Chapter 1
Scotland, July 1297
A woman’s terrified scream rent the air.
Sir Patrik Cleary MacGruder whirled. Sweat from his grueling pace this summer morning soaked his skin as he scanned the gnarl of elm, ash, and fir.
“No, do not touch me! Please!” a woman begged.
Men’s crude laughter echoed nearby, rough, ugly, and thick with menace.
A muscle worked in Patrik’s jaw as he touched the writ secured beneath his tunic. He must reach Bishop Wishart without delay.
Her next scream, raw with the terror of the brutality yet to come, pierced him as if a well-aimed sword. Nae, it struck deeper, into the pit of his soul.
Silence sheathed his steps as he wove through the woods toward the woman’s desperate pleas. With Scottish soil crawling with the English bastards, only a fool would rush in alone to aid the lass. Yet, here he was.
“Look at her, she would be wanting us,” a gruff English voice stated.
Another man’s harsh laughter sounded nearby.
Bloody bastards!Patrik tamped down his fury and edged closer, scanning the forest for any sign of a trap.
Shadows flickered ahead.
He ducked behind a fallen tree. Pulse racing, he peered around the mossy tangle of weathered bark.
Caught between two English knights, a slender woman kicked and twisted to break free. Her chestnut hair, wild with the struggle, obscured her face.
Patrik’s anger shoved up a notch.
“A fighter she is,” a burly Englishman laughed. “And a good bedding she will be.”
She lunged forward in an attempt to break free. “No!”
With a lewd smile, another knight reached out, ripped her gown. Bare flesh rippled beneath the flutter of cloth. He jerked the ruined garment free.
Naked, the woman fought harder. “No, I beg of you!”
Memories of watching his mother being raped scalded Patrik’s mind. Darkness consumed him, a blackness so thick it smothered his soul. Hand trembling, he withdrew his blade, edged forward. They’d not touch the lass, or draw another breath. He scoured the area for any other men, then refocused on the knights.
Four of the bastards.
Odds he’d take.
Sword raised, Patrik shoved to his feet, sprang into the clearing. “Release the lass!”
The tattered dress sank to the ground as her closest attacker whirled, drawing his blade.
At the English knights’ distraction, the woman tugged a hand free. Without hesitation, she whirled and kneed the other knight in the groin.
Face distorted in agony, the man dropped.
The woman clawed at him as Patrik charged, drove his sword to meet the closest knight’s blade.
At the blow, the Englishman stumbled back.
Patrik slashed the knight’s throat. At the spurt of blood, he spun to face the three remaining warriors. Fury pounding hot, he withdrew his dagger, hurled it at the nearest knight. His blade sank into the knight’s chest.
