of another drink. 'We are going to put the bitch away, and you can't do anything about it. Now get on home before I put my hand to your backside.'
A snicker sounded behind her. Sara turned around to glare at the customer. 'Drink your refreshment, sir, and stay out of this.' She whirled back to her uncle only after the stranger turned his gaze to his goblet. 'You're lying about my father,' she stated. 'He would never be a party to such cruelty. As for striking me, do so and suffer my husband's wrath. I'll tell him,' she threatened with a nod.
Sara had hoped that since her empty threat about her husband's retaliatory methods had been so successful with the hired servant Clifford, the same bluff might work on her sotted relative.
It was a vain hope. Henry didn't look at all intimidated. He let out a loud snort. 'You're as crazed as Nora if you believe a St. James would ever come to your defense. Why, I could beat you good, Sara, and no one would give a notice, least of all your husband.'
Sara stood her ground. She was determined to gain her uncle's promise to leave Nora alone before she left the foul-smelling tavern. Her fear was that he or one of his brothers would send someone after her aunt and drag her back to England. Nora's inheritance from her father's estate was sizable enough to make the journey worth the nuisance.
She was so incensed with her uncle, she didn't notice that some of the customers were slowly edging their way toward her. Nathan noticed. One man he judged to be the leader of the pack actually licked his lips in apparent anticipation of the morsel he thought he would soon get to devour.
Sara suddenly realized the futility of her plan. 'Do you know, Uncle Henry, I've been trying to find a way to get you to promise to leave Nora alone, but I now realize my own foolishness. Only a man of honor would keep his promise. You're too much of a swine to keep your word. I'm wasting my time here.'
Her uncle reached up to slap her. Sara easily dodged him. She stopped backing away when she bumped into something quite solid, turned around, and found herself surrounded by several disreputable-looking men. All of them, she immediately noticed, were in desperate need of a bath.
Everyone was so mesmerized by the beautiful lady they never noticed Nathan. He thought they might be too consumed with lust to think about caution. In time they would realize that error, of course. Nathan leaned back against the closed door in the corner and waited for the first provocation.
It came with lightning speed. When the first infidel grabbed hold of Sara's arm Nathan let out a roar of outrage. The sound was deep, guttural, deafening. Effective, too. Everyone in the tavern froze-everyone but Sara. She jumped a good foot, then whirled around toward the sound.
She would have screamed if her throat hadn't closed up on her. In truth, she was having difficulty catching her breath. Her knees buckled when she spotted the big man standing in front of the door. Sara grabbed hold of the table to keep herself from falling down. Her heart was slamming inside her chest, and she was certain she was about to die of sheer fright.
What in God's name was he? No, not what, she corrected herself, but who. She was nearly frantic. He was a man-yes, a man-but the biggest, the most dangerous-looking, the most… oh, God, he was staring at her.
He motioned to her with the crook of his finger.
She shook her head.
He nodded.
The room began to spin. She simply had to get hold of her wits again. She desperately tried to find something about the giant that wasn't so horribly terrifying. She realized then that someone was clutching her arm. Without taking her gaze away from the big man trying to stare her into a faint she slapped the hand away.
The giant looked as if he bathed. There was that much. His hair appeared to be clean, too. It was a dark bronze in color, as bronzed as his face and arms. Dear Lord, she thought, his upper arms and shoulders were so… muscular. So were his thighs. She could see the sleek bulge of steel indecently outlined by his snug britches. But they were clean britches, she told herself. Villains usually wore only crumpled, smelly garments, didn't they? Therefore, she reasoned illogically, he couldn't be a villain. That conclusion made her feel better. She was actually able to take a breath. All right, she thought to herself, he isn't a villain; he's just a warlord, she decided when she'd finished her thorough inspection, perhaps even a Viking warrior from the length of his hair. Yes, he was simply a barbarian who had somehow transported himself across time.
Her mind had snapped, she concluded then. The green-eyed warlord motioned to her to come to him again. She looked behind her to make certain he wasn't motioning to someone else. There wasn't anyone there.
He meant her, all right. Her stomach lurched. She blinked. He didn't disappear. She shook her head in a bid to clear her mind of the vision from hell.
He crooked his finger at her again. 'Come to me.'
His voice was deep, commanding, arrogant. God help her, she started walking toward him.
And then all hell broke loose. The sound of the whip cracking in the air, the scream of pain from the fool who tried to touch her as she moved past him echoed in Sara's ears. She never looked toward the commotion. Her gaze was locked on the man who was methodically destroying the tavern.
He made it look so easy. A simple flip of his wrist that didn't seem to cost him the least amount of effort made such a lasting impression on his audience.
She also noticed that the closer she got to him, the deeper his scowl became.
The warlord obviously wasn't in a good mood. She decided to humor him until she could regain her composure. Then she was going to run outside, jump into the hack with Nora, and race to the waterfront.
It was a fine plan, she told herself. The problem, of course, was getting the Viking away from the door first.
She realized she'd stopped to stare at him again when he motioned for her to move. She felt a restraining hand on her shoulder, glanced down at it, then heard the crack of the whip.
Sara was suddenly in full flight. She ran to him, determined to get there before her heart completely failed her.
She came to a swaying stop directly in front of him, tilted her head back, and stared up at those piercing green eyes until he finally looked down at her. On impulse she reached out and pinched his arm just to make certain he really wasn't a figment of her imagination.
He was real, all right. His skin felt like steel, but warm steel. The look in those beautiful eyes saved her from insanity, though. The color was hypnotizing, intense.
Odd, but the longer she stared at him, the safer she felt. She smiled with acute relief. He raised an eyebrow in reaction. 'I knew you weren't a villain, Viking.'
Sara was suddenly weightless. She felt as though she were floating through a dark tunnel and on her way toward the bronzed Viking standing in the sun.
Nathan caught her before she hit the floor. His bride was in a full faint when he tossed her over his shoulder. He scanned the tavern for any leftovers he might have missed. There were bodies all over the wooden floor. That wasn't good enough, he thought. He had an almost overwhelming urge to mark the bastard uncle who was cowering under the table. He could hear the choked sobs coming from the man.
Nathan kicked the table across the room in order to see his prey. 'Do you know who I am, Winchester?'
Henry was locked in fetal position. When he shook his head his jowls rubbed back and forth against the floorboards.
'Look at me, bastard.'
His voice sounded like thunder. Henry looked up. 'I'm the marquess of St. James. If you ever come near my wife or that old woman, I'll kill you. Do we understand each other?'
'You're… him?'
The bile had risen in Henry's throat, making speech nearly impossible. He started gagging. Nathan gave him a sound shove with the tip of his boot, then turned and walked out of the tavern.
The barkeep peeked out from his hiding place behind the grill and looked at the devastation around him. There wouldn't be any more ale purchased that dark night, for nary a one of his customers was in any condition to drink. They covered his floor like discarded peanut shells. It was a sight he wouldn't soon forget. He wanted to remember every single detail so he could relate the happening to his friends.
He already knew how he was going to tell the ending, too. The Winchester dandy crying like an infant would provide a good, hearty laugh for his future customers. The sound of gagging pulled the barkeep from his musings. The high and mighty Winchester was puking all over his floor.
