Highland Warrior by McCollum, Heather (people reading books TXT) 📗

quite interesting that Robert Stuart actually considers himself the crown of Scotland,” Joshua said, referring to the Latin inscription over the arched doorway into the palace.

Joshua slammed the pointed end of the torch into the ground next to him with such force that it stood up, and he slid his massive sword free of its scabbard. “And we merely want the boy returned to his mother. No blood need soak the ground at the Earl’s Palace if ye let Geir Flett walk away. Right. Now.” The last two words came like a growl. The promise of pain and death in them made Kára’s middle tighten. Thank heavens they had not had to fight against Joshua.

“Take him inside,” Robert yelled, and The Brute dragged Geir back. Geir’s gaze sought Kára’s, desperate as if he held onto it to save himself. Would it be the last time she saw him alive?

“I will take his place!” she yelled. “Stop! I will take his place.”

“Kára, nay,” Joshua said, his voice low, but his words meant nothing to her. Not when she must save Geir from his father’s fate at the hands of another Stuart.

“Stripped bare,” Patrick yelled. “Like all our prisoners.”

Without any thought except that The Brute had stopped dragging Geir away, Kára dropped her short sword, letting her daggers follow to the frozen ground. Within seconds, she had her cloak and boots off.

“Nay, Kára,” Joshua said, catching her arm, but she yanked it free, turning her gaze on him.

“I told you,” she said, her eyes running along the contours of his hard face, memorizing the lines and small scars there, the fullness of his mouth, the depth of his eyes. “If it came down to one of us, Geir would live. Take him to your Scotia, Highlander. Take all my people,” she whispered.

“Ye swore,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I will not let them take him back inside,” she whispered.

Turning around, she began to walk toward Patrick. “Let Geir Flett go or I stop,” she yelled, her hands halfway lifting the edge of her tunic.

Patrick signaled The Brute to halt.

“I will move for every step the boy takes back to the Horseman of War,” Kára said, knowing all eyes were on her. She looked directly at Patrick, waiting, pitting his lust for her against his father’s desire to keep Geir.

She drew in a breath when Patrick motioned to Dishington to send Geir forward.

“Do not release him until we have her,” Robert yelled down.

If her heart wasn’t thumping so fast and the cold not so painful as she yanked her tunic over her head to reveal her stays, she would have smiled. Oh, they would have her. And she would kill and maim as many as she could before they were forced to kill her to stop the rampage of vengeance she planned to inflict.

Geir took another two steps forward, and she untied the wrapping around her breasts. His gaze moved away from her when she had to slip it off, baring her breasts to all the eyes along the wall and in the tower. Patrick flicked his fingers at Dishington, who let go of Geir. Her son ran back toward Joshua. Behind her, she heard Joshua curse and his sword clang on the ground, but she could not turn away from Patrick’s predatory gaze. His hand shot out to grab her wrist, and she knew she was lost.

Goodbye, Joshua Sinclair.

Chapter Twenty

“To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”

Sun Tzu – The Art of War

“Foking hell, I hate the cold,” Joshua murmured as he yanked his belt open, letting his woolen wrap follow his sword to the ground. If he ran to Kára fully clothed and armed, the battle would begin. There would be no chance to save Kára’s people from the slaughter that would ensue. Naked and unarmed would allow him to get to her, because nothing would stop him from that.

“Geir,” Torben called, and the boy ran past Joshua to the two men.

Calder came up behind Joshua. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her back,” he said, his words snapping out as if each one were a curse at the blasted cold.

“We cannot battle without you,” Calder said, anger lacing his words.

Joshua’s gaze met his narrowed eyes. “Watch for my signal. I still hope we will not battle. If we are taken, retreat to Hillside. If Corey sees Robert, he will order the ship to sail to the mainland. Ye will have to find passage farther south. If I am successful, I will switch places with Kára. Do not wait for me.” He looked again at the young warrior who had so much to live for: a new wife, a new son, a people to protect. “Understood?”

Calder nodded, and Joshua looked forward to where Kára stood, her bared back straight and perfect. Shucking his boots, Joshua strode forward, completely nude, like Erik Flett the day Joshua rode away from the palace with plans to be at Girnigoe by Samhain. But then he’d met Kára.

“Bloody damn hell,” he murmured through gritted teeth as gooseflesh rose over his skin and his ballocks tried to crawl back inside him. Stones pressed into his quickly freezing feet, but he ignored the bruising and cut of the wind.

In four long strides, he reached Kára and grasped her other wrist, halting her. His empty hand swooped down to grab her cape, and he tossed it around as much of her as he could. John Dishington came up alongside Patrick, both of them armed and furious. Before they could say anything, Joshua stepped between Kára and Patrick. “Let her go,” he said. “I take her place.”

“No!” Patrick said.

Without taking his eyes off him, Joshua spoke, his voice cutting through the cold. “Robert Stuart, would ye rather have a village girl doing your bidding or the Horseman of War?”

Patrick started to argue. “Hold your tongue,” Robert called down. Joshua glanced above to where the torchlight showed