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16: HIS AVENGING ANGEL

MACKAY CURSED BEFORE rolling to his feet with breathtaking speed.

An instant later, he’d drawn his dirk and moved forward to face their attackers.

“Get to the horse, Davina, and ride!”

Davina scrambled to her feet, her legs tangling in her skirts as she did so.

She didn’t bother to pick up the remnants of their meal, or the skin of ale.

Instead, she backed off toward where the gelding stood.

Moments earlier, the horse had been cropping at grass, but when the men had exploded from the trees, the beast startled.

It snorted nervously as Davina approached.

Meanwhile, Mackay had engaged the warriors.

“Did ye think we’d let ye get away with interfering in the king’s business?” One warrior, the biggest of the three, with a bandaged arm, shouted.

Mackay didn’t answer.

It was a rhetorical question.

“Ye helped a Douglas … and that makes ye a traitor to the crown,” another warrior roared.

Davina’s heart lurched into her throat.

Three against one. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight.

He’d ordered her to ride, but she couldn’t let him face them on his own, couldn’t just ride off and let them butcher him.

Nonetheless, the man knew how to handle himself in a fight.

Once, during the noon meal at Kilchurn, she’d heard her father boasting about how well his new captain wielded a blade.

Davina had only half-listened, for she’d been too unhappy to focus on her father’s words.

However, watching him now, it seemed he was right.

Lennox Mackay was fast and deadly.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t show any fear of the slashing dirk-blades.

One warrior cut him across the arm, yet he dove under his guard and drove his dirk between the man’s ribs, shoving him into the path of his companions.

The man’s agonized cry echoed across the wooded valley, and he crumpled.

But the others kept coming.

Jaw clenched, Davina looked frantically around her for a weapon.

As a lass, her father had taught her how to defend herself and how to hunt.

She wasn’t bad with a knife, but she was better with a bow and arrow.

She was out of practice though—it had been years.

Reaching the nervous horse, she quietened the beast with a murmured word and a soothing stroke to its neck.

She then grabbed Mackay’s bow and quiver from where he’d strapped them to the back of the saddle.

Her hands fumbled as she slung the quiver over her shoulder and grabbed an arrow.

Curse it, she was so nervous she wouldn’t be able to shoot straight.

Her gaze cut to where Mackay was circling his two remaining adversaries.

The big one was hunched over, his face scrunched up in pain.

Mackay had clearly managed to wound him.

Yet the man’s gaze blazed with fury.

Notching her arrow, Davina moved into position and drew the bowstring taut, sighting her quarry.

And curse it again, they were too close to Mackay at present, dirk-blades flashing in the noon sun.

If she tried to shoot one of them, she risked sticking him instead.

None of them had noticed her standing there.

In a knife fight like this, it was too dangerous to look away, even for an instant.

The arrow trembled as Davina waited.

Her arms weren’t strong enough to hold this position for long.

All the same, she wasn’t getting up on that horse and galloping to safety.

She wasn’t leaving Mackay on his own.

He fought with breathtaking skill, yet it was clear the two he dueled with were also seasoned warriors.

All three of them were moving dizzyingly fast, ignoring the prostrate figure of the man on the ground.

“Wait, lass,” Davina whispered, trying to ignore the thunder of her pulse in her ears and the sweat that now trickled down her back.

“They’ll circle each other again soon.”

She’d watched her father’s warriors spar enough times to know how fights played out.

It was like observing a treacherous dance.

And when her father and Blair had fought with dirks, they’d attacked in bursts before circling each other once more, waiting for their next chance.

The warriors drew apart, their breathing coming in rasping pants now.

All three—including Mackay—were bleeding, but now there was space between them.

Davina sighted the big warrior, the most threatening of them all, and loosed her arrow.

Thud.

It hit him in the hollow of the neck.

The Stewart warrior reeled back, his dirk slipping from his fingers as he clutched at the arrow.

But Mackay had already turned his attention from him.

The last of his attackers had been distracted for an instant, and Mackay dived at the man, slamming his blade up through the underside of his jaw.

The warrior collapsed like a sack of barley.

Mackay swiveled back to the warrior Davina had shot.

He lay on his back now, his breath a wheezing death rattle as he stared up at the sky.

Moments slid by, and then he, like the two others sprawled on the ground nearby, went limp.

Only then did Lennox Mackay turn his attention to Davina.

Breathing hard, his gaze slid over to where she stood, a new arrow readied to fire.

His eyes widened. “I thought I told ye to take my horse and ride,” he panted.

Davina inclined her head, managing a tight smile despite her galloping heart.

“Aye,” she gasped, almost as breathless as he was.

“It’s just as well I never do as I’m told.”

They dragged the corpses of the three Stewarts into the trees, covering them with foliage so they wouldn’t be seen from the road.

In a day or two, they’d start to stink, but by then, Lennox and Davina would be far away.

Returning to where Davina stood next to their skittish gelding, Lennox’s gaze lingered on her.

She wasn’t looking at him; she was too busy soothing the nervous horse.

The beast could smell blood and had witnessed the short yet brutal fight.

Its nostrils were flared, and it carried its head unnaturally high as if it wished to kick up its heels and bolt at any moment.

Wary, Lennox slowed his gait.

Of course, the blood of the men he’d fought was on him.

He didn’t want the gelding to take off, leaving them to walk the rest of the way to Dun Ugadale.

However, Davina appeared to be doing a fine job of calming the beast. She murmured soft words and gently stroked its trembling neck.

Her crooning tone and the tenderness in her voice made him slow his pace further, and his breathing grew shallow.

His gaze shifted from the horse then, taking her in once more.

The forest-green kirtle and matching cloak she wore were both travel-stained, and locks of raven hair had come loose from her tight braid, framing her lovely face.

Lennox’s heart kicked against his ribcage.

How had he not found her enchanting at Kilchurn?

How had he spent mealtimes in her company without staring at her like a mooncalf?

Davina Campbell was an angel— his avenging angel.

She’d been brave. Her aim had been excellent and deadly, and the truth be known, he’d needed her assistance.

As good as he was with a knife, his adversaries were equally skilled.

Aye, she was as slender as a willow branch, yet her determination and strength belied her fragile appearance.

She could be cold and haughty one moment, and emotional and passionate the next.

Everything about her was a contradiction.

Lennox had never met a woman like her, and he doubted he would again.

“Ye have soothed our mount well, I see,” he said, reaching her side.

Indeed, the gelding had now lowered its head, huffing gently when Lennox patted its neck.

Davina glanced up, flashing Lennox a smile that made his already hammering pulse quicken further.

“Aye, it feels good to be a help rather than a hindrance, for once,” she admitted.

“I do believe our steed is ready to bear us south once more.”