Page 4 of Under the Laird’s Promise

"Difficult?" She bared her teeth at him. "I haven't even started being difficult."

She kicked her horse hard. The beast lunged forward, scattering two of the men. Maighread leaned low over its neck and drove her heels in again, sending it plunging down the muddy track. Branches whipped past her face. Rain stung her eyes. Behind her, boots pounded and men shouted.

"After her! Move yer arses!"

The road curved sharply ahead. Maighread took the turn too fast, felt her horse's hooves slide in the muck. They stayed upright by sheer luck and God's mercy. She risked a glance back.

They were gaining.

Of course they were. Her mount had been ridden hard for three days straight while these bastards' horses were fresh. Mathematics and misery. The border of MacEwan lands lay barely a day's ride ahead––so close––but she wouldn't reach it. Wouldn't even make it another mile at this pace. She had to get off the road. Lose them in the forest, where their numbers mattered less.

Maighread hauled on the reins, turning her horse toward a gap in the trees. The animal balked, ears flattening.

"Go!" She kicked viciously. "By the Mass, move!"

They crashed into the undergrowth. Branches tore at her cloak and hair. Something ripped the braid half loose, sending chestnut strands whipping across her face. Her horse stumbled over roots and rocks, breath coming in great heaving gasps.

"She's gone into the woods!"

"Split up! Fin, take Dougal and circle round. We'll flush her out!"

Maighread's mind raced. Five men, possibly six. If they split their forces, that improved her odds marginally.

She pushed deeper into the forest, guiding her exhausted horse between close growing trunks. The rain had softened, filtering through the canopy in a steady drip. Everything smelled of wet earth and pine sap and her own fear sweat.

A stream cut across her path, water running swift and dark over smooth stones. She urged her horse into it, then turned upstream. Old trick, older than memory, but it might buy her minutes. Might give her time to think, to plan, to figure out how in God's name she'd survive that moment.

Hoofbeats.

Coming fast from her right.

Her stomach dropped. They'd circled quicker than expected. Professional then. Trained men, not common thieves.

She abandoned the stream, driving her horse up the far bank. The animal's sides heaved. Foam flecked its neck. It couldn't take much more.

Neither could she, if truth be told. Her arms shook from gripping the reins. Her throat burned. But fear had teeth and they were sinking deep, flooding her blood with something that felt sickeningly close to panic.

"There!" A shout, too close. "By the stream, I see her!"

Maighread twisted in the saddle. Two men crashed through the brush behind her. She turned forward again, ducked under a low hanging branch, and nearly collided with the third man blocking her path.

"Gotcha, ye troublesome quine."

He grabbed for her bridle. Maighread slashed at him with her dirk, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until her bones ground together. The blade fell from her nerveless fingers.

"Get off!" She kicked at his face. Her boot connected with something that crunched. He staggered back, cursing foully.

Her horse reared again. This time Maighread's exhausted grip failed. She tumbled backward, hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Mud splattered her face. For a horrible moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could only lie there gasping like a landed fish.

Boots appeared in her vision.

"That was foolish, lass." The leader's voice, rough with exertion. "We're trying not to hurt ye, but ye keep making things complicated and soon⁠—"

Steel sang.

A blade appeared in the man's throat, erupting through the front of his neck in a spray of crimson. His eyes went wide. He made a wet gurgling sound and collapsed.

More swords, more shouting. The other men scattered, reaching for their weapons. Maighread rolled onto her side, still trying to drag air into her starved lungs.