Aye, he looked thoroughly sotted with the shadows hiding any visible spots of blood oozing through the dark gambeson.
They had only two more towers to pass before the most treacherous part: the run back to the abandoned stone building. After that, their passage would be easy and quick. They would be back at Werrick Castle well before dawn broke.
They made their way to the final tower without issue. However, they were met with several voices, loud and raucous. The sounds of men who had been drinking heavily.
Ella pressed herself against the wall, with the rest of them doing likewise. But there would be no other way out but beyond the tower. Lark’s small chest rose and fell quickly with her rapid breath. Bronson put a hand to her shoulder and squeezed gently to convey that everything would be well.
One of the reivers spoke, something Bronson couldn’t understand. If he made it out of this bloody mess alive, he swore he would have Ella teach him Gaelic the first chance they got.
A man appeared suddenly, working at his hose beneath his filthy gambeson as he staggered. He propped himself on the wall beside Ella and a steady stream of liquid splashed against the stonework. Lark crushed closer against Bronson as Leila and Ella tried to edge away.
The man grunted and gave a little bounce as he tucked himself away. He pushed off the stone and staggered back several steps. That was when he looked up, and the bleariness in his eyes from drink cleared for one awful moment as he saw all four of them against the wall.
Before even a single dagger could be thrown, the drunkard charged forward to attack and cried out.
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Shouts of alarm came from nearby, followed by the hissing of blades being pulled from their sheaths. Bronson stood in front of Lark and ran the reiver through with his blade.
The other men all charged. Bronson tensed for battle. He and Ella had come too far to lose everything now.
“Use that dagger if you have to,” Bronson hissed through his teeth at Lark. “Better their life lost than yours.”
He did not see if she acknowledged his order, for the men attacked then. Six in all, four with swords, one with a mace, another with an axe. Bronson was at Ella’s side when their opponents first swung their weapons.
The reivers were sloppy in their attacks. The odor of alcohol clouded around them like a fog. Ella was able to easily take down the first two while Leila and Bronson each felled a reiver. Only two remained alive.
One darted off in the opposite direction. No doubt to notify someone of the attack. Ella sprinted after him, her axe poised to strike. The final man brought his blade down on Bronson, but he blocked it before it could hit. Bronson shoved his attacker back and thrust his sword into the man’s soft neck.
Ella hefted her axe and threw it at the one fleeing, the same as she had back at the tower. Her weapon hit its target perfectly and the reiver fell to the ground.
Bronson pulled his sword free and glanced at Leila and Lark. “Are either of you injured?”
“Nay,” Leila said. Lark simply shook her head, her gaze fixed on the reiver whose throat lay open and spurting with blood.
A man on the ground behind Leila moved, one they had assumed dead. He drew his arm back and something glinted in the moonlight. A dagger.
Bronson rushed into action, covering Leila with his body to prevent her from being struck. Pain lanced up his side as the weapon plunged into his torso.
Bronson groaned at the injury but turned his attention to the bastard who had just thrown the weapon. He lay still once more, a hilt jutting from his bloody chest. Neither Ella nor Leila stood beside the body.
It was Lark who knelt by him, frozen in horror.
“Lark,” Bronson said. Or rather, he meant to say. Her name came out in a low grunt.
“I had to,” she whispered. “I had to.” Her frightened stare fluttered around before settling on Bronson’s side. “You’re hurt.”
“’Tis nothing.” He looked down for the first time at his side where the dagger jutted from his body. There was a momentary disconnect with his person, as if the wounded torso he gazed down upon was not his own, but that of one belonging to someone else. The lightheadedness returned.
Rather than give into it, he gripped the hilt and yanked. Searing pain ripped through his side. Blood seeped from the wound, nearly invisible against his dark gambeson, save for the glistening wet that caught the moonlight.
“Bronson,” Ella gasped. Her battle axe was tucked in her hands once more, the blade bloody with the success of her chase.
“’Tis naught but a scratch,” he lied. “We need to go now.” He indicated the bodies on the ground.
Ella nodded tentatively, and together they ran the most treacherous part of their escape. Every step Bronson took, a fresh stab of agony gripped him.
He gritted his teeth through the pain, shoving his hand against the wound to staunch as much of the bleeding as he could, and tried to keep up with Ella and the girls.
He would not be the cause of them slowing. Step by step, he pushed through the awfulness of the pain. They were near the stone structure now. The horses would be within, ready to ride.
Bronson cringed at the thought of being on horseback—each gallop of hooves jarring his body would be more excruciating. He was falling behind. Going too slow. He hissed hard through his breathing and urged his heavy legs to keep pace. But his body was too weary to comply. A high bit of grass caught at his shoe and sent him staggering. His steps were too clumsy and the pain too intense.
God’s bones, so damn intense.
Spots of white winked in his vision and the lightheadedness returned with a vengeance. Bile rose in his throat and his mouth filled with saliva as though he was going to purge.
They were at the stone structure now. Someone was speaking, but he couldn’t concentrate enough to listen, not with the white-hot blaze at his side. He caught himself on the stone wall. It was firm beneath his grip, cold and rough on his palm.
But it was not enough.
