Read Online Knight of Westmoorland: The Queen and the warrior by M. S. Toboorg - Free Book Online
Authors: M. S. Toboorg
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shushed him, and then began laughing himself.
The warrior continued to lie still. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but his gut told him it wasn’t morning and these three were up to no good.
He cursed himself for leaving his hands behind his back. His exhausted body and full stomach had lulled him to sleep and he had let his guard down. His muscles tensed and he waited as the men circled him.
Striking out with his legs, he knocked one of the men down. With his legs still up in the air, he bucked his body, pulling his hands under his ass. The chain scratched the backs of his thighs, but he got his hands in front and then rolled, quickly on his feet.
He glanced around, taking a small step back and slightly bending his knees. The man he’d knocked down was on his hands and knees. His face was unfamiliar; the warrior didn’t know him.
The second man was directly in front of him, another unfamiliar face.
The third man, standing between the two and several feet back, was a face he knew, only too well. It was Marcus.
The second man charged. Clasping his hands together, the warrior slugged the man’s jaw. The impact spun the stranger around and the warrior stepped forward, separating his shackled hands and wrapping the chain around the stranger’s neck.
Gagging from the warrior’s stranglehold, the stranger curled the fingers of one hand around the chain, trying to pull it away from his throat. With his other hand, he clawed at the warrior’s head and face.
The warrior arched his back, pulling his face out of the man’s reach and tightening the chain around the man’s neck.
A huge fist slammed into the warrior’s side, into his wound. It was Marcus, standing beside him. He roared in pain, but didn’t give any slack to the man he held in front of him. He twisted his torso, trying to swing the man around for protection, but the guard stepped to the side and struck again.
Marcus’ fist slammed into the side of his lower back and then again into his wound. The combination knocked the breath out of the warrior and he lost his grip on the man in front of him. The stranger slid to the floor and rolled away, coughing.
The warrior spun to face Marcus and the guard quickly backed away, watching him warily. The first man was again standing and Marcus scowled at him.
“He can’t get both of us, Donny. Get him!” Marcus ordered.
Donny’s fearful eyes widened. “Maybe not, but he can get one of us. You get him.”
Shifting his gaze between the men, the warrior was assessing the danger they posed when suddenly, the second man charged from the shadows. Bellowing angrily, the man drove his fist into the warrior’s face.
The blow knocked the warrior off balance, spinning him around. He stumbled on the chain between his ankles and went down, face-first beside the fireplace.
At that point, the warrior knew he would lose the fight. It was only a matter of time. His shackled ankles would prove too great a hindrance. But giving up was not in his nature. He would fight, as long as there was breath in his body.
His eyes searched the immediate are for something— anything —he could use. A log was sticking out of the fire, several inches in diameter, with only one end burning. As he reached for the end of it, he felt a fist in his side. His reach fell short and his hand landed in the cinders. He closed his fist, ignoring the painful heat, and rolled over, slinging his handful of cinders and ash into the face of his assailant.
Marcus fell back, cursing and wiping his hands over his face. “Nathan, get the son of a bitch!”
Nathan, the second man, rushed forward, swinging his foot. The toe of his boot landed in the warrior’s ribcage and he felt a sharp pain. He rolled onto his side, as Nathan drew back to kick him again. He grabbed the oncoming boot and shoved it up and away from him. Nathan staggered backwards.
Snatching the end of the log and pulling it from the fire, the warrior scrambled to his feet and
The warrior continued to lie still. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but his gut told him it wasn’t morning and these three were up to no good.
He cursed himself for leaving his hands behind his back. His exhausted body and full stomach had lulled him to sleep and he had let his guard down. His muscles tensed and he waited as the men circled him.
Striking out with his legs, he knocked one of the men down. With his legs still up in the air, he bucked his body, pulling his hands under his ass. The chain scratched the backs of his thighs, but he got his hands in front and then rolled, quickly on his feet.
He glanced around, taking a small step back and slightly bending his knees. The man he’d knocked down was on his hands and knees. His face was unfamiliar; the warrior didn’t know him.
The second man was directly in front of him, another unfamiliar face.
The third man, standing between the two and several feet back, was a face he knew, only too well. It was Marcus.
The second man charged. Clasping his hands together, the warrior slugged the man’s jaw. The impact spun the stranger around and the warrior stepped forward, separating his shackled hands and wrapping the chain around the stranger’s neck.
Gagging from the warrior’s stranglehold, the stranger curled the fingers of one hand around the chain, trying to pull it away from his throat. With his other hand, he clawed at the warrior’s head and face.
The warrior arched his back, pulling his face out of the man’s reach and tightening the chain around the man’s neck.
A huge fist slammed into the warrior’s side, into his wound. It was Marcus, standing beside him. He roared in pain, but didn’t give any slack to the man he held in front of him. He twisted his torso, trying to swing the man around for protection, but the guard stepped to the side and struck again.
Marcus’ fist slammed into the side of his lower back and then again into his wound. The combination knocked the breath out of the warrior and he lost his grip on the man in front of him. The stranger slid to the floor and rolled away, coughing.
The warrior spun to face Marcus and the guard quickly backed away, watching him warily. The first man was again standing and Marcus scowled at him.
“He can’t get both of us, Donny. Get him!” Marcus ordered.
Donny’s fearful eyes widened. “Maybe not, but he can get one of us. You get him.”
Shifting his gaze between the men, the warrior was assessing the danger they posed when suddenly, the second man charged from the shadows. Bellowing angrily, the man drove his fist into the warrior’s face.
The blow knocked the warrior off balance, spinning him around. He stumbled on the chain between his ankles and went down, face-first beside the fireplace.
At that point, the warrior knew he would lose the fight. It was only a matter of time. His shackled ankles would prove too great a hindrance. But giving up was not in his nature. He would fight, as long as there was breath in his body.
His eyes searched the immediate are for something— anything —he could use. A log was sticking out of the fire, several inches in diameter, with only one end burning. As he reached for the end of it, he felt a fist in his side. His reach fell short and his hand landed in the cinders. He closed his fist, ignoring the painful heat, and rolled over, slinging his handful of cinders and ash into the face of his assailant.
Marcus fell back, cursing and wiping his hands over his face. “Nathan, get the son of a bitch!”
Nathan, the second man, rushed forward, swinging his foot. The toe of his boot landed in the warrior’s ribcage and he felt a sharp pain. He rolled onto his side, as Nathan drew back to kick him again. He grabbed the oncoming boot and shoved it up and away from him. Nathan staggered backwards.
Snatching the end of the log and pulling it from the fire, the warrior scrambled to his feet and
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