Willow smiled. “Yes. The same John Hawke who fought beside King Arthur.”
“Lords! He must be old to have done that!” Sage guffawed.
“Ageless,” Willow added. “Because he’s...”
“John Hawke.” They finished together.
Willow placed her arm around Sage’s shoulders and started for the inn.
“He still doesn’t know everything,” Sage grumbled.
“Well, he certainly doesn’t know we play the John Hawke game.”
Sage smirked in satisfaction. “Let’s keep it that way.”
Willow paused, tilting her head to listen.
A second later, Sage heard it. The sound of clashing swords. She scowled at Willow’s focused gaze. “It’s not our fight.”
A mischievous half-grin crept across Willow’s lips. “It never is.” She moved toward the sound.
“Willow!” Sage called, but her sister continued. Sage mumbled a curse and followed her.
Willow rounded the corner of the inn. Before the wooden stables, she saw a man with dark hair holding a sword. His back was to her, and she couldn’t see his face. Four men surrounded him with weapons drawn, all pointed at him. Anger at the injustice rose inside her, and as Sage caught up to her, Willow whispered, “That does not seem fair.”
Sage grabbed her arm in a tight grip. “Father won’t like this.”
“I can hardly let this matter go. Look at him.”
The lone man in the center deflected a blow from one of the attackers and whirled to parry another strike.
“Outnumbered,” Willow continued. “Alone.” She put her hand on her hip to observe him for a moment. “I must admit. He has some skill.”
“Don’t do this,” Sage pleaded.
Willow didn’t listen to her sister’s plea. She had made up her mind when she had first seen the man encircled. She smiled at Sage, trying to ease her concerns. “Don’t worry about me.” She glanced back at the men as she removed Sage’s hand from her arm. “Worry about them.”
Willow strolled toward the group. As she watched the surrounded man defend himself, prickles crawled along the nape of her neck. His fighting style—the way he lunged, the way he moved—was strangely familiar to her.
He deflected more blows. When his back was turned, one of the attackers lunged. The man arched his side away from the impact at the last moment.
“That was not fair,” Willow called, drawing their attention.
The man in the center grabbed his side and winced. Apparently, he had not been quick enough to avoid the dishonorable strike from behind.
“Keep moving,” a man with a scar along his cheek ordered.
“I am moving. Toward you.” She stopped just out of sword reach. She wasn’t a fool. “What has he done to merit four blades to his throat?”
“It’s none of your concern. Be off with you before we drag you to the stables and slice off your clothes.” A scar ran from his cheek to his jaw.
Men always want to take off her clothes. Willow sighed softly and regarded her leather armor. “You would slice off my armor? I paid a lot of coin for it.” She looked up at the scarred man as she slowly lowered her hand to the pommel of her sword. “I would be offended at that.”
“But you’d be naked,” another man with no eyebrows sneered.
“I’ll give you one last chance to let this man go...” Willow warned.
The group laughed.
