sharp blade? It will be a quick death fer ye, but I cannae guarantee it will be painless.”

After a long wait and with a great deal of shouting and bellowing coming from the ranks of men, a burly man stepped to the railing, his dirk between his teeth and his claymore clutched in his two hands.

With the nimble step of a seasoned sailor, he stepped over the side and landed, cat-like on the bobbing sail-boat.

Maxwell was ready with a swift blow but the man raised his round, leather shield and it took the blow, only making a cut across the top. The shield held and the man was swift with his response. Holding her breath, Aileen watched, guessing that this man had been urged forward because he was their best fighter.

While her attention was diverted momentarily, another man slipped over the edge, armed as the first man was, and came at her. Her dirk was for close fighting and, with the shield in place, there was no way she wanted to meet him with her dirk in this tiny space. Instead, as he loomed over her, his sword raised, she bent low, swinging the murderous truncheon with all her might, aiming for the man’s knees.

There was a crunch as the blow landed. The man screamed and went backwards over the edge of their boat, the weight of his sword and shield dragging him straight to the bottom.

She glanced up in time to see another man scrambling across the deck. They circled each other, the man grinning menacingly.

Her combatant feinted with his sword. She ducked and he missed her by inches as she hefted her stout weapon. Then she spun around like a dancer and, with her full weight behind the blow, struck him across the neck. There was a terrible crunch as his neck was broken and he went down like a sack of barley. She gave his body a nudge with her boot and it slumped over the side, slipping into the water with hardly a splash.

Breathing heavily, she turned to Maxwell who was facing yet another burly lad from the birlinn. But this one was no match for Maxwell’s warrior skills and he was dispatched after only one or two badly timed sword thrusts.

He turned to her, his face blood-spattered. “Are ye hurt? I saw two of the brutes come fer ye but I wasnae able tae aid ye in yer fight.”

She managed a grim smile. “I didnae need help. Both men are now greeting the fishes below.”

“Methinks their best men are already done and they’ve nay great swordsmen to bother us now. There’s none among them that can take us.”

“Aye, I believe ye’re right there, but we cannae last forever, weak swordsmen can still deal a death blow to an exhausted opponent.”

He nodded. “We can only hope this is a ship full of cowards who will tire of being killed and set off back tae Sutherland.”

She thought on this. “Then the men will have tae face Sutherland’s wrath. He’ll have them all put tae death without turning a whisker. And they ken he’s got their women and their weans held captive, so they’ll most likely risk it wi’ us rather than return wi’ their tails between their legs like beaten dogs.”

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