Page 2 of The Highlander's Virgin Nun
Samson, however, was panting and heaving, his body folding now as his energy waned.
It was a good thing he had backup, Rosaline thought, as he would have had no chance of coming out alive if he were alone.
The smallest man stepped in, trying to catch the handsome warrior with his blade, aiming just beyond Samson’s last swing. The handsome warrior had to put in extra effort to dodge both, but he still managed to do it in swift, close motions, spinning out of their reach at the last second.
Finally, he began to swing his sword at them, perhaps growing frustrated with their attempts. Every blow landed, never fatally, but taking them down a peg each time. He caught Samson in the thigh, slicing where his kilt brushed his knee and drawing blood. Samson clutched his leg and limped. Then, the smallest man was hit just below his right shoulder, and he immediately loosened his grip on his sword.
The men grew angrier at being hit and tried to come back harder, but their wounds slowed them down, making their moves sloppier. Each swing had even less power and speed than before, and the handsome warrior dodged them with even more ease.
He’s got them.
Rosaline barely held back from whispering the words. She had to stay silent.
She had allowed herself a brief pause, hoping that her proximity to the loch and the fighting men would put the nuns off this area altogether. But she hadn’t even turned around to check. One of them could be nearby, hunting for her in an unexpected area.
Furthermore, these four armed men were likely a threat to her as well, even though they had no idea who she was. She might be favoring the handsome warrior, but he looked even more threatening than the others.
Just as the fight looked like it was coming to a close, with the three men wounded and the handsome warrior coming out the victor, she spotted movement on the other side of the clearing. A fourth man emerged from the tree line and began to creep up on the others.
She looked back at the group to see if they had spotted him and found that the team of three could see him clearly. Their faces showed no hint, but he was directly in their line of sight. The handsome warrior, however, had his back to him.
She watched him grow a little cocky in his victory, loosening his posture and relaxing his core. He lowered his sword slightly and brushed his hair from his face. He thought it was all over—he was not prepared for the attack from behind.
Rosaline’s heart thundered in her chest, and she was unable to stay silent any longer. The fourth man was mere steps away now.
“Behind ye!”
CHAPTERTWO
Caelan did not take a moment to determine where the voice had come from. He merely obeyed the order and turned his head swiftly, keeping his body angled towards the attackers in front of him.
His eyes landed instantly on a fourth man only a few paces away, heading straight for him. He jumped backward, angling his body so that all four attackers were in his view, and braced himself.
The three he had been fighting for ten minutes already were exhausted and injured. Their bodies were weak, and their minds even more so. He would worry about them later. The new attacker was charging at full speed, as energized as ever. His eyes were ablaze with malice.
But Caelan immediately caught his weakness. He held his sword too low and left it swaying in his grip with each long, rushed stride. He was young and angry, but he did not have the skill to back it up. He had no idea what he was doing.
“Prepare to die, Sinclair!” the young assassin screamed, charging with a low swing, trying to sweep Caelan’s legs out from beneath him.
But his blade swung so low that it cut the grass and brushed against Caelan’s boots, getting nowhere near his skin. It did, however, cut the leather.
Those were his favorite boots, the pair he wore on every ride. And thus Caelan's rage flared hotter.
“Come here, ye bastard,” he growled, having had enough of these foolish attempts.
If they were going to try to kill him at every outing, they might as well send worthy opponents. These men were nothing more than annoying midges to be swiped off his face.
He lunged forward, taking large, heavy strikes at the boy. He caught him with every blow, slicing through his left arm and left shin and even shoving his armor to the side, scathing his ribs.
The boy fell to the ground, and Caelan towered above him, awaiting his surrender.
“Ye might survive today,” the boy choked out, “but yer days are numbered, Sinclair. They’ll always send more of us. Ye’ll never survive us all.”
Caelan glared at him as he bled out on the ground. The boy’s words triggered him deeply. He was tired of these attacks, always hovering around a corner, never harming him much physically but leaving him endlessly paranoid, always on high alert. Even if none of them were good enough to kill him with their blades, they would eventually drive him mad.
In a moment of rage, Caelan lifted his sword above his head and drove it down into the boy’s stomach, plunging it through his body and into the ground beneath him. The boy’s eyes glazed over instantly as his blood pooled beneath him, the dark red puddle soaking into the mud.
After only the briefest of pauses, he turned back to the three blackguards. They stood on shaky feet, pale and trembling as blood seeped from their wounds. They looked at each other as if waiting for one of them to announce the plan.
