Page 8 of Awoken
Leanna glanced over her shoulder to see the man watching her, a smile softening his hawkish features.
“Aye,” she replied, her throat thickening as other memories surfaced. “When I was a lass, I wished to sleep in the stables with the horses … until Ma forbade me.”
Evan’s smile widened. “Ye were a wild lass.” He paused then, his expression sobering. “Although I see the past two years have tempered ye.”
Leanna looked away, her fingers clenching around the prickly pine. “They have,” she replied softly.
Evan might have replied then—and their conversation may have lasted a while longer—but Leanna was never to know.
The snap of a twig underneath a heavy tread made Evan swivel around, his gaze sweeping their surroundings. He then drew his claidheamh-mor, the great broadsword that hung at his waist.
Around him the three other warriors had also grown still. Wordlessly, Evan motioned to his companions. A moment later they left their horses, drew their own weapons, and formed a protective semi-circle around Leanna.
Heart pounding, she tried to peer around her escort. Her skin suddenly prickled with awareness. There was someone out there, hiding in the trees, watching them.
The unmistakable twang of a bow string cut through the gloaming.
Thud.
In front of Leanna, Evan grunted.
Thud.
He then staggered forward, before he turned.
Horror rose in a cold, sickly wave within Leanna when she saw an arrow protruding from his throat, and another arrow embedded in his chest. Evan went down on his knees. His gaze seized upon Leanna, and he wheezed, “Run!”
Leanna dropped the pine and glanced around frantically, her breathing now coming in panicked gasps. Although she hadn’t yet seen their attackers, she realized they were now surrounded. Where did he expect her to go?
Outlaws.
They were under attack, yet Leanna couldn’t see anyone.
Arrows flew across the small clearing. The horses squealed in fright, pulling at their tethers.
Another man went down in front of her, his cry echoing through the trees.
Heart pounding, Leanna dropped to a crouch and edged back against the tree trunk. She carried no weapons on her. Unlike Sister Ella who’d never gone anywhere without a few blades strapped to her person, Leanna didn’t carry her longbow with her usually. The only item that hung from her belt was her crucifix, and that wasn’t going to help her now.
Shapes burst out from the undergrowth. A group of around half a dozen men dressed in soiled braies and léines. To Leanna’s shock, she recognized the tattered sashes some of the men wore: a deep red crisscrossed with pine-green.
It was the plaid of her own people—the MacDonalds of Sleat.
A wave of dizziness swept over Leanna.
These outlaws, who were cutting down MacDonald men, had once served her father.
That’s impossible. Niall MacDonald’s men were loyal. They didn’t desert the clan and attack travelers. And yet, there was no mistaking the plaid.
An agonized grunt split the air, as another of her escorts went down, stabbed through the chest with a dirk.
Leanna reached up, clutching her throat as panic clamped its iron grip around her windpipe. She had to do something, or she’d be on her own out here—soon an arrow would find her too. Weakness flooded through her, and for a moment she thought she might faint.
Move or ye are going to die—or worse. Somehow, she had the presence of mind to drop to her hands and knees and scramble forward to where Evan lay. His pale blue eyes stared at her sightlessly, even as his limbs twitched.
Bile rose in the back of Leanna’s throat, yet she forced it down. With trembling hands, she drew the dirk from Evan’s belt and turned—just in time—to see one of the outlaws bearing down upon her.
He was a huge man with unkempt auburn hair and a feral expression. The MacDonald sash he wore across his chest was dirty and threadbare, yet recognizable.
