Page 6 of Rebellion's Fire

So, she shifted her leg back, as if it pained her, and stretched her elbows behind her. When he moved his limbs back to give her room, she hurled herself downward, meaning to slide under his arm and roll down the hill into the woods whatever the hurt.

The breath thudded from her body. But not because she’d landed on the ground. Like a clamp, his arms had closed in on her before she could fall as much as an inch, winding her. She gasped with pain and rage but still, he didn’t let go. Twisting, wrenching in his hold, she caught sight of his face—and froze.

He looked…rapt. Yet his expression of wonder was at complete odds with his bruising grip. And more terrifying than fury.

The horse, completely unconcerned, walked on.

With new fear, she watched his eyes come slowly back into focus, felt his arms relax, although they didn’t release her. Whatever his hatred of touching her meant, it was clearly under control.

He smiled at her. Not the slightly twisted, ironic smile she had already seen, but a dazzling one that caught at her breath. As if the sun had come out and blinded her. And then, it faded into quick suspicion and something that might actually have been embarrassment.

He frowned. “What?”

“You’re not quite sane, are you?” she blurted unwisely.

Her captor, however, seemed neither surprised nor angry. If anything, his boiling eyes looked slightly calmer. “Who is? Why do you cover your face?”

Her stomach tightened at the reminder. She straightened in front of him. “Everyone likes it better this way. You knew we were coming, didn’t you?”

He didn’t trouble to deny it. He and his people had been one step ahead of William the whole way. Probably no one got in or out of Ross without the knowledge of the MacHeths.

Someone on foot broke through the trees on their left—one of Adam’s men, by the look of him. He spoke rapidly, calling his leader by name, although Christian couldn’t make out the rest of his speech.

Adam twisted in the saddle. The sudden warmth of his muscled thigh against hers shocked her. This time,shewould have shifted to avoid the contact, only there was nowhere to go.

He lifted his arm, leaving her free on the right-hand side. Her heart lunged. She even began to throw herself to the right before his left hand, still holding the reins, closed around her waist. He didn’t even speak or scold. Then his right hand came down, pointing forward, his legs moved in a sudden brisk kick to the horse’s sides, and the animal leapt forward at an instant gallop.

*

Donald mac Malcolm,frequently surnamed MacHeth, had almost hacked his way through the fight to Lanson himself and allowed himself to hope the matter was dealt with as perfectly as it could be. Lanson humiliated, defeated, and preferably killed by Donald, his wife taken by Adam. Whether or not she was who the King of Scots claimed, Donald’s family would continue to hold her lands and the message would be thoroughly reinforced that it was not possible to take any of Ross from the MacHeths.

He had to admit, though, that Lanson fought well. He was a seasoned soldier: strong, efficient, brutal, the embodiment of the fight Donald needed. And finally, shoving one of the Normans off the rock on which they fought, Donald faced him.

“Sir William,” he said in French, grinning. “Just the man I was looking for.”

Lanson parried his vicious sword swipe. “Speaking French won’t save you.” He was strong, if not quick, and Donald had to balance well to avoid being pushed off the rock. At first, Lanson drove him back. Since the men of Ross were winning, Donald let him, just to get the measure of his skill, and then he showed the Norman his. He drew blood with one swift cut, and then, taking advantage of Lanson’s shock, he forced him back and back with every step, every cut and lunge. Victory was undoubtedly his.

Until the shout went up. French reinforcements arrived behind his own men, who now fought on two sides.

Donald seized a speedy, sweeping glance of the battle behind him and knew they could still do it. It would just be harder, and they’d lose more men.

“Fall back!” Lanson yelled, presumably coming to the same conclusion.

And then Donald was buffeted from behind, sending him crashing into the wall of rock at Lanson’s back. When he whirled around, his vision blurred, he faced not Lanson’s sword but many. A row of men separated him from his own force.

“Take him,” Lanson said, “and fall back.”

“Yield,” a young Norman panted, his sword to Donald’s throat.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lanson fumed, wrenching Donald’s sword from his hand. “Let’s go. Now. Tell them if they follow, we’ll kill this…who are you?”

Donald, infuriated by his mistake and his helplessness, his sheer idiocy in managing to turn almost certain victory into defeat, raised his head and laughed in the Norman’s face.

“He’s Donald MacHeth,” the young Norman said grimly. “And what I’ve been trying to tell you since I got here is, his brother Adam fell on our camp three hours ago. Half the guard are dead, and he’s taken the lady.”

In fury, Lanson struck the rock with his mailed fist as they backed off down the stony path. The men of Ross stood still, staring after the soldiers they’d defeated. A few seemed to be arguing for attack anyway, but they wouldn’t do it. Donald was the heir to Ross. And Adam had Lanson’s lady. At least one of them had done something right, Donald thought bitterly. No one had to like it, least of all himself or Lanson, but there would be an exchange.

*

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