King's Warrior (Renegade Lords)

“She is safe. Come. Let me show you. Come upstairs and see her.” Sherwood smiled. “There is no use running anymore. It’s all over. There is only one way to protect Magdalena, and that way lays here. Else I will hurt her, badly.”

Tadhg hesitated for half a second, then took a step forward.

From behind him came a shout. “No, Tadhg!”

Maggie.

He spun, and there she was, uninjured, unharmed, in the doorway to the street.

“Run!” he shouted, but she took a step toward him instead, crying to Sherwood, “Wait, do not hurt him, please, I will do as you—”

But the baron did not wait. He’d already sent his remaining men forward, and they rushed at Tadhg.

The vestibule entryway was narrow, which was his only defense. Two soldiers tried to muscle into the narrow space, hands were everywhere, shouts and mayhem, and as they grappled for him, he was able to grab hold of Maggie for just a second, long enough to feel her one last time, to run his hands up her warm body under her cloak, to pull her to him and whisper in her ear, “Run, far and hard. Sell the dagger, use the coin.”

“No, never—”

“For me.”

“Where?” she whispered, her eyes beautiful and desperate. He felt as if his heart felt was breaking in two.

“You can go anywhere now,” he vowed hoarsely.

“I will go to Ireland,” she vowed, her voice breaking even as he was dragged backward, and her fingers slipped out of his, and he felt his heart crack a little.

Then a soldier wrenched him about, and Maggie took off like a sprite, cloak belling out as they dragged him into the inn, and into bondage.

Sherwood cursed his men in florid terms for letting Maggie get away. He raged and stalked in a furious circle, then spun to Tadhg, breathing heavily. He grabbed Tadhg by the tunic and hauled him to his face.

“Where is it?”

“Long gone,” Tadhg said, smiling.

He drove his fist into Tadhg’s face. Backing up, he punched his stomach, then drew back, shaking his hand and grimacing from the pain. His men hauled the Irishman straight again for another blow.

The innkeeper shouted in distress, pushing his daughter into the back room then rushing forward. “You cannot do that in my house!”

“I already am,” Sherwood snapped, but stepped away with a curse, rubbing his hand. The bitch had broken the finger of his sword hand and any use of it hurt. That was the only reason he held off on beating the Irishman as he deserved. The only reason.

Breathing heavily, he looked at Tadhg. “Ready to talk?”

Tadhg shook his head as blood streamed from his nose. “Not quite yet.”

With a snarl, Sherwood spun to his men. “Pack him up, we’ll take him to my place. He will talk.”

“I don’t think I will,” he said cheerfully. Because, for all that he was in for a very unpleasant night, and likely few days, until, no doubt, he was dead, all he felt was clean relief. Maggie had got away.

She could go anywhere, do anything. She would sell the dagger he’d slipped to her when he spread his hand under her cloak, and with that, she the world would be opened to her. It would earn her a king’s ransom, and the king, well…the king would have to take care of himself.

Maggie would be safe, and nothing else mattered.

SHE WOBBLED OUT into the streets as a cold, sunny dawn began to break over the city, clutching the leather belt Tadhg had shoved into her hands. She folded her hand around the hilt, which had been warmed by the heat of his body, and held it tight as she flew to the corner and stopped, panting.

She looked over her shoulder and saw two of Sherwood’s men come out the door.

Without sense, operating only on impulse and whatever crumbs of felonious knowledge she’d gleaned from Tadhg, she turned and began gliding through the streets as the sun rose. She looked like a fugitive, clad only her chemise, barefoot on the snowy cobbles, her hair in wild disarray.

Booths were opening, shopkeepers throwing up shutters, piling their tables high with goods.