Maids with Blades 2, page 36
Hallie stood transfixed. The man clearly didn’t realize the danger he was in or he wouldn’t have made such a suggestion.
“There’s a whole pack of them,” she explained.
“I know.”
She blinked in surprise. “You can’t fight off a whole pack.”
His jaw tightened. “I can fight them off until ye’re safe.”
Her heart melted a little. He’d risk his life for her? Faith, he didn’t even know her.
She couldn’t let him do that. She was fairly sure she could get the wolves to back down, once they perceived he wasn’t a threat.
“Nay,” she said. “You’ve got to put down your sword.”
The wolf growled at him in agreement.
Unfortunately, that made the man clutch even tighter to his claymore. “Nay.”
“Listen. Do you trust me?”
He frowned. “Nay. Why would I trust ye?”
His reply took her aback. But she supposed she’d done little to earn his trust. After all, she’d tricked him into letting her escape.
“I know these wolves,” she said. “I can save your life. Lower your weapon, and they won’t attack.”
“The hell they won’t. I pray ye, for the love o’ God, lass, shimmy up that tree ere I—”
“What if I promise to return to Creagor?” she blurted out.
“What?”
By his determined scowl and the stubborn set of his jaw, she knew he meant to fight off the wolves. And mere words from her weren’t going to convince him to do anything else.
As long as he believed she was in danger, chivalry prevented him from laying down his sword.
And as long as the wolves believed she was in danger, they’d defend her from the stranger with the blade.
But if she bargained with him, if she offered him what he wanted most, perhaps he’d comply.
“Surrender your sword,” she repeated, “and I’ll go back with ye to Creagor.”
The wolf growled in impatience.
“Climb the tree,” he countered, “and I’ll surrender my sword.”
She frowned. God’s eyes, he was a willful knave. But what other choice did she have? If she did nothing, blood would be spilled. And that was the last thing she wanted.
“You swear it? You’ll drop the blade?” she asked. “On your honor as a warrior?”
She wondered if Highlanders even had honor. But she prayed the man would comply. If he didn’t lower his weapon, the wolves would surely attack him.
“Don’t ye trust me?” he said, tossing her words back at her.
Oddly enough, she did trust him. Still, it was with a good deal of reluctance that she eased toward a sturdy oak, grasped the lowest branch, and pulled herself carefully up the trunk, finally settling on a thick limb out of their reach.
The wolves abandoned her then and crept toward the man with the sword.
She could see the Highlander’s inner battle as his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his claymore. She understood. A warrior’s sword was his natural defense. Surrendering it in the face of danger was completely at odds with his instincts.
“Lay it down!” she hissed. “Hurry!”
His mouth twisted with misgiving as he cautiously lowered the blade to the forest floor.
Surely the wolves would retreat now. The man was no longer a threat.
But they didn’t.
Apparently, they weren’t convinced the Highlander meant her no harm.
Thankfully, the Highlander wasn’t so naïve. He had expected as much and was prepared.
As soon as one of the wolves lunged forward, he grabbed hold of the broad limb of a sycamore overhanging the path and swung himself up to safety. The wolf missed his ankle by an inch.
The beasts continued to range beneath the tree, growling and snapping in frustration at the prey they couldn’t reach.
Hallie was mortified. She couldn’t look the man in the eye. She’d been so sure her wolf—the one she’d hand-raised—would back down once the threat was gone.
Now both of them were helpless and weaponless, treed, at the mercy of the circling beasts. And it was Hallie’s fault.
She expected the Highlander to rail at her. To accuse her of trying to get him killed. To curse in frustration at their predicament. To bellow in rage.
But he didn’t. And his silence was almost worse.
Eventually the wolves stopped pacing. Hallie hoped they’d given up the hunt and would return to their den. That was not to be. Instead, they bedded down at the foot of the Highlander’s tree in patient wait.
Hallie perched atop the oak limb, waiting for them to leave.
An hour passed. And then another. And another.
It was almost dawn when the wolves finally rose on silent haunches and slunk away into the woods. Hallie glanced over at the Highlander to see if he’d noticed.
He was slumped against the trunk, fast asleep. His mouth was half open. His long legs dangled over the thick branch.
Her lips curved up in a rare smile. He looked less like a fierce Highlander and more like a helpless lad now.
Then she sobered as she realized she had the advantage. While her pursuer slumbered, she could clamber down the tree. Seize his sword. And steal away to Rivenloch. Right under his nose.
It was what cunning Feiyan or impulsive Jenefer would have done. Hallie could be halfway home before the dozing Highlander woke.
Then she sighed. Hallie wasn’t like her cousins. She’d made the man a promise. She’d sworn she’d return to Creagor with him.
He might be her enemy. But she couldn’t leave him to the wolves. He’d held up his end of the bargain. Against his instincts—and common sense, it turned out—he’d willingly surrendered his blade.
She had to keep her word. She owed him as much.
But she had another weapon left in her arsenal. Her wits. With a hostage in tow, she could change her strategy. She’d never specified exactly when she’d return with him to Creagor.
