Page 51 of A Plaid Case of Loving Ye
The other man roared again as he attacked, his blows coming fast and furious. “How do ye ken this?”
Ramsay was unable to answer, all his attention focused on blocking the other man’s sword. Damnation, MacDonald was strong! And Ramsay couldn’t seem to make his left hand—the one trailing so much blood—work.
“How?” screamed the bastard, using the stump of his arm to press his blade closer to Ramsay. “The slut disappeared!”
“Nay,” Ramsay panted, struggling to lock the hilt of his mighty sword against his opponent’s, knowing then he’d have the leverage to throw off the bastard. “She died. After birthing a lad.”
MacDonald jerked as if he’d been hit, then he stumbled back.
And Ramsay saw hehadbeen hit.
As the other man swayed, Ramsay’s chest constricted when Nicola moved out from behind MacDonald, her hand still lifted from the blow she’d dealt. She carried a bloody rock, and her face was set in a determined grimace.
Good God Almighty, she’d gotten close enough to the fight to bash MacDonald over the head? Ramsay’s blood ran cold at the thought.
MacDonald blinked, then shook his head and made an effort to raise his sword. “I have a son?” he slurred, obviously fighting off the effects of Nicola’s blow.
“Nay, ye bastard,” growled Ramsay, taking advantage of his opponent’s distraction to slap aside the other man’s sword and step inside his range. “Ihave a son.”
And when he shoved his blade through MacDonald’s chest, he did it for Lady Helen.
The man died with shock on his face, slowly crumbling to the ground as he slid from the bloody length of Ramsay’s blade
Suddenly, Ramsay sagged, the point of his sword digging into the ground. God’s wounds, mayhap lying about a nunnery recuperating all summer reallyhadsapped his stamina.
“Ramsay!” Nicola screamed and tossed the bloody rock to one side, throwing herself at him.
He tried to wrap his arm around her, but she wouldn’t let him, instead shoving her shoulder into his side and doing her best to hold him upright.
“I’m fine,” he scoffed, locking his knees. “Hand me my scabbard.”
“To hell with yer scabbard! Come sit down afore ye fall over!”
“Fall over?” he snorted as his sword fell from his fingers, thanks to the way she was jostling him. “I told ye I’m—fook,” he hissed, pain shooting up his left arm as he tried to reach for her.
“See? See, ye’re no’ fine. Give me yer arm.”
Since it seemed easier to comply than argue, he dutifully allowed her to unwrap the remains of his plaid.
“Look at this,” she tsked, her head bent over his injury as she prodded it. “And I didnae bring my sewing kit. ‘Tis no’ too deep, thank St. Crystal, but ‘twill have to be stitched together.”
“Och, another scar?” he teased. “How will ye stand to look at me?”
Impatiently, she flicked her hair out of the way as she raised her head. “How ye can joke at a time like this—”
“How could Ino’joke?” he mused, snaking his free arm around her waist. “I’m alive, and my lady saved me.”
“I didnae save ye. I merely distracted him.”
But he could see she was paler than usual, and when she glanced at MacDonald’s body, she was chewing on her lower lip.
“Nicola,” he murmured, drawing her attention. “I ken ye’re more used to healing than dealing violence…” Her eyes were wide when they turned to his, and he saw the guilt in them. “Butthank yefor distracting him. Ye likely saved me from death or serious harm.”
Slowly, he saw the guilt and worry in her eyes fade to doubt, then love.
She scoffed. “Nay, ye would’ve—”
“No’ without the risk of more damage. Iamnaked,” he reminded her solemnly.
