Page 30 of Leila’s Legacy

9

Leila glared at Alban, refusing to even deign to respond to his command that she remove her clothing. He had no sword at his belt. She’d at least been able to determine that.

He took a slow, menacing step toward her and let his shoes thunk heavily onto the wooden floorboard. It was evident he was trying to intimidate her. Mayhap he expected her to run, to give chase around the room until he finally caught her and gained the upper hand.

Leila stood her ground. If he was going to advance on her, the attack would begin on her terms, not his. She would have the element of surprise on her side.

“I told ye to take off yer clothes.” He reached out and pinched at her shirt. “I want to see ye—”

Leila’s fist slammed into his face. He stumbled backwards, the fool. He’d underestimated her once before, and clearly was doing so again. She swept her leg toward the back of his knees, so they buckled and sent him falling toward the floor. He hit the ground with all the grace of a sack of rotten vegetables and issued forth a satisfying oof. A dagger was affixed to the side of his belt.

In that split second, she had to make a decision: to either snatch up the dagger or kick him in the head. The latter would no doubt kill him, a crime that would guarantee a lifetime of being hunted down. A crime that would have vengeance exacted on her entire family until not one remained alive.

She grabbed for the dagger. Unfortunately, he anticipated that would be her move. He grasped her wrist as she reached for the weapon and tugged with the weight of his body, dragging her to the floor with him. She rolled forward in an attempt to lessen the impact of her fall.

A strong arm knocked her to the side and something hard and sharp slammed into the side of her head. She reeled for a moment, addled by the force of the blow. It was all Alban needed. He was on her in an instant, pressing her with the weight of his body.

“I told ye to take off yer clothes.” He peered at her chest, angling his neck to better see down her shirt.

Pain radiated from her head where she’d been struck so sharply and brutally that she was certain she was bleeding. From the corner of her eye, she made out the trunk that had been abandoned in the middle of the room. First it had tripped her; now it had given Alban the upper hand.

A knock came from the door. “My lord, I have the kirtle ye requested.”

“Leave it,” Alban barked, casting a mist of spittle. He ground his teeth into a grin, then grasped the neckline of Leila’s shirt with his good arm and tugged.

The fabric gave with a savage rending that yanked painfully at the back of Leila’s neck. The ruined pieces fluttered on either side of her torso.

“Binding?” Alban bemoaned his discovery bitterly and sat up on her higher to better work at it with both his hands.

“Please,” Leila said in a weak voice, intentionally not fighting back. Intentionally acting as though the blow to her head had been enough to defeat her. “Stop. Please.”

“Ye bewitched me,” Alban said through gritted teeth. “Ye make me lust for ye when all I wanted to do before was kill ye.”

He did not release her. As she had anticipated. She thrust her hips up as she rolled hard to the side, propelling him from her. He fell, splayed on the ground and floundering in his surprise.

Leila fell on him without mercy and drove her knee into his groin. His eyes nearly bulged from his head and his face colored to a purple-pink heather-like shade. So intense was his injury, he issued no protest as she dug into the pouch at his belt and pulled free the key as well as the dagger.

Having all she needed, she raced for the door. With shaking hands, she worked the key into the lock. Alban grunted and rolled over to the side, where he remained. Leila forced her breath to come out slow and even, to quell the tremble of her anxious fingers. Finally, the lock clicked, and she opened the door to her freedom. A pile of wool lay on the stone platform before the door. Most likely the kirtle the maid brought back for Alban.

Standing two steps down from it, however, was truly a cause for concern. An Armstrong clansman glared up at her, his eyes bright where they fell on her split shirt. “If he’s done with ye, I’ll be taking my turn with ye, lass.”

She pulled back her dagger and began to throw it forward when someone crashed into her. Her aim was knocked aside, and the dagger clattered uselessly down the stairs.

“There willna be anything left of her when I’m done,” Alban growled. Sweat dotted his pale brow. He yanked her back and slammed the door shut.

“Give me the key.” He held out a shaking palm.

Leila hadn’t even realized she’d drawn it out from the door when she’d run. She gripped it harder, the metal now hot from where she held tight to it.

His face flushed to a deep shade of red and began twitching. “Give me the Goddamn key before I have every man in the castle come in and have a go at ye,” he bellowed.

Fear spiked Leila at that. With one guard below, mayhap another at the foot of the stairs, and many more barring her exit from the castle walls, her chances of escape were slim. Contrarily, the likelihood of Alban making good on his oath were high. Frighteningly so.

She threw the key on the ground.

He picked it up with a sneer and let his gaze slither down her body. “Ye havena bested me, ye witch.”

She wished the dagger was back in her hand so she could plunge it into his heart. Blood feud be damned. She wanted him dead. So great was her wish that she clenched her fingers around her empty palm as though gripping an imaginary dagger.