“They aren’t shooting at me—they’re shooting at you!”
“Those are Pascal’s killers, and they are no’ very discriminating.” She still resisted, though he’d brought her hard against him, her back to his chest. “Now they’ll hear the shots back at the lodge and ride out, but we’ve got to be smart until then. Understand?” he demanded. “If you want to live, you’ll do what I say or I swear to you, you’ll have a bullet in your brain within a quarter hour.”
She sounded like she’d started crying.
His brows drew together. “Are you…are you afraid?” he asked, half baffled, having no idea what to do with this. He felt her nodding shakily against his chest and realized the lass was probably scared to death. Bullet in the brain. Great one, Court. But he had to be certain. “You ken they’ll kill both of us?”
She whispered, “Y-You will get us to safety?”
“Aye,” he said in a milder tone. Gentle. “If you do as I say.”
When she nodded again, he loosened his grip on her. At once, she drove her elbow into his throat and flew to her feet. Choking out his breath, he lunged for her and stretched to catch her dress just as he fell. The fabric brushed his fingertips.
He’d missed.
She tore off into the clearing, screaming, “Help me! I want to return! I want away from him!”
More shots rang out. He scrambled to his feet, returning fire and was sprinting after her when he saw a smoking bullet tear through the billow of her skirt. She froze with a terrified gasp, staring into the darkness. “M-Mind your bullets!”
A split second later, her shoulder was wrenched back just before he snagged her around the waist and dove behind a boulder. He felt wetness against his hand, saw his white shirt stained dark. “Lass,” he said as he dropped the empty pistol to probe her shoulders. “Is that mine or yours?”
He answered his own question when he felt her shuddering. “It’ll be all right,” he grated, though fury overwhelmed him. They’d shot her. A defenseless woman. He ripped off her sleeve and just stopped himself from hissing in a breath.
In the moonlight he could see the bullet had torn open her arm. He prayed it had missed the bone. Taking the material from her sleeve, he tied it tight over the wound.
He hadn’t been able to prevent this. He wanted to yell, to ask her why she hadn’t listened to him. She was too small to take a bullet. What kind of animal would shoot a woman?
She jerked upright and looked at him as though she’d just realized something, and had just forgotten the bullet hole in her arm. “This is all your fault! I loathe you. Detest you!”
He exhaled. “I’ve heard it before.”
“Do you know what this means, you bastard?” she cried.
Yes, he knew exactly what it meant. Pascal was making a statement to anyone who dared to take what was his. And she might now believe him about her brother.
“Do you, you disgusting brute?” she demanded again, seemingly uncaring of the shots all around them.
He narrowed his eyes. “Groom got cold feet?”
She screamed, springing forward, fingers in claw position to scratch down his face just before he caught her wrists. Still she fought him.
“Damn it! Will you stop?” He lifted her injured arm in front of her face. “Look, wench! Look at all the blood everywhere. Now faint. Should you no’ be fainting by now?”
She sank back against the boulder, solemnly regarding her wound, and he could see shock settling over her. “I do appear to have been shot.” Her tone was dazed, and he sorely regretted his taunt.
She was too small and too delicate. Niall was right. Women like her needed to be cosseted, protected. Two nights under his protection and she’d been shot.
Death to those caught in his wake.
“We’ve got to get you someplace safe.”
She blinked up at him.
With effort, he tore his gaze from hers to scan the area. He spotted her horse, frantic, caught by the reins tangled in a bush. Court tensed to run, but said to her, “Stay here! This is more serious than you know.”
In a small voice, she said, “It hurts as though it’s serious.”
Annalía Llorente was docile, a sure sign she was in shock.
He sprinted after the horse, his ribs singing as he dodged bullets. Just when he’d finally secured the confused animal, which carried her bloody saddlebags full of dresses while his had had ammunition, he heard his men sounding the call. Soon after, he heard the guns he recognized by sound firing back at the assassins, but they were separated from him.
“Niall!” he yelled in Gaelic. “How many are there?”