Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Devil's Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1) Page 14

She covered her head as blood spilled on her shoulders and hands. Marjorie buried her mouth in the crook of her arm, fighting not to scream.

The man crumpled just behind her, and finally she squealed, spinning around to skitter backward down the pier, where she knelt with a hand to the ground. She didn't trust her legs to stand.

Fighting to control her fear, she made herself watch. Her Cormac, the boy she'd loved, had become some other creature: powerful, brave, strangely placid — and ruthless.

One man was down, and Cormac had just stabbed one of the two remaining. It was the burly one, and his torso was so thick, the slash to his chest incapacitated him for only a moment. He quickly regrouped and was coming at Cormac with vengeance in his eyes and a peculiar sword in his fist.

She put a hand to her mouth, frozen in terror. How had she not seen the man's sword before this? It was enormous and curved, a terrible, foreign thing, looking like something from Arabia, and it was ugly, too, its blade gray, with ghastly dings along its surface.

Would this be how Cormac met his end? On a sordid pier, at the end of a ruffian's blade? It would be her fault.

The thought was so painful, she shut her eyes for a moment to withstand it. She couldn't bear another life on her hands. Not Cormac's. She opened her eyes. She wouldn't let him face this alone. Slowly, Marjorie stood.

“Stay down,” Cormac growled. He took a quick step, placing himself between her and the two men. He blindly swung a hand back to push her to the ground, but she bobbed out of the way.

The gesture opened Cormac's chest to his attacker, and the man lunged forward, throwing his whole body behind his sword. Broadsword held close to his chest, Cormac blocked the thrust, grunting with the effort. He edged backward, swinging his blade in short slices, but his opponent kept parrying and hopping closer, too close for Cormac's sword to find momentum.

While Cormac and his opponent fought, the other man homed in on Marjorie. He was gangly and smiling, and it sent a chill up her spine. He nodded at her, waggling his dirk playfully.

Narrowing her eyes, she shuffled slowly to the side, to the man lying dead and bloody on the ground. Swallowing back a rush of bile to her throat, she squatted, snatching a dirk from the scabbard at the dead man's waist. She'd not let Cormac fight alone.

Cormac saw what the fool woman was about, and he snarled. He looked away quickly, not wanting to call attention to her. But he vowed, if they got out of this alive, he'd take great pleasure in tanning her hide. Braw, fool lass.

He redoubled his attack. His opponent struck him as a dim sort, but a canny fighter. Cormac had fought against a few curved sabers in his time, but never a scimitar. Its inner edge was blunt, and his opponent cradled the blade close, thrusting with his whole body.

It wasn't the typical clashing of swords that Cormac was used to, and he couldn't step back far enough to get a good strike in.

“Say a prayer,” his opponent rasped. “'Tis a heathen weapon, but sure.” Steadying his scimitar below his forearm, the man made a short stab at Cormac's chest.

“A pretty blade,” Cormac managed, dashing the thrust away with the flat of his sword. The man jumped forward, and Cormac edged back, feeling the lip of the pier at his heel. He spied a low post for tying up boats and spun around his opponent toward it. He slashed as he went, grazing the man's calf with his blade. “But pretty is as pretty does.”

The man looked down at his leg, incredulous. “Enough chatter.” He ran to Cormac, his scimitar hugged diagonally across his chest.

Just then, Marjorie screamed.

Cormac would die before he let anyone hurt her. But he couldn't spare her a look. His fight had reached a critical point. He had to keep his focus. He'd get only one opportunity, and that but a mere flicker in time.

Balancing along the edge of the pier, Cormac rushed the man. Slamming his free hand onto his opponent's shoulder, he vaulted past him, onto the post.

The man spun, momentarily startled, and Cormac didn't lose a moment. He leapt back down, arcing his sword through the air, cleaving the man between neck and shoulder.

The dead man toppled into the water with a loud splash, and Cormac instandy turned his attention to Marjorie.

The last attacker held a knife to her throat. Though her chest shuddered with fear, she held her chin high.

They locked eyes, hers brave and vivid blue. Pride filled him. Pride and terror.

“I ken you,” the man told her with surprise in his voice. “You're the pretty piece from Saint Machar. Ye gave me sommit once. A heel o' bread.” The man waggled his brows. “Time tae give me more than that, aye?” The last of Cormac's patience flamed out in a blaze of anger. Not taking his eyes from her, he calmly resheathed his sword.

The movement caught the man's attention. “And what's this pretty piece to you?” he asked, giving Marjorie a shake.

Cormac remained silent, his eyes only for Marjorie. She remained stoic, her blank face belying the shuddering rise and fall he saw clear in her chest.

