At some point, she must have drifted off because the next thing she knew, a knock came at the door, and sunlight shone in the window. Teagan was on his feet in an instant with a dagger in hand.
“Who goes there?” he said without opening the door.
“’Tis me, brother,” Malcolm replied. “’Tis time.”
Teagan opened the door. “What word have ye?”
“Only that they draw closer quickly, and we best ready ourselves.”
“Aye.” He nodded. “We will be right down.”
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered, trying not to panic. Moreover, trying to be as collected as those in her tales during times of distress.
“’Tis all right, lass.” He shouldered into a tunic, calm as could be. “We willnae let anything happen to ye and yer friends.”
“I’m more worried about you,” she replied, yanking on a dress.
“All will be well.” He cupped her shoulders and held her gaze. “Not only are Malcolm and I seasoned fighters, but the MacLomains are nae the sort to be defeated.” He shook his head. “Not ever.”
“Be that as it may.” She tried to bank her fear. To be the brave heroine in her own tale. To make him proud. “I still worry.”
“’Tis natural.” He sat her on the bed, chatting away whilst putting on her hose and boots. A means, she realized, to distract her. “’Twill be over soon enough, then ye will have more confidence.”
She nodded, hoping so, trying not to overthink things as he pulled on his boots and strapped on his weapons. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder. Would he gain more scars? Or would this be the day, defending her honor, that he received his mortal wound?
“Impossible,” Margery would say. “If he’s defending your honor, nothing will take him down. Surely you see that? Feel it in the way he looks at you?”
“’Tis fanciful indeed to think I alone would keep him safe,” she countered.
“Then fanciful it is,” Margery would exclaim. “For surely, you will.” Her eyes would narrow at him in contemplation. “Honestly, based on his evident anticipation, I would say he’s eager to battle Bartholomew.” She’d shake her head. “And, quite frankly, I don't blame him.”
As it turned out, she was right.
Greer could never have foreseen the horror that would come of that anticipation.
Chapter Twenty-Three
After Teagan was confident the lasses and children would be safe in the tavern and bid Greer farewell, he joined everyone just beyond the village.
“Though I wish we could travel further out,” Edmund said, “’tis unwise to leave so many innocents undefended. So, ’tis here we must make our stand.”
“’Tis a good place.” Adlin eyed the thick woodland around them. “’Tis always better to fight among the trees than out in the open.”
“Aye, Da.” Tiernan grinned. “Especially when it comes to the Sassenach.”
They were right, and many a Scotsman had figured that out. The English didn’t do as well on terrain like this.
“There they are.” Malcolm narrowed his eyes at the faint movement in the distance. “Tracking ye, just as Cecille hoped.”
Teagan couldn’t help but grin with anticipation. He longed for the moment he could finish off at least one of Greer’s monsters. A monster, as they soon learned, who had a sizeable amount of men with him. Greer’s cousin Alfred rode alongside Bartholomew, his expression hard to read.
“I dinnae see Randolph,” Edmund muttered, switching to his inner Scot. “Where is the bloody bastard?”
Uneasy, Teagan scanned the Sassenach warriors and shook his head. “I dinnae see him either.”
“Where is she, Scotsman?” Bartholomew called out. Despite being confronted with a line of Scottish warriors comparable to his own, the Englishman looked down his nose at Teagan. “Where is my wife?”
“Ye mean my wife,” he called back. “For we were married last night, Sassenach.”
Though fury blazed in Bartholomew’s gaze, he held his ground. “You will not incite me with lies.”
“’Tis no lie,” the holy man called out. Robed and all, he’d insisted on being there lest Bartholomew needed proof. “I married them myself under God’s eyes. Mistress Greer is wed to Teagan MacLauchlin, and ye, good sir, are nae welcome here!”
“Why should I believe you, Scot?” Disgust flashed in Bartholomew’s eyes. “Bible or no, you are every bit the barbarian your countrymen are.” His gaze homed in on Teagan again. “Return Greer to me, and I will not bring the wrath of England down on you and yours.”
“The wrath of England?” Edmund guffawed, snorting. He peered around as if looking for more men behind Bartholomew. “Have ye all that at yer back then? For, it doesnae look it.”
“Traitor,” Bartholomew ground out. “Was the safety of your people, your family, worth all this? These filthy Scots?”
Rather than respond to the Englishman’s taunts, Edmund slid a look Teagan’s way. “What say ye, friend? If he isnae going to be run off, might we get around to battling?”
“Aye, I’m all for it.” He cocked a brow at Adlin and Tiernan. “What about ye? More talk or more fighting?”
“There isnae any reasoning with ignorance.” Adlin unsheathed his blade. “So, I say fighting.” He considered the line of Sassenach. “My guess is more will flee than fight.”
“Aye,” Tiernan concurred, noting the unease in the eyes of Bartholomew’s men. “We willnae see too much strife this day.”
“There ye have it.” Teagan grinned at Edmund, raising his voice so that all heard, so damn eager his fingers twitched on his blade. “Fighting it is!”
“Unreasonable heathens,” Bartholomew shot back. He unsheathed his blade as the wall of Scots cried their various war cries and charged those who thought themselves superior, on Scottish soil no less.
Teagan spurred his horse with but one target in mind. It seemed Bartholomew felt the same because moments later, they clashed swords before the Englishman swung down, determined to battle afoot. With good reason, too. Greer was right. He excelled with a blade, and fighting this way gave him more options.
As men fought around them, they circled one another, gauging each other’s weaknesses, be it in one’s grip or footwork. Unfortunately, he detected none in the Sassenach. In fact, the moment he and Bartholomew engaged one another, he knew things wouldn’t go as smoothly as he’d hoped. That said, he needed to dislodge his opponent’s weapon. Where he doubted the Englishman had brute strength, his sword was very much an extension of his arm.
Tuning out everything around them, Teagan focused solely on the rapid movements of Bartholomew’s sword, sensing, yet again, no weaknesses. Even his footwork was flawless.
Sometimes the Englishman drove him back. Other times, he had the upper hand.
“Ye need to get that blade out of his hand soon, brother,” Keenan would persist. “If not, he will wear ye down, and that will be the end of it.”
He was right. Time was limited.
Yet everything he threw at the man, Bartholomew countered. The Sassenach spun away after one incredibly close thrust only to come at Teagan all that much harder. Sweat broke out on his brow. His muscles strained. They swirled, evaded, their movements swift, endless, and tiring.