The man was huge, heavy-set and dark—an enveloping cloak covering his massive frame, a muffler wrapped around his face under the rain-soaked hat, and all she could see were tiny, evil eyes starting her with such malevolence that she froze.
And then she looked down at his hand, not the one that was still gripping her upper arm so painfully, but the other, ham handed, brutal, holding a knife.
She didn’t hesitate a moment longer. Before he could swing that knife at her she spun again, trying to twist out of his grip, set to take off across the fields, as far and as fast as she could go.
She’d forgotten about the muddy ground. Her foot slid out from beneath her and she went down, pulling her attacker with her, so that they were sliding and rolling in the mud. She screamed, as loud as she could, not putting much hope in it, but experience had taught her to make as much noise as she could if someone was threatening her, and this man was more than a threat.
He definitely intended to kill her.
She, however, had no intention of being killed. She clawed at him, to little avail. She’d forgotten that her nails were filed down to the quick to make surgery more efficient, and she had no ability to rip flesh. She had a small knife tucked into her plain woolen petticoat—she never travelled anywhere without it—but whether she’d be able to get to it was a question. She tried to drive her knee into his bollocks. but he was too big, too heavy for her to manage. She thrashed, knowing one strike with his blade could end everything, but she refused to give up. She heard the knife clatter onto the rocks, her first piece of luck, until she felt his heavy hands planted on her throat, and death stared her in the face.
It had started to rain again. His hands tightened slowly, and she managed one more scream until he closed off all sound, his thumbs pressing against her throat.
She knew exactly how she would die. He would crush her trachea and her larynx, her voice box, so that no air could pass through, and blood would fill her throat, drowning her. She wanted to throw up, which, would, of course, only speed the process along. She struggled, knowing it was in vain but determined not to give up.
He was looming above her, and she didn’t have to see his mouth to know he was grinning, his tiny dark eyes alight with pleasure. Those eyes were oddly familiar—none that she knew well, but she’d definitely seen them before. She went limp, deliberately so, and he leaned forward to increase the press
ure, when she brought her leg up, hard, slamming into his crotch.
His scream was high pitched and comical, and he released her, unable to hold on as he rolled into the mud, giving her just enough time to scramble back, thanking God for her knowledge of anatomy. She struggled to her feet, prepared to run, when his hand clamped around her ankle, yanking her down again, and this time the fall was hard, face first in the mud. He was hauling her back to him, foul, vicious words coming from his voice, still breathless with pain, and that, too, was familiar. She tried to grab hold of something, anything that would keep her from moving, but he was inexorable. She slid through the mud, catching on to something at the last minute.
“I was going to make this quick and painless,” he grumbled, “but you had to be difficult, so now I’m going to take my time with you. And it’ll hurt. You’ll be screaming so loud and no one will hear you, you’ll be. . .”
And then he was the one who screamed, when she drove the knife she’d managed to grab up beneath his ribs, intent on skewering his liver.
It was a bad angle, and he was fast—it was far from a killing blow, and her arm went numb when he wrenched the knife away from her and slammed his heavy fist against the side of her head.
So this was it, she thought dazedly as his fists rained down on her body, feeling her legs give way. Wretched way to die, she thought dreamily, sprawling in the mud as he began to kick her. The rain was pouring down again, and she thought she heard someone call out, but she was losing consciousness, which was fine with her. If she were going to be beaten to death, she’d rather not be awake for the process, though she supposed she ought to, for the sake of science. She was no longer feeling pain, just a thumping sensation, a small comfort.
Another blow to the side of her head, and staying alert wasn’t going to be a matter of choice. The next one would be the last she remembered, and she closed her eyes, unwilling to see her murderer’s gleeful, strangely familiar eyes as she died. She should have fought harder, she should have gone for his throat, not his liver, she should have. . .
He kicked her in the side, hard enough to make her roll away from him, her skirts sodden in the mud, and he followed her. Those heavy, hob-nail boots would slam into her head, and she held her breath, ready to meet the angry God of her father.
The blow never came. She could hear it now, the pounding of hooves, feel the ground vibrate beneath her crumpled body, hear the shouting in the distance. Thoughts were drifting through her head, aimless, disconnected. So she was going to be saved after all, was she?
And she knew just who her avenging angel would be.
His mind went blank. Brandon Rohan had been in battle too many times—it fell around him like a cloak, and he was nothing but action and instinct. The miserable horse beneath him managed to fly across the water-soaked fields toward the small stone bridge, and he focused on the mismatched battle taking place, the huge brute and the much smaller woman fighting back with the fierceness of an Afghan tribesman.
But then she was down, and the man was pummeling her, kicking her. Brandon let out a roar of pure fury, digging his heels in as he drove the horse forward, one last spurt of energy from the sorry creature before he flung himself off, onto the huge, dangerous brute, knocking him away from Emma’s prone body.
The red haze in front of his eyes was familiar, direct, as he acted purely on instinct, driving the man into the ground, pummeling him with mindless rage. He might have killed him had not his stupid horse decided to intervene, looking for one of the sugar cubes Brandon had used earlier to goad him into a reasonable pace.
He fell back, unwilling to shove even the sorriest of horses, and the motionless pile on the ground suddenly came back to life, scrambling to his feet and taking off before Brandon could get to him.
He stood, panting, staring after the fleeing man for the briefest of moments, cataloguing his shape, his gait, everything he could, before turning and sinking to his knees beside Emma’s crumpled body.
There was blood everywhere, on her face, soaking into the neckline of her dress, reaching to her hands. It looked as if most of it was coming from a gash on her temple, and he knew from his military experience that head wounds bled copiously. Shoving a hand into his jacket, he pulled out a handkerchief and began dabbing at the cut on her face, trying to ascertain her injuries.
To his cautious relief her eyes blinked open, and she stared up at him without focus, clearly disoriented. And then her gaze sharpened as she recognized him, and he sensed her instinctive recoil.
He felt his instinctive surge of fury, remnants of his killing rage, and let it fade back, dissolving as civilization took hold. “Yes, it’s me,” he said, sounding more pragmatic than he felt. “I just saved your life, so you don’t need to look at me like I’m a dyspeptic python.” It was a lame attempt at a joke, but she managed the ghost of a smile, some of the hardness fading from her eyes.
“I could have stopped him.” Her voice was wispy, slightly raw, and it seemed to surprise her far more than it surprised him.
“Don’t try to talk,” he said. “Clearly you don’t have a great deal of experience fighting for your life.”
“That’s what you think,” she muttered, and a little more of his tension eased. She was still fighting back—she couldn’t be at death’s door.