One Snowy Knight (35 page)

“She will never elude him. Neither will you,” Skena stated flatly.

He jerked on the tether to reel her closer. “Do as I say. Now!”

Skena’s head turned at noises high upon the cliffs. Riders. The flickers from torches grew brighter, nearly a dozen and moving fast. “De Servian,” she said softly as a smile crossed her lips. Her fingers flexed around the handle of the
sgian dubh
. She planned to catch Daragh in the stomach or the chest, and then make a break and escape toward the cliff path.

Just as she started to lunge for him, someone came running from the shadows along the water. Distracted by the mounted men starting down the cliff’s trail, Daragh failed to react fast enough. Dorcas ran up to the opposite side of the small boat. Carrying a large rock, she raised it over her head and dashed the heavy stone into the middle of the craft; the wood cracked and splintered.

“You bitch!” Daragh leapt for Dorcas, forgetting he still held the leash in his left hand.

Nearly jerked off her feet, Skena fought against strangling. The only thing preventing it were the two fingers still lodged between the cord and her throat. She grasped desperately at the knife, intending to use the blade to sever the cord. A second hard tug sent her lumbering forward, off balance. The knife fell from her hand and into the snow. She grabbed the taut tether, grappling against the pressure.

“I will kill you.” Daragh nearly tumbled into the boat as he grabbed at Dorcas. “I will wrap that red hair around your throat and watch your eyes bulge.”

“You black-hearted bastard. Foam at the mouth like a mad dog. He is here! De Servian’s here! Daragh Fadden, he who brays like a jackass and will scurry away, a cowering dog.” Laughing, Dorcas dashed into the night, this time away from the cliffs, heading down the shore.

Galen leading, Noel and his men descended the winding path down to the cove. So thrilled to see him, Skena half forgot Daragh still had the thong in his fist. She started to rush toward Noel, only to be jerked around by another stiff snap on the cord.

“Let her go!” Noel’s voice rang out clear in the night.

Daragh glanced to his left, in the direction Dorcas had fled, then to the boat, now already filling with water. He jerked the cord, pulling Skena backward until she fell against his chest. “You better hope he values your life, Lady Craigendan. For if not, then we both die here and now,” he said against her ear, as he placed the tip of his knife to her throat.

De Servian dismounted and then handed his torch to Galen, never taking his eyes off Skena and the man holding her. He walked slowly forward, flanked by Guillaume and Stephen. As the men with torches stepped down from their mounts, they formed a phalanx, just paces behind them. Noel appeared coolheaded, his movements controlled. Deadly. Skena wished she could see Daragh’s expression as he stared into the face of this warrior true, his silver eyes aglow with an unearthly power. An avenging angel come to unleash hell.

Skena stared, transfixed by his striking countenance. Noel de Servian was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. His wavy brown hair was a shade darker, wet from the falling snow, the long curls making him seem more Scot than Norman-English. His clean shaven face showed his sensual chin, not stubborn so much as resolute, a face that reflected strength, character. Surely, a man this perfect had been touched by the blood of the
Sidhe,
for only one blessed by true magic could be so lovely formed, possessed of a craft to lure a woman into darkest sin, with nary a thought of the risk to her soul. A warrior who already owned her heart. A man Skena knew she would gladly die for.

What marked Noel de Servian as special, above all others, was that his physical beauty was matched by that in his heart and in his soul. Staring into those pale eyes, she knew he would set everything right. She loved him. She trusted him.

“I said—let…her…go. Only a coward hides behind a woman. Fight me like a man,” Noel stated softly.

“I cannot fight you, Lord de Servian. I have no sword.” He shifted his elbow to show he held a knife at her throat. Daragh jerked her neck back even more. “Of course, a dagger is all I need to end the life of your beautiful wife, is it not?”

Skena felt the cold blade against her throat, tried not to swallow her panic as it would push the blade deeper into her flesh. Instead, she watched Noel’s beautiful eyes, allowed her trust in him to flood her being.

“But then, you would have no recourse, eh?” Noel countered.

“The coin of the realm is your wife’s life.” Daragh gave a laugh. “Shall we bargain?”

“How interesting. A man with no honor expecting honor from the man he wrongs.” Noel walked toward Daragh and offered him a flat smile. “You cannot leave in the boat. It seems to have developed a
small
leak. So speak, what do you want for your
coin
?”

