Fielder’s teeth flashed in a grin of anticipation as he approached the hedge, but then a shot rang out. Fielder stiffened just as his horse started the jump. His eyes widened in surprise and he went tumbling off the back, his hat flying through the air.
Davidson had shot Fielder.
Ian stepped out of the way of the riderless horse. The animal had jumped in fear to escape what he didn’t understand and now galloped over to the stallion for protection.
Lyssa gave a small scream and Ian didn’t need to look in her direction to know that she had, once again, not followed his orders.
Davidson rode up and looked down on the man lying in the tilled soil. Fielder groaned. Davidson pulled a second pistol from his saddle horse’s holsters and shot the man again.
The gun spent, he shoved it back in its holster. “Bloody bastard.” He looked up at Ian, standing on the other side of the hedge. “We’re not done yet,” he promised and pulled a sword from the scabbard at his waist. He kicked his horse.
Now, Davidson was fighting Ian’s sort of battle, one he’d learned against the French. Ian dashed out into the field, not wanting to be trapped by the hedgerow. He turned to confront his attacker.
Davidson rode like a Hussar, the sword high in the air. He cleared the hedgerow and bore down on Ian. The moon glinted off the dangerous blade. As Davidson drew by, he swiped the air with the sword. Ian ducked, hearing the blade whistle past, inches from his shoulder.
Lyssa made a move as if to come join him. “Stay back,” Ian yelled. “If you must do something, run!”
This time, she obeyed him, obviously realizing he couldn’t worry about Davidson and her at the same time. She took off running.
Her cousin had brought his horse up short, ready to make another pass at Ian when he noticed her racing toward the trees. He looked to Ian, then back to Lyssa—and grinned.
“Davidson, come get me!” Ian shouted, wanting to distract the bastard from Lyssa, but it was too late.
With a cocky salute of his sword in Ian’s direction, Davidson urged his horse after Lyssa.
Now, Ian was afraid. He shouted a warning and ran for Fielder’s horse.
The animal spooked but Ian caught the saddle in time and pulled himself up even while racing after Davidson.
Again, the dangerous sword was raised. Davidson was so intent on his prey, he didn’t noticed Ian riding up hard behind him. Ian slid the knife into his boot. He drove the horse hard, pushing it alongside Davidson’s animal and then he jumped, hitting Davidson with the full force of his body.
Both of them went flying through the air. Their bodies hit the soft earth heavily and they rolled over and over each other until at last they stopped.
Ian scrambled to his feet, his heart beating in his ears, his fists raised, ready to strike—but Davidson did not move. He lay on his back, partially buried in the newly turned earth, his head at an odd angle.
Cautious, Ian lowered his fist. Lyssa stood a distance away, watching as he waved his hand back and forth in front of Davidson’s sightless eyes.
Ramsey Davidson had broken his neck. He’d fallen off at such an angle, he’d hit the ground head first and met his Maker.
Ian was glad to be done with him.
He released his breath and fell back to the ground, spent. “It’s over,” he said.
Lyssa slowly moved forward. “Did you kill him?”
“He killed himself.” Ian got to his feet and turned his attention to the stallion, who stood not far away, the whites of his eyes showing in fear. He could smell death.
Davidson’s horse had run toward home, the stirrups bouncing off his sides. Fielder’s animal stopped, pawed the earth and waited.
“Come here, boy,” Ian said, approaching the stallion, with his hand open.
The stallion wasn’t trusting.
He whispered in Irish, “Ná bí buartha(‘Don’t worry’).”
Pricking up his ears, the stallion listened. Ian touched the velvet of his nose. “Ná bí buartha,” he repeated. The stallion lowered his head, a gesture of submission.
“You are so beautiful,” Ian praised and trailing his hand along the horse’s body so the animal knew where he was, he searched for where it had been shot.
