Part 14 (2/2)

A plea for help interrupted Lachlan's brooding thoughts. Not far away, a wounded English soldier who'd cried out in pain during the night raised himself up on one elbow.

”Lychester! Over here, sir! It's Will Jeffries!”

Lachlan watched from beneath slit lids as another Sa.s.senach came into view. Attired in the splendid armor of the n.o.bility, the newcomer rode a large, caparisoned black horse. He'd clearly come looking for someone, for he held the reins of a smaller chestnut, its saddle empty and waiting.

”Here I am, Marquess,” the young man named Jeffries called weakly. He lifted one hand in a trembling wave as the Marquess of Lychester drew near to his countryman. Dismounting, he approached the wounded soldier.

”Thank G.o.d,” Jeffries said with a hoa.r.s.e groan. ”I've taken a sword blade in my thigh. The cut's been oozing steadily. I was afraid I wouldn't make it through the night.”

Lychester didn't say a word. He came to stand behind the injured man, knelt down on one knee, and raised his fallen comrade to a seated position. Grabbing a hank of the man's yellow hair, the marquess jerked the fair head back and deftly slashed the exposed throat from ear to ear. Then he calmly wiped his blade on the youth's doublet, lifted him up in his arms, and threw the body facedown over the chestnut's back.

The English n.o.bleman glanced around, checking, no doubt, to see if there'd been a witness to the coldblooded execution. Lachlan held his breath and remained motionless, his lids still lowered over his eyes. Apparently satisfied, the marquess mounted, grabbed the reins of the second horse, and rode away.

Lachlan slowly exhaled.

Sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Be Impulsive!

Look for Other.

Avon Impulse Authors.

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