The man jerked his head to the end of the dock. “Move along, you.”

“Move along?” Cormac asked placidly, shifting a blank-eyed gaze to the man. Making his body loose, he casually reached behind him, to the dagger he kept tucked in the small of his back. It was long for throwing, but he'd no other choice. Besides, he was confident fury would guide his aim. “Aye, I'll move along.” Cormac's slackened muscles hardened in an instant, and his arm lashed out, his blade landing with a dull suck into the flesh of the man's shoulder. “But I'll take my woman with me,” he said with utter serenity.

The man shouted, letting go of Marjorie to pull the blade from his body. He was injured but not downed.

Marjorie spun, and Cormac spied the blade glittering in her small hand. The fool woman was meaning to charge.

“No,” Cormac snarled under his breath. He couldn't let her fight, couldn't let her spill a man's blood. He knew Ree; her conscience wouldn't bear it.

Marjorie pulled her arm back and lunged for the man, crying out with the effort.

“No!” Cormac shouted. He couldn't let her sully her soul; his was sullied enough for the two of them.

He sized up the scene in the fraction of a heartbeat. He'd no time to draw his sword, nor could he risk Ree getting in its trajectory if he did. He had his hands, though.

Cormac leapt, tackling the man around his upper thighs just as Marjorie's blade arm swept down. She missed, spouting a brazen curse that shot a surge of inexplicable delight to his heart. Always a spitfire, Ree was.

He rolled on the quay, tussling with her attacker, finally managing to pin him from above. And then the man's feet hammered against the rotted wooden planks as Cormac choked the life from him.

Cormac sprang up and ran to her. “Ree, look at you.” She was trembling and covered in blood. Pulling her to him, he refused to think on the sweet wonder of her in his arms. “You braw, wee thing.” He'd almost lost her. The thought was unbearable. The lass had placed herself in harm's way because she was stubborn, and she was impudent. And brave, and magnificent. Hugging her closer, he let the entire length of her soft body cradle close against his.

“He recognized me,” she said, her voice shaking with shock. She pulled away, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

“He knew me, Cormac.”

He took in the two bodies littering the rotted wooden planks. “Aye, lass, I know it. Come,” he said, leading her from the pier. “Cover yourself with your cloak. We must be away from this place.”

“I… I'm worried.” She tucked back into him as they walked, her breathing gradually slowing to normal. “What if someone else saw me? What if this leads back to my uncle's house? We have to keep him safe.” She bit at her lip.

“Oh God, I can't believe little Davie is out there with men like that.”

“Aye, we'll need to keep your uncle safe,” Cormac told her. He glanced behind him, casting one last look at the dock. The smugglers' boat bobbed, heedless of what'd been just another fight along the quay. “I need a plan good enough that all eyes turn from him.”

He gently pulled her chin up to look at him. She'd foolishly dressed herself in men's clothing, in trews that had revealed scandalous curves, clinging to her long, firm legs like sin itself.

When he'd come downstairs that morning to find her rubbing her breasts beneath her vest… He scowled. He had almost spilled his seed at the sight. How would a boatload of lecherous sailors react to the sight of her?

“You must stay out of this from now on.”

“What should our plan be?” she asked, dismissing his last statement as he knew she would.

“My plan will be to continue hunting the docks for information, while you're safe at home.” He directed them up a side street, toward the direction of Market Green. He felt too exposed near the docks and would have them surrounded by the morning's market bustle instead.

“I thought we just agreed we needed to keep away from Uncle Humphrey's house.”

“No,” he said, stiffening. “We just agreed that I will devise a plan while you stay safe.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Marjorie.”

She raised her brows in challenge at the formal sound of her name on his lips.

“You try me, woman.” He pulled them into the shadow of a tavern that'd already begun to hum with the day's business. “Was that scene by the docks not enough for you? I refuse to see you in harm's way. One more man, and I might not have managed them.”

“I helped,” she protested.

“You did indeed.” He let out a disbelieving chuckle and took her hands in his to study them. Using the edge of his plaid, he wiped a smear of blood from her palm. “But at what cost? Heed me,” he said, waiting for her eyes to meet his.

“From this moment on, I go alone. I will keep you safe, and that means keeping you away from smugglers and dock men.”

Her countenance brightened, remembering something. “Did the smugglers give you any information?” He narrowed his eyes. The smugglers had told him much, and God help him, their words had stirred the embers of hope in his chest. But it was a dangerous game they played, and he'd keep her well away from it. He studied her, staring up at him expectantly, her eyes fever bright. He'd need to sneak away from her somehow, deal with this alone. “They say there's a ship docked in Justice Port.”