Page 41 of Beyond Dreams

Chapter Twelve

Her cheeks, arms, andlegs rattled uncontrollably as the big beast raced up the hill and through the trees. She endeavored only to keep her seat, knowing that stopping or directing the horse was beyond her. She’d given up trying to find the other stirrup and then her foot came loose from the one Duncan had adjusted for her. Becoming frantic as the horse climbed higher and higher, Holly could do nothing but hang on, one hand on the pommel, the reins curled inside her fisted hand, the other gripping desperately at the flowing mane of the horse. She wasn’t trying to kick the horse and spur him on, but her bouncing legs outside the stirrups kept banging against the horse’s flanks as she was bucked high and hard in the saddle.

The horse charged up and over the top of the hill and Holly was thrust forward as he descended the far side. Her relief at seeing Thallane, even if it was still pretty far away, was short-lived and frankly of little concern as she fought from being launched from the horse’s back. The trees here were not spaced any further apart, which saw the stupid beast darting left and right to avoid collisions. Going downhill in this manner was harrowing and Holly wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around the horse’s thick neck and just hang on for dear life. But all the bouncing and lack of control precluded her feeble attempts to do so, and then the horse pivoted sharply as if he were in one of those barrel racing contests—that she’d only ever seen on TV—and despite her best efforts, Holly was thrown from the horse’s back.

She cried out as she was flung through the air, the cry being interrupted when she crashed against the bottom of a tree and the ground. She groaned and lay still for a moment, the wind knocked out of her. She rolled forward, away from the tree and onto her belly, her hands on the ground beneath her, her hair shrouding her head and face. Thankfully, she’d only smacked her butt against the tree and though it was instantly sore, she knew nothing was broken. Gingerly, she tested her legs and feet, moving them carefully. All good. But then she put weight on her hands to lift herself and cried out again as a sharp pain shot from her wrist to her elbow. She collapsed immediately, rolling onto her back and cradling her wrist and arm against her chest.

“I’m going to kill him,” she muttered, referring to Duncan for sending her off on that excruciating ride. She stared up at the pine boughs above her head and blew out a frustrated breath. A rustling and thumping, continuous but unnoticed until now, turned her head. She saw only the fat rump of the black horse as he continued down the hill. “And you, too! Stupid horse!”

Her next thought came on the heels of the sound of clanging metal reaching her ears.

Duncan!

She got to her feet, not without grimacing and grunting for the aches and pains, and kept her arm cradled against her front as if she wore a sling. Winded and discovering that she was sore in more places than originally believed, climbing up the hill was not an easy feat. But she did it, her own movements and harsh breathing not allowing her to hear what went on in the valley with Duncan. Her vision clouded as something dripped into her right eye. Horrified, Holly wiped her hand over her eye and brow, her fingers coming away red with blood. She pushed them further up onto her forehead, meeting with a small gash where the skin met her hairline. She rubbed the back of her hand over her eye to clear it and then swiped the end of her long sleeve over the wound to erase some of the blood. She scrambled down the other side of the hill then, whimpering when she heard a man’s bellow, which sounded like he’d been hurt pretty gravely. She croaked out another groan, unable to say if that were Duncan’s voice or not. Dread suffused her, weakening her limbs until she could do little more than stagger from tree to tree, pausing near the bottom of the hill to surmise first what was going on before she burst onto the scene.

Holly panted and stared out into the glen of wildflowers, having to wipe again at blood dripping into her eye.

And fright was extinguished nearly instantly at finding Duncan, and Duncan alone, standing in the middle of the field. Standing, but barely she thought, his knees bent and him leaning on the hilt of his sword, the blade dug into the ground. His back faced her, but she knew his shape and size already. He dropped his head briefly to his chest, before straightening himself and rising to his full height, taking in the carnage around him, where lay four bodies. Some of them were barely visible in the taller blooming flowers. One body, with a fat head and a protruding belly sighted above the flowers, was seen to have a long spear stuck in his chest. The shaft, at least eight feet in length, still swayed back and forth, though the man did not move.

In the distance, one of those riders raced away at a breakneck speed, pulling with him one other horse. Another horse trotted off after them. No other horses remained in the valley.

“Duncan,” she called out, her voice cracking. She shoved off from the tree and stumbled out to meet him.

Duncan turned and after one last glance over the fallen men, he strode forward. His chest heaved and he wore what she guessed was his battle face, a sneer of contempt that curled his lip more dangerously than any dark look he’d given her so far. It lightened only marginally as he approached her.

A riot of emotions welled up inside her, at least one of them being related to him being alive.

Sweet Jesus, but this was one hell of a century.

They met each other at the edge of the flowers, the bodies of those fallen being ten yards or more behind Duncan. Her husband’s savage mien evolved into one of shocked concern, his gaze upon her forehead. His brows remained drawn and puckered over his eyes, that did not change, but the expression in his green eyes shifted from murderous resolve to intense scrutiny and concern, his gaze then sweeping over all of her.

Shaking and about to start crying pretty hard, Holly ignored this and lifted her arms, then retracted them and then—oh, the hell with it—she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. He did not draw her tightly into any consoling embrace as she might have liked, but lifted just one hand and patted her back.

Holly pushed herself away and smacked at his shoulder. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” she railed at him, tears finally falling, the aftermath of trauma settling in. “I told you I didn’t know how to ride. Your stupid horse dumped me.” Panic had taken hold finally, and the words gushed from her. “Duncan, my God, who were those people? Why did they—how did you—oh, my God! Duncan, you’re bleeding.”

She froze, her mouth gaping as she realized a wet stain of red broadening across the sleeve of his upper arm.

“Oh, okay,” she said senselessly while they both stared at the spot just below his shoulder, where a slice was seen now in his tunic and from where blood flowed. “Okay, we’re fine. This is fine,” she said nervously. “Just tell me what to do. Apply pressure,” she said, talking more to herself than him. She lifted her hands and then winced as pain once more shot from her elbow to her wrist. “Shit,” she groaned, closing her eyes briefly. Opening them, she found Duncan’s gaze a bit more worried, or angry, she couldn’t tell. “Everything is fine,” she said, for both of them. “Can you lift your arm to take off your shirt?”

“Where’s my steed, lass?” He asked instead.

“Well, obviously not with me, Duncan. He tossed me aside and kept on running,” she sniped at him, assuming she would be blamed for that misfortune. “Nice horse you’ve got there. But focus, please, Duncan. We need to wrap this or bandage it, whatever.” She used her good hand, trying to peek inside the sliced fabric to assess the severity of the injury.

As she did, Duncan tossed his head back and let out a long and loud, two-syllable whistle, as if he were calling a dog—or a horse—back to him.

“Seriously?”