Page 61 of Here in Your Arms
Another growl of frustrated fury erupted from him before he reached up, hauling Rose from the saddle, setting her firmly on her feet, and immediately pushing her toward the further, denser trees.
“Run,” he commanded, his voice hard as steel. “Hide.”
She hesitated—resisted even, damn her.
“Tiernan, I—”
“Go!” He clipped, fisting his hand into the fabric at her lower back, roughly shoving her forward. “Go.”
She stumbled but did move, staggering toward cover.
Spinning on his heel, he lifted his sword, just as the first attacker bore down on him—a hulking brute with a raised blade, his sneer bared as he circled Tiernan on his charger. Tiernan met the man’s first strike mid-swing, steel colliding with steel ina shattering clash that sent vibrations jolting up his arms. The force of the blow was brutal, but Tiernan twisted, breaking the lock, using the man’s own momentum against him. The man thought he had the advantage of height and power, being on the horse, but Tiernan knew that the advantage was his, having solid ground and his planted foot as leverage. A hard parry, a vicious upward stroke, and the bandit staggered back, gasping as the blade bit deep. He crumpled, falling from the saddle.
Tiernan barely had a moment to catch his breath before the second attacker came at him. This one was different—lean and quick, far lighter in the saddle, with no intention of dismounting. Much smaller in stature than Tiernan, he was clever enough to know that facing Tiernan on foot would be suicide. He circled warily, blade poised, his eyes flicking over Tiernan’s stance, searching for an opening. His movements were nimble, a man used to harrying from horseback, not charging head-on.
Tiernan matched his circling, turning slowly, sword held ready. He had no intention of rushing the fight. If he could stall the bastard long enough, Rose might gain enough of a lead to be safe.
But then he heard it—hoofbeats pounding in the distance. He didn’t know if they were friend or foe, and now he couldn’t afford to wait. With a growl, Tiernan lunged—not at the rider, but at the horse. Steel met flesh with a sickening sound as his blade slashed deep across the roan’s chest and shoulder, a brutal, angled stroke meant to maim. The beast reared with a scream, front legs flailing, blood pouring down its flank.
The rider cried out in alarm, jerking at the reins, but it was too late. The horse bucked violently, and the man lost his seat, tumbling sideways and crashing to the forest floor with a thud.
Tiernan didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in two strides, raising his sword high as the man scrambled for his bearings. He brought the sword down in a ruthless arc, cutting cleanlythrough flesh and bone. A sharp exhale, a final gurgled breath, and the bandit collapsed, his body folding into the damp underbrush, motionless.
For a single breath, Tiernan stilled, chest heaving, his instincts still screaming a warning through his blood. And then pain exploded through his shoulder.
Not from a blade.
An arrow.
The force of it wrenched his body sideways, his breath locking in his chest as fire lanced outward from the point of impact. He staggered, boots sliding against the loose earth as his vision flared white. Somewhere ahead, movement caught his eye, and he lifted his head just as a third figure emerged from the trees, bow still raised, a smug, knowing smirk curling his lips.
Tiernan’s jaw tightened, fury battling against the sharp pain radiating from his wound. His grip on his sword faltered for half a second before he forced his fingers to tighten, his body to stay upright. The bastard was already nocking another arrow, taking his time, measuring his shot, knowing Tiernan wouldn’t be able to reach him before he let loose another arrow.
Tiernan moved, staggering backward a step, then another, before suddenly whirling and vanishing into the thick underbrush. Branches slapped against his face as he ran, as hard and as fast as he could before he ducked behind a wide-bellied pine, his breath harsh and shallow. He crouched low, ears straining for the sound of pursuit. He reached over his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he gripped the arrow’s shaft. With a sharp snap, he broke off the bulk of it, leaving the head and about ten inches of the shaft embedded for now, poking through his back and front. The pain in his shoulder was sharp and hot, but not deep enough to drop him. Not yet.
He slipped his long dagger free from its sheath and transferred his sword to his left hand.
The rider eased his horse forward, weaving between the trees without a trace of urgency.
Tiernan stayed low, quiet as the dead, knowing he didn’t need speed or even all of his strength, but timing.
As the archer’s horse stepped into view on Tiernan’s right, and while the rider leaned slightly, scanning the underbrush to his left, Tiernan struck. He lunged from the right, driving upward with the dagger in a tight, brutal arc. The blade sank deep beneath the man’s ribs, just below the edge of his leather cuirass. He wore no smirk now; his mouth opened in a soundless gasp. Tiernan shoved the man backward by pushing his blade deeper, sending him tumbling from the saddle.
The horse reared and bolted, and Tiernan yanked his dagger free, trying to rise off his knee to capture the steed. He was too slow now, and the horse disappeared into the trees.
Tiernan stood over the crumpled body, breath ragged, the dagger slick with blood in his hand. More blood ran freely from his shoulder now, warm and steady, but the forest was quiet again, at least for the moment. Still, he scanned the trees all around him, turning in a slow circle. Looking for even the slightest movement among the shadows.
It wasn’t movement he saw, but a flash of blue.
Just beyond a thick oak, a pair of wide, terrified eyes stared back at him.
Rose.
She was half-hidden, frozen in place, breath shallow, her expression pale and stricken. Her hands clutched the bark behind her, knuckles white. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Tiernan started toward her, hissing, “I told ye to run.”
She stepped out slowly, her gaze locked not on his face, but on the arrowhead jutting from his shoulder.
