‘Stop fighting, and I’ll go easy on you,’ he snarled.
Tara could not bear to succumb to him. She would rather die. He fumbled to raise her skirts, and as he moved back from her a little to pull at them, she struck. Her knee connected with his groin with crunching force. Stalker staggered back in agony, falling to the floor and clutching at himself.
Tara leapt past him and rushed through the squalid cottage and out of the open front door, squinting as the bright sunlight hit her eyes. She ran, then, for all she was worth. If she could just get past the guards and hide in the forest or get to one of the horses, she might get clear.
A punishing blow to the side of her body knocked her clean off her feet, and all the breath left her body. Tara struggled to breathe, and when she looked up, she saw Flynn standing over her and Stalker coming through the cottage door.
In his hand, he clutched a knife. ‘Bitch, I’ll have you or cut you, your choice. Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘Get back inside, madam, and open your legs.’
Tara scuttled back on her bottom. She spotted some men at the edge of the forest. ‘Help me. Please,’ she called out, but they turned their backs on her.
‘The Baron said not to,’ offered Flynn, with a nervous glance at the other men.
Stalker rushed over to him, fist drawn back. ‘You dare to question me, whelp?’ he raged, and Flynn turned ashen and backed away, shaking his head.
She would get no aid there. Stalker’s face took on the look of a rabid dog, distorted by rage, pain and madness. He rushed back to Tara and grabbed her by the hair.
‘Get off me. I would rather die than lie with you,’ she screamed.
‘Then death it is. I’ll first have you, and then I’ll put you out of your misery, and none will lift a finger to stop me.’ He began to drag her back inside by her hair when a shrill scream stopped him in his tracks.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The scream came from Flynn, who tottered a few steps, staring down at an axe embedded in his chest. He fell backwards onto the ground, blood bubbling from his mouth. The group of men scattered, scanning the trees. ‘Where are the devils?’ shouted one. The clearing began to echo with crack after crack as muskets fired, and men shouted. Little clouds of smoke hung in the trees and drifted across the ferns, and the tang of sulphur tainted the air.
Morgan rushed towards them. ‘We are under attack, Stalker. We are undone,’ he screamed, anxiously scanning the forest. A dull crack split the air, and Morgan arched his back and fell at their feet. A scarlet stain widened on his back, and he twitched then lay still.
Stalker let go of Tara’s hair, and she took her chance to scramble away from him. Men and horses started to emerge from the trees, and astride a huge black horse was Callum. He galloped towards her through a group of men, slashing at them with his claymore, and they scattered like rats. His horse skidded to a halt in front of Stalker, and he threw himself off it. There was no relief, no fear on his face – just cold rage.
The screams and shouts faded as men ran for their lives, and when Callum spoke, it was terrifying. ‘You put hands on my wife. Do you wish to die quickly or slowly, dog?’ Time seemed to hang for a moment, and then Stalker scraped his claymore from its scabbard.
‘Tis you who will die this day, and as for your whore wife….’ Stalker leapt at Callum, screaming his fury, and the woods rang with a piercing clang and scrape as their swords met.
Tara caught sight of Bryce across the clearing, with his hand outstretched. ‘Get back, lass. Out of the way,’ he shouted, and she scuttled backwards on her bottom as Callum and Stalker lunged and parried, circling and snarling like dogs.
Time slowed as they fought on, and then, in one smooth sweep of his sword, Callum struck at Stalker and slashed open his cheek. An arc of blood sprayed out from his wound and kissed Tara’s face, warm and wet. She wiped her cheek, and her hand came away red.
Suddenly it was as if all the blood had drained out of her, and with it, her strength. Tara could not find her feet. She got to her hands and knees and pushed against the earth to try to stand up as dizziness engulfed her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Flynn’s body, still twitching in its death throes, and she wanted to retch. She was shaking so much she could barely get herself upright, and when she did, it was to see Callum’s sword sink deep into Stalker’s chest.
She had longed for rescue but had never imagined it would be this bloody, brutal slaughter. Callum seemed like a stranger - stony-faced and ruthless - as he pulled his sword out of Stalker’s chest in a gush of blood. His black-stubbled face contorted with rage, made him almost unrecognisable. There was blood spattered all over him, and he looked like a monster from a nightmare. And although Tara knew Callum to be a fierce fighter, to have probably killed men, knowing it and seeing it were two very different things. Her husband, the man she loved, had become an angry, murderous stranger. Callum took a sudden step towards her, his hand laced with rivulets of blood.
‘Tara, it is alright now. You are safe. Take my hand, lass,’ he said. He gave her a pained smile, and suddenly, he was back. Her Callum. Her gentle, safe haven of a man.
It was as if the world slowed down, and there was just the thud of blood in her ears and the whisper of the trees. Some instinct made Tara turn her head to look at Stalker. He was sitting in the dirt, blood spurting from his mouth, face a chalk-white. His head lolled forward, and his mouth went slack. He jerked a bloodied hand into his belt, and in a flash, he tore out a musket. His arm wobbled as he pointed it at Callum.
There was no thought, no feeling. Tara threw herself in front of Callum just as a crack echoed across the clearing, piercing the bright day. Suddenly, she was falling against Callum’s chest. His arms came around her, but she slipped through them and hit the ground. Everything became a blur of sound and feeling mixed together - feet running, someone shouting at Callum, a dragging pain inside her, making her want to vomit, her thoughts slipping away.
Tara looked up at Callum’s face. It was white spattered with red, so vivid, so bright. He was frowning. Was he angry with her? She tried to move but found she could not. All her strength had gone from her limbs as if she had no bones at all.
‘Lass, lass, speak to me. Don’t go, Tara. Please. Bryce, do something.’ He began to slap her face too hard. ‘Stay with me, my love.’
She wished Callum would not shout, and he must have heard her somehow because his voice started to fade, and the day grew cloudy, and then, in a heartbeat, there was nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The sun was setting, bleeding red into the sky, and it seemed as though the light was about to leave Callum’s world forever. The physician turned Tara over and sucked air in through his teeth. He had been sought out in a nearby town and dragged from his bed, and he was not best pleased about it.