Page 48 of Plaid Attitude
It took a moment to register what she meant. If Bessetta was walking beside Edgar and Arnold—those were her small footprints between the men’s—then she was still there willingly.
He forced himself to exhale. “They likely just needed a rest.”
“Do ye think they’re still there?” When her horse side-stepped, she absentmindedly patted its neck. “I dinnae see return tracks, but that’s no’ proof.”
Nay, it wasn’t. “Let’s investigate. If they’re no’ there, the horses are faster than they are on foot, anyhow.”
She shot him a glance. “So…no’ on foot, all sneakily?”
He’d considered it. If he’d been intending on attacking the men for how they’d manipulated and conned Bessetta, he would’ve left the horse near the road and tried to sneak up on them for the advantage of surprise.
But if Bessetta was here willingly, he couldn’t afford to do that. “I do no’ mind if they ken we’re coming.” ‘Twould give his daughter warning so she wasn’t startled.
Coira nodded but was still looking at him. It took a moment to register that she was waiting for him to take the lead.
Instead, he jerked his chin toward the trees. “If she—if they’re there, ye should be the first one Bessetta sees. She trusts ye.”
“She trusts ye, too, Doughall,” came her gentle reminder. Still, Coira didn’t object to his reasoning, and she clucked her horse into movement.
The fields were recently planted, and easy to traverse. The steady trot of the horse under him, the gentle breeze on his cheeks, and the sun shining overhead made him almost forget his fears.
Almost.
Coira’s head suddenly came up, her hand dropping to the hilt of her sword.
He didn’t know what had alerted her to the threat, but he trusted her. And after years of trusting her, he didn’t hesitate to throw himself into danger headlong beside her.
Between one heartbeat and the next, she’d kicked her horse into a gallop and pulled her sword.
He followed.
The breeze went from a gentle caress to a whistling which blocked out everything but his pulse in his ears.
And in the next moment, he heard it. Heard what Coira had heard.
Heard his daughter screaming.
Doughall stopped thinking. Stopped breathing, stoppedliving, in that moment. His daughter’s screams carried from the copse of trees, and he wasn’t close enough yet to help her.
“Nay! Nay! Stop! I dinnae like this! Stop, please!”
Her pleas echoed in his ears alongside the pounding of the horse’s hooves and Coira’s harsh breathing, only strides ahead of him.
Then she broke through the trees, into the little clearing in the middle, and threw herself from her saddle, her blade aimed for Arnold’s chest.
In the moment before he followed her, Doughall took it all in.
Edgar held Bessetta around her middle, pinning her arms, facing away from him. Her gown was ripped, red marks appearing on her skin. Her breasts were exposed, and there were tear marks on her cheeks.
In front of her, Arnold had been tearing at her skirts, trying to lift them, when Coira’s quick action halted his intent.
He fell back with her sword through his chest, and then Doughall had to stop worrying about her, because he’d reached Edgar.
The bastard’s eyes had gone wide with fear when he’d seen his friend downed, and that brought Doughall a fierce sense of satisfaction. He couldn’t throw himself off his horse at the arsehole, the way Coira had, because Bessetta was between them.
Instead, he leapt down, sword raised, and snarled, “Let her go, ye coward. Draw a blade like a man.”
“Da!” whimpered Bessetta. “Da, I’m sorry—”
