Page 52 of A Promise of Love

“Is rape the only way a woman will willingly allow you to grow close ?”

"You've grown brave, Judith. I admire your spirit; it will make the game so much more refreshing ."

“And you’ve grown coward, Bennett, hiding behind your uniform .”

With his entourage milling around him, perhaps she should have been more cautious about her words.

Yes, they had strength in numbers. Yes, there was only her, and one aged Scot who would have roared in protest at that appellation.

Yet, Judith knew something they did not.

She had absolutely no intention of repeating the past .

She would gladly die first .

Bennett waved his companions away, and only his coarse words to the group convinced them that he was adequate to handle one old man and one slightly used whore .

He had plans for Judith. Plans that did not require witnesses. And, if the old man had to die first - so be it. What was one more Scot? Bennett Henderson had no intention of letting his former sister-in-law leave Scotland alive .

He had relished his plans for so long now that he almost gloatingly took in every detail of her appearance, almost ghostly in the pale moonlight.

She was prettier now than she had been in London, more fully fleshed.

Would she feel the same? Would her satin skin still feel as good?

Would her screams still excite him as they had before?

He intended to find out and then once he had pleasured himself in her body one more time, he would kill her slowly.

As slowly as his brother must have died, in as much agony .

Malcolm sidled up to Judith, his horse shouldering her mare aside. He had enough of this foolishness. If they were to be arrested, let Henderson try. If it was other sport he was after - again, let him try .

He peered at Judith through the shadows, at her pale face, the only part of her visible above her black dress. She turned, watched him wiggle his eyebrows at her and then motion down to her boot with a point of his angular nose .

She understood. A weapon would at least even the odds .

Bennett's saber sliced through the air, as if cutting away a portion of the night, surprising Judith almost as much as the sudden, fierce pain shocked Malcolm.

He pressed his hand over the wound in his shoulder, staring at the Sassenach who had drawn first blood without warning.

He spurred his horse around the mare, leaving Judith free to escape.

But, she had no intention of leaving Malcolm .

An ungodly howl punctuated the silence as Malcolm launched himself at Bennett, screaming and shouting as his dirk slashed through the air with maniacal fervor.

The battle cry of the MacLeod's had last been heard at Culloden, multiplied five hundred times, but the sound uttered by one old and angry man was enough to raise the hair on the back of Judith's neck .

Judith eased her hand down to the side of her boot, gripped the dagger with a suddenly sweaty hand. Its sharp edge cut into her skin, the dots of blood shining wet and black. She rubbed the side of her hand against her skirt .

Malcolm was no match for Bennett's youth, or the reach of the saber.

Bennett slashed again and a long line of red appeared on the side of Malcolm's face.

He roared, and leaned to the side, plunging his dirk wildly into the darkness.

He was reaching to stab again when Bennett's saber flashed one more time, almost contemptuously cutting off the old man's ear, severing it from his head .

Judith did the only thing she could think of, reasoning in that split second of time left her that the stallion's pain was a small price to pay for Malcolm's survival and her freedom .

She grasped the dirk Malcolm had slipped her, closed her eyes tight, and with both hands, plunged it hilt deep into the rump of Bennett's horse.

The stallion screamed in agony, pawed the air, and not even Bennett's centaur-like grace could control him.

Bennett slid from the saddle with an unearthly elegance, rolling when he hit the ground and easily eluding Malcolm's thrown dagger .

He was not fast enough, however, to escape the killing hoofs of the pain maddened stallion.

The horse reared, an unearthly silhouette against a moonlit night, a demon of fury and agony.

Judith would be able to remember the sounds of that night for years to come - Bennett's screams and an animal's shrieking terror.

Was it hours or only minutes until the frenzied horse finally raced, riderless, over the moor, spooked and wild-eyed by the scent of the blood spattered from his hooves to braided mane .

Malcolm dismounted heavily, looked down at the injured Englishman and then back up at Judith, still seated on her mare .

"Come here, Judith," he said, in a soft tone, unlike any she'd heard Malcolm use. He had to coax her twice more before she tremblingly obeyed, sliding from the sway backed mare and resting against her side for a moment until her legs stopped shaking and she could support her own weight .

He pulled her down by one arm until she nearly toppled on the Bennett’s inert body. His chest was crushed, the stallions' well shod hooves had done their work well. Malcolm raised Bennett's head. A bloody froth oozed from the corners of his mouth, his eyes were glazed .

"This mon had done ye grief, lass," Malcolm said gently, beckoning her closer with one bloody hand. "Ye need to help him die ."

He held out his dagger, the handle coated with blood - his or Bennett’s? In the moonlight, the blood appeared shiny and black .

Judith took it, wiped the handle clean, held it tightly gripped in a trembling hand. How many times had she wanted to kill Bennett? How many times had she felt powerless, helpless, the victim? How many nights had she prayed for just such an opportunity, for just such a moment ?

Malcolm shook the dying man until his eyes opened in protest or sudden awareness. Judith forced herself to look into Bennett's eyes .

There was death here; she could hasten its coming. With one short stroke she could kill, send this demon back to his hell. For all the nights of agony, she could repay him, for every bruise on her soul she could be avenged, for every moment she’d been degraded, she could force him to atone .

At what price to her already damaged soul ?

Her hand would not move forward, her arm was frozen into place, her eyes remained as fixed and staring on Bennett as if she, herself, were close to a corpse.

Malcolm said nothing, watching her with hooded eyes.

Still, she didn’t move, not even when Malcolm shook the dying man again.

A glimmer of recognition was all she saw before it faded and Bennett slumped against Malcolm's hold .

For a long moment, she did nothing. Then, slowly, she stood, holding out the dagger to Malcolm, who replaced his dirk in his boot.

Judith stripped a length of material from her one remaining dress, helped bind Malcolm’s wound, tenderly wiping the blood from his face.

All of this was accomplished in the most perfect of silences, as if the sound of the blood leaving Bennett’s body was not an accompaniment to the moonlit night .

When she finished binding Malcolm’s wound, Judith began to cry. Tears flowed down her face unchecked, and it was only then that the old Scot opened his arms to her. She grasped his coat, buried her face against his bloody shirt, and wept .

Malcolm wavered between unconsciousness and a pain filled observation that his judgment wasn't wrong after all .

He had thought she had promise .