“Imbecile.”  Aidan walked his limping stallion across an icy burn, stroking the animal’s sleek neck to calm it.  “Dolt.  Oaf.  Sapskull.”

          He couldn’t think of enough names to call himself for abandoning his search of Edinburgh for information on his ancestry for a wild goose chase to Wystan. Despite his promise to Drogo, he knew the ladies would do fine without him.  They always did.  He’d ignored his itchy nose while he’d torn the library apart and hired an attorney to search court records, but in the end, he’d talked himself into following his nose, even though the roads were still a misery.  He’d nearly maimed Gallant by riding him through the icy glaur.

          “Knobhead.  Lackwit.”  He rubbed his nose with the back of his coat sleeve and proceeded down the forest path.  Melting snow dripped from the evergreens over his head.  “Idiot!” he roared at the bleak March sun peering through the fog.  And he wasn’t certain if he was speaking of himself or of his mother for leaving him caught between a rock and a hard place. He’d finally discerned the direction of her search and that had been enough to drive him into Bedlam.  “She thinks we’re bloody Malcolms!” That was the worst epithet of all.

          Not until he’d started searching the library and seen her notes had he understood that his mother had sacrificed her health to research her family tree. 

          Didn’t she realize he would have preferred to have her and not the land?

          Although why she’d thought she could find an heir on the gnarled Malcolm family oak was a mystery.  Half Scotland could be related to them, he supposed, and they were certainly a family inclined to protect the land.  Even he would gladly hand his home over to any one of the Malcolm ladies if it meant keeping it out of the hands of the woman his mother had called “the Traitor,” for reasons beyond his fathoming. 

          Rather than make sense of her senseless actions, he had no choice but to accept she knew what she was about and continue her search of Malcolm records. The Wystan library held more recent volumes than his own did.  Traveling to Wystan to research the library there would be more constructive than venting his frustration on crumbling parapets.

          He considered the height of the sun and the remaining distance to the manor.  He had more than enough time to reach Wystan before nightfall, devil take it.  He would have preferred a solitary night under the stars to the suffocating proximity of a bevy of Malcolm women.

Gallant neighed, alerting Aidan to his surroundings.  His hand froze as he realized he was scratching his nose…again.  Cursing under his breath, he halted, resigned to searching the area for one of his Ives half brothers, or their women, knee deep in trouble.  He could never be so fortunate as to have a nose that itched simply because he had an intolerance of trees.

          “What are they doing out here in this damp cold?” he muttered, sensing the air and the wind and waiting for direction.  “Shouldn’t they all be by warm fires, heating water, and waiting for the babes to come?”

          The stallion nudged his shoulder.  They’d been together for seven years, since his return from India.  Gallant knew his moods better than any human.

          “I don’t know how the lot of them find so much trouble to get into,” he complained, following his nose down a side path.  “Yes, I do,” he countered his own argument.  “They’re forever running away.  The unmarried ones, at least.  Maybe once they’re all wedded and bedded, I will have some peace.”

          A woman’s cry of alarm rang out over the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker.  A crow squawked and flew off.  Aidan increased his pace in answer to the loud altercation that erupted. 

“Just come along, lidy,” a rough voice wheedled from the other side of a copse of evergreen saplings nearly obscured by the swirling fog.  “Herself’s just been after sending you to a better place.”

          “Desist, or I will part the hair from your head,” a woman’s melodic contralto retaliated with regal—and ludicrous—authority.

          Aidan had to grin at her fearless retort.  He thought he’d met all the Ives ladies, but he didn’t recognize the voice.  Perhaps she spoke differently when not terrorized by a lawless knave.

“I’ve got a knife and ye don’t,” the male voice warned.  “It’ll go a lot easier if ye come quietly.”

          “Do you think me deranged?” she replied.  “Who is Herself and why would she wish to send me anywhere?”

          That certainly sounded like a lunatic Malcolm argument.  Aidan eased into the copse to better study the situation. He hoped one of his half brothers was about, but their women tended to stray with some frequency.

          “Come near me,” the woman warned, “and I’ll scream the trees down.  My friends will be here in an instant.  They will not look kindly on your threats.”

