Page 44 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
“Form up!” he roared, spurring toward Duncan. “Keep the lasses between us!”
The two men turned their horses forward to meet their attackers, Ewan yelling to Tyra and Isla to move behind them. The women’s terrified cries were almost lost beneath the thunder of hooves. Tyra’s horse wheeled wildly, eyes rolling white. Isla clung to her reins, her braid whipping across her face.
Duncan fought toward them, his claymore hacking a brutal path through the melee. “On me!” he shouted, his voice raw.
They forced their way together, horses shoulder to shoulder with Tyra and Isla securely behind them.
The remaining attackers regrouped, circling like wolves, waiting for an opening.
Ewan’s chest heaved. Blood slicked his palm where he’d gripped the dirk. “We need room,” he muttered. “Can’t swing these long blades in close.”
Duncan’s eyes met his, a grim understanding passing between them.
“Aye,” Duncan said, spurring forward. “Then let’s make the move.”
They struck as one – plunging out of the circle with a roar. The sudden charge drove the enemy riders back a few crucial yards. The moment the space opened, Ewan swung his claymore high. The blade whistled through the air, connecting with a crack that split helm and skull alike.
Duncan mirrored him, using the claymore’s full reach now that they’d cleared enough ground. The brothers fought side by side, each sweeping stroke precise and brutal - every swing buying a heartbeat’s more space for the women behind them.
Even though they were rudely outnumbered, in a trice two of the men lay bleeding on the sward, while a third and fourth rallied to come at them at.
Tyra drew her horse close to Isla’s and they clutched hands, their lips moving in a silent prayer. Isla had closed her eyes, her hand holding tight to Tyra’s as she attempted to steady the horses, tightening the reins.
The enemy pressed again. Two riders slipped through the flank as one man attempted to wheel his horse toward the Tyra but Ewan was too fast for him. He saw the movement and tore his horse around, blood roaring in his ears.
The first attacker raised his sword to strike. The might of Ewan’s claymore took him mid-swing, the sheer force knocking himfrom the saddle. The second man ducked low and thrust upward — the blade slicing across Ewan’s chest in a blinding line of fire.
He gritted his teeth, breath hissing between them. Pain flared, but rage drove him forward. He lashed out in a final, vicious arc, the heavy steel cutting the man clean from his horse. Moments later Ewan’s long claymore descended, and the man’s head rolled on the grass at his feet.
Meanwhile, Duncan had made short work of the last man.
Ewan sagged in the saddle, blood soaking through his tunic. Duncan turned beside him, his own claymore black with blood.
“Ye’re hurt,” Duncan said, his voice hoarse.
“Aye,” he rasped. “But it’s done.” He spat blood into the dirt, his tone as cold as the steel in his hand, his eyes scanning for the women. They were there, pale, trembling, but alive, their terrified horses nudging flanks, their faces pale, their hands trembling at the suddenness of the attack and its brutal end. His concerned gaze swept over them.
“Are ye all right?”
They nodded. “We’ve nae been harmed,” Tyra breathed. “But ye?” Her gaze went to his chest, where blood gushed from the wound in his chest.
“Dinnae fash. I’ve had worse than this in me day.”
Duncan attempted to laugh. “Come wipe yer blade, Braither. Let us leave this friendly grove before we are joined by more of these evil wee caitiffs attempting to put a dent in our cheerful morning.”
Both men wiped the blood from their claymores and sheathed them again, Ewan wincing as the strap caught across his wound.
Without waiting, he insisted on leading them at a canter down the path to the causeway. The tide was turning, the water beginning to rush in from the loch, but it was still low enough for their horses to traverse the short distance to the island.
They kept up the pace, Ewan kept the lead, yet by the time they reached the gates his shoulders were sagging and the front of his tunic was saturated with his blood.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Once the portcullis was raised, they clattered into the courtyard, Duncan yelling for assistance.
Two young lads from the stables came running out and together with Duncan, they eased Ewan out of his saddle, while a third assisted the ladies to dismount. Duncan and one of the grooms helped Ewan to the infirmary. Once there, the healer, Esmé, a tall, forbidding, older woman, her grey hair held tightly in a woven bun, directed them to place Ewan on a low wooden pallet with a rough woven blanket thrown over it.
Isla reached for Tyra’s hand as they hovered behind the men. Her face was puckered, her lips turned down, anxious tears glazing her eyes.
