Becca St.John (11 page)

Seonaid stood her ground, alongside Padraig. Their enemies didn’t fire a shot, they didn’t want to harm the girls; but soon they would be close enough to single out Padraig and Seonaid, who were loading their bows.

“So you wanted to protect the healers,” Padraig gritted out as an arrow sung from his bow.

“Aye, well,” she huffed. “Tonight’s proof enough they need me.”

Despite approaching danger, Seonaid turned to find a wistful Padraig looking at her.

“Och, Padraig…” She didn’t want tears to weaken her own smile. “How many hearts have you broken with that handsome face of yours?”

That brightened him. “Oh, lass,” he drawled, “are you saying you love me?”

An arrow hit the earth two paces in front of them. They stepped back, knowing they couldn’t go much further until they knew the others were gone.

Seonaid’s breath came in quick short bursts, building a warrior’s whoop. Chances of survival were nil, but there was one thing she wanted to say before she died. She wanted the truth out. It couldn’t hurt her now.

“Aye!” she shouted, as she prepared to rain arrows down on the men approaching. “I love ya, ya big oaf.”

CHAPTER 11  ~  FACING THE ENEMY

She loved him.

He could weep. She loved him, told him so, and here they stood at death’s door. He should have insisted she leave. Wasted effort, that. She wouldn’t do so without a fight, no matter how desperate the outcome, and there was no time for argument.

All they could do was create a distraction, so the women and the priest could ride away. The odds didn’t offer more than that, yet she stood firm, as he knew she would if the going got tough. It couldn’t be any tougher.

Her panic earlier, when the lasses faced a bleak outcome, had naught to do with her. No fear there. No, it was for the lasses, knowing they’d suffer worse than Seonaid herself had endured. And she’d endured too much at the hands of her brother.

They’d managed to get further up the hill, stopping long enough to shoot arrows down at the men gaining on them, though they didn’t waste many arrows at that. Too far to reach their mark, but soon they would be in range.

They needed to stop at least a few men, before it got to hand-to-hand combat. Once the priest and lasses were mounted and riding, the men wouldn’t be able to reach them.

The only fear was the one lass. She’d frozen. He prayed to Seonaid’s God that the girl was on a horse and riding. He feared she wasn’t, for they didn’t hear the priest’s call, signaling they could let up the guard.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if Seonaid was right and there was a God, he was pleading to him now. Just whistle, you old friar, let us get out of this before it’s too late.

He wanted Seonaid to run for it.

He strained for the sound of horses, but heard nothing. He saw the tension in Seonaid, lunged to the side and kissed her with every ounce of his heart. And she kissed him back, fierce and proud, and so full of love he’d die happy, only he had to pull back, their faces a breath apart.

“I love you, lass…to the depth of my soul, I love you.”

He forced himself to let go, to face the danger, ready now for whatever came.

Nostrils flared, on great drafts of air, he stood, armed and steady, ready to do whatever he could to give the women time, and to protect Seonaid so she, too, could get away.

Muscles so tense they shivered, as the stomp of hooves sounded behind them.

“Shite! They’re supposed to ride away!” he bellowed, even as he marveled that they would come to save Seonaid, get her to safety.

Only it wasn’t the women.

Deian, mounted on Snip, charged over the hill, Tarvos in tow.

“Run, Seonaid!” he bellowed, even as he saw her race toward Deian, jump on Tarvos.

Good thinking. If Snip had just ridden to Eriboll and back, he didn’t need a second rider. Tarvos could handle two. Padraig ran, jumped, swinging around to land on his mount’s rump, right behind Seonaid.

His victory cry rang through the night, in concert with Seonaid’s call. Deian chimed in, a sweet, blended, partnering to success.

But they weren’t finished yet.

Arrows rained on them as they heeled their mounts, pushing them through the blind night, willing them not to trip or fall. Padraig lunged forward, before he could stop himself, sending Seonaid sprawling along Tarvos’s neck.

Snip bucked, reared, an arrow in his haunch. Deian was whipped, fore and aft, over and over, as he clung to the beast’s neck, and then the two were gone, racing out of sight.

