Page 58 of Bound to Her Highland Lord
Out of the corner of his eye, Arran saw the English soldier shift closer yet again. His terror threatened to overtake him completely. But somewhere beneath that fear, another instinct rose in his chest.
He was no longer a frightened little boy, hiding in the woods. He was older now. He had spent years on the streets fending for himself. And that was nothing to say of all the training Lachlan had given him.
But more than that, Arran knew well the pain of losing all he had. He had already carried the burden of grief for his family once. He had already lost his home to the English once before. He refused to do it again.
It will be different this time.
Three more steps and the soldier would be upon them. Three more steps and any element of surprise, any room to move, to put up a fight would be gone.
Arran’s pulse thrummed, beating heavily in his veins. But the need to protect his home, his family, those he loved, far outgrew his fear. Wrapping his fingers around the hilt of the dagger his Uncle Loch had pushed into his hands a scant few hours ago, Arran shifted to a crouch. His legs were all pins and needles from being confined for so long, but he paid it no mind. He wasn’t going to let his family suffer without putting up a fight.
Two more steps. The man tossed another few books onto the floor as well as the iron fire poker, the weapon landing fortuitously within Arran’s reach, should he need it.
He gave Christopher a confident nod, trying to let his brother know just what he intended to do, and then readied himself.
One step.
With a breath in, Arran sprung himself to his feet, launching at the soldier. The closet door bursting open was enough of a shock to have the Englishman hesitate for a moment. It was the advantage the boy needed.
Keeping a solid grasp on his dagger, Arran swung wildly at the intruder. There was a sick twist of pleasure that coursed through him when the blade sliced through something. The man was so much taller, so much stronger than Arran, that he couldn’t see where he had wounded the man. Only the bright red blood on the end of his dagger was evidence that Arran’s efforts had done harm.
The soldier cursed before turning his menacing gaze to Arran. Heaving, Arran stood his ground, waiting to see what the man would do.
“Ha!” The Englishman burst out in a dry laugh. “Nothing but a boy playing at soldier. ‘Tis a dangerous game. You could get hurt.”
Lunging on the last word, the man swung his sword at Arran. But Arran’s youth and agility played to his favor. He easily dodged the blow. For several minutes, they played the same game. The soldier would lunge for Arran and Arran would deftly avoid the blade. But the length of the man’s sword and arm was too long for Arran to have a chance at getting close enough to do any real damage. He certainly couldn’t figure out how to disarm the man, or better, take him out of the fight completely. At least for now, Arran had managed to keep the soldier distracted enough that he did not notice Christopher, Elsie, and Edith still in the closet.
Arran jumped again, hating how his lungs already burned.
“You cannot do this forever,” the man sneered. “I will get you eventually. And when I do, you will regret ever pretending to be more than you are.”
As much as Arran hated to admit it, he knew that the Englishman was right. His energy was flailing and if he was going to have a chance at surviving, he needed to do something different.
Adjusting his grip on his dagger, Arran made a split second decision. As the man swung his sword again, rather than jumping out of the way, Arran dove under the blade and into the man’s reach. He drove his dagger up, desperate to merely make contact with the blade. The man grunted with pain, letting Arran know that he had succeeded in his goal, but now that Arran was crouched at the man’s legs, he had no idea what to do next.
“Get him!”
Elsie’s small voice echoed against the stone walls. The siblings jumped from the closet, fierce expressions on their faces.
“There are more of you brats?” the soldier huffed incredulously.
Arran used his momentary distraction to swipe his sword again, this time at the man’s wrist. The pain was enough to get the soldier to drop his weapon just as Christopher and Elsie came charging. Iron poker in hand, Christopher walloped the man in the back once, twice, then three times.
Furious, the soldier wrapped his good hand around the thick metal and yanked it from Christopher’s hand. But before he could turn back around to Arran, Arran sprung onto the man’s back, wrapping his legs and arms around him, clinging to dear life. It was nothing like the techniques Lachlan had been teaching them, but it was all Arran could think to do. He pressed his hands against the man’s eyes and dug his heels into the soldier’s gut.
“Yeah! That’s it Arran!” Christopher cheered.
The soldier clawed at Arran’s arms, but the boy fought to hang out.
“Leave him alone!”
Once again, it was Elsie’s vehemence that saved the day. She threw one of the bookends the soldier had upturned in his hand, the marble carving thunking hard against the man’s head. It was pure luck that it hadn’t hit Arran instead, with the frantic movement of the Englishman. But as soon as the bookend landed, the English soldier stopped moving, his feet wavering. Arran unlatched himself and jumped down, pushing the man forward as he went. With a resounding thud, the soldier landed on the rug in the room, eyes closed, a bruise already blooming around his temple.
“What in heavens is—” Edith’s drowsy question was cut off when she saw the soldier’s head fall at her feet.
Arran shot her a proud smile, while Christopher and Elsie cheered for their own efforts.
“Dinnae fash,” Arran assured his governess. “We got him.”
