Page 150 of Bride of Fire
Morgan’s heart plummeted as his glance landed on the cart blocking the entrance. It was tipped at a dangerous angle, and his men strained to keep it from flipping. The rough point of the battering ram was visible between the splintered rift in the doors.
He clenched his jaw. He needed to get down there.
“Go!” Jenefer barked. “I’ve got this!”
He hesitated.
He couldn’t leave his soldiers in the hands of a lass.
Could he?
In the end, it was Jenefer’s steady, self-assured gaze, burning like fire, that convinced him.
“I’ve got this,” she repeated. “Go.”
He knew she was right. With a nod and an exhale to settle his nerves, he snatched up his claymore and raced down the stairs.
Stepping into the courtyard was like marching into hell.
Time screeched to a halt, dragging at Morgan’s boots as if he slogged through sludge, while he took in the turmoil around him.
In his shifted reality, panicked livestock kicked up clouds of dust at a snail’s pace while their keepers labored to keep them penned.
As if they moved through thick sap, breathless lads raced back and forth, fetching weapons from the armory.
Scowling men-at-arms shrugged slowly into their cotuns, snarling drawn-out oaths at one another to whip up their courage for the hand-to-hand battle to come.
At a sluggish pace, sweating servants piled barrels, chests, casks—anything heavy they could find—onto the cart to give it weight against the oncoming tide of English soldiers.
Then, in the midst of it all, appearing through the rising silt like a calm angel, rose Alicia. Oblivious to the pandemonium, she seemed as tranquil as the eye of a storm.
In this strange, stretched time, it felt to Morgan like he stared at her in puzzlement for an eternity, unable to comprehend her peace.
And then he glimpsed the bairn in her arms.
A prolonged, painful, rasping gasp racked Morgan’s chest. His precious son was in the clutches of the one who saw him, not as an innocent child, but as a hostage. Alicia was no heavenly being. She was the Angel of Death.
A calculating smirk slowly bloomed on her face. Her eyes closed down to scheming slits. Her hand drifted up to the back of Miles’ head.
An impotent roar choked Morgan’s throat as he saw his son frozen in time—red-faced, body arched, crying in terror, and helpless in the witch’s grasp.
In that protracted instant, he tried to gauge whether he could cross the courtyard to recover his son before she did him harm.
But before he could act, a mighty crash and a loud, grinding noise jarred him back to real time.
His gaze flew to the entrance of the keep.
The battering ram had splintered the doors.
The wheels of the cart were skidding back under the pressure, despite the efforts of his men to anchor them.
One more blow would let the English into the breach.
“To arms!” he bellowed to his men, brandishing his claymore as he thundered forward.
Jenefer heard the horrendous crack and felt the wall shudder. The English had burst through the doors.
It was time to change tactics.
