Page 43 of The Madam’s Highlander

He was still naked from the waist down. Ewan kept his gaze locked on the man's wide brown eyes, unable to even look at the man's nudity, to acknowledge the disgusting intent.

All this had been Ewan's fault, and by God he would see it to rights.

Ewan drew his arms up, hands clasped together to lock the manacles into place, and brought the double fist of metal down hard on the man's face. A deep, popping crunch came from beneath Ewan's fists and blood gushed down the man's face. He sputtered, sending a spray of blood spattering onto the darkened porch.

A hearty smack sounded from several feet away where Freya had been left with the last man. The redcoat Ewan fought kicked him in the side where the bullet wound still healed. Pain exploded into white flickering stars before Ewan's eyes.

Before Ewan could recover, the man shoved him and scrambled to his feet.

Ewan blinked against the pain and regarded the half-naked man standing over him. With a pistol.

The man cocked the weapon and it fired with a deafening explosion.

Only nothing emerged from the man's weapon. Nothing tore into Ewan's body save the pain already blazing at his waist. Confusion grappled him for a mind-numbing second until the half-naked soldier fell to the side, revealing Freya behind him, gripping a pistol. A curl of gray smoke licked up from the muzzle and trailed into the icy air.

“Ewan.” There was alarm in her voice, fear.

For him.

He shoved aside the pain at his side and forced himself to sit up. Blood spattered her dress. “Are ye hurt?”

“Nay.” She sank beside him. “Are ye?”

He shook his head. “There were four men. Where is the last one?”

Freya's eyes went wide. “In the house.”

She helped him to his feet and together they ran inside where firelight flickered shadows throughout the room. A dark stain streaked the floor and led to the body of a redcoat.

“Ewan?” His mother peered up from where she lay beside the man.

Ewan's heart lurched. Blood. Everywhere was blood. His mother's chest and face were smeared with it, her gown stained and soaked.

“Ma.” He fell to his knees at her side. “My God, Ma. I'm so sorry.”

She waved a frantic hand at him to shoo him away. “No' me, lad. This bastard.” She jabbed her finger at the man staring blankly into nothing.

A gunshot rang out, immediately followed by the most unexpected of sounds - an infant's indignant squall.

Ewan's mother shoved at him, surprisingly strong despite her bony arms. “Go!”

Ewan leapt to his feet and ran in great limping steps with Freya to where Marian's door was still closed. The lusty cries continued, interrupted only by enough time to draw a wee chest full of air. Ewan pushed a hand back to stay Freya and burst into the room.

Marian looked up from where she lay on the bed, her face pale and glistening in the candlelight. A red-faced babe screamed in her arms, its curled fists shaking with rage.

“Ma?” Freya said cautiously.

It was then Ewan noticed Freya's mother staring down at the ground on the opposite side of the bed. There lay two redcoats - the body of Captain Crosby, and that of the final attacker.

“He saved us,” Freya's mother said. Blood dotted the wiry curls at her temple and showed bright red against the otherwise brilliant white of her cap. “The man was going to shoot Marian, and out of nowhere came a gunshot. And it was him. Captain Crosby.”

Marian cradled the babe to her breast where it gave several snuffling grunts. “Thomas,” she keened softly. “Thomas.”

A long, low groan sounded from Captain Crosby.

Ewan dropped beside the Englishman. “It's my arm,” Crosby gasped. “But I'm so very tired. I don't...” His breathing came in labored pants. “Get the girls to the carriage.” He turned his gaze up to Ewan despite the obvious effort it took to do so. “Save them.”

“No,” Freya gasped. “We canna leave without ye.”