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He was done for. And it wasn’t the sword slash on his arm that would kill him. His death would be her fault. Her poison. Her yew berries. She should’ve felt sorry. God would want her to be remorseful. But she put one palm to his forehead and declared, “You’re a dead man now, sword or no.”
Then she gave him a good push. He toppled from her like a chopped tree to the ground where he died, frothing at the mouth, staring up into her eyes…
He wasn’t the only one staring.
Her laughing rescuer stopped laughing and stared with wide blue eyes. She wasn’t entirely sure it was because she was naked as a newborn. Meanwhile, the rest of Arabella’s kidnappers died swiftly. They collapsed before they could be cut down by the dark demon with the claymore. Until the only sound in the bloody clearing was the panting breaths of the flushed, blood-spattered, and sweaty men who rescued her, both of whom stared at her as if she was the demon.
“Witch,” the dark one said, making a sign of the cross to fend her off.
She made a sound, a near hysterical sound between a sob and a laugh. This man—this strong, tall, incredibly athletic man—actually stumbled back from her, and fell, as if he, too, had eaten some of her rabbit stew. He went down hard onto the grass where her skirt had been tossed by one of her would-be rapists. But Arabella’s bitter amusement faded when she saw the fountain spurt of blood shoot up from her rescuer’s leg.
And the man with the claymore finally let go of his sword.
Dropped it, really, where it spattered in the mud.
“Malcolm,” the freckled one said. “You’ve taken a scratch the leg, man.”
As it turned out, his wound was much more than a scratch.
It was a horrible gash.
How had he fought so bravely, so fiercely, with such a wound?
“Which one of them did it, Davy?” the dark one asked, pressing his hands to staunch the blood though it flowed over his fingers.
“Didn’t see who did it,” the one called Davy replied, scrambling through the grass to help his comrade. Then he turned to Arabella. “Come help me bind his leg, lass. But none of that funny business with your palm to his forehead. You do that again, and the best swordsman in clan Macrae is like to swoon away in fear of your magic.”
Malcolm barked, “Shut it.”
Arabella started to say that she didn’t have any magic, but was cut off by the sight of her rescuer gritting his teeth against the pain, going paler with another spurt of blood. She hurried to help, offering the torn scraps of her underthings to bind him. It would be against all justice for such a warrior to die by the unknown treachery of one of the villains who lay dead at her feet, so Arabella did what she could to help.
“Too bad they’re all dead,” said Davy. “We needed one of these bastards alive. Are there more of
them, lass?”
“I don’t know,” she said, as a rush of blood warmed her hands.
She could only think about how they might staunch the flow of it. But Davy had other concerns. “Were they scouts for the Donald clan that stole you away or did they come to steal livestock, to start with?”
“I don’t think they came to steal,” Arabella answered, trying to ignore that her bare breasts swayed before then men’s eyes as she finished binding the wound so that Davy could tie it off. “They could’ve taken my father’s livestock at any time, but instead they…they took me.”
Then, and only then, did Arabella finally start to cry.
Chapter Two
“No time for tears now, lass” Davy said gently, stooping down to wrap something soft and warm around Arabella’s shoulders. A green plaid cloak, she realized. He must’ve taken from one of the dead men. And though it repulsed her to touch anything belonging to these villains, she used it to cover her nakedness, sniffling into the wool, trying to stifle her tears.
Meanwhile, the wounded Malcolm gritted out, “Take the girl and go.”
Davy squatted down beside his friend. “On any other day, I’d be happy to throw a pretty lass onto my horse and ride off with her. But I’m no’ going to leave you behind. So you’d better let me help you stagger to your feet.”
“Go.” Malcolm’s eyes were glassy and far away. “If there are Donald warriors still about, you’re no match for them on your own.”
“Now that’s just insulting,” Davy replied, with a sunny smile that was belied by the tightness at his eyes. “I might not be able to cut down three men at once with great chops of a monster blade, but I handle two of ‘em just fine even with a dirk. After all, which one of us is sitting in a pool of his own blood?”
Malcolm didn’t smile. Didn’t respond at all. Instead, he panted…
…and the eyes rolled back in his head.
