Too late. Mounted men erupted from the trees behind them, brandishing swords and screaming fit to curdle the blood.
Eneas showed his true mettle. Or rather, his back. He fled ahead of the attacking horde without a backward glance, his men scrambling after him like a pack of terrified rabbits.
“Sweet Mary, we are lost,” Rowena cried.
Harry wheeled to face the oncoming men. “Ride, my lady,” he shouted. “Dinna stop till ye reach Blantyre.”
There was no time to argue, no time to thank Harry. Digging her heels into her horse’s ribs, Rowena sped along the track Eneas had taken. Branches slapped at her face; briars tore at her clothes. Behind her, she heard the grate of steel on steel, followed by an ominous cry.
Harry.
There was no time to mourn, no time for pain and regret. Rowena focused all her energies on staying in the saddle and keeping her mount moving on the track. A minute they rode, maybe two, before she heard the pounding beat of hot pursuit.
“Faster! Faster!” Rowena urged, giving her mare its head. Her heart flew into her throat as the beast stumbled. “Nay.” She pulled back on the reins, fighting for balance, praying for a miracle. It was not granted. With a sharp equine squeal of protest, the horse went down, throwing Rowena off over its head.
She hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thump. The world went black, then misty gray. Stars danced before her eyes. She tasted blood and dirt.
“Chase down the others, I’ll see to the wench,” shouted a coarse voice.
Rowena clawed at the dirt, trying to rise, to crawl into the concealing foliage a foot away. Hard hands grabbed her by the shoulders and wrenched her up. There she dangled, like a fish on a hook, feet milling in the air, her head muzzy as a drunk’s.
“Well, well...” Even seen through a misty haze, her captor’s face was terrifying, with blunt, brutish features weathered by sun and wind, close-set black eyes and a tangle of inky hair. “She’s a mite dirty at the moment, but she may clean up fine.”
“I dinna want to wait,” snarled a sullen voice. The speaker was smaller than his hulking companion and better looking, if you discounted the meanness in his pale eyes.
Terror chased the cobwebs from Rowena’s aching head. Mustering what courage she could, she said, “Release me this instant,” in her most imperious voice. The effect was ruined by her position.
The brute laughed. “Why, ’tis no serving wench we’ve caught, Dickie me lad, but a fine lady.”
“She don’t look so fine...and it don’t make a damn bit of difference to me who she is.” Dickie reached for the laces on the front of her gown.
“Wait!” Rowena said, hating the quaver in her voice. “I am Lady Rowena Gunn, come with my kinsmen on important business with the Earl of Buchan. If you will take me—unharmed—to Blantyre Castle, my brother will reward you richly.”
The brute’s eyes narrowed assessingly. “Dickie and me, we’ve no need of gold, but a fresh wench...” He cocked his head, a merciless grin splitting his ugly face. “Now that’s a reward a man’d have to be dead to pass up.”
“Dead is what you’ll be if you don’t release the lady,” said a low, soft voice. The man who stood behind the brute was leaner but taller than her attacker. A helmet shadowed his face. From beneath it, black hair flowed over massive shoulders. With his sword held before him and his dark cape fluttering out in the wind, he resembled an avenging angel.
“’Tis Glenshee,” Dickie exclaimed.
Cursing, the brute cast Rowena into the bracken and drew his sword as he turned to face the newcomer. “Ye’re alone.” A savage smile split his ugly face.
“I have Avenger.” The knight hefted his claymore with one hand, letting the half-light play on the runes carved into the gleaming blade. “That’s enough to deal with the likes of you, Georas MacPherson.”
Georas’s laughter was coarse and mean, his attack lightning quick. His sword slashed down. Metal screamed on metal as the dark knight countered the stroke, driving Georas back. Face red with fury, MacPherson lunged, shouting for Dickie, who came in swinging his own blade. The blow fell on the leather-and-metal targe the knight held over his left arm. Before Dickie could disengage, Glenshee twisted the shield, scoring Dickie’s arm with the metal point at its center.
Dickie cursed and drew back, then resumed the attack, raining a flurry of blows on the targe.
“That’s it! Give no quarter!” Georas roared. He slashed with more fury than finesse, but the air resounded with the grating of steel on steel.
Rowena scrambled up from the dirt, back braced against an oak as she watched the struggle. Surely Glenshee could not prevail against these two. Should she call for help? Oh, that was rich. Whom did she expect would come?
While she debated, the dark knight sent his blade sliding down Georas’s. With a flick of his muscled arm, he sent his opponent’s sword arcing into the brush.
“What the...?” Eyes wide, Georas backed up, rubbing at the small, bloody slice on his wrist. “Get him, Dickie.”
“By all means, Dickie. Come and get me,” Glenshee taunted. The deadly tip of his blade swung back and forth between the two, keeping them at bay.
“The hell with this.” Dickie backed up a step, then turned and ran to his horse. “No wench is worth this much trouble.”
Georas glared at the knight. “We’ll finish this another day, Glenshee.”
“Name the time and the place.”
Georas growled a low curse and backed toward his horse. He sprang into the saddle, sent a last, scathing glance at her rescuer, then spurred away into the mist.
Rowena released the breath she’d been holding and sagged against the tall oak, scarcely feeling the damp. As her breathing quieted and her heart settled, she became aware of the hushed silence all around them. The trees stood motionless; expectancy hung heavy as fog in the air.
Her rescuer stood a few feet away, staring after the MacPhersons, his face hidden in shadows. His sword, held still in his right hand, gleamed evilly in the pale light.
Suddenly the lump was back in Rowena’s throat. Had she traded one thug for another? “Thank you, sir, I—I am in your debt. I do not know what would have happened had you not come.”
“I do, I am afraid. Georas MacPherson and his brother are old hands at picking on things that are small and fragile.”
Was that how he saw her? Defenseless? Vulnerable? She tried to step back, found the way blocked by the oak.
“Pray do not be alarmed.” He sheathed the sword and extended his large, lean hands, callused palms up. “You are quite safe with me, lass.”
A sense of déjà vu swept through her, taking her back to another time and another man—a lad, realty—who’d saved her from a band of bullies at a clan gathering. Lion Sutherland. Friend, lover, enemy. She stared at him, eyes aching as she tried to pierce the gloom. There was something in the timbre of his voice, in the way he held himself, so straight, assured and proud, that made her tremble. “Who are you?” she whispered.
He cocked his head, considering. A smile flashed briefly. “How remiss of me.” Sweeping off his helmet, he bowed low, courtier to lady. “I am Lionel Sutherland of Glenshee.”
“Sweet saints above.” Rowena swayed, praying for the ground to swallow her up. “It cannot be you.”
“Rowena?” He closed in on her, his hand warm and hard as it seized her chin and tilted it up. “Dieu. ’Tis you.” His grip tightened. “Bloody hell. If I’d known, I’d have run Georas and Dickie through for daring to touch you.” His thumb whisked over her jaw. “Are you all