“My freedom, of course.” Daragh chuckled again, his false bravado rumbling through his chest against her back. When Noel gave no answer, he pressed the blade closer to her throat.

“You want honor? I give you honor. Release Skena and fight me man-to-man.” Noel turned to the men behind him. “Form a circle so the area is lit. Trial by combat—let God be the judge of who walks away from this field.”

Daragh demanded, suspicious. “What mean you? The instant I let her go you will kill me. Even if you keep faith with this offering and I fell you, your men will kill me anyway.”

“Nay. Set her free. My men will honor my command.” He rotated to look at the warriors in a semicircle behind him holding torches. “Swear before God if Daragh Fadden meets me on this field of combat to the death and he wins, he walks away a free man by God’s will.”

Every man, including Guillaume repeated, “I do so swear, God is my witness.”

Skena tried to still the frantic beating of her heart, pull within herself to that quiet spot where her mind could brush Noel’s. She needed his touch even if it was with the kenning.
Please do not do this. Do not put your life at risk for me,
she thought in a silent whisper.

Noel watched Daragh smile, and then the bastard shrugged. “I still say I am unarmed for a fight against one of the English’s greatest knights.”

Turning to Guillaume, Noel spoke loud enough for the words to carry, “Give me your sword, brother.” He removed his mantle and handed it to Mallory, and then accepted the sword that Guillaume passed to him. Under his breath, Noel said, “If I die, kill him where he stands.”

Guillaume’s eyes spoke volumes. “Aye, he will be gutted and left for the wolves, although I would rather you not die.”

“I share the wish.” Noel turned and walked halfway to Daragh. Raising Guillaume’s sword, he plunged it into the ground. Backing up, he accepted his own sword from Guillaume’s hand.

“There, Fadden. Your one chance at freedom. Let Skena go.” When the man remained unmoving, Noel pressed. “You are cornered. You have naught with which to barter but Skena.”

“But a good thing to ransom, eh? Will you enjoy watching me split her throat, seeing her blood bleed black onto the white snow?” Daragh threatened, clearly hoping to rattle him.

“Do it and seal your own death,” he replied with sangfroid. “Only, I will not be so swift in meting out my punishment. I once saw an infidel torture a man. You would be surprised what I learned. Face facts, you cannot escape in the boat. Your whore saw to that before she ran off. You cannot force us to back off and allow you to leave with Skena. I would rather see her dead, here and now, than abused at your hands, which would surely happen if I permitted you to go and take her as your shield,” Noel lied. The untruth almost stuck in his teeth, but he figured the stance was one Daragh would believe. “The only chance this side of hell you have to walk away from here a free man is to let Skena go and pick up the sword. Shall I turn my back and give you the first blow? It seems the only way a Fadden can come at an opponent.”

“Arrogant English bastard,” Daragh snarled.

Noel held out his arms, the sword in his right hand half-raised in the air. “Aye, I am English born. And I am arrogant. Howbeit, my ancestry is exalted, a son of a powerful baron, and my mother was a lady true—I am not some child of a crazed pig woman.”

Daragh slowly inched toward the sword, pushing Skena ahead of him. As the weapon came within grasp, he flung Skena forward with all his might so she crashed into Noel. Yanking the sword from the ground, Daragh slashed through the air, clearly trying to kill them both. Barely in time to block the blade’s arc, Noel tossed Skena to the ground. A one-handed grip, his hold was not positioned to check such a hard strike, thus the sword vibrated in his hand, sending numbing shock through his arm and into his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, it was all he could do to keep his grip around the hilt. The odd pain radiated down his spine to slam into the newly healing muscles in his back. Only by sheer force of will was he able to step before Skena and protect her. Reaching behind him with his free hand, he helped Skena to her feet, warding off yet another slashing blow from Fadden, this one even more jarring than the last.

“Beware, he has a dirk in his boot,” Skena called the warning. She moved out of the circle, going to stand behind Guillaume, leaving Noel free to fight without the distraction of worrying about her.

