LITMIR.BIZ

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glanced back at her maidservant, who was rubbing her sleepy eyes.

      “How much longer do you think it’ll be until we reach the inn?”

      “I don’t know,” she replied with a sigh, wondering if she would ever see Sir Oliver de Leslille again. “Not much longer, I hope.”

      She was about to lower the flap when she saw another armed party approaching on the road ahead.

      “Who’s that?” Dicken mused, echoing her own thoughts.

      Perhaps it was Sir Oliver and the rest of his hunting party, she thought eagerly, until she recognized the man at the front of the group. It was most definitely not the handsome, broad-shouldered Sir Oliver. “Why, that’s Lindall!”

      The short, stocky second-in-command of the garrison of Averette should be there, not riding toward them.

      Had something happened at home?

      Keldra joined her at the front of the wagon, looking out the narrow gap. “What’s he doing here?” she asked, as worried as Lizette.

      “He’s probably been sent to escort us, too,” Lizette replied, trying to set the girl at ease and calm her own fears, as well.

      But the fear would not be quelled, for she didn’t recognize any of the men riding with him. Worse, they didn’t look like soldiers of Averette; in their various bits of armor and leather, they looked like a motley collection of outlaws or mercenaries.

      “I don’t like the looks o’ this,” Dicken murmured as he reached for the hilt of the dagger he carried in his belt. “Best go back into the wagon, my lady, until we know what’s afoot.”

      Keldra immediately ducked inside and cowered among the cushions.

      Lizette lingered longer, driven by curiosity. She watched as Iain drew his horse to a halt. He addressed Lindall, and his helmeted head turned as if he, too, were surveying the band of men.

      And then, so quickly she could scarcely believe it, Lindall drew his sword and struck Iain down.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE UNPREPARED SCOT fell from his horse and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Blood poured from the gash in the right shoulder of his mail.

      Crying out in dismay, Lizette rose, hitting her head on the frame of the wagon’s roof. Dicken cursed and slapped the reins hard on the horses’ backs. They lurched forward, sending Lizette tumbling backward into the bed of the wagon, where she landed on top of a shrieking Keldra. Around them, men shouted, horses whinnied and neighed, and in the next instant, they heard the clash of sword on sword.

      The wagon jolted backward, then forward, as the cursing Dicken tried to control the team. Holding tight to the back of his seat, Lizette struggled to her knees and attempted to see past the big man’s shifting body through the flapping canvas opening.

      It was as if they were caught in the heart of a melee, or two clashing armies.

      Where was Iain? She couldn’t see him. Nor could she tell which side was winning.

      Then she spotted Iain on the ground. He wasn’t moving.

      Sweet Savior, Iain—the best soldier in Averette—wasn’t moving.

      More of their men were on the ground, some bloody. Several more were fighting, swinging their swords from horseback, or engaging their opponents on the ground. Riderless horses ran from the road, the whites of their eyes showing, frantic from the smell of blood. The team harnessed to the wagon jostled one another, unable to escape.

      Her sore head throbbing, Lizette pushed the sobbing Keldra away and grabbed a small wooden chest. She threw open the lid and found the dagger buried beneath her undergarments.

      Dicken yelped. The wagon tilted precariously to the left like a ship in a stormy sea, then fell back hard on its right wheels as Dicken tumbled backward into the wagon, his large body catching the canvas partition and ripping it from its supports.

      An arrow was lodged in his chest. Blood spread out from the wound and his eyes stared, unseeing, at the now-bare frame of the wagon’s roof.

      Keldra began to wail. Lizette clutched the dagger and tried to think. They had to get away from here. If the men were all preoccupied by battle, if they were concerned with their own lives, she and Keldra might be able to escape.

      Inspired by that hope, she grabbed hold of Keldra’s arm and pulled her to the rear of the wagon. “We have a chance, but we’ve got to run!”

      Putting the dagger between her teeth to free her hands, she climbed over the back of the wagon. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, then looked up to see Keldra still sitting where she’d left her, her trembling hands covering her face.

      Lizette took the knife out of her mouth. “Keldra, come! We have to run!”

      “I can’t! I can’t!”

      “Yes, you can! You must!”

      A man came around the wagon—Lindall, on foot, smiling like the devil himself, evil intent visible on his familiar, homely features.

      “Looks like somebody gave my lady a little toy,” he sneered as he ran his gaze over her and her knife.

      Gripping the dagger tightly, she backed away from him. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home, at Averette.”

      “If I stayed there, what would I get?” he returned, his voice loud enough to be heard above the din of the fighting men nearby. “Some food, a place to sleep, a little money for sport now and then.”

      He grinned, exposing his ruined teeth, and his eyes gleamed with hate. “I’m a rich man now—or I will be soon. A hundred marks Lord Wimarc’s promised me if I bring you to him.”

      Confusion joined her fear. “Who’s Lord Wimarc? What does he want with me?”

      “You’ll find out soon enough, my lady,” Lindall said as he went to grab her.

      She sidestepped him and turned, ready to run—until she remembered Keldra, sobbing in the wagon. Keldra, who was but fifteen, and terrified.

      She spun on her heel and lunged at Lindall. He raised his shield, easily avoiding her blow, then grabbed her right wrist, twisting until she cried out and dropped her dagger. He kicked it away with his blood-spattered boot.

      “Don’t try to fight me, my lady,” he snarled as he hauled her close, his stinking breath hot on her face. “I’ve got your men outnumbered, and mine are vicious brutes, trained killers from all over Europe. Your men are doomed and you’re mine now—at least until I hand you over to Wimarc. So don’t give me no trouble, or you’ll regret it.”

      Her view of the battle was blocked by the wagon; nevertheless, she wouldn’t believe his men would defeat hers. Her men had been trained by Iain Mac Kendren. Outnumbered or not, it would make no difference. They would win.

      “You’re going to be caught and hanged for what you’ve done,” she charged. “If you’ve harmed Iain—”

      “Harmed him?” Lindall replied with a coarse laugh. “I’ve killed him.”

      No! she silently wailed, her knees nearly buckling, as he tugged on her aching wrist.

      “You’re caught, my lady, and now I’m going to get my money.”

      Rage rose up, strengthened by her grief. Gritting her teeth, she planted her feet. Whatever Lindall planned to do, wherever he wanted to take her, he would have to drag her.

      Curling his lip, keeping hold of her wrist, still gripping his sword with his right hand, he kicked her left leg hard.

      “I said, don’t give me no trouble. I’ll break your leg if I have to.”

      She nearly fell as he tugged her toward

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