Page 36 of Ena’s Surrender

She pushed at the ground to rise, but though her arms were strong enough, the wound sapped her of the strength in her torso. Her body shuddered and she collapsed on the dead Englishman once more.

“Ena.” This time the voice was Renault.

Her mouth formed his name, but the sound was weak in her ears. Gentle hands rolled her over into the cradle of strong arms. The world was on fire in the distance, golden red flames and thick plumes of smoke. That fire burned all through her, white hot in its merciless intensity. Renault’s shadow hovered over her.

“Ena.” His voice was tense with emotion. “Ena, I’m so sorry.”

She tried to reply, but the pain of her wound was too great. It made her mind shriek with a shrillness that blotted out all other actions.

Renault had spied for the English Middle March Warden, aye, but that was before they met. Before they knew one another, and their prejudices fell away. She wanted to tell him how she’d understood—how he’d made her believe in a future and how he’d given her life purpose beyond making meager rations into meals to survive on.

And she wanted to tell him that she loved him.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

His mouth moved with speech that came from somewhere far away, distorted by her all-consuming pain.

She was too weak to touch him. Too weak to speak. Too weak to even stave off the velvety pull of sleep. Though she tried to fight it, her lids closed, and she slid into a place where she could no longer hurt.

Renault’s head throbbed with a pounding ache that beat in time with his heart. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

Nothing except Ena.

She was motionless in his arms, her gambeson split open by the man’s blade. Blood glistened in the moonlight along her chest. So much blood.

“Ena.” Bran fell to his knees beside Renault. He reached for his sister, his hand trembling as he pressed it to her neck. “She’s still alive. We have to get her to a healer.”

Bran helped Renault to standing, which only made the pain in his head worse. Regardless, Renault held Ena’s scant weight in his arms and they all hastened into the forest before someone could happen upon the bodies of the men. Three horses awaited them. Bran helped get Ena onto one with Renault, then he and the Scot mounted the other two.

A shout came from somewhere in the distance. An alarm. The bodies had been found.

Renault held tight to Ena, mindful of her injuries, and nudged the horse onward as fast as he dared. Bran and the Scot kept pace with him, ready to protect Ena with their lives.

Renault didn’t need anyone in front to guide him. Over the course of the past several months, he had learned every mile thanks to the countless times he had visited the various places in the Scottish Middle March—including Castleton. His stomach twisted. How many attacks had he been responsible for with the knowledge he’d provided?

The coppery aroma of Ena’s blood mingled with her sweet, familiar scent and dug deep into his heart. He couldn’t lose her. Not before he’d had a chance to tell her how sorry he was for the times he’d betrayed Scotland. Not before he could tell her how much he truly loved her.

Anger whipped through him. Why had she come to England to save him? She should have let him die for his crimes. She ought to have moved on with her life.

In the distance, hooves thumped steadily over the earth. They needed to go faster. He held tighter to Ena and gritted his teeth as he increased his horse’s speed. Bran looked to him and nodded in silent understanding.

Ena leaned limply against Renault, her arms swinging with each step of the horse, more lifeless than he’d allow himself to admit.

The early gray light of predawn touched the sky. They were nearly through the forest, nearly to Scotland.

A horse broke through the forest at Renault’s side. He snapped his attention left to face his opponent. And found Walter.

His friend regarded Ena and his brow furrowed. “Is she…?”

“Nay,” Renault growled.

Bran charged forward, but Renault shook his head to hold him back. Walter’s horse matched pace with Renault’s as he looked over his shoulder at the sound of racing hooves before returning his attention to Renault.

“I didn’t want to tell them you’d struck me, Renault. They forced me to.” A muscle worked in Walter’s jaw. “They said someone saw and if I didn’t confess, then I’d be in the dungeon with you.”

Renault shook his head. “’Tis fine.”

“It’s not,” Walter countered angrily. “When ye return to Scotland, burn the house she lives in.” He fixed his stare on Renault, his expression earnest and fierce. “Leave something for me to take back to prove you were both in there. A charred ribbon, a bloody gambeson…”