The world tipped around him until the bright stars overhead tangled with the spots in his vision. They spun about together and left his mind reeling. He pressed his hand to his side, shoving at the wound with all the strength he could muster. The action felt like he was shoving fistfuls of coals into his body, but at least it would slow the bleeding.
Suddenly there was the sweet, wonderful scent of sunshine. And flowers. Of Ella. She was there over him, peering down and blocking out the light of the moon. Her hand was cool on his cheek.
“Bronson, can you hear me?” she asked.
He nodded.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. Her voice choked off, as though she meant to say more, but could not.
“We must leave,” he groaned. “Now.” He rolled to his good side to sit.
“Don’t.” Ella’s hand pressed to his chest. “Let Leila—”
“Now,” he ground out. “It’ll help no one if we’re all dead.” With that, he used the force of urgency in his own tone to lunge to his knees, and from there, to his feet.
“Stay on the horse with me,” he said in a low tone to Ella. If he began to fall, he knew she would be strong enough to hold him upright. He would not risk hurting one of the girls by dragging them down with him.
Ella flicked a glance behind them. The area was still empty. For now. It would not be for long. Not when the bodies were found, and surely that was only a matter of minutes. Bronson forced his body to move, walking toward the horses that were being held by Lark and Leila outside the stone building. Using the strength of his good side, he swung up onto Kipper’s back. The horse shifted beneath him and whinnied, but Ella spoke in hushed, soothing tones. Finally, the beast settled and the movement of protest ceased.
Those damn stars returned. Winking and blinking. Taunting Bronson toward falling once more. He squeezed his hands into fists and breathed through his nose, steadying himself. He would not fall.
Ella settled behind him as Leila and Lark climbed onto Bronson’s ho
rse. Frantic tension hung in the air, scrabbling at them all with maddening urgency. With a flick of the reins, the horses shot forward in a full gallop.
Bronson kept his hand firmly planted against his side and clenched his eyes shut against the pain. But no matter how hard he ground his teeth to allay the torment, the damn thing burned like a hot poker had been jabbed into him.
Ella’s arms tightened on either side of him. “We’ll stop soon.”
“Nay,” Bronson said firmly. He chanced a look back where the valley was beginning to disappear. Despite the full light of the moon, it was difficult to make out if the scenery was empty, or if the reivers were chasing them.
Either way, it was not worth the risk. He would have to wait until they were safe before they stopped, to know they weren’t being chased. For those reivers on their rugged little hobblers would easily catch them, and then they would surely all be dead.
They needed to stop, but they also needed to ride and the two warred in Ella’s mind as they rode onward, skirting the first village they saw. Her right sleeve was wet, presumably with Bronson’s blood. The low grunts he had issued from time to time had ceased and he swayed uneasily in front of her.
Ella steered Kipper in the direction of the forest. Periodic glances behind them confirmed they had not been chased, by some miracle. Still, she would not take any chances.
They slowed their horses as they entered the forest and went in deep, where they would not be seen. With Ella and Bronson both covered in blood, they would arouse suspicion regardless of who they might cross.
Ella pulled Kipper to a stop. “Hold tight to his mane.”
She guided Bronson’s hands to her horse’s black mane. His hands were purplish red with blood in the moonlight, but he gripped as she bade.
She slid from Kipper’s back and helped Bronson to the ground. Even with her assistance, he landed hard, wobbled, and started to pitch forward.
Ella caught him with the full weight of her body to keep from being knocked down herself. Carefully, she eased him to the ground as Leila knelt at his side.
“Is he going to die?” Lark whispered.
“I need his gambeson unfastened,” Leila said, then turned to Lark. “I won’t let that happen.”
Lark nodded.
“He will not die on my behalf.” Tears welled in Leila’s eyes.
Ella worked to unfasten his gambeson. It was then she understood why Leila had looked so guilty at the tower. She had foreseen what Bronson would most likely do. Of course, it would not have been the time to mention it, not when they needed to be positive in their hopes of escape, rather than dreading one of their own falling.
Except Ella’s fears were not so easily calmed as Lark’s. She had seen the look on Leila’s face then, and she saw the determination there now. It was not that she knew Bronson would not die, it was only that she would do all in her power to keep it from happening.
Ella pulled opened the gambeson and slid up Bronson’s shirt. His entire torso was stained with blood. Her heart sank deep into her stomach. Too much blood.
“Lark,” Bronson said. “We need to leave now. To go get her.”
His confusion rattled at Ella’s nerves. This was not normal for a man who always remembered every word of every conversation. “She’s here,” Ella said.
“Hold still.” Leila pressed her fingers against the wound.
“Have to save her—” He gave a groan of pain.
Lark sank to Bronson’s side and took his hand. “I’m here.”
“Lark.” His eyes closed. “Thanks be to God, you are safe.”
Ella stood over them all, helpless, as one girl comforted Bronson and another saw to his wounds. His skin was pale compared to that of his sister. Far too pale. And he’d lost far too much blood. Tension knotted at the back of her throat.
“I need fabric to bind the wound.” Leila pulled her dagger free even as she spoke and jerked it through the hem of her kirtle. “Help me lift him.”