Seonaid turned in her seat. “You’ve been shot.” Padraig looked down at the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

Pain would hit—he knew that—but not yet, not while his muscles bunched with strength. He drew breath like fire into his lungs, his nostrils flaring with the effort.

He strained to move forward with greater speed, even though it was Tarvos doing the moving. Arrows whistled in the night, whizzing past, no more hitting targets. He heard them hitting earth. They were out of range now, needed to be beyond the area a man could search by foot.

Against his will, he weakened, his head lighter, his body too heavy to control. If not for Seonaid, he’d topple off the beast.

Tarvos covered the distance, following a bird’s call. His call. Could the nasty maggots chasing them know how to call his horse? Lochlan could have taught them, if he was giving secrets away. But that wasn’t Lochlan’s style. Secrets held power. Lochlan did not give power away.

Except Lochlan didn’t know Padraig’s whistle. Did he?

Seonaid gave Tarvos his lead, even though the poor beast was lathered and heaving. She headed toward the sound. At least he thought they did. Mostly, he heard the
swoosh
of blood pounding in his veins. Nothing else felt real.

He fought to stay astride, nearly crumpled when Tarvos pulled to a halt. Eyes heavy but open, he saw young Deian just below him, looking up.

“It was you.” The lad had called to Tarvos. “Good lad.”

His praise slurred as he slid, unconscious, from the horse.

vvvvvv

A line of torches wended their way along the coastline. The Reah’s men, come to deal with the slavers and to save Padraig.

Seonaid looked down at him. Deian helped lay him on his side, a blanket behind him. Sweat dripping with effort, she broke the point off, pulled the arrow out, pushed him to his back, pressing, with a strength feeding on fear, to stop the bleeding.

He didn’t offer so much as a moan. Out cold. Or dead. She was no healer.

“Do you know where they went?” she asked her son. “The two women and the priest?”

“I told them to go to Eriboll, but you couldn’t see it—the lights—from where we were, so I don’t know where they went. There was so little time.”

“You did the best you could.”

“The one kept shaking her head. She wanted to ride away from anywhere there were people.”

If they had listened to Deian, they could be with The Reah’s men already.

“How was the other lass? The one who wasn’t frightened?”

“She kept tryin’ to calm the frightened one, told her to close her eyes and rest. They were on Peregrine, and the priest had the other mount.”

“Good.” Seonaid nodded. Eyes closed, the lass wouldn’t see where they went. At least something was going right. They’d saved the healers, the priest.

A lift of the tunic pressed to Padraig’s shoulder proved it still bled.

“Here, Ma, I’ll hold it.”

“It needs pressure, weight.”

“You’re tired.” He pushed her hands away. They were shaking, weak. The whole of her shook with the weight of the night.

“I don’ want him to die.”

“He’s breathing, Ma. He’s alive now.”

She cupped Deian’s cheeks. “You saved us, lad.” She kissed his forehead. “We’d not have made it through the fight without your aid.”

He pulled away, uncomfortable with affection. Her legacy to him. Not fair. He’d earned his honor, deserved it. She’d see that he got it. A fresh start, without scandal or shame.

“Do ya’ see that train of torches?” she asked Deian.

“Aye, that would be men from Eriboll.”

“Can you ride to them? Tell them Padraig is up here and wounded? If the healers are with them, have them come to his aid.”

“Will you be all right, Ma?” he asked.

“Of course, I will be fine, but I won’t go to Eriboll with you and Padraig. Do you understand?”

“Because you have to take care of the horses?”

Beyond speaking, she nodded.

“There’s only the one. Could you let that one go?”

“No,” she swallowed back the tears. “No, son. It’s best I keep him back here and you remember to go by Eban.”

“I don’t like that,” he grumbled.

“Just until I can join you,” she whispered.

He didn’t say anything and she knew exactly what face he’d be wearing. Mulish and angry, like his father. He needed someone to teach him better. A woman with a mother’s skills. A softer woman, who didn’t go racing into battle.

“Deian.”

“Aye, Ma?”

“Be quick. Padraig needs care.”

“I’m off,” he promised, and climbed onto Snip.

“Be careful, you’re more precious than life itself.”

“I’ll be careful,” he called to her, and rode out of her life.

Again, she looked to Padraig upon the ground, and lifted the fabric she pressed into his wound. The bleeding eased to a trickle.

