Page 2 of Ena’s Surrender
While those previous times had been practice, this one was real. And she didn’t doubt herself for a moment.
Men were strong, but she was faster than lightning. She spun around, kicking her foot out and catching him behind the knees. He tumbled to the ground with her as an “oof” escaped his lips.
Before he could register what had happened, he was on the ground with her and she was on him, straddling him, dagger pushed to his neck. Someone had set a fire in the distance and the red-orange light glowed on his face.
He glared up at her with pale eyes, his straight teeth bared. An ugly Englishman.
She tightened the grip on her dagger. A man like him had killed her mother. She pushed the blade more aggressively against the man’s tender neck, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
Her eldest brother was only a boy when he’d been cut down. This was a man. An Englishman. One who would kill her—or worse—if he had the chance.
Breath huffed in and out of her lungs. One firm drag of the blade over his throat and he would be dead. An Englishman who would no longer be able to hurt anyone else.
Her blade rested on the vulnerable spot just under his sharp jaw. A single thrust would end his life.
But this man was someone’s son. Once, he had been an innocent boy like Gregor had been, whose mother who had loved him the way Ena’s had loved them. With a father who had been proud of him the way Ena’s had been of Gregor.
Tears stung her eyes.
She couldn’t do it. She knew it and so too did the man beneath her blade.
Renault Blanchard had faced death countless times before. This instance was no different. He stared into the helm of the small man who pinned him down with an almost laughable weight. The bastard’s face was cast in darkness. Not that it mattered. All Scots were the same. It was why the Warden had enlisted him for the esteemed task of spying on the Scots.
The man pressed the blade to Renault’s throat, but did nothing more. Was the whoreson trying to intimidate? If so, his efforts were as threatening as that of a child.
His opponent’s hand trembled and Renault immediately understood. The man who had landed a quick blow to Renault’s legs, who had moved with speed faster than a blink, was a new warrior. One who had not yet killed.
Renault was stronger than this youth. That much was apparent by the insignificant weight sitting atop Renault. But the imp was fast. It would be a gamble.
And the odds were in Renault’s favor.
In a single move, he slid his left forearm between his neck and the dagger, pushing it away. He shoved solidly at the man’s torso while thrusting his hips upward, rocking the Scot off in a graceless tumble. Renault leapt to his feet and tightened his grip on his sword.
Where his inexperienced opponent had hesitated, Renault would act. This fight would end now.
The man got to his feet, his head moving in a frantic search on the ground, his hands empty. Renault sighed.
He wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, damn it.
He kicked the lost dagger toward the Scot, who hastily retrieved his weapon and readied for another round of fighting.
Renault lunged, but the reiver blocked the blow with his paltry dagger. A feint to the left and a jab, but the Scot managed to evade the attack once more.
This was going to be tedious. Eager to be done with it all, Renault delivered a swift kick to the man’s abdomen and snapped his foot back before it could be grabbed, and his balance knocked again.
The breath fled the Scot’s chest with a soft cry of surprise. Not the deep timbre of a man, but a softer pitched one. A boy? A woman?
Regardless, Renault immediately lowered his blade. “Remove your helm.”
The Scot glared at him. A flicker of firelight glowed off the helm and highlighted a pair of dark, long-lashed eyes.
Shite.
A woman.
He made to go at her left side, then grabbed her right hand while she was distracted and twisted her wrist. Not enough to cause permanent injury, but enough to make her drop the dagger. It thunked to the wet dirt at their feet.
She growled and tried to spin about to wrench her hand away.