Chapter 5
Something poked Colban, waking him with a start that nearly toppled him to the ground.
“Bloody…!”
He’d forgotten he was in a tree. He made a quick grab for the limb to keep from falling into the jaws of…
The wolves were gone.
In their place stood a smug Valkyrie with a sword—his sword. She must have poked him with it.
He wondered how long she’d been standing there.
Then he wondered if she woke up every morn, looking as fresh and beautiful and magnificent as a newly blossomed rose.
“We should go now,” she said, interrupting his wayward thoughts, “ere they return.”
He was exhausted. His bones ached, thanks to a night spent huddled in a tree. He was in no shape for a long journey. But he knew she was right.
The sun had just lifted its yellow head above the horizon. It wasn’t too late for the wolves to return for one last kill before they retired to their den for the day.
He nodded, raking his tangled hair back from his brow.
Then he realized their situation. He’d been snoring away in a deep sleep. Oblivious to the world. The wolves had gone. The warrior lass had confiscated his claymore. She could have easily escaped.
But she hadn’t. She’d kept her promise. The lass appeared to be a woman of her word.
Still, he wasn’t sure he trusted her to keep it. Not while she was the one holding the claymore.
He swung down from the branch and dropped onto the path. Facing her, he was astonished again by her impressive height. He had to lower his gaze only an inch to stare into eyes as calm and blue as the summer sea.
A sunbeam shot through the trees, gilding her ice-blonde tresses. Warming her cheek with a rosy blush. Brushing her lips with a gentle kiss of light.
For an instant, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Then she spoke, startling him from his reverie.
“Let’s go,” she said, nodding to indicate the path ahead.
He frowned, confused for a moment. The Valkyrie might be fierce and beautiful. But she apparently had no sense of direction. It was a good thing he’d followed her into the woods.
“Creagor is back this way,” he said. He cocked his head in the direction they’d come and held his hand out for his claymore.
“We’re not going to Creagor.”
Her chilling assertion sent a shiver along his spine. His eyes flattened. His lips thinned.
“Ye made a vow,” he reminded her.
“And I’ll keep it.” She lowered her eyes. “Just not yet.”
“Not yet? What is that supposed to—”
Her hand tightened on the claymore.
He muttered a curse. She’d seemed so honorable, so upstanding. But he should have known better than to take her at her word. To a lass like her, words were tools to be bent to her will.
He shook his head. A wise man never relied upon a woman. They were about as trustworthy as wolves.
It was a shame. He’d half-hoped to have a pleasant stroll back to Creagor with the lovely lass on his arm.
That was obviously not to be.
But he had no intention of going with her to Rivenloch, if that’s what she planned.
He gave the sword a fleeting glance. The blade might be lowered. But her grip at on it was firm and at the ready.
Still, she was only a maid. And the claymore was heavy. He could wrench the blade from her hands before she found the strength to lift it.
As if she read his thoughts, she said, “Don’t try anything foolish. I’d hate to have to disfigure that handsome face.”
She was clearly mocking him. Handsome? He was a mess from his fight with Morgan. His brow was cut. His eye was bruised. His lip was swollen.
And though she appeared cool and fearless, he wasn’t threatened by her.
She might be tall. But he was far stronger.
She might be disarmingly attractive. But he could ignore her looks.
She might be trained as a warrior. But he’d spent a childhood fighting for his life.
Confidence compelled him to disregard her warning. To take a risk.
He cast up his left arm in front of his face as a diversion. Then he lunged forward with his right to seize the hand holding his sword.
The two things he didn’t count on were her speed and cunning.
Anticipating his attack, she stepped backward. When he reached to grab her wrist, his fist closed on empty air.
Once he was thrown off-balance, it took only a hard shove at his right shoulder to send him sprawling to the ground.
Shocked and angered at his quick demise, he scrambled to right himself. But by the time he flipped over onto his elbows to face her, the point of the sword was already against his throat.
He grimaced as she applied pressure. Not enough to pierce the skin. Just enough to make her point.
“I warned you,” she told him.
Every fiber of his being rebelled against the fact that a woman was threatening him—with his own blade.
Surely he could gain the upper hand.
He sighed, feigning surrender. “Aye, lass, I suppose ye—”
Mid-sentence, he ducked his head back from the sword. Batted the blade aside with the flat of his palm. And rolled away in the opposite direction.
Yet again, before he could get his knees under him to spring upward, she stomped her boot on his backside, forcing him down.
In the next instant, the claymore pricked at the back of his neck with deadly intent.
“Well, now you’ve given me no choice,” she said. To his astonishment, her voice was still calm and collected.
He gulped. Was she the kind of coldblooded killer who would slay him while he lay helpless on his belly?
Being torn apart by wolves in the service of chivalry was one thing.
Having a woman sever his spine with his own blade was another.
He growled over his shoulder. “Ye’d slay an unarmed man?”
“Slay you? Nay.”
For one fleeting moment, hope flared in his chest. Maybe she had a shred of decency after all.
Then she added, “But if you don’t yield, I won’t hesitate to maim you. Slice off an ear. Collect a finger. Carve a roast from your—”
“Fine. I yield.” He shuddered.