Wrapping his left hand behind his right on the long, leather grip, he wielded the broadsword with his solid muscle, meeting the third hacking swing from Daragh. With the proper control of the weapon, he was able to take the blunt force, and yet not transfer the power from Fadden’s blade into his own. Noel quickly shifted into a warrior’s rhythm of parries, thrusts, swings, and counter swings, the weapons singing and clanging in the night.

The Scotsman came at him with sword high, meaning to chop down on Noel’s head. Noel stepped to repel it, but the snow was becoming mushy from their moving about; his foot slipped, causing his balance to be off. He opposed the blow, but at the wrong point. The blades rang out, then grated as the two blades slid down each other until the hilts were locked. At that point, it became a contest of strength, each of them pushing to thrust the other away.

Daragh rocked to the side, swinging out to drive his leg into Noel’s side, the bastard clearly aiming for the old wound. The pain was excruciating. Daragh slowly forced him back, trying to knock him off his feet.

Skena cried out, but Noel could not look her way.

Daragh laughed, tasting victory. “Where is your arrogance now, Englishman?”

“Right here, you Lowland knave.” Noel sprang. Drawing up his knee to his chest, he lashed out with his booted foot, slamming hard into the center of Daragh’s chest.

The air leaving his lungs, Fadden staggered back. Fighting to regain his balance, he came forward, his sword raised high with both hands, preparing to chop downward at Noel again.

Noel spun in a circle, his sword catching Daragh in the center of his chest. The man stopped, almost seemed to hang suspended. A stunned expression crossed his face, as if he did not quite believe a sword was protruding from his torso.

“I will be damned.” Daragh laughed weakly.

Noel used his knee to shove the Scotsman back off his sword. Daragh fell into the snow with a soft thud. Moving to stand over the man, Noel said, “Aye, you shall.”

Daragh stared up at Noel, blood gurgling in his throat and out the side of his mouth. The brown eyes watched him; Daragh knew he was dying, that he had lost. “You…were never…going to…let me go….”

Noel inclined his head slowly. “I lied. You were a dead man from the first instant you put your hands on Skena. This is just putting paid to your dark deeds.”

Daragh raised his hand and tried to say something, but then it dropped, and he coughed. He breathed no more.

Skena ran to Noel, hugging him around the waist. Giving a weak laugh, Noel stiffly wrapped an arm about her, hugging her so tightly he feared he might never let her go again. “Ah, easy, lass. Hugging you hurts.” He kissed her temple, closing his eyes in thanks, feeling the pain of knowing how close he came to losing her. “You know I was lying to Daragh about rather having you dead than letting you go with him?”

Skena nodded, sniffing against his chest. “Just words I little recall.”

Noel tried to breathe normally, to tell himself everything was all right. And for an instant he was almost convinced of the certainty. Then emotions rolled through him, violent, painful. He had nearly lost Skena—his whole world, his life. “Oh, bloody hell.” He took her by the elbows and pulled her against him, his mouth taking hers roughly. His lips moved over hers, tasting the sweetness that was Skena, hungrily drawing from her the radiance that warmed his weary soul.

“Oh, God, lass. I love you. I nearly lost you—” He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her temples.

She put her fingers to his lips silencing him. “’Tis over now. Take me home, my love.”

A scream tore them apart, ringing through the night. It was followed by another. And yet another, then deep snarls of wolves. Dorcas. High up on the far side of the cliffs, they could just barely make out her figure racing along the edge, trying to escape the pack. A white one jumped at Dorcas as she pulled up, reaching the cliff’s edge.

“Save her,” Skena moaned, but it was too late.

Two more wolves leapt at Dorcas, and all went over the cliff. Her scream marked her descent, echoing all the way down. Skena turned away from the horrible scene, and burrowed her face against Noel’s shoulder, muffling her protest against his chest, as if he had the power to blot the horrible scene from her mind.

“Bad end,” Guillaume spoke from just behind him. “Even for one such as her.”

Noel gave a brief nod, but without remorse. The bitch had endangered Skena’s life more than once, and risked the children and Muriel. To his way of thinking, God had given Dorcas her trial by ordeal, and her guilt had damned her.

“Send men to check on her. Though I doubt she lived through that fall, we needs must be certain. If not, fetch her body. Though she deserves it not, I will not leave her for the wolves.”

This time another scream rang out, one of rage, as Ella ran across the snowy beach, a squire chasing after her.