Highland Warrior, McCollum, Heather [carter reed .TXT] 📗

His other hand reached down to ruck up her smock, and the wind bit into the skin of her bare legs. Stars started to flash in her eyes as she struggled to draw breath. Did he mean to kill her then? Right there? Raping her still-warm body? She blinked, looking away from the smug victory in Henry’s face. Movement outside the stone wall held her gaze, and she dropped her hands, going limp with relief.

Joshua.

…

The four-foot stone wall was no obstacle. Joshua would have punched his way through the rocks to get to Kára, but all he had to do was launch himself over the barrier encircling the churchyard.

Warrior’s blood pumped through him as if he were in the deadliest battle he’d ever seen. It shot energy into his muscles, helping him focus past the horror of seeing horses grazing outside the chapel wall. Condensing his churning dark thoughts, he pulled them into a single goal—to kill whoever was harming Kára. It didn’t matter if it were King James himself; the fool shoving Kára against the chapel wall and now holding her by the neck would die.

Without breaking his stride, Joshua leaped over the wall. The bastard holding her had barely turned to see him coming when Joshua yanked him away from Kára. In the back of his mind, Joshua recognized him as Henry Stuart, Robert’s eldest son, but it changed nothing. Before Henry could utter a word, Joshua shoved his sword into his chest, the blade going halfway through so he could then rip it downward through bone, muscle, and sinew.

Henry’s gurgled curse came from his stretched lips as Joshua split him open with his tempered blade from chest to abdomen. Only the man’s belt stopped him from sawing through his foking jack. “The Horseman of War sends ye to Hell,” Joshua said and yanked his sword free. “For your crimes against this woman and her people.”

Henry Stuart crumpled into the trampled grass, his entrails rolling out with his blood. Joshua threw his bloodstained sword down and stopped before Kára where she leaned gasping against the chapel wall, hands at her bruised throat. His arms raised before him, but his palms hovered over her, not touching for fear it would hurt her.

“Kára. Kára. Kára.” Her name rolled from his lips like a prayer as he drew in large drafts of air after his frantic run. “Can I…?” His hands cupped the back of his head, his chest rising and falling fast as if he were still running. “Where can I touch ye? Are ye bleeding? Oh God, I will follow him to Hell and kill him again.”

She held up one hand as if she could not talk but wanted him to stop. Tears ran down her face. “I…I will recover,” she said, the words coming slow and pained on a hoarse whisper.

His hands reached for her slowly. His cloak having dropped away somewhere on the hill as he’d raced up it, he had nothing but himself with which to cover her. He didn’t want to startle her, but he must hold her, feel her warm and breathing in his arms. Touching her stiff shoulders, he slid his hands around her back, gently pulling her into his chest. She went willingly, her weight heavy in his arms as if she surrendered all of her strength, letting him hold her body up. He gladly took it.

“Kára, och but I should have stayed here,” he whispered. “I should have gotten here faster. I did not see the horses until I stepped out the tavern door.”

His gaze scanned the gravestones. “There were three horses.”

“I killed the other two,” she said, her hand flipping weakly from her side to gesture toward the other end of the graveyard.

He held her tighter, trying to fight against his need to squeeze her into him, and kissed the top of her head, her face buried in his chest. “Ye are truly a warrior queen, Kára Flett, and as brave as any lass I have known.”

“Robert will come after my people.”

His hand pulled away from where he’d touched her head, blood smeared on it. “Ye are bleeding,” he said. “Your head.”

“And probably my back.”

She remained tucked into him as his fingers probed gently through her hair, finding the cut. “I need to look at it.”

She pulled slightly back, and he turned her around to lean up against the chapel wall. The back of her smock was sliced from the rock, a thick line of red blood stark against the white of the material. He parted the fabric to see the skin. “The cut on your back is superficial and will heal easily if washed and bandaged.”

His gaze moved up to her head, and his inhale stopped. Blood, red and seeping, colored her pale locks. He exhaled slowly, parting her hair to look closer at the cut. “Your scalp is bleeding more, but that is the nature of head wounds,” he said, forcing the worry out of his voice. He yanked a rag from his belt and pressed it to her head, holding it there as he gently turned her around. “I do not think ye need stitches, but it might be damaged inside.” He met her eyes. “Are ye hurt anywhere else?”

Had Henry managed to penetrate her body with anything, a finger, his jack, anything? Joshua would make certain to cut off whatever it was and throw it to the dogs.

She shook her head, his hand keeping the cloth pressed to her red-tinged locks, and cleared her throat. He felt her wince. “My throat. He was set to rape me, too. I think he was torn between that and killing me.”

Foking bastard would have done both. The urge to kick the lump of a man in the grass churned up through Joshua like sour burps, but he would not let go of Kára for anything in the world, not even revenge.

Kára pulled away slightly and looked up into his face. Her tears had stopped but worry threatened to bring