Page 30 of My Scot, My Surrender
Brandt swung the sword in a slow circle as the man wheeled his mount around to charge him again. Though it agonized him to do it, at the last minute he fell to his knees and swung the blade backward and upward into the rump of the horse. It was not a killing stroke, but enough for the animal to rear up wildly and toss the rider from his back. For a man of his size, the soldier vaulted into a fighting stance with unusual grace.
He and Goliath circled each other. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sorcha slashing her way toward him. He wanted to shout for her to stay away. She would only be a distraction, and he sensed he would need all his wits to not be killed at the hands of this monster. The man was not hired muscle like most of the corpses littering the glade, but a trained assassin. It was evident in the way he moved, in the glint of his eye. Here was a man who had delivered death, lived in rivers of blood, and would not hesitate to split him in two, if he was distracted even for a moment.
Brandt drew a breath and lifted his sword. He danced out of the way of Goliath’s strikes and fended off a third that reverberated down the length of his arms. Sparks flew from the edges of the steel as they met again. The man was strong and skilled, and it took all of Brandt’s concentration to read his body language. It was the only way he could stay ahead of him.
Suddenly, a feminine shout diverted his attention, and the next thing he knew a fist hit him square in the chest and he was flying through the air. He crashed down to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs, his brain rattling around in his skull at the impact. It took him two seconds to collect himself before the giant was upon him. He rolled out of the way as the sword came down in a glinting silver arc. Brandt didn’t care. His attention was behind the man, on Sorcha.
Driven only by instinct, Brandt sidestepped Goliath’s blows, weaving and ducking as fast as he was able. He managed to get in a few strikes and drew blood at the man’s torso, back, and legs. It wasn’t enough. The behemoth kept coming like an angry bull. Brandt needed to change his strategy.
“I told you I was worth more than a hundred quid,” he said.
“Your head is still going to be at the edge of my sword.” The man’s eyes flashed in anger, and he rushed forward. It was the opening Brandt needed. He, too, charged forward, but at the last minute, he threw his body flat and jerked up with his blade. Blood fountained over him as Goliath teetered and spun around, his eyes wide. Then he clutched at his stomach and stared at the bright gaping swatch of red that blossomed on the waistband of his breeches, spilling out his innards. With a disbelieving groan, he staggered to his knees and fell face-first into the dirt.
Another strangled scream rent the air, and Brandt felt all the breath leave his lungs in a whoosh at the sight of Sorcha being dragged toward a horse by her hair. He had no time to savor his victory, and hopping over the fallen giant, he ran toward his bride. Covered in blood, he was like a berserker streaking across the field of battle, his only objective to reach her. He got there at the same time that Ronan did—and right as Sorcha drew a dagger from her boot and plunged it into the man’s neck. She kicked him for good measure.
“Ye need to get to safety,” Ronan said, breathless. He, too, was drenched in blood, and from the easy way he was moving, Brandt guessed that most of it wasn’t his. “Malvern sent an army from the south and from the north. At least a hundred men.”
They glanced around at the bodies strewn on the field, noticing the plaids of some of the dead men. “Aye, and some of them are Scots.” Ronan spat in disgust to the blood-soaked ground. “Craven, gutless traitors bought by a pouch of gold.”
“How many men did we lose?” Sorcha asked, her chest heaving.
“Seven,” Ronan replied. “Five left, including Duncan and me. There are more of them hiding in the woods. We can take them, but ye need to run.”
Sorcha’s brows slammed together, her voice low and angry. “I won’t leave you, Ronan.”
“Ye dunnae have a choice, lass,” he said gently. “It’s ye Malvern wants, and the death of yer husband. He intends to make ye a widow.” He turned to Brandt and grasped him by the forearm. “I’ll hold him off for as long as I can. Get my sister to the Brodie, ’tis the only place she’ll be safe. Ye fought well. Take care of her, ye ken?”
“You have my word.”
As Ronan mounted his horse and rode back the way he’d come, Brandt wondered if he’d see him again. He could see the same thoughts reflected in Sorcha’s face and in the sadness that shimmered in her eyes. She bit her lip hard, her nostrils flaring. Brandt wanted to comfort her, but he sensed it would not be welcomed. Not after how he’d left things between them in the tent. Perhaps it was for the best. Distance would serve them better than any kind of familiarity.
He watched as she retrieved Lockie, and then whistled for Ares who trotted up within moments. Leading their horses together with weapons drawn, they melted quietly into the woods toward the river, until the noise started to fade in the distance behind them. Brandt was relieved to see both stallions seemed no worse for wear and suffered no fresh wounds. Ares, particularly. Every new scar made him ache for the brave beast. Ares had endured more than his share of pain over the years, and the horse’s loyalty was enough to rival most men’s.
Sorcha groaned and leaned against Lockie after leading him to water, where he drank thirstily. Brandt frowned. “You’re hurt,” he said, noticing the strip of red across the side of her shirt beneath the plaid.
“It’s nothing, a flesh wound.”
“Let me see,” he said and lifted the edges.
She snatched at the plaid, but Brandt had already caught sight of the weeping incision that traversed the span of two lower ribs. It was a shallow cut, though it seemed to be bleeding profusely, making the scarlet-hued linen stick to her flesh. Sorcha grimaced as his fingers snagged on the cloth. “We should clean it.”
“I’ll be fine, I told ye!”
“Not if you invite infection. Don’t be stubborn, Sorcha.”
The look she sent him spoke volumes. “Stubborn,” she hissed. “Perhaps ye should have considered that before ye stayed and took me to wife, instead of running like I told ye to. Then you wouldnae have the burden of regret on yer shoulders.”
Brandt did not respond to the anger in her voice, if only because of the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I’ll regret if you die on my watch when I’ve just given my word to your brother to keep you safe. Now let me see that wound.”
Grudgingly, she let him examine her, and though he was gentle, she still flinched away from his touch. He took a piece of linen from his saddlebags and soaked it in the icy river before applying it to her split skin. Sorcha winced but bore the pain in silence as he cleaned the wound and bandaged it with another wide strip of clean linen.
She eyed him quietly the whole time, not saying a word until he had finished the wrapping. Brandt couldn’t help noticing she kept both forearms banded tightly over her breasts, allowing him only a limited view of her torso. Not that she had need to worry—open, ragged wounds had a way of deterring carnal urges.
“There,” he said. “Good as new.”
“Shouldn’t you be on your way to England by now?”
Her brogue was gone, he realized. Brandt met her blazing blue gaze. “That can wait,” he said. “We need to leave before we’re discovered. We aren’t far enough away for my liking.”
