not the soldier’s deep voice. She winced, realizing he had just killed another one, then ran faster until the man on horseback galloped his lanky mount past her, heading her off well before she reached the theater. Terror rose up in her anew.
Herded around like a wild filly, she turned on a sixpence and ran back the other way, bolting in the direction of the bridge over the River Cole—the way back to Yardley.
She ran until her lungs burned, taking a zigzagging path like a fleeing rabbit, but it only bought her a few extra seconds. She gave her terrifying rescuer a wide berth as she sprinted past him. There were two dead men sprawled on the ground, and he was at work on the third, beating the hefty one’s face to a pulp, lost in a frenzy of violence. He seemed to be in his own world, barely even noticing her as she tore past him toward the bridge, trying futilely to outpace the horse.
“Aarrgh!” A wild, angry cry wrenched from her lips as she heard the dull cadence of hoofbeats sweeping up behind her.
The horseman was closing in. She could smell the horse, hear the creaking of the leather tack. Panting painfully with the air’s sharp cold, she glanced over her shoulder as the rider leaned down from the saddle, steadying himself to grab her.
“Help me!” she screamed.
She could almost feel his hot breath on the back of her neck, when suddenly, the rider let out an odd shriek and pitched off the horse, hitting the ground, headfirst, a few feet in front of her. She heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones as he landed facedown with a knife jutting out of his back.
She skidded to a halt, nearly falling over the dead man, then stayed exactly where she was. The horse bolted on, riderless, tearing off over the bridge. No longer daring to move in any direction, Miranda covered her mouth with both hands to stop the ragged, animal whimpering that spilled from her lips. Her whole body was shaking. She turned slowly, forcing herself to look back at her wild rescuer.
There, on the moonlit ridge several yards away, a sword trailing from his grasp, he was the only man left standing, his giant shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. Like some berserker warrior out of Celtic legend, he stood in the cold white moonlight, his fury spent, dead men strewn around him.
He threw down the borrowed sword, dropped his head almost to his chest, and turned, wiping his brow with his forearm. The ground beneath his boots had been churned to bloodstained slush. His face was bloody, streaming with sweat; his smart uniform was torn, his hair disheveled. She had never encountered any creature more primal or more dangerous than this unbowed, elemental male.
She stood paralyzed. The quiet gurgling of the nearby River Cole was thunderous in the silence. As though feeling her awed, appalled stare upon him, the gray-eyed stranger slowly turned his head and met her gaze.
He looked inhuman in that moment, like the angel of death: beautiful and terrible and utterly remote, his cool, silvery eyes devoid of emotion. A flicker of some distant response passed behind his diamond-hard gaze.
“What are you looking at?”
The sound of his voice terrified her, reverberating through her entire being with the force and raw, rumbling power of some mountain cataract. She picked up her skirts, whirled around, and ran. With a sense of disjointed unreality, she pounded back across the bridge and tore through the silent fields, stumbling through snowdrifts, fleeing blindly back to Yardley.
CHAPTER
THREE
Late morning was bleak and eerily still as Damien’s horse picked its way along the muddy, rutted drive to Yardley School, past the line of large, bare, gnarled trees with painfully twisted trunks. Dingy clouds hung low across the sky like a dirty woolen blanket. Arriving in the walled courtyard, he halted his stallion and stiffly dismounted before the thick front doors of the school. Aches and pains plagued his back, neck, and shoulders
Herded around like a wild filly, she turned on a sixpence and ran back the other way, bolting in the direction of the bridge over the River Cole—the way back to Yardley.
She ran until her lungs burned, taking a zigzagging path like a fleeing rabbit, but it only bought her a few extra seconds. She gave her terrifying rescuer a wide berth as she sprinted past him. There were two dead men sprawled on the ground, and he was at work on the third, beating the hefty one’s face to a pulp, lost in a frenzy of violence. He seemed to be in his own world, barely even noticing her as she tore past him toward the bridge, trying futilely to outpace the horse.
“Aarrgh!” A wild, angry cry wrenched from her lips as she heard the dull cadence of hoofbeats sweeping up behind her.
The horseman was closing in. She could smell the horse, hear the creaking of the leather tack. Panting painfully with the air’s sharp cold, she glanced over her shoulder as the rider leaned down from the saddle, steadying himself to grab her.
“Help me!” she screamed.
She could almost feel his hot breath on the back of her neck, when suddenly, the rider let out an odd shriek and pitched off the horse, hitting the ground, headfirst, a few feet in front of her. She heard the sickening crunch of breaking bones as he landed facedown with a knife jutting out of his back.
She skidded to a halt, nearly falling over the dead man, then stayed exactly where she was. The horse bolted on, riderless, tearing off over the bridge. No longer daring to move in any direction, Miranda covered her mouth with both hands to stop the ragged, animal whimpering that spilled from her lips. Her whole body was shaking. She turned slowly, forcing herself to look back at her wild rescuer.
There, on the moonlit ridge several yards away, a sword trailing from his grasp, he was the only man left standing, his giant shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. Like some berserker warrior out of Celtic legend, he stood in the cold white moonlight, his fury spent, dead men strewn around him.
He threw down the borrowed sword, dropped his head almost to his chest, and turned, wiping his brow with his forearm. The ground beneath his boots had been churned to bloodstained slush. His face was bloody, streaming with sweat; his smart uniform was torn, his hair disheveled. She had never encountered any creature more primal or more dangerous than this unbowed, elemental male.
She stood paralyzed. The quiet gurgling of the nearby River Cole was thunderous in the silence. As though feeling her awed, appalled stare upon him, the gray-eyed stranger slowly turned his head and met her gaze.
He looked inhuman in that moment, like the angel of death: beautiful and terrible and utterly remote, his cool, silvery eyes devoid of emotion. A flicker of some distant response passed behind his diamond-hard gaze.
“What are you looking at?”
The sound of his voice terrified her, reverberating through her entire being with the force and raw, rumbling power of some mountain cataract. She picked up her skirts, whirled around, and ran. With a sense of disjointed unreality, she pounded back across the bridge and tore through the silent fields, stumbling through snowdrifts, fleeing blindly back to Yardley.
CHAPTER
THREE
Late morning was bleak and eerily still as Damien’s horse picked its way along the muddy, rutted drive to Yardley School, past the line of large, bare, gnarled trees with painfully twisted trunks. Dingy clouds hung low across the sky like a dirty woolen blanket. Arriving in the walled courtyard, he halted his stallion and stiffly dismounted before the thick front doors of the school. Aches and pains plagued his back, neck, and shoulders
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