Suzanne Barclay - Lion's Lady

“Lady Rowena?”

She started. “Aye, Harry.”

“Look up ahead. Eneas’s scouts have ridden in with word we’re within a league of Blantyre Castle.”

“Praise be,” Rowena said. “Can we pause that I might change into fresh clothes and try to get a comb through my hair?”

“I doubt Eneas’ll stop, and I’d not want to linger alone in these woods.”

Rowena followed his wary gaze into the dark, dripping forest, which seemed to close in on them. Steam rose from the black boulders crowding the edge of the trail. It mingled with the mist in the trees, forming a dense fog within whose depths all manner of evil might lurk. Somewhere nearby a hawk’s lonely cry split the silence, sending a shiver down Rowena’s spine. “I suppose you are right. Hopefully the earl will understand.”

“Ye look fine as ye are, in any case, my lady. Except for the bit of mud on yer cheek.”

Rowena hastily scrubbed at her face. “Oh dear, it is vitally important that the earl look kindly on me.”

“We must hurry along,” Harry urged. “Eneas and his men have reached yon bend in the road, and we’ll lose sight of them.”

Rowena lifted her head to find Eneas glancing back over his shoulder, watching her from the head of the column. The hatred in his eyes settled the question. He’d like naught better than to lose her...or see her fall prey to some lethal accident. “You are right, Harry. Let us make haste.”

The words had scarcely left Rowena’s mouth when the thud of muffled hoofbeats came from behind them, mingled with the low rumble of male voices.

“Mayhap ’tis scouts from Blantyre come to welcome us,” Rowena whispered.

“Nay, they come too fast” Harry freed his sword. “Quickly, make for Eneas and the others,” he urged.

Too late. Mounted men erupted from the trees behind them, brandishing swords and screaming fit to curdle the blood.

Eneas showed his true mettle. Or rather, his back. He fled ahead of the attacking horde without a backward glance, his men scrambling after him like a pack of terrified rabbits.

“Sweet Mary, we are lost,” Rowena cried.

Harry wheeled to face the oncoming men. “Ride, my lady,” he shouted. “Dinna stop till ye reach Blantyre.”

There was no time to argue, no time to thank Harry. Digging her heels into her horse’s ribs, Rowena sped along the track Eneas had taken. Branches slapped at her face; briars tore at her clothes. Behind her, she heard the grate of steel on steel, followed by an ominous cry.

Harry.

There was no time to mourn, no time for pain and regret. Rowena focused all her energies on staying in the saddle and keeping her mount moving on the track. A minute they rode, maybe two, before she heard the pounding beat of hot pursuit.

“Faster! Faster!” Rowena urged, giving her mare its head. Her heart flew into her throat as the beast stumbled. “Nay.” She pulled back on the reins, fighting for balance, praying for a miracle. It was not granted. With a sharp equine squeal of protest, the horse went down, throwing Rowena off over its head.

She hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thump. The world went black, then misty gray. Stars danced before her eyes. She tasted blood and dirt.

“Chase down the others, I’ll see to the wench,” shouted a coarse voice.

Rowena clawed at the dirt, trying to rise, to crawl into the concealing foliage a foot away. Hard hands grabbed her by the shoulders and wrenched her up. There she dangled, like a fish on a hook, feet milling in the air, her head muzzy as a drunk’s.

“Well, well...” Even seen through a misty haze, her captor’s face was terrifying, with blunt, brutish features weathered by sun and wind, close-set black eyes and a tangle of inky hair. “She’s a mite dirty at the moment, but she may clean up fine.”

“I dinna want to wait,” snarled a sullen voice. The speaker was smaller than his hulking companion and better looking, if you discounted the meanness in his pale eyes.

Terror chased the cobwebs from Rowena’s aching head. Mustering what courage she could, she said, “Release me this instant,” in her most imperious voice. The effect was ruined by her position.

The brute laughed. “Why, ’tis no serving wench we’ve caught, Dickie me lad, but a fine lady.”

“She don’t look so fine...and it don’t make a damn bit of difference to me who she is.” Dickie reached for the laces on the front of her gown.

“Wait!” Rowena said, hating the quaver in her voice. “I am Lady Rowena Gunn, come with my kinsmen on important business with the Earl of Buchan. If you will take me—unharmed—to Blantyre Castle, my brother will reward you richly.”

The brute’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “Dickie and me, we’ve no need of gold, but a fresh wench...” He cocked his head, a merciless grin splitting his ugly face. “Now that’s a reward a man’d have to be dead to pass up.”

“Dead is what you’ll be if you don’t release the lady,” said a low, soft voice. The man who stood behind the brute was leaner but taller than her attacker. A helmet shadowed his face. From beneath it, black hair flowed over massive shoulders. With his sword held before him and his dark cape fluttering out in the wind, he resembled an avenging angel.

“’Tis Glenshee,” Dickie exclaimed.

Cursing, the brute cast Rowena into the bracken and drew his sword as he turned to face the newcomer. “Ye’re alone.” A savage smile split his ugly face.

“I have Avenger.” The knight hefted his claymore with one hand, letting the half-light play on the runes carved into the gleaming blade. “That’s enough to deal with the likes of you, Georas MacPherson.”

Georas’s laughter was coarse and mean, his attack lightning quick. His sword slashed down. Metal screamed on metal as the dark knight countered the stroke, driving Georas back. Face red with fury, MacPherson lunged, shouting for Dickie, who came in swinging his own blade. The blow fell on the leather-and-metal targe the knight held over his left arm. Before Dickie could disengage, Glenshee twisted the shield, scoring Dickie’s arm with the metal point at its center.

Dickie cursed and drew back, then resumed the attack, raining a flurry of blows on the targe.

“That’s it! Give no quarter!” Georas roared. He slashed with more fury than finesse, but the air resounded with the grating of steel on steel.

Rowena scrambled up from the dirt, back braced against an oak as she watched the struggle. Surely Glenshee could not prevail against these two. Should she call for help? Oh, that was rich. Whom did she expect would come?

While she debated, the dark knight sent his blade sliding down Georas’s. With a flick of his muscled arm, he sent his opponent’s sword arcing into the brush.

“What the...?” Eyes wide, Georas backed up, rubbing at the small, bloody slice on his wrist. “Get him, Dickie.”

“By all means, Dickie. Come and get me,” Glenshee taunted. The deadly tip of his blade swung back and forth between the two, keeping them at bay.

“The hell with this.” Dickie backed up a step, then turned and ran to his horse. “No wench is worth this much trouble.”

Georas glared at the knight. “We’ll finish this another day, Glenshee.”

“Name the time and the place.”

Georas growled a low curse and backed toward his horse. He sprang into the saddle, sent a last, scathing glance at her rescuer, then spurred away into the mist.

Rowena released the breath she’d been holding and sagged against the tall oak, scarcely feeling the damp. As her breathing quieted and her heart settled, she became aware of the hushed silence all around them. The trees stood motionless; expectancy hung heavy as fog in the air.

Her rescuer stood a few feet away, staring after the MacPhersons, his face hidden in shadows. His sword, held still in his right hand, gleamed evilly in the pale light.