“Let’s take her to Sir de Burgh,” the knight said. “He’ll be interested to know what Ian Cambel’s wife has to say about Dundail’s forces and the lord.”
No! Kate couldn’t possibly bring Ian even more trouble. She whimpered and wriggled, trying to free herself. Desperation dug its claws into her, but she firmly resolved to tell them nothing.
Chapter 15
A woman’s scream pierced the air.
Ian stiffened and looked around. The woods near the path that led south to Dundail were calm, trees swaying peacefully, bushes barely moving. His hand swiped against his waist, where he’d normally have a sword, only to find empty air.
He listened again. Was he even right? Had it been the rustle of the wind? Mayhap, tree branches screeching against each other?
The wind brought male laughter. And the woman cried out again. The sounds came from farther down the path. The familiar beast of battle fury raised its ugly head, carrying a roar of anger through his blood.
He walked towards the sound without hiding, his body tense.
After a dozen or so steps he noticed red and yellow flashing between the trees. English colors.
Damnation.
Ian stopped and hid behind a trunk. His chest tight, he breathed heavily. Staying low and walking as quietly as he could, he made his way closer—from tree to tree, from bush to bush.
He reached grazing horses.
He saw a familiar black horse among them. “Thor,” Ian whispered.
In some distance, he noticed men—way too many to fight. Mayhap, the woman was just a whore playing it a bit rough. As long as she was willing, that didn’t concern him. He just wanted to get Thor back and go home.
The thought of home—of seeing Katie, of smelling her delicious pies or something else she’d cook for him—calmed him and made him breathe easier. He’d spent yesterday making his way home. Good sense had finally taken hold after he’d run until his lungs felt as if they would explode, and he’d walked from then on. He could never cover the distance the horse had easily crossed in less than a day. He slept in the woods, freezing without a blanket or a cape. Having no snare or a weapon to hunt with, he’d found nuts and berries but was mostly hungry. He couldn’t get to Dundail fast enough.
The English were coming closer and closer. How could he avoid the fight and yet keep his people alive?
He still didn’t know.
But by the looks of it, he’d need to decide sooner rather than later. His throat tightened at the thought. Black desperation scratching at the pit of his stomach.
First, he needed to free Thor. He approached the horse and undid the tie around the tree bark. He was just about to pull the reins and slowly lead Thor after him when the woman’s voice stopped him.
“Let me go! I don’t know anything.”
Cold sweat trickled down his spine. He’d recognize that voice anywhere—the soft r, the way her vowels sang…
Kate.
Ian’s fists clenched, memories of murder pressed all around him. Instinctively assuming a defensive position, he moved closer. Hiding behind one of the horses, he studied the camp.
An English warrior led Kate somewhere. A wave of painful tingling went through Ian. Her arms were tied behind her back, her face flushed. One cheek was red, her neck scratched, her bonnie golden hair in disarray. Her dress was torn at her side and at the neck.
Kelpie eat him alive, she’d been beaten. She struggled, mayhap for her life. Ian’s breath rushed in and out, his throat going dry. Fire ran through his veins, just like so many times back in the caliphate, when he had been about to face a foe.
But unlike in the caliphate, he didn’t have a weapon. And he had dozens of foes to fight, not just one. The concentration of yellow-and-red flags indicated the main camp was still some distance away. The man who was leading Kate was alone with her.
Why was she here at all? They were hours away from Dundail on foot. Had she come here? Had they kidnapped her?
In either case, she wasn’t here of her own free will. That was verra much clear.
The Englishman with Kate started fiddling at his pants. “If you know something or not remains to be seen.”
Ian felt all the blood leave his face. Kate jerked at her hands.
“Just let me go! I can’t tell you anything.”
She stomped on his foot, whirled, and kicked him in the ankle. The man burst out in curses, turned, and hit her. Kate’s head shot to her left, the slap loud in the air. She gasped.
Ian straightened. Kate’s eyes were so wide she looked as though she’d seen a ghost, her face white, her mouth frozen in a large O. She shook her head slowly, staring at nothing.
Poor thing. She must be completely mad of pain.
Ian’s vision turned from multicolored to black and red. Everything moved slowly, as though time itself had been wounded and all it could do was crawl. The sounds around him rang painfully loud.
He didn’t have a chance to stop himself. All he could hear was the call of death. He wouldn’t let anyone touch a hair on Kate’s head.
He walked. Without a weapon. Without a shield. Without armor.
In a few broad steps, he reached the man. Ian’s hand went to the handle of the sword that was still in the man’s sheath and pulled it out. With a familiar effort, he made a broad swing, piercing the man’s back and pulling the sword free in one move. The English bastart screamed, but Ian put his hand to the man’s mouth and muffled the sound until he went limp and crashed on the ground.
Without the man between them, Kate came out of her strange state and stared at Ian.
But two more soldiers were coming at him.
“Turn,” he commanded.
She did so, and he cut the rope that tied her hands, leaving the man’s blood on her wrists.
“Step aside from the whore,” one of the men yelled.
“You bloody
