Cassian (The Immortal Highland Centurions #2) - Jayne Castel Page 0,71

Cassian was surrounded on all sides. He hissed as one of the English blades found its mark, cutting through his chainmail.

Aila’s knees threatened to buckle, a cry rising in her throat.

She knew he couldn’t die, but she didn’t want to see him cut to pieces in front of her either. Not only that, but he was the only thing standing between them and the English soldiers.

Heedless, Cassian fought on, savage now.

But it was hopeless. They all knew it.

Gavina screamed, and Aila twisted around to see that one of the soldiers had grabbed her. He had hold of Gavina’s hair and was dragging her away while she kicked and clawed at him.

Terror jolted through Aila.

He’s going to rape her! I have to do something.

The knife didn’t sit easily in Aila’s hand, yet she tightened her fingers around the hilt and gathered her courage. Gavina fought the soldier like a hell-cat, clawing, biting, and kicking. Her fury was slowing him, but if Aila didn’t act now, it would be too late.

Jaw clenched, she flew at the soldier—and slashed him across the throat.

The feel of steel slicing through flesh made Aila’s stomach heave, but she went through with it, reeling back as darkness bloomed across his pale throat.

Eyes startling white in the hoary light of the moon, the soldier stared at her an instant, his mouth working in a soundless curse. And then he crumpled.

Gavina’s breathing came in rasping sobs as she scrambled away from her attacker. Wild-eyed, she clutched at Aila and Elizabeth, and the three women clung together. But men closed in on them on all sides now, cutting them off from Cassian.

Aila gripped the dagger tighter still, although she was shaking so violently that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to wield it. All the advancing soldiers were wary of her now.

The man nearest grimaced, his teeth flashing white in the darkness before he muttered something in a tone that needed no translation.

Aila broke into a cold sweat, a sob rising within her. She wanted to be brave, but these men terrified her.

And then the twang of a bow-string cut through the night.

The soldier who was just moments from making a grab for Aila stiffened. His face then contorted in agony, and his knees gave way beneath him. When he toppled forward, Aila spied a fletched arrow embedded between his shoulder blades. It had pierced the chainmail.

Out of the darkness, the silhouettes of men appeared. Prowling close, they drew a net around the cluster of figures standing upon the brow of the hill.

Aila choked back a whimper. Her heart was beating so wildly now she couldn’t hear anything else. She moved forward, shielding Elizabeth and Gavina. However, the dagger she held out before her shook.

Were these men friend or foe? She wouldn’t let her guard down, for they could easily be outlaws looking for unsuspecting travelers on the hills.

But as she looked on, steel flashed, and the dark-clad men engaged the English soldiers.

Aila spied Cassian then. He’d just managed to kill the huge knight who led the patrol. Sweat glistened upon Cassian’s face when he straightened up, gasping for breath. His gaze swung left and right, taking in the scene around him.

The choking sounds of dying men echoed over the hillside as the newcomers finished off the remaining English.

One of the English soldiers threw down his sword and sank to his knees.

“Pitié!” The man gasped. “Je me rends!”

Aila’s French was very poor, but even she understood the soldier. He was pleading for mercy, surrendering himself to them.

A dark shape emerged from the night, and a man clad in a rippling cloak strode toward the kneeling soldier.

In the moonlight, Aila saw that the soldier had removed his helm. He was young—barely older than seventeen winters at most.

Barely more than a lad, and yet a man all the same.

And as the newcomer neared, he pushed back the cowl that hid his identity.

Aila sucked in a breath. She recognized him.

It was Draco. The Wallace’s right-hand. A patrol from Dunnottar had found them.

Approaching the English soldier, Draco’s hawkish gaze fastened upon the man’s face.

“S’il vous plait,” the young man gasped, his voice breaking. “Aies pitié!”

But Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he drew the dagger at his waist and struck.

The English soldier gave a soft, choking gasp and then crumpled to the ground, his throat cut.

Suddenly, there was no sound but the wind whistling across the hilltop. Draco wiped his knife off on his cloak and then resheathed his blade, his gaze surveying the three women