Malcolm'S Honor (Historical, 519) by Jillian Hart Page A

She aimed and threw. Stone struck steel with a clang, and Elin watched as the villain toppled from his horse and hit the ground with a thud.
    Victory bubbled through her chest. She’d done it. She’d stopped him.
    Then he climbed to his feet. His gaze fastened on her like an arrow finding its target. He swore viciously, and Elin saw him raise his sword, mighty with rage. “Why, ’twas a woman who felled me!”
    Panic gripped her. Her hand flew to her girdle, but her scabbard was empty. Malcolm had taken all her daggers.
    â€œI’ll teach you a lesson, vile wench, a lesson you’ll never forget.”
    By the saints, he meant to kill her. Desperation gripped her. She spied an abandoned sword on the ground and ran to grab it. Her fingers fitted around the hilt, and she swung the heavy blade upward.
    It met his sword, so forcefully the impact ricocheted up the bones of her arm and into her shoulder socket. Pain seized her muscles, but anger drove her further. She thrust, her weapon crashing against his with more bone-bending pain.
    â€œWhat demon are you that attacks a woman?” she demanded as she deflected another lethal blow. “You’re but a cowardly speck of—”
    â€œFight me, swine!” Malcolm’s demand rang in the air, vast and powerful, her unlikely angel of deliverance. “Elin, mount up and save yourself.”
    â€œNay, he is mine to fight!” She could not stomach the idea of simply giving up.
    But ’twas Malcolm’s blade that met the villain’s weapon, and Malcolm who stepped forward to protect her from the sharp sword. Steel clashed once and then again. The ground rumbled beneath her feet with each strike. She felt Malcolm’s muscles strain as if they were her own, and witnessed his power as he breached the villain’s defenses. The killer fell with a blow to the neck.
    Elin covered her eyes, but the sight of the gruesome victory remained etched on her lids. As she trembled, the eerie calm of the night enfolded her.
    â€œAre you all right, dove?” Malcolm’s hand curled around hers, as if to steal the sword from her grip.
    She pulled away, retaining her weapon. “I’m not injured.”
    â€œâ€™Twas not what I meant.” How kind he sounded, not at all like a man without heart. “You’ve not experienced battle, warrior trained though you may be.”
    She knew better than to trust a man feigning kindness. “My brother taught me.”
    â€œPeter? Aye, he wielded the fastest sword I’d ever seen, save for mine.” Malcolm’s gloved hand found her shoulder, but his touch was gentle this time and not imprisoning. “If Peter taught you swordplay, then you could not have had a better teacher.”
    Her throat ached. “You knew my brother?”
    â€œAye. We fought together alongside Edward.” That kindness deepened and almost seemed real. “Peter fell not two months after we arrived in the Outremer. I received a sword in the back for trying to save his life.”
    Grief still ached within, and she bowed her chin. “I did not know.”
    â€œI do not brag about my good deeds, few as they are.” He turned, and the moment was gone.
    â€œAre there any serious injuries?” he demanded. When none answered, he grabbed Elin’s mare by the bit. “Then we ride. I sense trouble in the air. These were no thieves, but men paid to intercept us.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Ian demanded. He strode easily through the crowd, winded and limping. “Attacks like these are common enough to those who travel at night.”
    â€œAye, but these are not desperate men. Look at the quality of their armor. The last bandits I met wore no chain mail, and carried cheap swords, not finely crafted ones.” Malcolm offered Elin his hand. “Mount up.”
    She slid the sword into her leather girdle, but he caught her hand. “Nay, dove. Not with the