He’d stood by while she’d been repeatedly used, a means for Ian to slake his twisted desires. He hadn’t cared that she’d been broken numerous times. That, at times, she’d wanted to die. Or that her very soul had been forfeit to demons she could never hope to escape.
She reached over her shoulder to grasp one of the arrows by the fletching and quickly notched it. She raised the bow and set her sights on the man in front of Patrick. She would have to act quickly. Once Patrick sensed danger, he’d slink away like a rat in the darkness.
Rapidly taking aim, she let the first arrow fly. Savage satisfaction coursed through her veins when the warrior just in front of Patrick clutched his chest and toppled forward, her arrow embedded deeply in the area just above where his chain mail protected his vulnerable areas.
Patrick sent a panicked look, desperately searching for the source of the attack. He instantly hunkered down, cowering behind his shield, all the while hoarsely yelling for someone to come to his aid.
Her lips curling into a snarl, she notched another arrow and took aim, waiting patiently for the right opportunity.
Sweat beaded and rolled down her back. Her entire focus was on her target. Her arm ached from the strain of holding the bow at full draw, but she’d wait forever if that was what it took.
Revenge was sweet on her tongue. She didn’t spare a moment’s regret for killing another person in cold blood. It was nothing less than she’d done in her dreams time and time again. It was all that had sustained her over the last months. Dreaming of vengeance.
Her arm was starting to shake when Patrick made his move. He’d evidently decided that he was in too vulnerable a position and shot upward, holding his shield to guard his upper body. He fled toward the back of the keep, where less fighting was taking place.
Calmly, she took aim at his leg, knowing it would slow him and it would also likely afford her a kill shot when he was forced to drop his shield.
She shot the arrow and was rewarded by the sight of him stumbling and dropping to his knees, his cry of agony rising above the din of battle. It struck him just above the ankle and rendered him incapable of walking. She notched another arrow, never removing her gaze from his fallen figure. She drew and waited, and, as she’d hoped, his shield dropped. Just enough …
She let the arrow fly.
It struck him in the side of the neck, going all the way through to the fletching. His eyes wide and glassy with death, he pitched to the side, sagging pitifully, wilting like a flower too long in the sun.
For a long moment, she stood, bow held high, staring as the life faded from his body. Then, slowly, she lowered her bow, calm pervading her mind.
It was done. She may not have been the one to deal Ian his death blow, but she’d exacted vengeance against his weakling of a father. If she was supposed to feel guilt over the taking of a life, it was too bad. She wouldn’t spend a single moment being remorseful that Patrick McHugh had met such a violent end.
The continued sounds of battle seeped into her consciousness, and she turned, anxiously seeking the fate of the Montgomery and Armstrong forces.
Brodie was leading a group of Armstrong warriors, and they were steadily slashing a bloody path through the McHugh and McGrieve combatants.
Her gaze swung rapidly around the courtyard to determine Bowen’s fate. Her heart lurched when she saw him in the distance, engaged in a fierce sword battle with a huge warrior who could only be from the McGrieve clan. It was not someone she recognized.
But what made her chest tight was the McHugh man behind Bowen. He was not one of the ones who’d left the clan with Patrick. He had stayed behind and had since sworn allegiance to Bowen and the Montgomerys.
He was a traitor.
Clutched tightly in his hand was a dagger, and he was advancing warily toward Bowen’s back. The loathsome coward was going to plunge the knife into Bowen’s back, attacking him in the most dishonorable fashion.
It was a distant shot, and one she couldn’t be assured of making with perfect accuracy. This was too important to miss or fall short.
Kicking up her skirts, she notched an arrow and bolted across the courtyard, praying she would make the shot in time to save Bowen.
Chapter 15
Bowen ignored the pain radiating from his side and his shoulder and fought with more savagery. This was his toughest opponent thus far, and the man showed no signs of tiring. Bowen would have to end it quickly or all his reserves would be used up, and he was already injured from his previous battles.
Their swords hissed and clanged, the sun bouncing off the blades in a rapid dance. Bowen drove him back, but then the bigger man charged, swinging like a crazed person, bellowing the entire way.
Bowen retreated but managed to slice his opponent’s upper arm, drawing blood and momentarily halting his progress. As the other man warily stepped back, pivoting to ensure Bowen didn’t gain position, movement caught Bowen’s eye and he glanced beyond his opponent to see Genevieve a short distance away, holding, of all things, a bow with an arrow notched. And she was pointing it directly at him!
Before he could react or think to avoid the coming arrow, she let fly. His snarl of fury over the betrayal roared from his throat just as the arrow sailed past him. A cry of pain sounded behind him.
Thrusting his sword upward to ward off the coming blow, he drove forward, determined to end the fight here and now. His mind was ablaze, and he was confused as hell as to what Genevieve had done.
He never had the chance. Before he could deal the killing blow, Genevieve notched another arrow and sent one into the back of his opponent’s neck. The arrow plunged directly through his Adam’s apple, coated in bright red blood.
An odd, sucking noise gurgled from the McGrieve warrior, and blood seeped from his mouth just before he toppled forward like a felled tree.
Bowen instantly spun to see that a McHugh clansman—one who had not fled the keep with Patrick—held a dagger in his hand and it was obvious that he’d planned to plunge it into Bowen’s back.
Genevieve’s arrow had struck him through the forehead—an impossible target at best—and yet she’d made not one but two lethal shots with her bow.
The McHugh betrayer was suspended in air for the longest time, his eyes glazed and gray, until finally he sagged and folded like a dropped blanket, the knife slipping from his grasp just before he hit the ground.
The earth shifted beneath Bowen’s feet and he swayed precariously, his head spinning. And then Genevieve was at his side, shouting for aid.
She drove her shoulder forcefully under his, fitting it into his armpit as she valiantly kept him from tumbling to the ground. Jesu, but he must have lost more blood than he’d imagined.
He nearly toppled them both, but her stubbornness prevailed. He heard her muttered oaths and smiled at the lass’s colorful language. She had quite the saucy mouth.