Desperate, she lifted her feet and flung herself to the side, trying to pull the man off-balance.
She succeeded better than she’d expected. Her flailing foot connected with the man’s knee. With a grunt, he went down, his grip on her breaking as she tumbled to the ground.
Jack grabbed her, hauled her upright, thrust her back along the path behind him. She staggered back, gulping air.
The man surged up like a spring aimed at Jack. The knife glinted evilly as he drove it toward Jack’s throat.
Jack caught the man’s wrist, swung so his shoulder and back were against the man’s chest, holding him at bay as Jack fought to gain control of the knife or to make the man drop it.
The man drove his other fist low into Jack’s side; Jack grunted, shifted, caught the man’s free fist in his other hand, and held it away as he concentrated on the hand holding the knife. He put all his strength into breaking the man’s grip while holding the man trapped, stretched across his shoulders.
Still giddy, Clarice watched as they wrestled. This was no clean fight; even she could see the difference. Neither was averse to using any means they could to win. They grunted, and staggered; Jack was too experienced to let the other have space enough to use his legs. Inexorably, Jack bent the man’s wrist back, farther…
Suddenly, Jack let the man’s other hand go and drove his elbow back into the man’s chest. The man wheezed, and nearly collapsed on Jack.
Jack staggered. He might have been as strong, but the other man was heavier.
With a huge effort, the man wrenched himself free, flinging Jack away. He staggered, but quickly regained his balance.
They faced each other, two wrestlers looking to close, a few yards between them.
Before Jack could move in, the man abruptly fell back.
His eyes went to Clarice. He lifted his arm.
Jack couldn’t reach him in time.
He flung himself at Clarice.
He caught her, let his weight carry her to the ground, didn’t truly care when he felt the sharp sting of the knife, followed by blossoming pain as it lodged in the back of his shoulder.
Behind him, the man swore foully with a thick accent, European but from nowhere that bordered the sea.
Jack heard the man’s footsteps as he started toward them, felt Clarice’s arms wrap about him and hold him, felt her warm and safe beneath him.
Ruthlessly focusing his senses, he gathered his strength to push free at just the right moment; it would take more than a knife in the shoulder to stop him.
The man’s footsteps abruptly halted. He was still too far from them for Jack to make any sensible move.
Shouts reached them, followed by footsteps rushing down from the major path.
The man swore again, more softly, then swung on his heel and fled.
Jack groaned and swore, too. “Damn it! He’s getting away.” He started to struggle up, but Clarice tightened her hold.
“There’s a knife in your back.”
He bit back his “I know”; there was a strange note, an odd quality in her voice. He reminded himself she wasn’t used to fights and knives and death, but he was nowhere near dead. “It’s all right. I’m not that hurt.”
“But—”
He pushed back enough to sit up, disentangling from her as Nigel and Alton came pounding down the path. With his head, Jack ordered them on. “After him. I’ll survive.”
Clarice had already scrambled to her feet; hunkered down, her attention was fixed on him. After the briefest of glances her way, glances she didn’t even register, Alton and Nigel raced on.
They were young and fast; there was a chance they might catch the villain.
Other revelers were gathering at the head of the path, but no one else had yet ventured down.