Malcolm's Honor. Jillian Hart

      “Surrender your weapon, maiden warrior.” A deep voice shivered over the back of her neck, vibrating down her spine.

      She jumped. The knife fell to the ground, lost forever. Le Farouche rode half a hair’s width beside her. How had he gotten there? He’d been at the lead just moments ago. He made no sound as he rode alongside her. Was he part demon? How would she fight him now?

      “As you can see, I have no weapon.” She held flat both palms. “I speak the truth.”

      “Then why do you bleed as if pricked by a sharp blade?”

      “’Tis from the bindings.”

      “Do not mistake me for a fool.”

      She lifted her chin. “Or me, cowardly knight.”

      “Hsst!” Alma whispered, scolding her.

      The dark knight’s laughter boomed through the silent forest. “I see that at least one of you females has good sense. Listen to the older one, dove. Escape would only bring peril and prove your guilt to the king.”

      “I have no guilt.” She’d had her share of misdeeds and misadventures, but not treason. “If you believe in our innocence, then release us.”

      “And risk the king’s wrath? ’Tis unlikely.”

      “The king need never know.”

      “You are not just fierce, you’re clever, not a typical maiden. I like that.” His great voice thundered over her, at once powerful and kind.

      Kind? Now, where had that notion come from?

      He leaned close and she could smell the night scent of him, mysterious, wooded, crisp like cool air. “If I see any knives, I will seize them. Do not reveal your weapons and I will allow you to keep them.”

      He spurred his destrier forward, leaving her behind with the shades and shadows of night.

      “’Tis twice he’s forgiven your transgressions, Elin. Do not tempt his anger further,” Alma murmured.

      Elin cursed at the loss of her knife and felt some satisfaction that she had another tucked inside her mantle. Just one weapon left.

      ’Twould have to be enough.

      “We are being watched,” Sir Giles said in a low tone so that his voice wouldn’t carry.

      “That has not escaped me.” Malcolm did not look around. He saw no reason to alert whoever watched them that he knew of their presence. “I sense two riders keeping just to the east of us in the wood. They ride distant enough so we hear naught of their movements but close enough to strike quickly. See how my stallion senses them.”

      “I hear now and then the sound of hooves on dried twigs.”

      Malcolm pulled off his helm. Cool damp air swept across his brow. “At least two ride west of us as well. Did you hear the sound of a horse exhaling?”

      “Look how your stallion swivels his ears.”

      “More will be waiting on the path ahead of us. Expect an ambush. Alert the men. Quietly.”

      “Aye. We will fare better if we are not surprised.” Giles fell back to speak to each knight in turn, giving no sign of alarm.

      Malcolm slid his helm down over his face. He neither loved battle like some nor hated it like others. ’Twas something he excelled at, however. His blood heated with anticipation. His grip on his sword tightened.

      “What of the women?” Hugh rode up beside Malcolm for a moment. “If you count four men, surely there will be more. I cannot sit by and watch a battle. I must fight.”

      “We may well be outnumbered. Leave the women to their own devices. The girl is armed.”

      “She mayhap could level an entire army with that kick of hers.”

      As a knight, one who made his way by fighting and war, Malcolm admired courage and strength in all forms. Even in a girl-woman who knew not enough of the world to be afraid of it.

      “Look to. Up ahead the road narrows.” The perfect spot for an ambush. Malcolm studied the lay of the land. Enormous boulders blocked his view of the shadowed lane. The stillness of the forest told him his instincts where correct. Their opponents would strike from both the front and behind, an organized charge. By whom? Why?

      He drew to a halt. His men, ready to fight, positioned themselves. He heard the girl, Evenbough’s daughter, demand to know why they were stopping. Then why Hugh was cutting Alma’s bindings. Malcolm thought to bid her to silence, but he felt it then, the expectant charge in the air right before battle, as if nature could sense the impending clash of men and muscle and sword, and the resulting injury and death.

      He lifted his shield. “Who challenges us?” he bellowed into the night.

      There was no answer. “You think you have surprised us? Cowards, show your ugly faces.”

      No movement.

      Then a stallion trumpeted in the dark, and hooves drummed upon rock and earth. Figures burst out of the brush in front of them and at their flanks. Malcolm met the first man with the might of his sword. He landed a blow to the knight’s shoulder and deflected a thrust with his shield.

      The crisp focus found only in battle filled his head, beat in his veins. Malcolm wheeled his stallion around and charged, knocking the knight to the ground. As another attacked him, he easily landed a bloody blow.

      Not even breathing hard, he drew his mount to a halt. Blood thundered in his head. Battle cries and the clash of steel surrounded him. He counted three knights on the ground. Saw Giles in trouble and rode to his aide. Together, they fought side by side. But the two knights proved difficult to defeat. Malcolm took a bruising blow to his collarbone and another to his ribs before he felled them.

      “We are sorely outnumbered,” he shouted as he engaged another knight. “Look to Hugh. He’s injured.”

      “I cannot,” Giles cried as more knights descended upon him.

      Malcolm spun his destrier and charged deep into the fray. He took another blow, this one to his helm. Blood filled his mouth, though ’twas hardly more than a split lip. “Behind you, Hugh!” he called, lifting his sword.

      Hugh turned to face his enemy, but Malcolm could not reach his friend in time. Every galloping step of his stallion seemed in slow motion. The enemy knight evaded Hugh’s shield and drove his sword deep into the young man’s abdomen, breaking mail and flesh. Hugh fell bonelessly to the ground.

      “No!” Malcolm cried. In an instant his sword lanced the knight’s side. He knocked away the weapon, then the shield, then dragged the knight to the ground with him. He’d found the man in charge of this attack, for this was no band of robbers. He tossed the knight against the broad trunk of a tree and held his blade to his throat. “Do you yield?”

      “Not without the woman.”

      “Are you a fool? Attacking the king’s knights? Yield, I say, or I will drag you to Edward myself.”

      He felt his enemy tremble. No courageous knight, this; not even a fine mercenary, but one grown soft working for some lord or baron, protecting his fences and castle walls. “I yield.”

      “Call off your men. Now, I say!”

      “Beo! Cedric! Hold!” The enemy lifted his helm.

      “Tell me your name,” Malcolm demanded, the edge of his sword tight beneath the leader’s throat.

      “I am Caradoc of Ravenwood and I claim right to the baron’s daughter.”

      The little dove? “Is she your wife?”

      “Nay, Philip had agreed on a match between us.”

      “Philip is bound for the king’s court, as will you be.”

      Even