Page 13 of Unforgotten
And as his gaze fixed upon her, she swung down from her pony’s broad back.
Panic surged through Gavin once more.
The Devil’s cods … what’s she doing?
She was safer mounted. At least she could attempt to gallop away from the outlaws if Gavin failed to hold them back. Instead, her finely featured face was scrunched up in determination, as if she was preparing herself to face them.
The first of the outlaws were past Gavin now, giving the Claidheamh-mor wielding clan-chief a wide berth while they stalked easier prey.
And then Ella moved.
Gavin’s breathing caught as she hiked up the skirts of her habit and underskirts, and reached for the knife strapped to her left calf. He caught a glimpse of creamy flesh and a long, pale, shapely leg.
Ella drew the blade and flung it at the nearest man.
It flew through the air, spinning as it went, and embedded in his neck. The outlaw fell with a strangled cry, fingers clawing at the hilt.
Ella reached for a second knife, drawing it from where it was strapped snuggly to her right leg.
Thud.
Then she whipped out another knife from the satchel she wore across her front.
Thud.
Three men lay groaning and whimpering on the ground before her. Three blades embedded into their flesh.
6
Water Under the Bridge
GAVIN STARED, TRANSFIXED. He’d momentarily forgotten his surroundings. Face creased in a ferocious expression, Ella strode up to the nearest man and yanked her knife free from where it had embedded in his shoulder.
“Please, the outlaw whimpered. “Don’t kill me.”
Ella ignored him.
Meanwhile, Gavin swiveled around to face the remaining outlaws. Fortunately, they had been as surprised as him by the sight of the small knife-throwing nun.
Gavin swung his blade, causing the leader of the rabble to shrink back, his gaze burning.
“I’d abandon this now,” Gavin advised him. “Before it’s ye who tastes steel.”
Gavin glanced right, to see that the other outlaws, who had formerly been advancing toward Ella, had all drawn back. Some of them were now racing away, scrambling over the rocks in their haste to depart.
Snarling a curse, the leader of the band flung himself toward Gavin, his axe hurtling toward Saorsa’s neck.
Thud.
A blade hit his upper chest, just below the collar-bone. The man gasped and went down like a sack of barley. His mouth gaped, and he struggled to pull the blade free. His blue eyes were now wide with panic, and Gavin realized that he was young, barely more than twenty winters.
It didn’t matter though—this man and his followers had attacked them with murderous intent.
Gavin swung down from his mare, drew a dirk from his waist, and slashed the man across the throat. The outlaw’s thin body convulsed, his eyes bulging, and then he lay still.
Breathing hard, Gavin glanced over his shoulder at where Ella stood a few yards back. She had retrieved her other knives and was cleaning them on the léine of one of the fallen men. She looked up, and their gazes fused.
The corners of Ella’s mouth lifted then, the closest thing she’d given him to a smile since they’d been reunited. “Getting slow in yer old age, MacNichol?” she chided. “He almost had ye.”
