It paused for the briefest moment, then Finian vaulted over the threshold and into the room.
Chapter 59
Finian wrenched Senna away by her wrist just as Rardove’s blade came whizzing by in a horizontal swipe that would have severed her head from her shoulders. Flinging her behind him so she fell and sprawled on the floor, Finian turned to the baron.
Rardove stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Finian bent at the knees and reached behind him. Grasping Senna’s arm, he yanked her to her feet. “Go. Now.”
She didn’t. Instead, she reached down, felt along Finian’s thigh, and yanked out a blade—the long-handled knife she and Finian had stolen from Rardove’s armory, a hundred years ago.
“Had I known you were planning a visit, O’Melaghlin,” Rardove snarled, his gaze trained on Finian, “I would have arranged a more fitting welcome.”
“This will do nicely.” Finian circled the perimeter of the room, keeping Senna tucked behind him as he maneuvered her toward the door. Rardove followed their progress, turning in a slow revolution.
“But now that you are here, I shall give you a choice much like the one you offered me: you can stay and have my men slay you slowly—”
“Which men would those be, cruim?”
Rardove flicked a wary glance at the door. Two armored bodies were slumped one on top of the other, swords not even drawn. The edge of a third boot nudged in the doorframe. It was attached to a body bathed in blood.
“Or,” Rardove finished slowly, turning back, “you can leave now and meet the armies at my gate for a quicker death.”
Finian kept backing toward the door, Senna behind him. “I would weep for yer soul, if I thought ye had one.”
While the men taunted one another, Senna squinted an eye and lifted her arm, testing the weight of the blade versus the weight of the hilt, shifting it between her fingers. Rardove’s neck. That was the only thing not armored. No. Too narrow. Move lower.
The baron smiled thinly. “English rage will be murderous.”
“Ye’re about to get a taste of Irish rage.”
Rardove glanced over Finian’s shoulder. She had the blade up, her arm cocked. Their eyes met. Rardove’s mad gaze didn’t leave hers as he said to Finian, “Your woman is going to try to kill me.” He sounded amused.
Senna couldn’t see Finian’s face, but she felt him grin. “She’s not going to try.”
Rardove lunged. Senna snapped her arm down, launching the blade. It sank into his belly. The force of her throw through his armor was not quite equal to his furious momentum, but it slowed him down. And he no longer looked amused.
Finian pushed Senna away and crashed his sword against Rardove’s, smashing it aside. The baron lifted his again and their blades met in a V in the air, holding. Finian moved relentlessly forward, propelling his weight against the baron, then suddenly stepped to the side. Rardove went stumbling forward.
“Quickly it is,” Finian muttered and, taking his sword in two hands, he spun in a full, howling circle, sword outstretched, and swung it into Rardove’s torso.
Rardove staggered back a few steps. A bubble, a wet gurgle. Gasping for air, he dropped to his knees. His hands clutched to his belly. He stared down in amazement, then tumbled in a heap to the ground, dead.
Senna looked to Finian, who stood watching Rardove and slowly fell to her knees. It was dark in the room; the candles had all blown out. All she could see was his gleaming eyes. Just as in the prison, when she’d first truly met him.
His gaze shifted to her. Slowly the haunting gleam dimmed and he went down on a knee. One wide hand reached out to her, stretching across the shadows. She reached for it.
“Well, you have, in truth, rescued me,” she announced in a wobbly voice, then gestured to the shattered door frame. “But that was purely showing off. I could have managed better.”
Finian knelt on his other knee and folded her into his arms. He rested his chin on the top of her head for a brief second. “I know, lass. Ye do everything better.”
Then, because it was needful, he pulled her to her feet, placed a hard, swift kiss on her lips, and led them away from the dead bodies and blood.
They crept through the dim castle. At times he jerked on her hand sharply, and they would both halt and press their backs against the wall, their eyes wide, breath stilled, as from another corridor they heard fragments of rough conversation, heavy boots pounding, frenzied cursing. The search was on.
Shouts and the sound of hurrying feet bounced and echoed throughout the stone and wood castle, making Senna feel crazed. They rounded another corner. Finian threw his head into the air and froze.
At the end of the corridor stood Balffe. Armored, sword in his grip, and he stared directly at them.
All the breath left Senna’s lungs. The world slowed, each moment ticking by like an eternity. Colors were surprisingly bright; the fiery glow of torchlight, the black of Balffe’s scuffed boots, forest green breeches, the dull, sand-colored tunic under the red Rardove surcoat. Balffe’s belt buckle and sword gleamed dimly, and the vein on his neck pulsed.