eyes. Most of them failed to keep their feet still, but they remained where they were and strained to watch what was happening below them.
Jemma turned and gasped. The sound of men clashing against men was horrific, far more so than any description might have prepared her for. She saw nothing noble about it, only the brutality. Most of the English failed to pull their swords. The Scots closed in on them with clubs, striking them off their horses. In the close quarter of the battle, the crude wooden weapons proved more effective than the swords hanging in their scabbards. Several of the English found themselves thrown by their frightened mounts. Men strained to stand beneath the weight of breastplate armor, some of them falling beneath the hooves of their own comrades’ horses. Screams filled the night, and it was impossible to tell whose cries came from which man because the fight was in such close quarters. Her mind tried to sort it all into understanding and had difficulty making sense of it.
But she did notice the lack of slaughter. Those clubs, although painful when they struck, did not spill enough blood to kill because they had been aimed at unseating the English. The Scots swung low, to catch the men below where their breastplates offered protection, knocking the English off their mounts like melons. She’d witnessed her brother teaching his younger charges just such a task and never understood how brutal it might be when employed. A shiver raced over her skin as she watched, too stunned to turn away.
The Scots herded their enemy into the center of them, riding around them to keep the fallen English contained. The youths behind her suddenly began to run after the horses that had left their English masters to the mercy of the Scots. The boys mounted and then began to tie the reins of the other horses together until they had a chain of riderless horses trailing behind them. They leaned over to catch the dragging reins but maintained their seat in the saddle using legs with an amazing amount of strength. Her eyes strayed back to the men who had rescued her; they were stronger still, hard men who appeared undefeatable in spite of their lack of armor.
“This is an act of war upon England,” roared the knight who had so recently tried to assault her. He’d been knocked to his knees.
“I’ll agree with ye there, man, but Scots who just committed the act of war.” The man talking was clearly the leader of the Celts. His voice was edged with solid authority, and his men became quiet while he spoke. He sat tall atop a huge stallion that was as black as midnight. His sword was held in a confident grip, but it was his expression that sent a shiver down her spine. Hard and edged with fury, he glared at his captives while pointing the deadly tip of his sword at their leader.
“This is Barras land and yer in Scotland, which makes ye the invaders.”
“We are sent on the king’s business to bring his son’s bride to where she can be raised well and protected.”
The Scots grumbled, their words muffled, but it was clear that they were not friendly. Their leader chuckled, drawing Jemma’s attention back to him.
“Ye’re here to try and steal my queen, man, and that is something that I’ll not be having.”
The English knight spat on the ground. “We will not be allowing you savages to raise the future queen of England. She will be raised away from the pope’s grasp.”
The amusement that had coated the Scotsman’s face faded until there wasn’t any hint left.
“Dinna call me a savage, man, no when I just had to stop ye from raping the first woman ye came across like some horde of bastards straight out of hell.” The sword point reflected the rising moonlight. “You’re on my land, and ye will nae be raping any woman here, be she peasant or noble.”
His land? Jemma stared at the Scot, shock holding her in its grasp. Laird Barras didn’t look at her, his attention directed at the English knight, but it felt like he was conscious of her. It was the oddest feeling, but she would have sworn that he was angry on her behalf.
“The bitch needs to be taught her place.”
“You English have no place calling us Scots savages. We do nae teach by using the back of our hands across a woman’s face.”
The English knight succeeded in rising to his feet. He sneered at Laird Barras. “You just want the bitch for yourself.”
“What I want is to run ye through and spare this world of having to tolerate ye. But I believe I’ll leave ye here to face her brother when he hears of what ye have been doing with his sister. From what I hear, Lord Ryppon is nae a man to be crossed.”
The English knights shifted, and many of them cursed. They looked as though they wanted to panic once more, but the Scots allowed them no space to escape through their ranks.
“She’s a lying whore.”
Laird Barras grinned. “Nae, man, she spoke the truth, and I would not care to be wearing yer boots when the sun rises. That’s the only reason I’m going to leave ye alive, to be eaten by one of yer own kind. I find that idea just a little bit more appealing than ridding my land of yer stench myself. But only a wee bit so if yer a smart man, ye’ll get off my land before I change me mind.”
He slid his sword back into the sheath strapped across his back. The movement highlighted arms thick with muscle. Lifting the sword above his head caused him no strain. One hand held the reins, and he wheeled the stallion around to face her. She felt his attention settle on her more than she saw it. The last of the sun was gone, night closing around them like a curtain. But she still witnessed the relief that passed over the Englishmen’s faces. They helped one another to their feet and looked at the Scot with relief shimmering in their eyes. Many of them crossed themselves with thanks because it was a relief they had not expected to feel. The reason was harsh—hatred. It radiated from the Celts who sat on their horses watching their leader. Allowing these Englishmen to live only meant that they might kill their relatives sometime in the days ahead. Armed Englishmen riding across Scottish land only meant one thing, and it had nothing to do with friendship.
As she had just learned. The English would use violence to gain what they wished without any remorse. She looked at the dirty plumes crowning the knight’s helmet and decided that they fit him well.
“If ye’ve any sense, ye’d start for the border before Ryppon discovers what ye were about with his sister.” Laird Barras leaned down over the neck of his horse. “And if I see ye again on my land, I’ll not leave ye drawing breath to test my goodwill again.”
His voice was hard as stone, leaving no doubt that he was a man who would not hesitate to kill. He looked every inch the warrior, but Jemma discovered herself grateful for his harshness, even drawing comfort from it. The man was saving her life and sparing her a painful death, too. The English didn’t wait but began walking toward England. It was humbling to set armored men on their way without their horses, but to return the animals would see the men becoming a force to be reckoned with once more. Laird Barras proved to be merciful by sparing their lives, but he was no fool.
He turned to look at her. The night sky was beginning to fill with tiny points of light, and that starshine cast him in white light, making him appear unearthly, like a god from legends past. A Norseman Viking who swept across the land, unstoppable because of his sheer brawn.
A ripple of sensation moved over her skin, awakening every inch of her flesh. It should have been impossible to be so aware of any single person’s stare, but she was of his. His stallion snorted and pawed at the ground a moment before he pressed his knees into the sides of the beast. Lament surged through her, thick and choking as she anticipated his leaving.
He pulled the stallion
