The Laird's Captive Wife(11)
For the space of several heartbeats neither man moved. Then her captor laughed softly.
‘Well, well, I little thought to have the pleasure of meeting you again.’
‘Everything comes to him who waits,’ replied the other, ‘and I have waited long for this moment.’
Fitzurse bared his teeth in a mocking smile. ‘Ah, the aggrieved Scot. Not still smarting surely?’
‘’Tis you will smart, Fitzurse.’
‘No, I shall have your head on a spear.’
The laird lifted his sword. ‘This shall determine that.’ Then the dark gaze flicked to Ashlynn. ‘I see you’re still in the habit of carrying off defenceless women.’
Fitzurse glanced down at his captive and his smile widened. ‘Do you like her? I’ll give her to you—by way of recompense.’
As he spoke his hand pulled aside the torn edge of her gown to reveal what lay beneath, ignoring her efforts to prevent it. The laird’s dark gaze took in every intimate detail and lingered. In spite of the cold Ashlynn’s flesh burned. Crimson-cheeked, she glared at the man on the grey but still that impassive face gave nothing away. Eventually his attention returned to her captor and when he spoke his voice was perfectly level.
‘The only recompense I’ll accept this day, Fitzurse, is your head.’
‘Attack me and the girl dies.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied the other, ‘but then so will you.’
Ashlynn watched as the stranger brandished the great sword aloft. The blade glinted in the cold light. With hammering heart she saw him nudge the grey stallion into a walk. She expected Fitzurse to advance and meet it, and could only pray that death would be swift when it came. However, instead of advancing, her captor reined back some ten yards and brought his horse parallel to the stream hard by. Swollen with rain and snow the stream was wide and twice its usual depth, the current swift and strong. Feeling his hold alter, Ashlynn’s eyes widened as an unpleasant implication dawned. Surely he would not…The thought ended on a shriek as he lifted her clear of the saddle and flung her into the swirling water.
Fitzurse called to his opponent. ‘If you want her, McAlpin, you’ll have to pull her out.’
Stopped in his tracks for a moment the Scottish laird swore softly, his hand clenched round the hilt of the sword. The other held in the curvetting stallion. He glanced once toward the stream, saw the woman catch hold of an overhanging branch and smiled grimly. Then he spurred forward to meet his enemy.
* * *
Ashlynn surfaced with a choking gasp for the shock of the icy water drove all the breath from her body. Dragged along with the powerful current she fought instinctively to keep her head above water. It was instinct too that made her grab for the overhanging branch. It arrested her progress but the water dragged relentlessly at her clothing and with each passing moment the cold sapped her strength. If she didn’t get out and soon, she was going to die. Somewhere in the background she heard the clash of swords. A frantic glance took in the fighting figures on the bank. Her clutching hands inched along the branch. As she shifted her weight the wood cracked like a whip. Ashlynn screamed and fell back into the water. It swept her headlong on its course for another hundred yards before slamming her against a large rock. Her icy fingers clutched desperately at the slippery surface for the force of the current threatened to sweep her away again at any moment. Mentally she wondered how long she could hold on. Another minute? Two? A voice inside her head said it didn’t matter. If she did not drown the cold would kill her and then it would all be over. She closed her eyes.
* * *
The exchange of blows was fierce and evenly matched at first with neither man gaining the advantage until the Scot’s blade cracked against his enemy’s head in a savage back-handed slash. Had it not been for the helm the blow would have severed the top of Fitzurse’s skull. The Norman reeled in the saddle, temporarily stunned. Iain wheeled the grey round to go in for the kill. Then, from somewhere behind him, he heard the woman scream. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder to where she had been. The branch was gone and she too. He frowned. That moment’s diversion proved expensive for when he looked back Fitzurse was bent low on his horse’s neck, spurring away through the trees. A hundred yards away three other riders in helmet and mail appeared. Seeing Fitzurse they reined in and waited. As soon as he had joined them, all four rode away at a gallop. The Scot glared after them then back at the stream. Just then the woman screamed again and, hearing it, he swore fluently.
* * *
Ashlynn could no longer feel her hands, only the drag of the water against her body. Soon she would have to let go and it would take her. Then, through the numbing cold, a voice penetrated her consciousness.