Page 138 of Bond of a Bewitched Highlander

With a blinding flash, a shot rang out, knocking Brodie to the ground.

***

ELSEA JOLTED AWAKE in the darkness, lying on hard-packed earth. Where am I? She squeezed her eyes closed against the ache in her back and her head. Through clenched teeth, she forced in a deep breath. Her lungs burned. The dank, mildewed air smelled like a dungeon or cellar. In the distance, sword clashes and men's yells echoed. Startled, she recalled the events of the past few hours.

"Bollocks!" Had the bastards brought her back to the dungeon she'd released the selkies from?

At least she was breathing again, more or less normally, but the ache in her back made it hard to move. Trying to ignore the pain and dizziness, she pushed herself up to a sitting position, then onto her knees. Crawling forward, then lifting her hands, she touched a cold iron bar. Clasping a hand around it, she pulled herself to her feet. Only a tiny slit high on the wall allowed in a hint of moonlight. How long had she been knocked out? She pushed at the cell door, but it was locked as expected.

Rough male shouts and metal clangs still echoed outside. Who were the earl's men fighting?

She placed her hands over her sheaths, searching for weapons. Her sword and dirk were gone, of course. But they hadn't found her sgian achlais under her armpit. Trying to keep her jittery hands steady, she withdrew it and pushed her hand through the bars. 'Twas awkward to insert the thin blade into the lock from this angle.

The sharp, explode of gunfire startled her, making her hands jerk. Saints! Would it be safe for her to cross the bailey? Maybe she could use the battle as cover for her escape.

After a few moments, she managed to pick the lock and open the door. She replaced the blade in its sheath and chose a larger one from her calf sheath for defense, though it was still tiny compared to a sword. Her hip ached as she climbed the stairs toward the exterior door and opened it. She slipped out into the torch-lit gloom, snow still swirling in the shifting wind. The battle sounded farther away now.

Needing to stay hidden from the knaves, she knelt and peered out cautiously. A dark-haired man wearing a white shirt and plaid lay near the steps. Was he dead? Seeing no one else, she crept forward.

The man looked like Brodie. "Saints!" she hissed, shock riveting her. How could it be?

Her heart drumming in her ears, she dropped to her knees beside him. "Brodie?" she whispered, touching his bloody face. 'Twas warm, thank the saints. But his eyes remained closed.

When she placed her hand above his mouth, his heated breath wafted across her skin. "Thank God. Brodie?" She shook him, but he was knocked out cold. He was not well enough to fight. What had he been thinking?

Shadows moved in the distant torchlight, and the sounds of battle continued. She must hide him before an enemy discovered him.

She took the basket-hilt broadsword from his slack hand and slid it into his scabbard. She would need it if the knaves discovered them.

She prayed she wouldn't injure him further, but she had to move him out of sight. Taking his hands, she pulled at him with all her might.

"Bollocks, you're heavy," she whispered, lugging him with much effort across the slippery, snow-covered cobblestones toward the dungeon door. His thick warrior muscles were a leaden weight.

Summoning all her strength, she dragged him down the steps. At the bottom, he sucked in a sharp breath, groaned, and mumbled a curse.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you," she said. "Are you awake?"

He dropped silent and still again. Blast! How much blood had he lost this time? Turning the corner, she tugged him farther along the corridor between the cells. 'Twas so dark here. She needed the torch to see to his injuries. He might even now be bleeding badly.

On shaky legs, she rushed up the steps again and sent a quick glance outside. Seeing no one, she snatched the torch from the wall bracket and descended the stairs again. Brodie's head bled horribly, and she must stop it.

"Wench!" a man yelled from outside.

"'Slud." He'd seen her grab the torch. Her pulse quickened. After laying the flaming torch several feet away from Brodie on the stone floor, she drew his broadsword from the scabbard. 'Twas longer and heavier than her own, but she had practiced with one of this size many times.

"How did you escape your cell, crafty wench? I ken I locked the door." His boots clunked as he descended the steps. "What say we have some fun before his lairdship comes down here to retrieve you?" he said with a dark chuckle.

Bastard. Elsea ground her teeth. Knowing both her and Brodie's lives were on the line, she waited, hidden around the corner. Her heart thumped so hard he must have heard it.

Her brothers had always trained her to go for the throat, regardless of the weapon. Her hands shook, and she inhaled a silent, deep breath. You can do this, Elsea. She'd been training for battle more than half her life, and now she must protect the man she loved.

When the knave stepped into view, she sliced the sword high with all her strength and connected. Clearly, he hadn't expected it and had no time to block the strike. He shrieked and fell back onto the stone steps, struggling, gasping, cursing. She waited, breath held, for him to make a countermove. But he didn't. After a long moment, he grew silent and still.

She retrieved the torch in her shaking hands and held it over him. Saints! She'd stuck his throat, and the gash bled profusely. "May God forgive me," she whispered, horrified. 'Twas the first man she'd killed... unless she'd slain that earlier guard she'd stabbed and kicked down the embankment. Her own violence and accuracy shocked her, but she would do anything to defend Brodie... and herself.

Her legs weak, she climbed the steps past the fallen enemy, closed the exterior door, then dragged his hulking body in front of it to block any more invaders. Saints, but he was as heavy as a large stone.

Returning to Brodie, still passed out, she examined his head. It appeared a lead ball had grazed his scalp deeply, ripping away a furrow of his thick black hair. She recalled the earlier blast of the gunshot.