From Chapter Two: Christina
and her sister Beatrix stumble into the middle of a fight between Tor
(the golden-haired warrior) and his nemesis Lachlan MacRuairi (the dark-haired
warrior).
As they drew closer the charge in the air intensified. With each step,
her heartbeat raced faster. Her sister felt it, too. The quickening of Beatrix’s
breath matched her own.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the men not ten paces from her.
She fought the urge to shudder, realizing how much larger and more daunting
they were up close.
We have to get out of here.
The causeway wasn’t far now. Twenty paces or so and they’d
be safe.
All of a sudden, she heard a man let out a vile oath, followed by the blood-curdling
crash of steel on steel. Before she could react, the crowd had tightened
around them, cutting off their path.
They were trapped.
At first Christina feared that they would be caught up in the melee, but
then she realized only two men were fighting—the same two warriors
she’d noticed before.
A swordfight in the middle of the courtyard? Goodness, did these Barbarians
fight everywhere?
She and Beatrix watched in horror as they attacked one another with a viciousness
that could only mean one thing—a fight to the death. It was horrible.
Violent. Their wild, brutal fighting style nothing like the “civilized” practicing
she was used to on the lists or the tournaments she’d seen as a child.
Neither man wore mail, only the leine and padded leather cotun studded
with metal—seemingly woefully inadequate protection against the penetrating
steel blades of their swords. They both wore soft leather boots to just
below the knees, leaving a gap of bare leg to the lower thigh.
The golden-haired warrior had his back to her, but she could see the muscles
in his back flare as he swung the enormous two-handed longsword in a high
arch over his head and brought it down with crushing force. The sword seemed
a part of him—as if he’d been born with it in his hand.
The dark-haired warrior blocked it with one of his two short arming swords,
resulting in a piercing clatter that shattered the peace of the day, making
her ears ring and teeth rattle. He allowed his blade to drop to the ground,
pinned beneath the other, but then he spun and whirled the other over his
head to return the strike.
The warriors exchanged blow after deadly blow, neither showing signs of
tiring, wielding their enormous blades as effortlessly as if they were made
of wood and not steel. The ground reverberated with each terrifying stroke.
She should look away. She should attempt to escape. But Christina was as
mesmerized as she was horrified by the brutal savageness of the spectacle
before her.
Was this what the Romans had felt watching the Gladiators?
If they weren’t so obviously trying to kill each other, there would
almost be something beautiful to their movements. Despite their powerful
builds, they moved with leonine grace. In the back of her mind it occurred
to her that if they weren’t so fearsome looking the men might be considered
handsome. Nor could she ignore that there was something blatantly male and
attractive about such brute strength. But the thought was fleeting and quickly
forgotten in the heat and clamor of the battle. The clang of steel mixed
with the grunts of the combatants and the ebbing and flowing murmurs of
the crowd.
At first she thought they were well matched, but as the fight drew on she
recognized the superior skill of the golden-haired man. His blade fell harder;
his reactions were quicker and his movements more precise. He controlled
every aspect of the battle.
Her gaze was drawn to him.
When it became clear that she and Beatrix were not in danger, she grew
more bold in her observation, noticing the hard lines of his jaw, the wide
mouth, and forbidding brow. The noble bearing that permeated the air around
him. As the fight had started without warning, he wore no helm or bascinet
to protect his head. His hair was actually more brown than blond as she’d
first thought, but the sunlight picked up all the golden strands, making
it appear much lighter.
She was fascinated by the way his muscles bunched and flexed with each
blow of the sword. Looking at him, the idea of Lancelot bending steel bars
didn’t seem so far-fetched. Such power would normally terrify her,
but detached like this she felt a strange heat shimmering through her.
But she hardly had time to process the strange reaction before the battle
shifted and took on a far more ominous tone.
The change was subtle but marked. The golden warrior attacked with cold
purpose and precision, making her wonder whether he’d simply been
biding his time.
She glanced at the dark warrior’s face and felt a chill so strong
it turned her blood to ice. Behind the goading defiance, his eyes were empty.
Soulless. And she knew with a certainty that couldn’t be explained
that he didn’t care if he lived or died.
She gasped when the golden warrior landed a blow to other man’s upper
arm that drew blood, causing him to drop one of his swords. Her stomach
rolled as the cotun and leine underneath stained a deep,
dark red.
Beatrix buried her head into her shoulder, sobbing, but Christina couldn’t
turn away, unable to believe what was about to happen.
The battle was intensifying now. Going faster. Moving toward a fatal end
with each stroke. The scent of well-worked bodies wafted in the breeze.
Tension and excitement surged in the crowd.
No one was going to do anything to stop it.
With blow after ringing blow, the golden-haired warrior moved his opponent
back. The dark warrior couldn’t last much longer. Christina’s
heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe.
She gasped again when the dark warrior stumbled back and fell to the ground.
Her horror only grew when his mouth curved up in a smile.
The golden warrior raised his sword above his head, poised for the final
blow.
“No!” a voice rang out.
His gaze shot to hers. She was riveted to the ground by the most piercing
ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that seared her with an intensity
she’d never experienced before. Eyes that were hard, cold and utterly
without mercy.
She blanched, as horror dawned: she was the one who’d cried out.
Their gazes held for only an instant before he looked brusquely away.
Disappointment crashed over her. How could she have expected mercy from
such a man? Despite her strange fascination, he was not a knight but a brutish
barbarian warlord.
She couldn’t bear to watch. Turning her head, she braced herself
for the gasp of the crowd as the golden warrior finished the job. She heard
the sword whiz through the air and land with a resounding thud that shook
her to her toes.
But the gasp never came.
By time she gathered enough courage to look back, the golden warrior had
already started to walk away, and the dark warrior was being helped to his
feet by one of his men. The golden knight’s two-handed sword was plunged
deep into the ground near where the dark knight had lain, and one of his
men was struggling to pull it from the ground.
She heard the whispers and felt the curious stares of the crowd on her,
but she was too stunned to care.
What had just happened? Disbelief mingled with wonder. Had he heeded her
plea?
All of the sudden, someone grabbed her arm and jerked her around.
“You stupid girl.”
She froze, her stomach pitching to the floor. “Father.”
His fingers bit into her shoulder. “What have you done?”
“I...” Her voice caught, not knowing how to explain. “He
was going to kill him.”
He drew her close with a growl. “And you decided to interfere in
a battle between men?” His face was only inches from hers. She could
feel the heat of his wine laden breath on her cheek. “You idiot. Do
you know who that is?”
She shook her head, her heart pounding erratically, knowing she’d
made a huge mistake.
“Tor MacLeod,” he spat. “The man one of you is to marry.”
Christina gasped, horror washing over her. Marry him? That muscle-bound
giant? She’d seen more emotion in a rock. Good lord, he looked like
a savage Viking who collected heads on necklaces and sacrificed virgins
for fun.
For a moment she thought she might faint. But Beatrix did it for her.