“Cross your hands behind your back,” she commanded.
He hesitated. What was she planning?
“Now,” she bit out.
She jabbed his neck hard enough to show she was serious. Hard enough to draw a sharp breath of pain through his teeth.
He complied with her demand then. But his face flamed with anger and humiliation. How had things come to this?
The merciless maid shifted the claymore until the entire length of the blade’s keen edge rested against the back of his neck. She held it in place with her foot while she bound his wrists together. It was a precarious position. One movement of his head, and the blade would sink into his flesh. One slip of her boot, and he’d be decapitated.
He held his breath as she used the silver chain from her leather girdle to bind his wrists. Like the wench herself, it turned out the belt was less a thing of delicate beauty, more a deadly weapon. The chain was not silver as he’d imagined, but forged of interlocking links of strong steel. She must wear it expressly for occasions like this, he thought bitterly, when she decided on a whim to take a man captive.
Once his hands were bound, she removed the blade from his neck.
He exhaled in relief. It seemed he’d keep his head another day.
Then she hunkered down beside him, speaking in a soft, low, throaty voice. A voice at odds with her harsh words.
“Make no trouble, and I won’t have to mutilate you. But cry out, and I’ll gag you with your own leine. Attack me, and I’ll relieve you of an ear. Try to run, and I’ll bind your ankles and drag you to Rivenloch. Do you understand?”
He glared at her boots. Aye, he understood. But he was too full of frustration and shame to meet her eyes. His mouth worked as he resisted the urge to defy her.
“Do you understand?” she repeated.
“Aye,” he growled.
How could his noble intentions have gone so wrong? How could he have let her make him a hostage? He should have left her to the wolves. Hell, she might have singlehandedly slaughtered the whole pack.
In the end, he had no choice but to admit he’d been bested by a lass. Much to his chagrin and disgrace and fury.
Of course, he had no intention of letting her take him all the way to Rivenloch. He’d be vigilant. Sooner or later there would be a moment of weakness. Complacency. Misplaced trust.
Whether she helped or hauled him to his feet was a matter of opinion. Somehow he managed to stand. Then, at the prodding of the claymore, he started down the trail.
His fate might be bleak. But the morn was no reflection of that. As if mocking his misery, the sun danced merrily among the branches. Squirrels made chase across the mulch as they foraged for fallen acorns. Birds seized the rare moment of autumn sunlight to twitter madly from the trees.
He expected the warrior maid to be cocky. Full of swagger and bragging. Proud and gleeful, like the morn.
Instead, she traversed the bright woods as quietly as winter, silencing the autumn cheer like solemn frost.
He supposed she had good reason to be sober. No doubt the weight of what she was doing lay heavy upon her shoulders. Absconding with him to Rivenloch, she was playing a dangerous game of chess.
Laird Morgan held her queens. And she meant to get them back, using—for leverage—one of his valuable knights.
But she didn’t realize the truth.
Colban an Curaidh might be Morgan’s right hand man. But he was hardly valuable. He wasn’t even a proper member of the clan. He was baseborn. A foundling. An outcast. The mac Girics might have taken him in. But he was an outsider.
Even as a lad, he’d recognized that.
And as an adult, he knew his place.
Colban was a pawn. And pawns were meant to be sacrificed.
Still, he’d prefer not to lose any body parts in defense of his laird.
The lass had claimed his claymore. But he still had a formidable weapon at his disposal. The persuasive power of his words.
Chapter 6
This wasn’t the first time Hallie had taken a captive. She knew all their tricks. Charging like an ox. Yelling for help. Fleeing on foot. Feigning illness.
She hoped he wouldn’t try anything foolish. The thought of marring his handsome face bothered her.
Of course, she’d do what she had to do. But she wasn’t so blinded by purpose that she couldn’t see how magnificent a man he was. Nor what a shame it would be to ruin such magnificence.
Not only did he exceed her in height. He possessed a fine figure as well. His shoulders were broad. His legs were long. His arms were capable.
But aside from his warrior attributes, there was something in his face—as damaged as it was—that quickened her heart.
Behind the bruises, his dark brown eyes shone with wisdom and experience, like ancient polished gems. Beneath the cut on his forehead, his brow creased with earnest honor. His nose was straight, and his cheekbones were unbroken, signs of expert fighting skills. His square jaw was covered with stubble a shade darker than the streaked blond hair he’d earned from a life spent laboring under the sun.
His lips, though swollen on one side, looked capable of expressing both grim determination and gentle mercy. Of bellowing curses. Or whispering persuasions.
As he seemed about to do.
“Ye should know ye need not fret about your cousins,” he assured her. “They will be safe.”
“Jenefer and Feiyan?” She smirked. “I’m more concerned for your laird. My cousins can be…wily and unpredictable.”
She creased her brows. Why had she told him that? Why was she even engaging in conversation with him?
It was far more difficult to inflict necessary harm upon a captive once she befriended him. Furthermore, the Highland cadence of his voice—the playful lilt crossed with a gruff manliness—was fascinating her ears in a troubling manner.
