He’d stood by while she’d been repeatedly used, a means for Ian to slake his twisted desires. He hadn’t cared that she’d been broken numerous times. That, at times, she’d wanted to die. Or that her very soul had been forfeit to demons she could never hope to escape.
She reached over her shoulder to grasp one of the arrows by the fletching and quickly notched it. She raised the bow and set her sights on the man in front of Patrick. She would have to act quickly. Once Patrick sensed danger, he’d slink away like a rat in the darkness.
Rapidly taking aim, she let the first arrow fly. Savage satisfaction coursed through her veins when the warrior just in front of Patrick clutched his chest and toppled forward, her arrow embedded deeply in the area just above where his chain mail protected his vulnerable areas.
Patrick sent a panicked look, desperately searching for the source of the attack. He instantly hunkered down, cowering behind his shield, all the while hoarsely yelling for someone to come to his aid.
Her lips curling into a snarl, she notched another arrow and took aim, waiting patiently for the right opportunity.
Sweat beaded and rolled down her back. Her entire focus was on her target. Her arm ached from the strain of holding the bow at full draw, but she’d wait forever if that was what it took.
Revenge was sweet on her tongue. She didn’t spare a moment’s regret for killing another person in cold blood. It was nothing less than she’d done in her dreams time and time again. It was all that had sustained her over the last months. Dreaming of vengeance.
Her arm was starting to shake when Patrick made his move. He’d evidently decided that he was in too vulnerable a position and shot upward, holding his shield to guard his upper body. He fled toward the back of the keep, where less fighting was taking place.
Calmly, she took aim at his leg, knowing it would slow him and it would also likely afford her a kill shot when he was forced to drop his shield.
She shot the arrow and was rewarded by the sight of him stumbling and dropping to his knees, his cry of agony rising above the din of battle. It struck him just above the ankle and rendered him incapable of walking. She notched another arrow, never removing her gaze from his fallen figure. She drew and waited, and, as she’d hoped, his shield dropped. Just enough …
She let the arrow fly.
It struck him in the side of the neck, going all the way through to the fletching. His eyes wide and glassy with death, he pitched to the side, sagging pitifully, wilting like a flower too long in the sun.
For a long moment, she stood, bow held high, staring as the life faded from his body. Then, slowly, she lowered her bow, calm pervading her mind.
It was done. She may not have been the one to deal Ian his death blow, but she’d exacted vengeance against his weakling of a father. If she was supposed to feel guilt over the taking of a life, it was too bad. She wouldn’t spend a single moment being remorseful that Patrick McHugh had met such a violent end.
The continued sounds of battle seeped into her consciousness, and she turned, anxiously seeking the fate of the Montgomery and Armstrong forces.
Brodie was leading a group of Armstrong warriors, and they were steadily slashing a bloody path through the McHugh and McGrieve combatants.
Her gaze swung rapidly around the courtyard to determine Bowen’s fate. Her heart lurched when she saw him in the distance, engaged in a fierce sword battle with a huge warrior who could only be from the McGrieve clan. It was not someone she recognized.
But what made her chest tight was the McHugh man behind Bowen. He was not one of the ones who’d left the clan with Patrick. He had stayed behind and had since sworn allegiance to Bowen and the Montgomerys.
He was a traitor.
Clutched tightly in his hand was a dagger, and he was advancing warily toward Bowen’s back. The loathsome coward was going to plunge the knife into Bowen’s back, attacking him in the most dishonorable fashion.
It was a distant shot, and one she couldn’t be assured of making with perfect accuracy. This was too important to miss or fall short.
Kicking up her skirts, she notched an arrow and bolted across the courtyard, praying she would make the shot in time to save Bowen.
Chapter 15
Bowen ignored the pain radiating from his side and his shoulder and fought with more savagery. This was his toughest opponent thus far, and the man showed no signs of tiring. Bowen would have to end it quickly or all his reserves would be used up, and he was already injured from his previous battles.
