Page 38

Chapter

Thirty-Three

Grahame

H e’d known as soon as he was shoved outside what was to happen.

Galan had delivered a few good punches. Grahame had given it back as good as he got.

Then three of Eadric’s men surrounded him with their boots.

Pain rained upon him. After their toying, they let Grahame stand, though that wasn’t exactly the word for it.

He hugged his middle with one arm, bent over like an old man as he tried to focus on the man in front of him rather than all the broken, bleeding pieces his skin kept together.

One of his eyes was so swollen shut he didn’t think he’d ever see out of it again.

No matter; he wasn’t going to make it out of the fight alive.

Galan stood across from him with a cut lip.

He bobbed back and forth, fists up, a satisfied smirk on his ugly face.

Grahame was no fighter. Even with the training Ridley had given everyone in Hyrstow, there was no way Grahame could single-handedly beat the four men that surrounded him.

The only thing he was glad for was Adara being gone.

She wouldn’t have to see him executed. Wouldn’t see him be picked apart by wolves.

She’d be devastated but would get through it, revenge her weapon as she took whatever her father and that bastard Galen meted out.

She would survive. Grahame had never been so thankful for a wife that could be fueled by rage.

“I’m going to enjoy taking that bitch of yours. Show her what a real man is,” Galan snarled.

He moved to the left. Grahame tried to dodge, but it turned out to be a feint. A fist plowed into Grahame’s middle, striking the air from him.

“You’d better or else,” Grahame gasped, as the man kicked at his foot. At least he had the mind to sidestep despite being doubled over. “She’ll carve your heart out and eat it if you touch her.”

“Speaking from experience, eh?” came a shout in the distance.

Raucous laughter laid atop his foggy mind.

Grahame fisted his hands, blinking his good eye against the sun that shone high behind his attacker.

Too bright. The man struck with something sharp this time, carving into the meat of his shoulder.

The flare of pain hollowed him out, creating a line of fire along the muscle. He only had the wherewithal to grimace.

“My lady is going to gut you,” Grahame said, fixing his good eye on Galan.

He hoped they’d have the decency to throw him in a ditch far away or bury him where Adara wouldn’t find him. She didn’t deserve to see him broken and picked apart by these savages.

Behind Galan, a loud shuffling distracted Grahame for a precious moment. A sunbeam glinted off Galan’s upraised blade while a feminine scream of “no!” rocked into Grahame.

Adara.

The Brit hesitated for a heartbeat, turning to find the source of the shout. Abject terror sliced into Grahame. Adara couldn’t be there. He forced himself to stand taller, holding his bleeding arm tight against him.

Before he could run at Galan she was there, swinging an ax into his thigh.

Galan bellowed as the thick blade sank through the meat.

Like blank-eyed sheep, the men stared at her in shock.

Adara did not stop. As Galan’s hands went to the wound, she yanked the ax back, then threw a knife into his belly.

She whirled, her hair a curtain of black death as she positioned herself in front of Grahame, ax dripping, at the ready.

Grahame thanked all that was holy that he had the sense to turn so they were back to back.

He had no weapon though, with Adara in the fray, he felt as if he could rip the men surrounding them apart with his bare hands.

“I am Lady of this house. You will back down,” Adara said in that voice made of steel.

Grahame wished he could kiss her for it. Instead, he had to work at forcing down his rising panic that she was in mortal danger. He bared his teeth at the two men he faced. Both wore the emblem of the earl, both appeared uncertain as to whether their task included harming the earl’s daughter.

“Move.”

Adara’s word held such power. Such command.

The men blinked. They looked beyond Grahame, what he assumed was past Adara.

Grahame did not dare take his eyes from them lest they attack, but he had a feeling they gazed at the body of Galan behind them.

Galan groaned. The sound of him moving in the dirt echoed among heavy breaths.

Adara moved away from Grahame’s back. The loss of her made him want to shout.

He knew it was a danger but had to hazard a glance over his shoulder to ensure she was alright.

She held her ax at the men while she bent to retrieve the knife.

She wrenched the handle free from Galan’s middle, wringing out a scream of pain.

The others’ mouths curled upward in distaste.

“Move aside,” Adara repeated.

She passed the ax behind her into Grahame’s awaiting hand. He almost dropped it as he took the full weight in his right, unable to fully grab it with his left. Blood coursed down his shoulder with the movement.

“We can overlook this slight, Lady, but we cannot let you go,” one said, hand going to the weapon on his belt.

