Page 82 of Leila’s Legacy

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Leila’s heart caught in her throat as Niall’s body dangled from the rope. “Don’t miss,” she whispered.

Catriona didn’t say a word as the arrow flew from her bow and zipped through the air. Leila followed its path from where they hid behind one of the cottages. No doubt everyone in their party watched from their various places through the village as they all lay in wait to attack.

For this very moment.

The arrow sailed through the air, toward the rope. It slammed into the braided twine and snapped it in half.

Leila charged forward with Cat and Geordie at her side, as the rest of their party all ran into the village center to attack. The villagers fled at once for the relative safety of their homes, in as much as the waddle and dab offered protection when the walls could be so easily shoved in. Not that it mattered: the peasants were not the subject of their attack.

Her family rushed at the reivers from all angles, holding them back from the gallows as Leila ducked under its raised platform. She crouched low and launched her dagger at the man who pulled at Niall. Her dagger slammed into the man’s throat and sent him reeling backward in a spurt of blood.

Leila rushed to where Niall pushed himself to his feet. Patches of cloudy sunlight shone in, casting a gray pallor within.

She cried out his name and his head jerked toward her.

She swallowed down a whimper. His face. His handsome face that she had cradled in her palms and gently kissed. Now mottled in bruising, one eye swollen, his lower lip split around the dirty linen tied against his mouth.

She set to work immediately drawing away the noose on his neck, freeing the cloth from his mouth.

“I thought I’d no’ ever see ye again,” Niall said hoarsely.

“Never.” Leila pressed a kiss to his mouth as her blade sliced through the rope binding his hands behind his back. “We must hasten our leave, my love.”

Outside the sounds of battle raged on. Grunts and cries, the clanging of weapons striking.

He nodded in agreement, pulled free the fallen guard’s sword and together they left the underside of the gallows. Outside, her family cut through the clansmen. Each couple fought side-by-side: Anice and James as they guarded one another’s backs, swords glinting in the sun; Ella with her battle axe, her rustic weapon somehow working in sync with Bronson’s stylized fighting as blows were blocked and delivered. Brodie fought with Cat and Geordie, both men guarding her with slashing blades while she nocked one white-fletched arrow at a time and sent it sailing into the melee.

She only had a glance, but it was enough to see the incredible skill of so many warriors, confident, powerful, capable. Lethal. Leila wanted to be out there with them with a dagger in either hand.

But her job was the most important of all. The horses they rode in on were hidden in an abandoned cottage nearby. She need only to get there, have Niall on the horse and they would be on their way to Werrick Castle. Safe once more.

Niall grunted and pitched forward.

Leila spun around, hands going to her belt for a blade. Lord Armstrong pulled his arm back and slammed something hard across her face. She staggered, momentarily stunned by the stars dancing before her eyes. The dagger slipped from her fingers and clattered to the cobblestone, barely heard in the din of battle. It was those sounds, of fighting and dying and screaming, that had prevented her from hearing Armstrong’s approach.

She continued to walk backward while she recovered, her fingers skimming her belt until they rested on the hilt of a dagger, which she quickly plucked free.

“Witch,” Armstrong hissed. “I dinna actually think ye were one until this moment with ye standing before me alive even as I saw ye die.”

Now armed, Leila lunged toward the older man and slashed at him with her blade. It snagged against his arm before skimming over his gambeson. At least it was a hit. He growled and switched the club he held to his other hand.

Leila aimed her dagger to throw it when Niall slashed at the older man, catching him in the gut. Lord Armstrong roared in pain and brought his cudgel down as hard as he could on Niall’s thigh. The color drained from Niall’s face and he collapsed to the ground, groaning in agony.

Lord Armstrong put a hand to his bloody stomach and staggered slightly. “A mortal wound.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “But I still have time to kill ye both before I die.”

Leila gripped another dagger and charged again. This time, she caught the rear of his leg with her foot and shoved his torso with her full weight. He pitched backward as intended. However, as he did so, he lashed out with his cudgel.

Had she not been knocked off-balance slightly after pushing him, she might have easily leaned away and avoided the blow. But in her haste to see him fall, she had been careless. She had assumed he would resist the attack and had put her full weight into it, leaving her unsteady.

She tried to duck away, but the edge of the club caught her in the throat. Pain exploded like a thousand stars and she could not breathe. The panic of her drowning the day before flooded her. Unable to draw in air, heart racing, water burning in her nose, her throat. More and more water.

She gasped and clutched at her throat. She fought to drag in a breath but could only pull in a scant amount. Not enough.

Burning. Her lungs were burning. She was drowning again. Being held under, water rushing into her mouth and nose.

She pushed off her helm in an attempt to get easier access to the air, gulping in as much as she could. Still not enough.