Page 43 of The Rebellious Countess
Elias wrestled for his life with a bear of a man. Teeth flashing and paws batting, he caught Elias on the side of his head. It was a wonder he remained conscious. Elias tackled his opponent to the ground as a tall thin rail of a man stood over them—a pistol waving back and forth in his hand as each man fought for dominance on the ground in front of him.
Elias couldn’t win. If he gained the upper hand on the ground, he would be shot in the back. If he lost on the ground, he would be shot in the head.
Recognizing his impending defeat, the large man rolled onto his back. His face bloodied from a constant barrage of Elias’s fist, he grinned as he exposed Elias to the worst of fates—a bullet he would never see coming.
The thin man steadied his weapon and forged steel aimed at the broad muscled expanse of the man she loved. Máira didn’t think. Winding her arm back, she let her blade fly. Steel soaredthrough the air the razor-sharp tip pointing at its target, slicing through the air like the blade of a guillotine. The forest was eerily silent. Elias stopped grunting. His attacker ceased groaning and the trigger of pistol behind him—pulled. A heartbeat after her blade lodged in the shooter’s neck, his eyes bulged, and he crumpled to the ground and Máira became what she swore she would never become. A murderer.
She didn’t have time to think as the giant bellowed and Elias went flying. He landed with a thud before Máira could determine if the bullet had struck its mark on his back.
Then the beast was on his feet, blood pouring from his nose as if a spigot on a barrel of wine had been left to flow. Elias didn’t look much the better, lying on the ground with one eye nearly swollen closed, his lower lip split in two different places. His shirt, loosened from his trousers, was torn down to his waist. She didn’t mind the ruined shirt. The injuries, however, were a different matter altogether. Yet no blood spewed from any holes in his chest, and she had to believe the shot had gone wide of its target.
The huge Frenchman stalked Elias like the giant in the story about the beanstalk and she could have sworn she heard him repeat the stolen line from King Lear: “Fee Fi Fo Fum! I smell the blood of an Englishman. Be he alive, or be he dead, I'll grind his bones to make my bread.”
Elias lifted his head, looked at the giant and then at her, before his head dropped back to the earth with a hollow thud. It was as if he’d raised the white flag the Frenchman did not recognize. Malevolence radiated off of him as he chose to end the brutality with nothing short of death. He snarled and reached for her Elias’s shirt, lifting his limp body off the ground and into the air.
With no weapon, Máira did the only thing she could. She launched herself onto his back. With the man’s height andbreadth, that feat alone was difficult. Her efforts produced a growl low in the man’s throat as he turned his head to see what he had failed to notice—her—and she suddenly questioned her own sanity. Perhaps it had been the tenacity and fierce determination she’d seen in her mother-in-law’s eyes as she killed the man in the tavern that gave Máira strength.
It was in that moment she understood Hag. Máira had to be like her to save her husband from certain death, because the fight was out of him?—
Until it wasn’t.
From the ashes of certain death, Elias roared. His arm swung and his fist, wrapped around a huge rock she hadn’t noticed before, slammed into the temple of the man who stood between them. The three of them landed in a tangled heap on the ground and Máira was thankful she landed on the top of the pile.
“Did you kill him?” she asked Elias between breaths.
“I think I did.”
“You think?”
“He’s not moving, is he?”
“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean he’s dead.”
“His chest fails to rise.”
“My sisters say I sleep as if I am dead. He could just be unconscious.”
Elias blew out a long, heavy sigh. “Are you injured?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, no. Are you?”
He quirked a brow. It happened to be the brow over his left eye that was currently red and swelling shut. It looked ghastly.
“Other than your face,” she qualified.
Elias chuckled and pushed her hair away from her cheek. “My ribs feel as if a herd of sheep have trampled across them for the past week.”
“That’s awful,” she said.
“Mmmm,” he responded. “Could I ask a favor?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“Could you kindly get off my chest so that I might breathe?”
“Good heavens, I’m sorry!” Máira scrambled off the top of him, feeling as stupid as a young girl seeing the first real man who’d struck her fancy. How was it possible Elias still rattled her so.
Pulling herself to rights, Máira attempted to help him up only to be turned away.
