Shock widened the man’s eyes. Blood spewed from the wound. The man stepped toward him, crumpled.
The knight the woman had attacked cursed, staggered to his feet, outrage carved upon his face.
Nostrils flared, Patrik drove his sword into the Englishman’s chest, then spun to face the final warrior. “The odds are even. As they were not for the woman you tried to rape.”
“You will die for this,” the Englishman spat.
Patrik arched a brow, scanned the knights sprawled around them. “’Tis English blood that stains the earth.”
“Once I carve your worthless arse, I will find the Scottish whore. Scum, the lot of you.” The English knight angled his blade. “If she pleases me, mayhap I will allow her to live the night.”
Patrik tamped down his fury. His opponent wanted him angry, wanted his thoughts blurred with reckless emotion. Nay, too many battles lay behind him to make such a critical error.
With a roar, his aggressor drove forward.
Patrik dropped and rolled. Steel whooshed a hairsbreadth above his head.
Shock that he’d missed twisted to outrage upon the knight’s face as he whirled.
Patrik shoved to his feet and swung. His blade met flesh, slashing the man’s throat, the spurt of crimson satisfying.
Knees trembling, the knight sank to the ground, his words mutilated within a gurgle of blood.
“Die, you bastard,” Patrik hissed. “Rot in Hades where one day your English king will lie!” Chest heaving, he ignored the groans of the dying men as he scoured the thick of green for the lass. She’d run. Curse it!
Steel hissed against leather as Patrik secured his blade. He jerked his dagger free of the dying man, scooped up her tattered garment and followed the soft indents of earth that betrayed her passing.
With her screams of terror, the clash of blades and the woods cluttered with the English, ’twould be but a matter of time before more of the bastards arrived. He had to find the lass before they did. Given the graveness of his mission, the thought of abandoning her flickered to mind, a thought he abandoned as quick. As long as he breathed, never would English scum touch a Scottish woman he could protect.
Leaves rustled in the dense thicket ahead.
Patrik halted. He scanned his garb, grimaced. His tunic and trews splattered with the Englishmen’s blood would far from ease her fear.
“Lass,” he called, keeping his voice soft as he listened for any sign of approaching men. “I know you are in there. And afraid.”
Silence.
He stepped closer. “You know me not, but the woods are thick with English. With the scuffle, more knights will come. We must go. Now.”
A leaf shook. “How do I know I can trust you?” Her soft, trembling words held courage.
He held out her tattered gown. “I give you my word, that of a Scottish knight.”
Long moments passed. He sensed her silent scrutiny, struggled to bank his impatience. His mission was crucial; the sooner he saw to her safety, the faster he could deliver the writ.
“Place the gown near the bush.”
With slow steps, Patrik moved forward, laid the battered garment into the shadows as she’d asked.
“Move away.”
He eased back.
A slender arm reached out, snatched the torn garb, then disappeared. Leaves shook. Hints of creamy skin against shadows slipped into view as she dressed.
He scanned their surroundings. “We must hurry.”
The leaves stilled.
