Chapter Nine
Outside the tavern in Acharacle, all three of the soldiers rushed toward Neacal, spurring him into his warrior mindset.
He shoved Anna behind him and drew his sword. "Halt!"
The men slid to a stop, their eyes narrowed on his blade.
"Hand her over, you blackguard!" the one with short brown hair demanded.
His hackles rose and heated fury poured into his veins. "I'm Chief of the MacDonalds of Moidart and she is under my protection."
The lanky henchman with stringy long hair gave a nasty laugh. "His lairdship will not find this amusing. So, you've become a whore, have you, m'lady?"
M'lady?Neacal darted a quick glance back at Anna. Her face was ashen. Was she a lady in truth? Although he'd had his suspicions… why had she not told him? And who was the laird they were speaking of? Obviously a relative of hers.
At five paces, the men murmured amongst themselves but he could not make out their words. Their dialect was different; they must hail from a distant part of Scotland.
"What is going on, Anna?" Neacal growled low. "Are these your clansmen?"
Her wide-eyed gaze darted to him and back to the three soldiers.
"Come, Lady MacCromar. 'Tis time to go home to your husband," one of the strangers called.
Husband?What the blazing hell? She was married? Neacal glared back at her. Why had she pretended to be a widow? Why had she let him kiss her… and more? He muttered a curse.
She sent him a guilty look, tears sparkling in her eyes. Her face was pale and her shallow breaths came quickly. She shook her head.
Were the men lying?
Regardless, he was not turning her over to the heathens. Clearly, she was terrified of them. Mayhap her husband was an abusive tyrant.
"Get behind the horse," he murmured to her.
She shook her head again, tears in her eyes. "I won't let them kill you. I'll go with them."
"Nay," he grated. "Do as I say and move to the other side of the horse. Stay out of the way." He pushed her underneath the horse's head to the other side, then stepped forward, lest his horse get injured during the coming skirmish.
The three men drew their swords. "Come, m'lady. Do not force us to kill the poor, disfigured young chief you have manipulated into helping you hide like an outlaw." The lanky knave sent Neacal a sinister grin as he crept closer. "It appears you already lost one battle."
Neacal gave a malicious smile in return. Aye, let them underestimate him. 'Twould give him the upper hand.
"Stop where you are," Neacal commanded, bringing his sword into the outside guard position.
Dunn growled and hunched as if to launch himself at one of the men.
"Back, Dunn! Stay!"
"You're outnumbered, lad," the pudgy man with graying hair sneered.
"Are you thinking that matters?" Neacal asked.
All three men charged him, swords ready to strike. One stabbed toward Neacal's chest. Flicking his blade upward, Neacal knocked the weapon away and, at the same time, deeply nicked his attacker's chin. The man reeled back, howling.
The other two bastards thrust their weapons at him. He slashed in a half circle, deflecting their blades upward. Then, in a quick reverse, cut both men across their abdomens. Blood saturated their sliced clothing and they staggered backward, cursing.
The first man who'd attacked, his chin now dripping blood, leapt forward, ramming his sword toward Neacal's gut. He dodged aside and kicked the broad side of his opponent's blade.
The man tried to regroup and ready himself for another strike, but he was too slow. Neacal sliced his throat. The man fell to the ground, screaming, blood gushing from his wounds. Both his comrades charged Neacal.