Grahame fought down a wave of nausea as he hefted the ax, his training with Ridley settling in. He clenched his teeth and widened his stance, glaring at the men before him.

They were surrounded. And, while Grahame would fight to the death to ensure Adara’s safety, he knew she would spill the blood of every man before surrendering. Utter fear for her struck him, as sharp as any blade. Eadric’s men advanced.

“Adara!” A woman’s voice broke through the din.

The threat of hooves and a male shout echoed through the yard.

A horse broke through the men, Muretta atop, wild hair a blonde cloud.

Sitting behind her, Hagan swung a heavy sword in a great arc, causing the men to scatter.

On another mount, Thor shouted, Bhlaine hanging onto his waist for dear life.

In one of his hands was a rope leading Ulrich.

“Back!” Thor thundered again, swinging his weapon. He yanked his horse’s reins so it turned in front of Grahame, bringing Ulrich before Adara, boxing her in.

Pain shot through Grahame’s leg as he stepped forward. Adara ran at the horse until she realized Grahame had gone down to one knee behind her.

“Go,” Grahame shouted, swinging the ax haphazardly to stave off the approaching men.

Of course, she didn’t listen. Nearly tripping, she surged toward him. The look of pure panic on her face must have mirrored his own.

“Get out of here,” he commanded.

Adara’s arm slipped around his waist, hauling his injured arm over her shoulders. “I will not leave you.”

He wanted to wring her neck and kiss her all at once.

Together, they stumbled to the horse while Hagan and Thor jabbed with their weapons. It would not be long before the commotion brought the entire house down on them.

At Ulrich’s side, Grahame clenched his teeth as he used all his strength to hoist Adara up first. Once saddled, she grabbed for him, her fingers digging into the back of his tunic to drag him up behind her. The weight and twisting caused his throbbing arm to scream.

“Go!” he shouted as he wedged himself behind her, layering his body against hers to fight the sense of dizziness that would unhorse him if he didn’t hold onto something. He could take a few arrows in the back for her if it came to that, at least.

Somehow, the rear gate lay open. With a grunt, Adara reined the horse ahead, dashing through.

A clash of metal rang behind them while a grunt of pain cut the air.

Grahame was too stiff, too reliant on Adara’s body holding him up to twist in his seat to see who’d fallen.

Instead, he let the ax hang in his left hand while he wrapped his right around his wife’s middle, pressing his nose to her flying curtain of midnight hair.

They rode. Over path, field, through tall grasses leading to a copse of trees nearer the river.

Grahame remained tense the entire time, trying to make his body larger to cover Adara’s back lest the earl’s men catch up with them.

Pain lanced into his sides with every gallop.

The only comfort was Adara’s body in front of him. That she was safe, that she was whole.

“Guston,” Hagan said, his sword sheathed now that he’d taken the reins, his huge arms encasing Muretta.

For once, the woman had nothing to say. She simply stared at the six of them, her face pale. Everyone’s foreheads were slicked with sweat, deep breaths sawing in and out of them.

Adara was already shaking her head. “Hyrstow.”

Hagan set his jaw as if holding back words. The sun was a curtain of gold in the sky. They had a couple hours of daylight. Grahame strained to listen for the beat of hooves on the breeze. He wished for the cover of night.

“They’ll kill us just as easily as your father’s men,” Thor said.

Bhlaine looked uncomfortable with his arms banded around the soldier’s waist. If Thor felt the same, he didn’t show it.

Grahame nodded, his cheek moving against the side of Adara’s head. She must’ve sheathed her knife because when she reached behind her to wrap her arm around his waist, her hand was empty.

“Hyrstow,” Grahame insisted, his voice thin. “It is farther, but Eadric will look to Guston for Adara first.”

Thor hefted a breath, his eyes searching through the trees that held them. Finally, Hagan spoke.

“Aye. Follow Adara, then. She’s gotten away from me to travel to the Hyrstow forest too many times to count.”

Only Grahame appeared surprised by the statement as Adara moved to the front of the party, through the trees and down a shallow valley in the direction of his village.

The distinction struck him as odd as they galloped toward the looming forest. His village.

Not his home. His home had been overtaken by Eadric.

Then Adara glanced back at him, her grey eyes wild, as if fearful of what she’d find.

Whatever was written on his face didn’t seem to appease her.

No matter. As he hugged her tighter, their bodies jostling, Grahame realized he was home.

Wherever they went, Adara was his only home.