staggered back. The horse skittered sideways, but the terrorized beauty swiped at Damien’s face with her nails, too panicked to realize it was him.
His eyes widened as her kick connected with the chin of the hefty man who was trying to hold onto her legs. Damien pulled her free of them and carried her two or three steps away, placing her roughly on the snowy ground behind him, swiftly positioning his body between her and her attackers.
The hefty man she had kicked in the chin was already back for more. Damien punched him in the face with such force that the big fellow reeled and fell, stunned. Damien glanced back for a split second to see if the girl was all right. On her knees in the snow, she looked up and met his gaze. Realization flashed in her eyes—who he was, that he had come to help.
Then a deafening shot exploded a few feet away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pistol’s flare, felt the bullet’s bite as it grazed his left biceps, searing through the sleeve of his red uniform coat. He let out a curse and clapped his hand over the wound as the girl cried, “No!”
With sweat beading on his face, Damien slowly looked up from his bleeding arm at the one who had shot him, a wiry, unkempt man with a gold tooth. Deaf to the threats and shouts of the other men, Damien stared at the gunman in an icy silence for the space of a heartbeat, the pain in his arm diminishing into numbness.
The criminal lowered his gun and began reloading, but fear and haste made him clumsy. Lowering his hand from his wounded arm, Damien wiped the blood off his palm down the front of his scarlet coat, his pulse thundering in his ears like cannon fire in the distance. Reality wavered like the king’s colors billowing slowly on the breeze. It buckled, split—and suddenly, fractured. He was back in Spain, the guns roaring around him, the French flinging themselves at his battalion. His confusion receded, narrowing down to one blissfully simple goal: Destroy .
“Run,” he ordered the girl in a low, vicious growl as he stalked toward the gunman.
He did not want her to see this.
It all happened so fast.
Miranda hesitated, her heart pounding with dread to see the big, gray-eyed stranger walking straight toward the man with the gun. She had seen the chilling look that had come over his hard, angular face upon being wounded, though he had hardly flinched with pain. In that split second, she did not know what to do.
She felt she should obey his order—but how could she abandon him to save herself? He was outnumbered and already hurt. It was all her fault. Something like this had been bound to happen to her, venturing so close to Mud City.
She did not know what these cretins wanted or how they had known her real name. She only knew she was unutterably grateful to the big, handsome officer for so gallantly rushing to her rescue. In the next moment, however, any notion of him as her knight in shining armor turned to horror. He attacked the gunman, launching at him like a wolf. The man screamed, though the soldier had no weapon. Almost too quick for the eye to see, the soldier raised his fist, fingers curled in a savage hook, and struck the outlaw in his windpipe, fairly tearing the man’s throat out with his bare hand, letting out the most terrifying, barbaric snarl she had ever heard from human lips.
The air left her lungs in a whoosh. She felt her gorge rise as he dropped the body and turned to the others with a mad glint of blood lust in his eyes. The others took the Lord’s name in vain, backing away from him in shock.
Miranda needed no further instruction. She stumbled to her feet, tripping on the hem of her lavender gown as she began running back toward the lights and people around the Pavilion. Her mind was blank with shock. She had never seen anything so horrible in her life, but somehow, through her hysteria, she had the presence of mind to run in the right direction.
There was another scream behind her, but it was
His eyes widened as her kick connected with the chin of the hefty man who was trying to hold onto her legs. Damien pulled her free of them and carried her two or three steps away, placing her roughly on the snowy ground behind him, swiftly positioning his body between her and her attackers.
The hefty man she had kicked in the chin was already back for more. Damien punched him in the face with such force that the big fellow reeled and fell, stunned. Damien glanced back for a split second to see if the girl was all right. On her knees in the snow, she looked up and met his gaze. Realization flashed in her eyes—who he was, that he had come to help.
Then a deafening shot exploded a few feet away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the pistol’s flare, felt the bullet’s bite as it grazed his left biceps, searing through the sleeve of his red uniform coat. He let out a curse and clapped his hand over the wound as the girl cried, “No!”
With sweat beading on his face, Damien slowly looked up from his bleeding arm at the one who had shot him, a wiry, unkempt man with a gold tooth. Deaf to the threats and shouts of the other men, Damien stared at the gunman in an icy silence for the space of a heartbeat, the pain in his arm diminishing into numbness.
The criminal lowered his gun and began reloading, but fear and haste made him clumsy. Lowering his hand from his wounded arm, Damien wiped the blood off his palm down the front of his scarlet coat, his pulse thundering in his ears like cannon fire in the distance. Reality wavered like the king’s colors billowing slowly on the breeze. It buckled, split—and suddenly, fractured. He was back in Spain, the guns roaring around him, the French flinging themselves at his battalion. His confusion receded, narrowing down to one blissfully simple goal: Destroy .
“Run,” he ordered the girl in a low, vicious growl as he stalked toward the gunman.
He did not want her to see this.
It all happened so fast.
Miranda hesitated, her heart pounding with dread to see the big, gray-eyed stranger walking straight toward the man with the gun. She had seen the chilling look that had come over his hard, angular face upon being wounded, though he had hardly flinched with pain. In that split second, she did not know what to do.
She felt she should obey his order—but how could she abandon him to save herself? He was outnumbered and already hurt. It was all her fault. Something like this had been bound to happen to her, venturing so close to Mud City.
She did not know what these cretins wanted or how they had known her real name. She only knew she was unutterably grateful to the big, handsome officer for so gallantly rushing to her rescue. In the next moment, however, any notion of him as her knight in shining armor turned to horror. He attacked the gunman, launching at him like a wolf. The man screamed, though the soldier had no weapon. Almost too quick for the eye to see, the soldier raised his fist, fingers curled in a savage hook, and struck the outlaw in his windpipe, fairly tearing the man’s throat out with his bare hand, letting out the most terrifying, barbaric snarl she had ever heard from human lips.
The air left her lungs in a whoosh. She felt her gorge rise as he dropped the body and turned to the others with a mad glint of blood lust in his eyes. The others took the Lord’s name in vain, backing away from him in shock.
Miranda needed no further instruction. She stumbled to her feet, tripping on the hem of her lavender gown as she began running back toward the lights and people around the Pavilion. Her mind was blank with shock. She had never seen anything so horrible in her life, but somehow, through her hysteria, she had the presence of mind to run in the right direction.
There was another scream behind her, but it was
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