Page 25 of The Mercenary

Standing, St. James bent down to pick up his sword.

“Leave the sword and the man’s mount. And I shall call the chief of Clan Kennaugh’s debt fulfilled.”

His voice was hard, his gaze even more so. Guy waited to see if St. James would sacrifice two more lives for his stubbornness.

Thankfully, he did not.

For the first time since the fight had erupted, Guy chanced a look back at Sabine. He could not discern her expression, but she was safe. Nothing else mattered.

When St. James moved to leave, Guy nodded to his fallen companion in disgust.

“You would leave him there, on the road?”

Exchanging a glance and a near-identical grunt of displeasure, St. James and his man reluctantly lifted the fallen sellsword from the ground. Guy picked up St. James’s sword and hastened to Sabine and his abandoned horse. He mounted and guided Sabine past the men.

St. James’s question floated up to him.

“The horse?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Keep it. I’ve no use for him where I am headed.”

With that, they rode away from the ill-fated clearing, regret for the loss of life bubbling inside him. He would have much preferred to kill the man responsible for that day’s events. Guy looked at Sabine then, listening for any sounds to indicate they were being followed.

“Are you well?”

She did not seem so. His wife’s face was devoid of color.

Sabine shook her head. “You . . . you were nearly killed.”

Guy laughed, not meaning to sound callous but unable to hold back his reaction.

“Nay, wife. Not nearly so. If I had thought for a moment my life was at risk, I would not have engaged the man. I’d not leave you unprotected on the road.”

She blinked. “But . . . there were three of them. And . . .”

He waited, but she never finished the thought.

“I was never in danger,” he assured her. “I’m sorry you had to witness such a thing. But there was no help for it. That bastard St. James lost a match to Terric but failed to forfeit his prize. ’Twas too dishonorable an act to be overlooked.”

“Honor,” she murmured. “A quality you yourself claim not to possess.”

He could not deny it.

“I believe, husband, you are not quite who you claim to be.”

Another statement he could not deny.

“But I aim to learn who you are before this journey has ended.”

Chapter 13

To Sabine’s surprise, Guy stopped at the inn after all. Although small villages usually grew around castles or chapels, like mushrooms on a log, there were none nearby. This village consisted of only ten or so structures, a waterwheel, and the stone building where Guy had stopped.

The Fiddler’s Inn.

A wooden sign hung from its roof, creaking as it swayed back and forth in the wind. As they moved closer, Sabine realized a wooden bridge connected the inn to another building similarly appointed. Stone-bottomed with a second floor made of wood and thatched roofs, it looked slightly odd and disproportional, but as the September sun began to set, the light emanating from within made it quite appealing.

“I thought we were not stopping here?” she asked, allowing Guy to assist her down.