| |
As if his angel’s voice was some kind of signal, hot blood pumped through Iain’s veins. All the bandits seemed enthralled with what the small bandit was doing. Their laughter grated on Iain’s nerves, but keeping his anger in check, he stepped quietly but deliberately toward the wagon.
By their speech, Iain knew they were Scottish Lowlanders, but Lowlanders didn’t generally wear the tartan. They could have been Campbell spies, though their mixed tartan dress confused him. Only two were the same, and the thought struck him that they had stolen the tartans or mayhap even plucked the clothes off dead men.
Bloody traitors.
Without taking his eyes off the bandits, he nodded to Colin, who in turn tipped his head to his sons.
Throwing the blanket off his weapon, Iain jerked his sword from its scabbard.
He advanced on the cootie holding Abigail. She fought like a cat, but the boar-like man twisted her arm, his pig nose sniffing her hair. His eyes widened in confusion at her curses, but a mean smile showed blackened teeth.
She cried out again and tried to scratch him with her free hand, but he hit his open hand across her face.
At the man’s touch on Abigail, hot angry blood flashed like lightning through Iain’s veins. That man dared to lay a hand on her. He never had time to think about his wayward thoughts, because the rest of the bandits ran at him.
Thankful his training included using his left hand as much as his favored right, Iain switched to whatever hand was closest to the nearest bandit. He disarmed the brigands one at a time as they came at him. Each jarring connection of blade against blade tore through his chest, causing pain to radiate from his injury. Colin and his sons joined the fray, and the clang of swords rang through the air.
A young lad stepped in Iain’s path. Iain glared at him and lifted his sword. The lad’s eyes widened in fear, and he ran away from the road.
With one more step forward, Iain held Abigail’s captor’s eyes with his. The man blinked, and Iain whirled, slicing his blade through the air and across the back of the man’s hand holding the lass.
The bandit cried out and let go of Abigail. She fell to her knees away from his grasp as he held his bloody hand and glared pure hatred at Iain. Grimacing, the ruffian plunged his good hand into his shirt and whisked out a knife. “Ye want to play hero? Come and play.”
Iain frowned. The man actually thought he had a chance. A knife against a sword? He was so intent on the confident man, Iain didn’t see another bandit fall on him from behind. As the lout wrestled Iain for his blade, Iain kept part of his attention on the one with the knife. The man drew back his arm, ready to throw his weapon.
Iain immediately brought his foot up and kicked his attacker’s groin, hard. The man crumpled forward. Abigail screamed, and Iain ducked, the knife whizzing over his head.
Reapplying his grip on the hilt of his sword, Iain pushed the hurt man aside and strode toward the man with the knife.
Knife man’s eyes darted in all directions, but with no aid at hand, he had the sense to run for his life.
Abigail fell into Iain’s chest, and he brought her in close with his sword arm. She sobbed. “It’s all right, lassie. Stay here.”
Reluctantly, he let her go. He had to get rid of the remaining bandits, and then he could comfort the frightened lass.
Colin’s roar echoed as he whipped his sword through the air and set on a bandit. The brothers were busy battling the other bandits.
Iain joined them. His adrenaline helped mask the agony of his injury, but his sword’s weight increased with every movement. He had to rid the caravan of the marauders before he collapsed with exhaustion. He rushed the redheaded leader and easily parried the bandit’s every attack. The man clearly wasn’t an experienced fighter.
He noted the fear rising in his opponent’s eyes as he pressed his blade to the man’s throat.
“Please,” the red-haired man said.
Iain huffed and withdrew his sword. “Get oot.”
The man ran off in the direction his fleeing band members had taken earlier.
As if realizing they were outmatched, the rest of the bandits fled after their comrades.
With no more opponents, Iain let the tip of his sword fall to the ground. He stood panting in much-needed air, gazing from one caravaner to the other. Colin was the first to break out laughing. His sons hooted and waved their broadswords at the fleeing men’s backs.
They were government men. Scottish who fought for the English. He wondered whose orders they were under. Cumberland must have sent them out to search out Jacobites. He should have thought; he should have killed them all. Once they’d taken Abigail, he had lost his head. They would know he was a Jacobite. He had put the MacDonalds in danger, Abigail too.
The bonny lass’s eyes appeared not to see him, not to see anything. The storm had died within her eyes, and confusion swam in its wake.
He tightened his jaw. He had to get her to her family, to safety, and the sooner the better.