Page 127

A woman dressed in heavy mail was standing where the weary Four Crosses knight had once stood.

She wasn’t particularly short, or even tall, but somewhere in between.

She had dark hair, dark like a raven’s wing, pulled into a sloppy braid that draped over one shoulder and tangled with her mail coat.

Dressed as a warrior, she was heavily armed with weapons that had seen some use, but her face… .

Frankly, Jamison wasn’t quite over staring at that part of her.

Through the grime and rain and frowning expression, the woman’s face could only be described as exquisite.

Angelic. In fact, it was quite surprising and Jamison struggled not to come across looking too confused or too besotted with a woman who was looking at him angrily.

He shook off whatever spell that lovely face had cast over him, bracing himself against the iron portcullis.

“I was having a conversation with the knight,” he told her. “Does the man need a woman tae do his talking for him?”

The soldiers standing around the woman, including the knight, grumbled and shifted, unhappy with the insult. The woman, however, simply lifted her chin at him, cocking a well-shaped eyebrow.

“You will speak to me,” she said. “This is my castle. You heard St. Clare– we will only open these portcullises if de Lohr tells us to. We take no orders from a Gael.”

There was that word again. Jamison didn’t like it at all.

What he did like, however, was the way the woman’s mouth worked and the deep, honeyed voice that poured forth with her lush lips opened.

But he didn’t like those attributes enough to tolerate her insult.

In fact, he had little tolerance for women who did not know their place in the world.

“Then ye’re a truly stupid lot and ye deserve tae have the Welsh overrun ye,” he said, giving the woman a rather condescending look before turning his head. “I will tell me men tae returned tae Lioncross. Ye dunna deserve our protection.”

He turned away completely but didn’t move away from the portcullis he was leaning against. He wanted them to see the orders as he gave them to his men, bellowing to them to take their weapons and retreat to the base camp to the east. His men heard the orders and, confused, began to move away from the gatehouse as he had instructed.

Clearly, however, they were puzzled and their movements reflected that.

When Jamison was sure his men were heading away, glaring at them when they didn’t move fast enough, he turned back to the woman and her soldiers hovering on the other side of the second portcullis.

The expressions facing him were considerably less hostile at the thought of the de Lohr army actually leaving. Now, the mood was shifting.

“I wish ye good fortune against the Welsh who, even now, are bringing ladders tae mount the walls,” Jamison said rather casually.

“They’ve brought in reinforcements since yesterday so very soon ye’ll have a fresh horde of hungry Welshmen climbing the walls and killing everything that moves.

If they dunna kill ye, then ye’ll wish they had.

They’ve got a man among them that has battle tactics and skill, and that means they’ll take their pleasure making ye suffer.

So if ye wunna let me and me men in tae help ye fend them off, then ye can face them alone. ”

The woman was listening to every word he said, her features flushing angrily the more he spoke. By the time he was finished, she grabbed on to the iron portcullis and shoved her face between the bars.

“I would rather take my chances against them than let a barbarian like you into my fortress,” she snarled.

“You sound like an animal in your foolish manner of speaking. How do I know that you were even sent by de Lohr? How do I know you are not working with the Welsh? They are barbarians just like you are!”

Jamison smiled thinly. “I hope yer fire holds out the first time a Welshman runs his hand up yer shift.”

She spoke through clenched teeth. “I will cut his hand off if he tries.”

“There may be many hands running up yer shift. Best of luck when that happens, General.”

“You do not know me very well.”

“And I dunna care tae,” he snapped softly. “Ye’d do yer men a favor if ye went inside and scrubbed a floor or two. Leave the fighting tae those who will actually do some good. Clearly, ye dunna have a head for battle because yer decision-making is flawed.”

Her lovely face flushed a dull, nasty shade of red.

Jamison stood there, waiting for the next volley of insults, when she suddenly began yelling at the men in the gatehouse to raise the portcullises.

It was a surprising move and Jamison was rather pleased that his insults had beaten her down to the point where she had obeyed her wishes.

Feeling rather superior, he smirked at the woman as if to punctuate his victory.

