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Cullen wielded his sword again, easily deflecting the bailiff’s weapon. “If you challenge a swordsman with no good cause, Sire, you should be prepared for him to take you down.”
Then, unbelievably, Cullen turned his back on the bailiff.
Sunny cried out, fearing for his life.
With a quick maneuver, he turned on his heel. His blade shot out as he spun around. The bailiff, who was moving at full pelt to pierce his opponent’s back, was brought up short by the point of Cullen’s blade against his cravat.
Sunny’s heart stalled.
The bailiff dropped his sword.
“On your knees, blackguard!” Cullen stated.
“I’ll run you out of Cornwall,” the bailiff bit back.
“No need, for I leave on the turn of the tide. Now, on your knees.”
Laughter and jeering rang out in the crowd.
Muttering under his breath, the bailiff dropped to his knees.
Cullen waved her over , leaving his opponent kneeling on the ground, cursing.
Sunny crossed to his side.
Cullen stared down at his opponent. “I will trouble you no more, if you let us go in peace.” He grasped Sunny’s hand. “Come, we will depart this place.”
He quickly led her away.
The onlookers moved back to allow them to pass. She noticed how the men lifted their hats in respect and the women ducked their heads. It felt good to feel his strong hand embracing hers. However, she had the feeling they weren’t clear yet.
Cullen was focused on the shoreline ahead.
She risked glancing back at the crowd. She feared they might come after them in search of more entertainment.
Two men had ventured after them, and one was the trader who’d challenged them earlier.
Annoyed, Sunny drew to a halt and glared at them.
The wind lifted and thunder rolled overhead.
They continued to follow.
She let out a curse her mother used—Arabic words that used to put the fear of god into her as a child—wishing them all cursed if they took a step closer.
She put out her hand in a halt sign.
Astonishingly the men halted instantly, as if frozen to the spot.
“What in god’s name did you say to them?” Cullen asked.
“Nothing in god’s name,” she said, laughing, as amazed as he was. “It’s a curse my Moroccan mother used to say when she was really angry.”
“You must teach it to me,” he replied with a laugh, and hurried her along.
She looked back over her shoulder again, needing to be sure.
The two locals in pursuit were just as before, standing still as if frozen in time. Beyond them the crowd blurred in her vision, but one face remained, and just before Sunny turned away for the last time. She thought the face looked familiar—a man with a widow’s peak.