Ella rushed to comply, eager to assist in any way. Bronson’s muscles flexed under her hands as he tried to lift his body. “I have you,” Ella said.
Leila moved quickly, her dexterity on the battlefield transferring perfectly to her healing, as she bound the wound. She pulled the fabric and tied it tightly. Bronson hissed out a hard breath that cut into Ella’s heart.
“To the horses now.” Leila looked solemnly up at Ella. “We must return to the castle as quickly as possible. Isla needs to see to him.”
Ella’s chest squeezed at the implication of what was not said. If they did not return soon—if he did not see a healer—Bronson would die.
Never again would she see that charming smile of his, laugh at his attempts at poetry or be held in the safety of his arms. She would never have the opportunity to accept the marriage she had pushed away for so long.
Now, as things were falling apart, she knew their union was exactly what she wanted.
Ella helped Bronson stand. “We need to get you on the horse, but I cannot do it alone.”
“’Tis fine, my beautiful Ella.” Bronson gave her a lopsided smile, weaker than usual. “I’m already feeling much better.”
Despite his brave words, his steps were slow and shuffling as they made their way to the horse. He pulled himself onto Kipper’s back with his good side, needing almost no assistance from her. His valiant effort lifted Ella’s spirits. Mayhap he would be fine.
Once more, they all mounted the horses and were again off, heading in the direction of Werrick Castle. They emerged from the forest and rode through the Scotland border. They were nearly to the English side when a shout pulled her attention to riders behind them. Riders who were traveling at great speed.
Ella’s heart lurched. Armstrongs?
“Faster,” Ella called to Leila, who snapped her reins in response.
Their horses pushed harder, but the riders were getting closer. It was a party of men, easily two dozen of them, all on hobblers, all wearing helms and gambesons.
The wind tore at Ella’s hair and stung her eyes, but she did not slow her pace. She kept her arms tucked snugly against Bronson’s sides, mindful of the wound on his right.
An arrow flew past Ella and landed in the ground in front of Kipper. An overshoot. And a definite confirmation that the men were indeed chasing them.
Ella cried out for them to go even faster. But even as they pushed their horses to the limit, the beasts were growing weary, and the reivers on their sure-footed hobblers gained.
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The English border was so close Ella could make out the familiar strip of land. Another arrow shot past, going wide as it landed somewhere to the side of them, nowhere near enough to hit.
But near enough to shoot. If they could shoot, they could easily cover the distance between them.
Kipper glided over the countryside, going as fast as he could. The thundering of hoofbeats prickled in Ella’s ears and dread streaked through her.
If she could hear the riders, surely, they were far too close.
A frantic glance over her shoulder confirmed the reivers were going even faster than Ella had initially feared. There would be no escaping the Armstrongs at this rate. They cared not about borders and laws. They would follow Ella and the others into England and exact their revenge for their fallen brethren.
Ella passed over the border into England. Into her country. Where they should have been safe. But true to her suspicions, the Armstrongs paid no mind to the shift in countries as they continued their pursuit.
Bronson began to slip to the right. Ella tightened her grasp, but the galloping was too much. Tears burned in her eyes. They couldn’t give up. Not when they were so close. She grasped the collar of his gambeson and tugged him upright. It was an awkward move, but she managed to seat him better on the saddle and get a stronger grip on him.
“Ye canna outrun us,” an Armstrong called in Gaelic.
The taunt slid down her spine and sent fear plummeting to her stomach. He was
right. They couldn’t outrun them. And soon their time would be up; the distance between them closed.
They couldn’t make it. Ella glanced back once more, only this time she didn’t check how far away they were. This time, she counted. Going from the idea of fleeing to the idea of battle.
She lost count somewhere around ten, unable to keep her head turned for longer than a second, with the jarring of Kipper’s gallop, and while holding Bronson. It didn’t matter. There were far too many of them to fight. She would, of course, as would Leila, but it would be an impossible battle to win.
Her heart slid low into her stomach. They would not survive this day.
Movement showed on the horizon. A lot of movement. Ella straightened in her saddle. Men. A whole army’s worth coming toward them. No doubt English.
Hope flickered to life within her once more. Mayhap all was not lost. There could be a chance to survive. Ella cried out to them. Lark and Leila did the same, waving their hands as best they could while remaining on their horse.
All at once, as though spurred by an unseen hand, the army raced toward them on a wave of horses. Tears blurred Ella’s vision for only a moment as relief crashed over her in the most visceral, overwhelming, wonderful way.
“I’ll get ye first.” A voice said, practically behind her.
Ella didn’t turn to look at the man. She simply rode and prayed the English could make it to them first. An Armstrong appeared to her right, large and with a face that looked like he’d had a fall or two in his life. He held his horse’s reins with one hand and swirled a mace with the other.
Ella edged Kipper away. He followed.
She couldn’t lift a blade to defend herself. Not when she had to hold Bronson upright. She would take the hit and hope she lived. Better that than to drop Bronson and leave him for certain death.
An arrow punched through the man’s chest. He jerked at the impact and fell behind. The arrow had a white fletching.
Ella's Desire (Borderland Ladies Book 3) Page 22