“I will slice her open!” Patrick yelled, holding Kára up against him, the blade at her throat.
Her gaze connected with Joshua’s. He saw so much in her eyes—relief, courage, and something he wasn’t sure he deserved. Trust. She’d given him her trust that he would save her people. Did she also trust him to save her?
A lifetime of worshipping everything to do with war, and all Joshua wanted to do now was stop it. “If ye kill her, Patrick, her people will see ye as a murderer of a woman, a mother.”
“I do not care what her people see,” he said, spittle coming from his mouth.
“And that is the problem,” Joshua said, speaking in a calm voice. “Ye do not care about these people. Ye do not take a moment to think about what it is like to have hunger gnaw at your belly or your bones ache with cold from inadequate shelter. Or have your few possessions stolen away because ye are part of the common people. Ye see them as criminals when ye are the one to break laws against them. Ye convince yourself they are less than ye, that they deserve whatever befalls them, that somehow God does not see them the same as ye.”
Patrick snorted. “God? Where is He in all this? I see nothing of Him in this world. You should know, Horseman of War. It is the strong and powerful who rule the world.”
How had something that Joshua had been raised to believe seem suddenly so very wrong? But it hadn’t been sudden. It had started with the disaster in South Ronaldsay, where he watched good people die because of his self-conceit and inexperience with weakness. The conflict grew within him as he trained Robert’s soldiers and even more as he tried to talk the Hillside people out of fighting a war they could not win, finally giving voice to what he’d learned. And now, as he saw Kára, so beautiful and strong but so damn vulnerable with a blade against her, he realized the foundation on which he’d always stood was sharp, crumbling sand—unstable, vicious, and wrong.
What mattered right now, above victory or revenge, was getting Kára safely away from the madman who stood with full conviction on the very foundation in which Joshua had built his life.
“Let her walk away,” Joshua said, his voice low and even, as if he spoke to a spooked horse. “There is no war between her and ye.”
“She killed my brother,” Patrick said.
“I killed your brother,” Joshua said. “Your revenge should be on me, not her.”
Patrick’s lips rolled back, showing his clenched teeth. “You bring destruction to your whole clan by killing a royal.”
Joshua held his arms out wide. “I am naked and obviously unarmed. Take out your revenge on my body.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed as if he knew Joshua’s words were a ploy.
“Joshua!” Jean’s voice came from behind, followed by a gasp.
Kára’s hand pushed against her captor’s arm. She dropped down to twist away under the blade. Joshua lunged forward to grab her, but she was too far away.
Eyes wild and snarl in place, Patrick yanked his arm and sliced in a sweeping downward swing into Kára’s side. She screamed, and Joshua’s heart fell inside his chest, leaving him hollow as Patrick threw her to the stone floor.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions.”
Sun Tzu – The Art of War
“Nay!” Joshua yelled, his gaze tethered to Kára where she fell on the floor, crumpled and unmoving.
Joshua reached Patrick, his fist hitting the blade from the bastard’s hand. He could easily swoop down to grab it, thrusting it into the man’s belly. Even without a blade, Joshua could kill him viciously with his two hands alone. But the usual fury within Joshua had changed to desperation to reach Kára. The cape had fallen open to show a red line swelling with blood, skin flayed open. Eyes closed, she lay unmoving.
Nay! Bloody hell, nay!
Patrick dodged past Joshua as he fell to his knees beside Kára.
“Get out of my way, Jean!” Patrick yelled as he shoved her out of the doorway.
“Kára,” Joshua murmured and glanced around for anything to staunch the blood.
Jean stood in the doorway, holding what looked like a length of plaid. But his gaze fastened on her linen smock. Jumping up to face her, the woman’s eyes went wide.
“Joshua?” she breathed, fear in the tightness of her face as if she thought he would tear her in two. He dropped before her, yanking the edge of her smock. She gasped as the fabric tore in his frantic hands, ripping the stitched seam that encircled her. Without pause he twisted around to return to Kára.
How deep was her gash? He could not tell, but the wet crimson that dripped down from it showed it had not remained merely on the surface. Taking the white linen, he gingerly but firmly wrapped it around her middle to hold the flesh together. “Lord in Heaven,” he whispered over her, his hands moving swiftly as he’d been taught to do when staunching blood on the battlefield. Her face seemed to grow pale under his stare, the darkness of her lashes stark against her skin.
Joshua’s lips moved as his fingers worked. “If ever there was a time for me to ask for miracles, Horseman or not, please…take me over her.” His whisper was hardly heard over the deep thudding of his heart.
“Joshua,” Jean said from beside him, some of her normal arrogance returning to her voice. “I brought you this.” She dropped a length of wool plaid. “Whatever happened to your clothes?”
Joshua moved to Kára’s head, feeling the side that hit the stone with enough force to steal her consciousness. A large bump formed under her golden hair, but no blood.
“I said,” Jean continued,
