As he emerged from the wood, he saw one of the knights who had fallen back to secure the first unhorsed miscreant had regained his mount and spurred toward the lake where there had been no evidence of anyone a short while ago.
Now a horse could be seen standing beneath the drooping branches of the tree where Lothaire was to have met his wife. Atop it, bent over as if resisting being dragged off, was a figure clothed in white.
He would wager it was Laura, and if not for the pound of hooves and that of his heart, he would surely hear more of her screams. As he rounded the lake and drew near his knight, the rest of her was wrenched from atop the horse.
“Protect her, Almighty," Lothaire rasped. Then so she might know he came for her, he shouted, “Laura!”
Still she had the stone. And her assailant yet suffered the effects of the first blow, as evidenced by how effortlessly her struggle had dropped him onto his back when he pulled her from his horse.
She had followed him down and landed atop and well above his head, her splayed arms preventing her chin from striking the ground.
Pressing on the stone in one hand, her palm of the other, she raised her chest and tried to roll off, but his arm that had hooked her waist slid lower and clamped around the backs of her thighs. He might yet reel from her blow, but in that arm was strength greater than her own. And anger. Simon had also been stronger. And angry.
But young Laura had not been able to bring a weapon to hand, and despite the horror of what Simon had done—his body where it was forbidden to go—then she had not ten years of memories to lend her greater resolve.
She thrust her chest higher, exposing her attacker’s face that had been buried against her belly, shifted her weight onto her left arm, and once more brought the stone down on his skull.
As he bellowed and loosened her to wrap his arms around his head, she might have heard her name called, but she could not know for certain above the anger pounding through her and someone nearby chanting, “Not again. Not ever again.” And there was no time to search out whoever might have called to her—not if she was to beat the man bloody ere he could do worse to her.
Legs freed, she lurched back, drew her knees up to straddle him, and raised the stone a third time.
With his arms protecting his head, it would have to be his face.
That made her hesitate. And provided him the opportunity to shift from defensive to offensive.
Opportunity only, she silently vowed as one of his arms shot up, fingers wide. Though she evaded his grasp, her blow glanced off his cheek and only made him grunt.
She aimed again. Missed again.
And once more his hand closed around her wrist.
“Not again! Not ever again!” Over and over Laura screamed those words as Lothaire dragged his mount to a halt, flung himself out of the saddle, and sword in hand took two running strides to where his wife sat atop her attacker.
Sweeping his free arm around her waist as he moved the point of his blade to the miscreant’s neck, he saw it all—her left hand scratching and slapping at the bloodied face, right hand clenching a stone rendered useless by the hand around her wrist. And as he lifted her up and back, still the man held to her and she continued to chant, though now it was her husband she fought, writhing and reaching behind to do to him what she had done to the one on the ground.
“’Tis Lothaire!” he shouted, and with a flick of his blade sliced her assailant’s arm, causing the man to yelp and release his prey-turned-predator.
“Not again! Not ever again!” Laura cried as Lothaire struggled to retain his hold on her whilst setting his sword to the man’s chest.
Blessedly, with her back pressed to her husband’s chest, her aim was off when she flung her hand over her shoulder and tried to slam the stone into his head.
“’Tis me, Laura—Lothaire!”
Still she seemed not to hear him above the words she spilled.
Then the knight he had overtaken was off his horse, sword trained on the miscreant.
Knowing Laura would soon make good on one of her aims, Lothaire lurched back, released his sword, and captured her forearm. “I am here! You are safe.”
She convulsed, stilled, then resumed her struggle. Though she no longer expended breath on words, she panted.
He turned her away from his knight who was dragging her attacker upright. Facing the lake across which moonlight surfaced, he entreated, “Laura love, no one can hurt you now.”
She tossed her head back against his shoulder and turned her pale face up to his, but though she ceased struggling when their eyes met, it was like embracing a statue, her every muscle bunched as if awaiting the command to return to battle.
He longed for her to fold into him and wrap her arms around him, but she said, “Release me.”
“It is me, Lothaire.”
“I cannot bear it. Pray, release me.”
Her plea hurt, though when he recalled the frantic words she had spoken he began to understand. And did not wish to.
“I shall let you go.” He eased her down his body. “Get your feet beneath you, hmm?”
She jerked her chin, and some of the stiff went out of her when he lowered her.
“There. Can you stand on your own?”
“Release me.”
He did, and made ready to catch her should she crumple. But she sprang away and swung around as if she thought herself vulnerable in giving him her back. And she was. Neither did he—or any warrior—care to expose that vulnerability to an enemy. But he certainly was not that to her.
Though it had darkened considerably, he saw her gaze go past him to the one who had made himself her enemy.
Not again. Not ever again, she had said whilst sitting astride the man and beating at him.
Lothaire held up his hands. “Truly, you are safe,” he said and noted a stain on the front of her chemise. Blood? If so, surely her attacker’s. He peered over his shoulder. His knight had bound the man and was putting him over the back of his horse.
“Take him to Thistle Cross and hold him with the others,” Lothaire called. “I want them in chains.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Lothaire looked back at his wife who continued to stare past him. Seeing she quaked, he took a step toward her.
Her eyes shot to his, and she clapped a hand to her chest and retreated again, halting only when her heels touched the water rippling over the shore. A moment later, she drew her hand away and considered her palm. “His blood, not mine,” she said. “This time I fought harder.”
Better understanding the meaning of her words—Not again. Not ever again—beginning to hate himself, Lothaire tried to draw near. But she further distanced herself, the water now covering her feet up to her ankles.
Lothaire settled into his legs, gripped his hands at his sides, and waited for his knight to depart. At last, the man was astride and leading the horse burdened by the man it would not be difficult to put to death.
“Laura.”
She moved her gaze to him.
“I am coming to you.”
She backed away.
He spread his arms. “I will not touch you unless you wish it. You have my word.”