          She said it bravely enough to discourage the most intrepid of thieves, but this rascal seemed determined.  Aidan could hear the hard crack of a stick, and he shoved hurriedly through the underbrush, leaving Gallant with his reins untied.

          He reached the edge of the clearing in time to glimpse a hulking brute dodge a stout oak branch wielded by a curvaceous woman in a faded riding costume.  Her hat had fallen in the scuffle, and her thick auburn braids gleamed in a bit of sun breaking through the gloom.

Auburn?  Malcolms and Ives were all blond or black-haired.

          Had he followed his itchy nose down the wrong path?  Was there some part of his family in trouble, and he’d taken the wrong turn?  He hoped not because he didn’t have time to look.  This woman needed help now. 

          The brute grabbed the brave lady’s stick and ripped it from her gloved hand.  Flinging the staff into the bushes, he seized her wrist.

          The woman’s amazing blue green eyes widened in such terror that Aidan reacted without thought.

*       *       *

          The skies thundered, and a giant strode out of the mist.

          Both Mora and the thug manhandling her turned to stare in awe.

          The newcomer stood so broad against the fog-shrouded evergreens that he could have been part of the forest come to life.  Thick hair the color of coal fell in a queue over his caped cloak.  The anger tightening his carved lips would cause a saint to tremble.  The square, solid bones of his features spoke of a character as strong as his brawny size and clenched fists.  The narrowing of his dark eyes threatened menacingly.  Mora should have been frightened, but his very stillness when all around him trembled conveyed an odd note of safety.

          She could have studied the colossus forever, but she had only this one moment to save herself.  With her attacker distracted, Mora formed a fist with her free hand and swung it as hard as she could at the thug’s nose.

          Her attacker squawked in surprise, but nose apparently undamaged, he recovered without releasing his hold. Focusing on the true danger, he brandished his blade in the giant’s direction.            “This ain’t none of your business.  Come no closer or I’ll lob off that great beak of yor’n.”

          Mora had scarcely noticed the giant’s nose. Strongly carved, with an intriguing hook at the end, his nose was that of an angel if he would free her from this embarrassing predicament.  “This fool apparently believes I am someone I am not,” she informed the giant, who was cannily sizing up the knife and its wielder.  “If you would be so good as to inform the inhabitants of Wystan Manor of where I am, I would be most appreciative.”

          She was shaking in her shoes, but she’d learned to face her fears with scorn.  In response, both men glared at her as if she were insane.  Growing angrier by the minute, she brought her bootheel down on the thief’s instep to show she wasn’t about to keel over in a faint. 

          The thief howled and tightened his grip, even as his knife hand faltered. 

          Using her diversion to advantage, the colossus took one enormous step into the clearing, reached out his muscular arm, and grabbed her captor’s coat by its front placket.  “Aye, and I assume you’ve already sent bats to alert the witches at the manor?” he inquired, effortlessly raising the thief off the ground. 

          The action released Mora’s arm, enabling the giant to shake her molester into dropping his knife while she was still attempting to translate his question.  With the same ease with which a normal man would fling a hammer, he heaved the disarmed bundle of squalling rags into the bushes.

          Dazed by her abrupt release, Mora struggled to catch her balance.  The stranger caught her elbow to steady her, and for a moment, she thought the sun had broken through the mist, so warm was his touch.

          In that instant, Mora could have sworn he was a gallant knight stepped directly from King Arthur’s tales.

          “Bats?” she murmured, basking in the heat of his gaze. Avoiding the mysterious depths of the stranger’s eyes, Mora shook him off to balance against a tree so she might untangle her shabby riding skirt from her ankles and recover her senses.

          “Or is it pigeons they use?” he asked inexplicably, looking down at her from his great height. 

          Having been saved from the hands of a thief only to land in the presence of a madman, Mora was slow to respond to the rustle of leaves that indicated another approaching danger.  She nodded at the mist around them.  “Beware, sir,” she whispered.

