“There is no one to rescue you!” he bellowed.
And the reply came as soft as ever. “Ruark is coming!”
Gaylord shook the rifle at her in rage. “If he is, then I will kill him!”
Her fear was almost overwhelming, and she spoke to keep her lips from trembling. “Have I told you, sir, that he spent some time with the savages and learned their ways? He even won their respect. All of this when he was but a lad. Have I told you, sir, that he can pass through the forest like a shadow without stirring a leaf? Have I told you, sir, that he is a marksman? And when angered, he fights like a savage. Indeed, is a savage.” She gave a short laugh. “The pirates could well attest to that. They feared him, you know.”
From the corner of her eye, Shanna saw Gaylord glance back over his shoulder, and he scanned the trail ahead with a care unusual for one so bold.
“Have you ever thought, sir, how one man against so many could bring all of us out unscathed from the pirate’s isle?”
They passed a high spot where the trail dipped down into the valley, and Gaylord halted his abbreviated column to scan the path behind them again. Shanna cocked her head to one side as if listening carefully, and suddenly the assurance she had given tongue to was oddly heavy within her. Sir Gaylord was watching her with angry suspicion on his face. She straightened and met his gaze squarely, nodding ever so slightly.
“Aye, Ruark is coming.”
Her words were little more than a whisper, but they seemed to enrage the knight. With a snarl he jerked the rope, making the mare prance. Shanna fought to keep her seat and frantically clutched the handful of mane, just as they charged full tilt down into the valley. They rounded the last bend, leaving black slashes where the racing hooves tore the soft moss to shreds. Gaylord hauled the mounts to a skidding halt before the cabin, gritting his teeth in pain as the mare half stumbled. He calmed the steeds and stepped down from his own, tying the mare to the hitching rail and flexing his shoulder as if he knew a persistent ache in it. He took the bags from behind Shanna, and unlatching the cabin door, threw them within. He returned, stretching his muscles, and walked about a bit, seeking his own ease before seeing to Shanna’s. When it finally met his whim, he came to her. He untied one of her feet then went between the horses to loosen her other. He took some time with this task, and his long fingers unduly caressed her slim ankles and were wont to venture needlessly up her leg. Shanna held her breath, fearing he might discover the dagger.
Suddenly a rattle of hooves at the mouth of the valley drew their attention. For a moment the gray flank of the horse and the dark brown of its rider were visible through the trees. Shanna’s spirit thrilled with the sight, and briefly her eyes blurred with joyful tears, but she sobered as Gaylord snatched up the rifle. Chuckling to himself, he pulled back the heavy hammer and steadied the piece across the saddle of his mount, drawing a careful bead where the trail made its final curve.
It was another of his many mistakes that Gaylord turned his back on Shanna. As the hooves thundered near the curve, she raised her foot and struck the mare’s outward side with all her strength. With a sharp whinny Jezebel leapt away from the blow, and her movement caught Gaylord between the mounts, crushing the breath from him. The rifle shot upward like a misdirected arrow and sailed in a neat arc into the brush just as Ruark came racing around the bend on Attila’s back.
The mare caught a blow with a sharp elbow in the ribs and pranced away, leaving Gaylord to stumble out from between the two horses, gasping for breath. He looked up to see a huge gray stallion, eyes red, nostrils flared, ears laid back upon his head, charging straight for him, and a man crouching on the heaving shoulders like an avenging spirit.
Gaylord forgot the rifle as a chill went up his spine. Snatching Shanna roughly from the mare’s back, he dragged her to the cabin and shoved her through the door. With arms still bound, she stumbled across the dirt floor and sprawled upon the bed. Stepping in, Gaylord slammed the door and was reaching for the heavy bar when the whole of it, hinges, hasp, and all, was torn loose and crashed in upon him.
Ruark had launched himself from the gray’s back feet first, all the speed of the charge behind him. His legs were half numbed by the blow, but he rolled on a shoulder and came to his feet ready to fight.
“Come on, bastard,” he growled. “If you want my wife, you’ll have to kill me with your bare hands! No burning stable this time.”
Gaylord was no small man, and now the heat of the battle was upon him. He flung the stout door off himself and lunged to his feet, pawing for the pistols which were no longer in his belt but lay, instead, outside, beneath the horse’s hooves. The knight had only time enough to realize his loss before Ruark attacked. A howl of rage broke from Gaylord’s lips to answer the snarl of Ruark. At last, Billingsham could openly battle this bondsman who had plagued him from the first. With a thud, the two men met chest to chest, and their arms locked in a test of sheer strength.