“You watch over him,” she demanded of Padraig, because she could, because he couldn’t hear her and argue with her, over what she was about to do. “And yourself.”

Hoarse with tears, she hiccupped a sob. “You’re both more precious than life to me.” Head bowed, she lowered, kissed his lips.

“Goodbye, my love.”

CHAPTER 12  ~  SEPARATION

He’d prefer to have died, if this pain meant he lived. Or was this hell? Body ached so bad you’d rather piss yourself than move, head swollen to bursting? Not sure he could, he tried to open his eyes.

A small eye, green and shining with fury, looked right back.

“Deian,” he said, or thought he said. His tongue was so thick he wasn’t certain the word got past it.

“I donna’ want to be called Eban anymore.”

Fine, he’d deal with that. Sure enough.

As if he could take that on, when he couldn’t even find a pot to relieve himself, or the strength to do so. He’d not even bother to ask for something to soothe his parched mouth.

“I don’,” Deian grumbled.

“Is he awake?” A sweet voice sounded from behind the boy.

Delicate fingers lifted Padraig’s eyelid higher than he was capable.

“You’ll be thirsty.” She fussed and produced a wet cloth for him to suck on. That’s what they did for the wounded after battle, as though too much liquid would harm them. He wanted a full swallow.

Memories surfaced, the punch of an arrow, his tunic sopping up blood to saturation, then rivulets running down his back. Horses, voices, jostling of travel and, worst of all, the searing sizzle, acrid scent of his own flesh when they cauterized the wound. Pain sent him over the edge of awareness to blessed darkness. No memory after that, until now.

“More,” he rasped.

“Aye, in a moment.” That female voice again. “This will have to do for now.” She gave him another wet cloth to suck.

“Did ya’ hear me?” Deian pressed.

Padraig worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to moisten enough to speak. Deian didn’t budge.

“Your ma gave you that name.” He fought to get that much, fought to continue. “Not mine to take.”

“My ma’s not here.” The lad swiped his nose with his arm.

No, she wouldn’t be. She’d be gone. Left them behind.

He drifted back toward sleep when arms lifted him, put a cup to his lips. His throat rejected the bitter and foul brew, made him retch; but the lass held his jaw closed, worked his throat like some beast given a pill it didn’t want to swallow. He must be sick, to lose to a lass no bigger than a bairn.

Their battle over, he found the pain easing, his thirst abating. Padraig opened his eyes to find Deian sulking at the foot of his pallet.

“How long?” he asked.

“Have you been here?” his nurse responded. “Three days.”

“Three days?” If he could have, he would have yelled, but not with a throat raw as butchered game. “You aren’ one of the healers?”

Stupid question. The healers wore rough homespun garments and spoke with a lilt of the old language. This woman barely had a burr and her skirts swished like silk when she moved. Even in an everyday gown, for tending a sick man, the hues in the embroidery of her bodice were from dyes not found in these lands.

She rung out another cloth, put it on his head. “The lad said you saved two ladies and a priest from the slavers.”

“Gone?”

“Slavers or the ones you saved?” she asked, though she didn’t wait for his response. “We haven’t found the ones you saved, but we caught the slavers who came onto the loch. We’ve yet to find the ship out at sea, though we know there is one.”

He nodded, not surprised they hadn’t gotten the big ship. It would be off at any sign of pursuit. Easy to hide on big open water like the North Sea.

Beyond polite conversation, he tried to get his bearings. The chamber, as finely dressed as the woman, must be the chief’s own room. Odd place to put a wounded man who offered no harm. Not even to a pretty lass like this.

She moved with ease in the space.

Padraig hadn’t heard that The Reah remarried. Glen Toric had its own problems these last years and Padraig spent more time on the eastern border, well out of reach for such news. Still, it came as a surprise. Everyone knew the old man mourned the death of a wife who’d been at his side for two decades or more. The loss took him beyond the ken for another; or at least, that’s what they all thought. Then again, men had needs. In that case, The Reah certainly found a fetching young lass to meet them.

“Lady Reah?”

She turned to him, brow furrowed, head tilted. “Why do you call me that?”

Deian pushed between them. “Did you hear me? My ma’s not here.”