          Before he could spin around, a band of brigands burst from the undergrowth.  Two leaped on the giant’s back and clung like ticks on a dog, holding him captive so the third could seize Mora.  She screamed and lashed out with both feet when he hauled her off the ground. 

          Despite her struggles, her captor lugged her through the clearing as if she weighed no more than a sack of feed.  She grabbed a slender tree branch and hung on in hopes that her shaggy knight might fight off his attackers to save her again.

          She watched the colossus abruptly bend forward. The two ticks on his back tumbled over his head and hit the hard ground, losing their weapons.  Before they dared clamber to their feet, the giant swept up a dropped cudgel.  He roared and swung it in a broad arc as if it were a claymore, causing them to fall back or risk losing their heads. 

          Cursing, her captor pried Mora’s hand from the branch, but she kicked and fought, foiling his efforts to heave her over his shoulder.  She screamed her fury when he was reduced to dragging her every inch of the way out of the clearing.   

          At her screams, the giant’s black gaze left his attackers.  Unchecked rage at her predicament burned in his eyes, and he swung his weapon recklessly to beat back two more brigands who were running to join their fallen comrades.

          Five against one was more than any normal man could keep down.  Mora could swear the ground trembled beneath the force of the knight’s wrath as he wrapped an arm around the neck of a man who was daring to grab his coat. With a swift downward movement, he tossed the villain over his head with enough strength to crack his spine—leaving his own back exposed.

          Mora watched in horror as a blade caught her gallant’s shoulder, ripping open his cloak and drawing blood.  Weeping in rage as her savior staggered and the thieves swarmed over him, Mora snagged a dead tree branch from the ground.  With effort, she shoved the rotten stick between the boots of the man dragging her away.  He tripped and swore, slowing down but not releasing her.

          The rumbling thunder increased.  Trees swayed as if whipped by a violent wind, yet the dew-laden air remained undisturbed by a single breeze.  The brigands glanced upward in surprise.  Using the distraction, the giant blocked a punch aimed at him.  With his hand wrapped around his foe’s wrist, he swung his heavy load like a pike into a second villain wielding a knife.  The two collided and fell unconscious.

          Seeing his comrades fall, the rogue holding Mora aimed his fist in her direction.  Before he could connect, Mora let her weight go limp.  His blow flew over her head. 

          The giant twisted a cudgel from the last brigand in such a manner that a bone snapped. 

          With their attackers almost defeated, Mora sank her teeth into her captor’s hand, foiling his attempt to seek a new purchase in her loosened braids.  Screaming in pain, he staggered and dropped her.

          Spitting his filthy fingers from her mouth, she jumped up and swung a foot at his kneecaps. He grabbed her arm and tugged, almost toppling her.  Skirts flying, revealing her plain muslin petticoats, Mora aimed her mended boot at his knee again, but he jerked her off balance before she could do damage. 

          She screamed her frustration. Seemingly in response, the ground heaved in fury, frightening her even more.  All around the clearing, trees swayed.

          Finally free of his attackers, her gallant knight raced across the surging, rolling ground to wrap his massive fist around her captor’s throat.

          A swaying pine crashed across the clearing. 

          “Drop her gently,” the giant roared over the din.

          Wide-eyed and pale with terror, the thief obliged.  Mora nearly crumpled trying to stand upright on the lurching ground.

          With a roar, the giant chased the last rogue away and caught her before she fell. 

          As his strong arms clutched her protectively, Mora felt cherished and safe against a chest broader than her view of the sky. She leaned her head against his shoulder and tried to stop trembling.  Perhaps it had just been her own terror that had shaken her. In the moment he caught her, the sun emerged through the fog to smile on them.

          She didn’t have time to appreciate the welcoming strength of her savior cradling her head with a gentle hand, or the frantic beat of his heart beneath her own.   A loud, unearthly groan broke the silence.

          Mora glanced up in horror to see an enormous oak tree tilting toward them, its massive roots rising from the shuddering mud.

          The giant shoved her into the bushes, covering her with his great bulk as the tree toppled. Branches crashed past evergreens to sweep them into their powerful embrace long before the trunk hit the ground with a thud that shook the entire forest.

©2007 Patricia Rice

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