Their swords hissed and clanged, the sun bouncing off the blades in a rapid dance. Bowen drove him back, but then the bigger man charged, swinging like a crazed person, bellowing the entire way.
Bowen retreated but managed to slice his opponent’s upper arm, drawing blood and momentarily halting his progress. As the other man warily stepped back, pivoting to ensure Bowen didn’t gain position, movement caught Bowen’s eye and he glanced beyond his opponent to see Genevieve a short distance away, holding, of all things, a bow with an arrow notched. And she was pointing it directly at him!
Before he could react or think to avoid the coming arrow, she let fly. His snarl of fury over the betrayal roared from his throat just as the arrow sailed past him. A cry of pain sounded behind him.
Thrusting his sword upward to ward off the coming blow, he drove forward, determined to end the fight here and now. His mind was ablaze, and he was confused as hell as to what Genevieve had done.
He never had the chance. Before he could deal the killing blow, Genevieve notched another arrow and sent one into the back of his opponent’s neck. The arrow plunged directly through his Adam’s apple, coated in bright red blood.
An odd, sucking noise gurgled from the McGrieve warrior, and blood seeped from his mouth just before he toppled forward like a felled tree.
Bowen instantly spun to see that a McHugh clansman—one who had not fled the keep with Patrick—held a dagger in his hand and it was obvious that he’d planned to plunge it into Bowen’s back.
Genevieve’s arrow had struck him through the forehead—an impossible target at best—and yet she’d made not one but two lethal shots with her bow.
The McHugh betrayer was suspended in air for the longest time, his eyes glazed and gray, until finally he sagged and folded like a dropped blanket, the knife slipping from his grasp just before he hit the ground.
The earth shifted beneath Bowen’s feet and he swayed precariously, his head spinning. And then Genevieve was at his side, shouting for aid.
She drove her shoulder forcefully under his, fitting it into his armpit as she valiantly kept him from tumbling to the ground. Jesu, but he must have lost more blood than he’d imagined.
He nearly toppled them both, but her stubbornness prevailed. He heard her muttered oaths and smiled at the lass’s colorful language. She had quite the saucy mouth.
“Give aid to your laird!” she bellowed in a voice that carried across the courtyard.
One of his eyebrows went up at her forceful command. The lass would do well leading troops in battle. A man would have to be a fool to gainsay a woman with a growl like hers.
“Ah hell, Bowen, you’ve gone and managed to injure yourself.”
Brodie’s aggrieved voice echoed close to Bowen’s ears, but he lacked the energy to look up and find Brodie’s position.
“The lass saved me,” he said faintly, thinking that if he were to die Genevieve should at least be credited with prolonging his life a few more minutes.
“You’ll not die,” Genevieve snapped. “ ’Tis a paltry wound at best.”
“Now she mocks my pain,” Bowen said mildly.
Brodie’s face appeared in front of Bowen, worried, his eyes crinkled with concern. “You’re not making any sense. Babbling about like a drunken sot. And you’re bleeding like a slaughtered pig.”
“Am I?”
He looked down, surprised to see the entire front of his tunic turned scarlet. Then he tightened his jaw, bracing himself against the pain.
“I’ll not rest until every last McHugh is driven from this place,” Bowen vowed.
“They are retreating,” Brodie assured. “We suffered minimal losses. When ’twas obvious we were well represented, despite our smaller numbers, the McHughs and McGrieves beat a hasty retreat. Our men are pursuing them to our borders now.”
The matter-of-fact accounting soothed Bowen’s agitation and pain. The world was spinning with increasing frequency, and he feared losing consciousness before he could ask the most pressing question.
He opened his mouth, but it had gone dry. He licked his cracked lips, sudden thirst gripping him.
“Patrick,” he said hoarsely. “What of Patrick?”
Before there was any response, his knees buckled and he heard Genevieve’s cry of alarm just before the entire world went dark.
