Page 41 of Only By Grace
They moved in near silence, their horses’ hooves muffled by the damp earth as they circled to the back of the bailey. The shadows were deep here, offering cover as they approached the grove where Freddy and Joy were to have kept watch.
Joy emerged first, her face lighting up at the sight of Grace. “You have done it!” she whispered, her usual exuberance not tempered by the gravity of the moment.
Together, they made their way around the wall to where Stuart and Patience waited at the servants’ entrance. Stuart’s eyes widened slightly when he saw Maeve, but he quickly recovered, inclining his head. “Oh, well done, Grace!” Stuart said in quiet approval.
“Yet another case for women in the army, is it not, husband?” Patience said with a wry arch of her brow, though her tone carried relief and pride rather than true jest. It eased the tension in the air, allowing them a moment’s respite to acknowledge what Grace had accomplished.
Ashley offered a faint smile. “I shall not argue the point tonight, my dear.” He then spoke more gravely to the group: “We must get the ladies to safety.”
The group moved quickly, their mounts falling into a tight formation as they rode towards the edge of Flynn’s lands. The darkened countryside seemed vast and perilous, the moonlight their only guide. The air was heavy with tension, Ronan reflected, each rider being alert for the first sign of pursuit.
They had nearly reached the safety of the trees when a shout rang out behind them. Ronan twisted in his saddle, his worst fear realized. Flynn and a group of armed men poured through the keep’s wall, their torches flaring like malevolent stars in the night. How had they been discovered so quickly?
“Ride!” Ronan commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “To the trees!”
The group surged forward, their horses galloping full tilt towards the cover of the forest. The shouts of their pursuers grew louder, the thunder of hooves closing in. Ronan’s arms tightened around Maeve, her fear palpable as she clung to him.
Arrows whistled past them, one striking a tree just inches from Grace’s head. Ronan’s heart clenched as he saw her duck instinctively, her horse surging forward in response to her urgent commands.
They reached the edge of the trees, the dense foliage offering some cover as they weaved between the trunks. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter, but Flynn’s men were not easily deterred. Ronan knew they would not stop until they had regained their quarry.
A flash of torchlight upon steel warned Ronan an instant too late. A small knot of Flynn’s men had ridden hard around another path and now blocked their escape. Swords and pistols gleamed in the uncertain light. The party skidded to a halt, rearing horses and frantic whinnies adding to the chaos.
Ashley was first to react, drawing his pistol with the practised ease of a military man. He fired a warning shot over the heads of Flynn’s brigands. They ducked, startled, but did not retreat.
As they burst into a small clearing, Flynn himself emerged from the shadows, his eyes wild with fury. His horse reared, its hooves striking the air as he levelled a pistol at Ronan.
Ronan dismounted swiftly, easing Maeve from the saddle and placing her behind the horse for cover. His eyes met Grace’sand she followed suit, understanding what he wished her to do, her face pale but resolute. The men advanced slowly, their laughter coarse and their intentions clear.
Flynn dismounted as well, his pistol still aimed. The two men circled each other, the air crackling with tension.
Flynn’s eyes glinted with fury and drunken confidence. He brandished a pistol in one hand and a rapier in the other. “Carew!” he shouted drunkenly. “You think to steal what is mine? Give me Maeve, and I might let you slink away with your tail between your legs.”
Ronan stepped forward, rigid with contempt. “Maeve is not yours,” he said coldly. “She never was!”
“Oh, she is mine, ye need have no doubt!” he taunted, to the sniggering of his men.
Ronan’s jaw tightened, barely keeping his fury suppressed. The air was heavy with tension, the only sound that of the horses snorting and stamping. The torches flickered, casting erratic shadows across the faces of Flynn’s men, who surrounded him in a loose semicircle, weapons drawn. Their gazes passed between their leader and Ronan.
Ronan drew his sword. It gleamed faintly in the dim light. His voice was cold, cutting through the strain like the blade he held. “Call your men off. This is between you and me.”
Flynn tilted his head with mock deliberation, the glint of amusement in his eyes portraying his confidence. “Very well,” he drawled, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. “En garde,” he mocked as he swung his own blade in a circle.
The two men squared off, ready to fight to the death over years of enmity. Ronan adjusted his grip on the hilt, his muscles coiling in preparation. Around them, the onlookers seemed to fade into the periphery. This was not merely a duel; it was a reckoning.
Flynn lunged first, his movements smooth and deliberate, his blade arcing towards Ronan’s side. Ronan parried, the clash of steel ringing out sharply. The force of the blow reverberated up his arm, but he countered with a swift thrust aimed at Flynn’s chest. Flynn dodged, his grin widening as though he was toying with Ronan.
As the fight progressed, the air filled with the sound of grunts and the scrape of metal. Flynn fought much as Ronan had expected, his strikes wild and ruthless. He moved with the precision of a man who fought often. Yet Ronan, fuelled by fury and the weight of his sister’s suffering, matched him blow for blow.
They weaved back and forth, each man testing the other’s defences, searching for an opening. Flynn’s smile began to falter, replaced by a grim determination as he realized Ronan would not go down easily.
Flynn’s blade darted towards Ronan’s shoulder, but Ronan parried with a sharp twist of his wrist, creating a resounding clanging of metal. Flynn’s smirk twisted into a snarl as he circled like a predator. His eyes glinted with malice, and Ronan felt Flynn’s hatred in every move. He returned the feeling in full measure.
In the next instant, Flynn’s hand darted to his side, drawing a pistol from beneath his coat. The movement was swift and unmistakable. The click of the hammer being drawn back shattered the pretence of fighting like gentlemen.
Flynn’s face was a mask of triumph, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “This is how it ends, Carew,” he sneered. “You lose, and your family pays the price.”
Ronan glared at him, his jaw set, defiance raging within despite his disadvantage. “I’ve come to expect nothing less than dishonour from you,” he said hoarsely.
