“’Tis okay, lass. Sit. Breathe.” She dropped onto the ground and hugged her knees to her chest. A tear ran down her cheek.
There would be time to comfort her later. First, he needed to find out how many attackers there were. Who they were and what they wanted?
He shook the man. “How many?” He spat, fury running through his veins.
“F-f-four,” the man sputtered.
Errol had already killed three. “Including ye, or other than ye?”
“I-including me.” The man wheezed as he tried to control his breathing.
Errol pushed him away.
The man scrambled to his hands and knees, sputtering and coughing.
Checking on Moira, Errol knelt beside her. “Are ye for certs ye arenae hurt?”
She nodded, her hand reaching out to the slash on his arm. “Ye’re hurt though. Ye’ll need to be stitched.”
“I am fine. I’ve suffered worse.” He walked over to the man hunched on all fours and kicked him in the stomach, making the man fall to his back. He rolled to his side, clutching his middle.
Errol would break every one of his ribs. Every bone in his body. He would do whatever he had to get the answers he sought.
“What are ye after? Who sent ye?”
“Y-y-ye seek treasure.”
“That is what ye attacked us for? Bloody bastards.” Errol kicked him again and the man howled. “Are ye trying to make the MacLeod an enemy of ye?”
The man spat blood and Errol took a sick satisfaction in seeing the red stain the ground. “We dinnae care that ye are a MacLeod. Or that ye are with a Hart bitch,” he snarled.
Errol was on him quickly, smashing his fists into the man’s face. Over and over. He felt the bones crunch under his assault. And he reveled in the feeling. His rage out of control. The realization that the bastard could have killed Moira.
Moira.
He heard her screams. Her pleas to cease.
His breath ragged, he stopped and sank back on his heels, cradling his head in his blood-covered hands.
Their attacker’s face was a mass of tissue and bone. And blood. Lots of it.
He had called Moira a bitch. More than aught, that was what spurred him on.
Moira approached him cautiously and he hated the fear he saw in her eyes.
“I would ne’er hurt ye, lass,” he confessed. He blew out a long breath as he flexed his fingers, his knuckles bruised and swollen.
She nodded. “I ken,” she said quietly. “Let me tend to yer wounds?”
“Nay, no’ now.” He looked at the carnage around them. “We need to move in case others are following them. I need to get ye to safety.”
“Can ye ride?”
He smiled. “I’ve ridden with worse. Let us go.”
Chapter Eight
The bothy theycame across appeared to have not been visited for quite some time. A thick layer of dust covered the sparse furniture, but there was dry wood stacked near the fireplace that they could use for a fire.