Genevieve made a grab for Bowen, but he was far too heavy for her to prevent him from falling to the ground. Brodie lunged and managed to save Bowen from eating dirt, hauling him up to hang Bowen’s arm over his shoulder.
“Take him inside the keep to his chamber,” Genevieve ordered briskly. “Post a man you trust to guard his door at all times. There are vipers in our midst. A McHugh tried to kill Bowen after swearing allegiance to him.”
Brodie gawked at Genevieve, his eyes narrowing.
“Go!” she directed. “He is losing more blood and his wounds must be tended. I must send word to his brother. We are in a perilous position, and now, with him wounded, we are even more weakened.”
Brodie nodded tightly. It was apparent he had no love of taking orders from a lass, but her commands were logical. This much she knew. He could hardly argue with her when Bowen’s life’s blood was seeping onto the ground.
Hauling Bowen over his broad shoulders, Brodie staggered slightly before gaining his footing and hastening toward the entrance to the keep. Genevieve looked warily around, ensuring no danger posed a threat, and then she went to seek out one of the senior Montgomery soldiers she knew to be trusted by both Bowen and Teague.
“You sir, by what name are you called?” Genevieve demanded as she strode up.
The hulking man frowned down at her, seemingly puzzled by the fact she carried a bow and a quiver half-full of arrows.
“I am called Adwen,” he said gruffly.
“You must ride to intercept Teague Montgomery with all haste. If you do not overtake him before he arrives on Montgomery land, you must go to their keep and apprise Graeme and Teague Montgomery of all that has occurred. We are vulnerable to continued attack from the McGrieves and the remaining McHughs. You may also tell the Montgomerys that Patrick McHugh is dead,” she said flatly. “We need reinforcements as badly as we need food and supplies. Bowen has been injured in the battle and ’tis unknown what his condition will be. Give his brothers a full accounting.”
Adwen straightened and then motioned for two others to join him. Then he glanced back at Genevieve with something that resembled respect gleaming in his eyes.
Almost too late, she realized that she was uncloaked. She hadn’t given care to anything but quitting her chamber as quickly as possible. There was no hiding her disfigurement.
She turned quickly, presenting her unmarred cheek as heat rose up her neck and suffused her jaw. The urge to rub her hand over the rough, puckered skin was strong, but instead she curled her fingers into a tight fist, determined not to give in.
It mattered naught what these warriors thought of her. She wanted no man anyway. What did it matter if none desired her or looked kindly upon her?
Bleakness assailed her, because though it shouldn’t matter, what lass didn’t want to be looked upon with favor? What lass didn’t want to feel beautiful?
“I will depart at once, mistress,” Adwen said, his tone still respectful. “I’ll give report just as you’ve outlined it to me.”
“Then go with God, and a safe return to you and your men,” she said.
He inclined his head and then turned sharply on his heel, barking an order to the two men accompanying him. They were bloody and looked battle-weary, but they didn’t flinch at their duty and Genevieve respected them for that. They hadn’t questioned her word.
She hurried toward the keep entrance, anxious to see how Bowen fared. The blood worried her, but she knew not where he’d been injured.
She stopped first in her chamber to put the bow and arrows away. She slid a finger lovingly along the worn wood bends and then solemnly closed the trunk, pushing herself upward to her feet once more.
Swaying precariously, she closed her eyes momentarily and steeled herself against the inevitable reaction setting in. She’d not spend a single moment regretting her actions. Nor would she allow Patrick McHugh to cast a pall over her. He was dead. No longer a threat. Vengeance was finally hers.
Her eyes popped open as she remembered Taliesan, sequestered in the tower, likely terrified and wondering the fate of the keep and clan.
Gathering her composure and breathing deeply to reinvigorate herself, she hurried out of her chamber and traveled to the far end of the hall, where once she’d been imprisoned, and where she’d existed for an entire year.