The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(116)

“Are they pirates?”

His mouth was grim. The boats were getting closer—to within a few hundred yards at most. “Worse,” he said. “One of them looks to be English.”

“What do they want?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, my lady.”

All of a sudden Murdoch shouted, “Cover!”

Christina was shoved to the ground and a ceiling of targes was raised above her head, only seconds before she heard the sickening thump of arrows raining down on them. She was in such a state of shock that it took her a moment to realize what was happening.

“Why are they attacking us?” she asked, but the men were too busy trying to evade their pursuers and retaliate with arrows of their own to answer her.

“Surrender,” she heard voiced from a distance and knew it must be from one of the boats.

She didn’t need to hear Murdoch’s crude reply to know what Tor’s men would do. These men lived to fight. Even now she could see their eagerness. Surrender wasn’t in their blood. They’d rather die.

But she couldn’t let them. Not if she could prevent it. She had to do something.

“Nay,” she said, pushing through the targes to catch the captain’s gaze. “Do what he says, Murdoch. At least try to find out what they want.”

Murdoch’s face was a mask of fury. It was clear he’d never been ordered by a woman before and wanted to ignore her. It went against his warrior’s nature to run from a fight, but he also knew his duty to protect his lady. She was relieved when he turned away from her and shouted at the closest boat to them—still some distance away—doing as she asked.

“What are you hiding, sons of Leod?” came the reply.

They know who we are, she thought. They must have recognized the banner—the three legs clad in mail flexed into a triangle, denoting the clan’s descent from the Kings of Man, and a black birlinn harkening to their Norse ancestry, against a red and azure background.

“Give us half and we shall let you go in peace,” another man added.

Dear God, they think we are carrying riches! They are nothing more than English pirates.

“We’ve nothing that would be of any interest to you,” Murdoch replied. “We carry no coin or goods on board.”

It was clear that their pursuers didn’t believe them when they answered with another hail of arrows. Christina was forced back down under the canopy of targes and didn’t try to interfere again. It would do no good, as they were intent on piracy. She’d heard enough of English atrocities from her father, so why did it surprise her?

She felt the boat shift again as the men worked to find the gust of wind that would enable them to outdistance the arrows and escape.

From under the shields she heard a man near her groan and knew that one of the attackers’ arrows had found its mark.

She smothered a horrified cry in her fist. She was so scared that she didn’t know what to do. Resting her face on her knees, she tried to block out the excruciating sounds around her, nearly falling over when their boat was rammed from the opposite side. The sounds were getting louder—more shouting, more arrows, the sound of a metal grappling hook as the boats were tied together, the rocking of men moving, and then the crash as the sword battle began in a cacophony of clattering steel and death. She could see the wall of men’s legs surround her and knew that they would die protecting her.

Her husband’s guardsmen were some of the best warriors in the Isles, but they were a score against nearly four times that, judging from the sizes of the boats.

The sounds were horrible. Pained grunts, bones crunching, death screams. Bile rose in her throat as the men fell around her. Men she knew. The horror nearly overwhelmed her. It was too much.

She wanted to fall apart, but she would not shame these men who were dying while trying to protect her. Instead she strove for numbness.

Every minute that passed was excruciating. The MacLeod guardsmen gave a valiant effort, but eventually they were overwhelmed. The warriors around her started to fall. She caught Murdoch’s gaze as he landed on top of her and understood, trying not to scream as she hid beneath the shield of his bloody body.

Even worse than the sounds of the battle was when it stopped, knowing that they were all dead.

“Pull them away,” she heard a man say, “let’s see what they were so anxious to protect.”

Murdoch’s last efforts had been for naught. A moment later, she found herself roughly pulled from her hiding place.

“It’s a lass,” the man said, pulling back her hood. “And a pretty one at that.”

The thick, coppery smell overwhelmed her. She took one glance at the carnage around her—at the faces she knew—and threw up all over the steel chausses and sabatons of the man holding her.

He swore and clapped her across the face with the back of his hand. “Stupid bitch!”

“What is your name, gel?”

She wiped her mouth and looked up at the man who’d spoken. Beneath the steel visor of his helm, his eyes stabbed her like two black daggers. From the fine quality of his mail and the fine tabard worn over his chest, she guessed he was the English leader.

She thrust up her chin, and met his gaze. “Christina, wife of the MacLeod chief.” The name of the feared chief made no impression on the haughty Englishman. The disdain on his cruel, leathery face didn’t prevent her from adding, “Under what authority do you attack this ship and murder these men?”