Highland Warrior. Hannah Howell

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      “I need to wash,” she said when he began to drag her back to the campsite.

      Ewan looked at her, idly wondering why he should think she looked so tempting when she was scowling at him. “Ye do understand that ye are a hostage, dinnae ye, and nay a guest?”

      Fiona looked pointedly at the rope leashing her to his side, then looked back at him. “I believe my poor, wee woman’s mind has begun to grasp that fact. I still want to wash.”

      “I think ye were raised with too light a hand upon the reins,” he grumbled as he led her to a small brook several yards away.

      “I think I was raised perfectly.”

      She ignored his grunt and tried to ignore the rope on her wrist as they both knelt by the brook to wash their faces and hands. Taking from her pocket a small square of embroidered linen Gilly insisted she carry at all times, Fiona dampened it in the cold waters. She was rubbing her teeth clean when an abrupt sense of approaching danger made her tense. A heartbeat later, as she searched the wood for some sign of what had stirred her alarm, she felt Ewan tense.

      “Enemies?” she asked in a near whisper even as she stood up with him. “So close to your lands?”

      “On every side and round every corner,” he muttered. “How fast can ye run?”

      “If we werenae tied together, I could beat ye back to the camp.”

      “Just keeping pace with me will do for now.” He caught the glint of sunlight hitting metal in the thick wood on the other side of the brook. “Now.”

      They had not run far when Fiona pulled a little ahead and Ewan realized she had not been giving him some idle boast. She was not only swift, but agile, nimbly dodging or leaping over every obstacle in their path. The moment they reached the camp, he untied the rope around their wrist as he curtly told his men to prepare for an attack. He shoved Fiona toward Simon and commanded the youth to guard and protect her.

      Fiona bit back a protest as Simon dragged her to a spot near the horses and to the rear of Ewan and his men. Now was not a good time to argue over her right and ability to defend herself. She did wish she had her sword, however. It felt wrong to stand there completely unarmed, a youth of but sixteen summers her only shield against any enemy who might reach them.

      That enemy reached the camp but a moment later. They swarmed out of the wood from two different directions so swiftly and silently, Fiona was astonished that the MacFingals were not startled into a dangerous moment of hesitation. Instead, they met the attack with a speed and ferocity that was awe inspiring. Although Simon was doing an admirable job of watching for any man approaching them, Fiona did the same. She kept an especially keen watch upon the horses. This might not be a raid, but that would not stop anyone from trying to steal whatever they could get their hands on.

      The MacFingals were efficiently decimating their enemy even though the odds against them were nearly three to one, and Fiona began to relax. She hated fighting and bloodshed, but was pleased that her captor and his men were so skilled. These men had not come to make peace, but to kill. What did trouble her was what the great skill of the MacFingals implied. It seemed they were far too accustomed to people trying to kill them. Staying with the MacFingals might provide her with a haven Menzies could not find, but it appeared it would not be a particularly safe haven.

      Just as the enemy began to retreat, Simon cursed and shoved her more firmly behind him. A huge, filthy, hirsute man ran toward them, stopping just out of the reach of Simon’s sword. The man grinned, revealing rotting teeth through his greasy beard. Fiona tensed when she realized none of the other MacFingals had noticed that one of the enemy had slipped past them. Instinct told her that Simon was skilled with his sword despite his youth, but he was facing a man nearly a foot taller and several stone heavier.

      “Give up, laddie. Ye cannae win against me,” growled the man.

      “Beating ye willnae e’en raise a sweat,” drawled Simon.

      Fiona had to admit that, for such a sweet lad, Simon could produce an impressively chilling smile.

      “Boastful wee maggot, arenae ye. I mean to gut ye, wean, and then I will plow the lass o’er your bleeding carcass.”

      Something in the way Simon shifted his weight on his feet told Fiona the fight was about to begin. Cursing her helplessness, she moved away from Simon, not wishing to impede him in any way. The first clash of their swords made her wince despite the other sounds of battle assaulting her ears. Simon quickly revealed his greater skill, but she knew it might not be enough. If his bigger and stronger opponent could hold on long enough, he could wear Simon down. There was also the simple fact that Simon was only sixteen and could not have gained the battle experience his opponent had.

      She began to look for some way to help. Her weapons were with the horses, but she resisted the urge to go after them. Not only would she be putting herself at risk by traversing such open ground, unarmed, in the midst of a battle, but if Simon sensed her leaving, it could fatally distract him.

      A cry from Simon drew her full attention back to him. He was bleeding from what appeared to be a serious wound on his arm. Although it was not his sword arm, the loss of blood would quickly weaken him. She prayed fervently as she again searched for something to use as a weapon, only to hear a groan and a thud to her right. One of the enemy had staggered away wounded from the battle and had collapsed from a loss of blood just a few feet away. It was a rather gruesome answer to her prayer, but she was not about to disdain it. Fiona did not hesitate to relieve the fallen man of his sword and dagger.

      Even as she turned back to Simon, she saw him falter. The youth had not leaped clear of his foe’s sword quickly enough and now had a wound on his belly. Simon fell to his knees and his opponent smiled. The way the man prepared to swing his sword told Fiona he had every intention of severing Simon’s head from his shoulders. Fiona did not hesitate. She thrust her sword into the big man’s side. When he screamed and turned to look at her, she plunged her dagger into his heart. The man staggered back a step then slowly fell down, his gaze never wavering from her face.

      Fiona shuddered, appalled by what she had done despite the necessity of it. She watched the man’s eyes empty of life and fought the urge to empty her belly. This was sure to haunt her dreams for a very long time.

      Slowly, she became aware that the battle had ended and wondered how long she had been staring at the grim results of her actions. Fiona forced herself to turn her attention to Simon, who still knelt upon the ground. As she knelt by his side, Ewan and Gregor ran up to them. She supposed that, once she had recovered from the horror of killing a man, she would appreciate the looks of astonishment and respect the two men were giving her.

      “Get Simon on a blanket and bare his wounds,” she said as she stumbled to her feet. “I will need that small leather bag from my saddle. It carries what I shall need to tend his injuries. I will return in a moment.” She raced to the wood, knowing that she could no longer control the urge to be sick.

      “Shouldnae ye follow her?” asked Gregor as he picked Simon up in his arms.

      “Nay, she will return,” replied Ewan as he moved toward the horses to get what was needed for Simon’s care. “She will be back to tend Simon.” Ewan was a little surprised at how certain he felt about that.

      “Weel, if she means to tend him, why did she run off at all?”

      “I suspicion she has gone to empty her belly into the bushes.”

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