“No,” she said softly, squeezing the doorframe.
A faint twist tightened the baron’s mouth. “How touching. Tell me, have I earned a reprieve by virtue of my restraint with Magdalena? Will you do to me as you have done to the scores of others you left in your wake these past weeks? Mercifully maim or dismember me, but never kill?”
“’Twas indeed a mercy not to kill them.”
“It was a weakness, for all those men could still talk. And talk they did. You should have at least cut out their tongues. How do you think I tracked you?”
Tadhg said nothing. Sherwood’s gaze moved to the sword, then further down, to Tadhg’s belt. “And the dagger? You have it yet? Tell me it was not all in vain.”
Tadhg stood motionless for a moment, then reached under his cloak with his free hand and held up the dagger. Its steely curved lines flashed and the ruby shone in the pale moonlight. Sherwood drew in a hissed breath. Tadhg swept it away, back under his cloak.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” The baron’s voice was almost reverent. “It could have won a kingdom.”
“It still might.”
Sherwood’s mo
uth twisted into a cold smile. “But not for me.”
“It was never for you.”
“Ah, but we can dream, can we not?”
“I do not dream of thrones,” Tadhg said coldly.
“More’s the fool, you,” Sherwood spat back. “You had potential, Irish. If you’d aimed higher, God knows what you might have accomplished.”
Tadhg smiled. “Aye, I might have killed you sooner.”
The baron’s mouth twisted into a return smile, then his gaze flicked up, ever so slightly.
Magdalena turned to follow it and saw two soldiers creeping the stairs behind Tadhg.
Tadhg shook his head softly at the poorly executed plan, and was just about to drive his sword forward into Sherwood’s throat, when the mayor blundered out of the bedroom.
Seeing Magdalena so close to such violence, the mayor gave a high-pitched scream, bent and swept up Sherwood’s fallen sword and, brandishing it with a wrist that bent under the weight, he tried to pull her back into the bedchamber.
His tardy gallantry, his hand on Maggie’s arm, the ineptly-handled blade, it all distracted Tadhg for the faintest second, long enough for Sherwood to fling up an elbow and spin to the side, so Tadhg’s sword sliced a gash through his cheek and ear, rather than pierce the center of his throat.
Blood gushed. With a shout of rage and pain, Sherwood struck out with his forearm as Tadhg’s blade swept past and, using the momentum to push Tadhg aside, he hurtled down the stairs, knocking his men over as he went. Hitting the bottom, he sprawled on his knees, cast one wild glance back up, then got up and ran out the door, leaving his men to bear Tadhg’s wrath.
It was not long in coming. He was already turning back around, sword up. As he spun, he reached toward the mayor and wrenched the sword out of his startled hands, and flung it away. It clattered to the floor.
“Do not touch that again,” Tadhg ordered curtly, then spun to the stairs.
The mayor stared in open-mouth astonishment as Tadhg sent the first soldier to Heaven or Hell, wherever he was eternally bound, with a single slash of his sword. The second man, directly behind him, got sprayed with the blood of Tadhg’s brutal efficiency. The dead man fell back on him and, half-carried by the body, half-scrambling in retreat, he tumbled down the stairs.
Tadhg went after him, a silent dark shadow. Boots heels thudded on wooden floors, then there was a single, steely smash, a grunt of pain, a loud thump which sounded like a head, then utter silence.
Magdalena crept across the narrow landing. “Tadhg?”
His face appeared at the bottom of the stairs. In one hand, he held his sword, hanging down by his side. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head mutely. Dumbly.
“I must go.”
She nodded again, still just as dumb, just as mute. Unshed tears burned her eyes.