She glared in return.

The portcullises began to grind open, chains groaning under the substantial weight.

Jamison was in the process of calling his men back to the walls when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

By the time he turned around, he caught the glint of a blade and something moving very quickly down near the ground.

It took him a moment to realize the woman had slid underneath the lifting portcullises and was very close to him with a sword in her hand.

He barely had a chance to jump back as she took a very swift strike at his head.

Jamison couldn’t believe it. She’d actually come quite close to his face with the swing of that blade and he instantly unsheathed his broadsword, a weapon that was far bigger than hers.

But she was fast, this one, and she was angry, which made her both determined and slightly reckless.

As the de Lohr troops watched with some amusement and, truthfully, some horror, the woman charged Jamison with her small but well-made sword.

When he lifted his weapon to fend off her attack, she fell to her knees, sliding in the mud with her momentum, and brought her sword up underneath him.

Only Jamison’s lightning-fast reflexes prevented her from making contact with his ankles.

It was actually an impressive tactic; she had been aiming for his Achilles’ heel.

When Jamison realized that she was genuinely trying to hurt him, he took the offensive.

He had little choice unless he was prepared to willingly submit to her aggression.

The woman was just regaining her feet as he came down upon her, hard, in a broadsword stroke that would have been difficult for a strong man to handle much less a woman.

She lifted her sword, preventing he blow from cutting through her midsection, but the power behind the strike was much more forceful than anything she had ever experienced.

The blow sent her onto her back and she had to roll out of the way, quick as a flash, to prevent him from seriously injuring her when he brought down a second strike.

Unfortunately for the woman, Jamison didn’t give her time to recover.

If she was going to try to hurt him, then he was going to disable her before she had the chance.

So he went after her in full battle mode, preventing her from gaining her footing, watching her as she rolled and crawled through the mud, now struggling to avoid his blade.

But avoid she did, at least for a few minutes as he clearly tried to kill her, but that grace period soon ended.

At one point, the woman’s hair became untangled from her mail and as she tried to get away from Jamison, her braid dragged in the mud.

Jamison seized on the opportunity and stepped on her hair, bringing her to an instant halt as she screamed in pain.

Reaching down a massive hand, he grabbed her by the hair on her scalp, yanking her head back as he brought the sword down, aiming it right for her neck.

He stopped short of cutting her head off, however, as the blade rested on her pale, dirty skin.

The fight was over as swiftly as it had begun.

Jamison stared down into her face, seeing that her eyes were a deep shade of green, with long dark lashes all around.

Her beauty was without compare but he refused to think such thoughts of this woman who had tried to hurt him.

He glared at her, his jaw flexing furiously.

“Now,” he growled, “ye attacked me and failed. Tell me why I shouldna end yer life right now.”

The woman was breathing heavily but, to her credit, there was no fear in her eyes. She gazed back at him with defiance. “I cannot give you a reason,” she said, her voice hoarse because he had her head pulled back so far and there was a strain on her neck. “Do as you must.”

Jamison didn’t want to kill her; he really didn’t. He was just trying to scare her because she had been bold and reckless. But he was coming to think that she couldn’t be scared. He could see it in her expression, in everything about her. She was brave, this one. A seedling of respect grew.

“Do ye want tae die, then?” he asked.

Something in her eyes flickered, a whisper of fear, perhaps. “Of course not,” she said. “But I lost the fight. It is your right to do to me as you will.”

His red eyebrows drew together; he couldn’t help it. “How would ye know about the rules of engagement?” he asked. “Moreover, why do ye dress as a warrior? Does yer husband allow such things?”

She swallowed, hard. “I am not married.”

“Then yer father allows this?”

She didn’t respond right away, trying to lower her gaze but unable to for the way he was holding her. “My father has no say in what I do,” she said. “This is my home. I defend it as necessary, any way I deem necessary.”

Jamison was feeling some exasperation. “I told ye I am with de Lohr,” he said. “I am here tae help ye. Do ye not understand that, lass?”

Something in her eyes flared as she looked at him. “Do not call me a lass!”