The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby

ChapterThirty-Three

“Stay,” he whispered.

Outside, Gwendolyn heard voices.

“Saddled,” said a man, his voice not at all familiar. “They can’t be far.”

Raiders?

Those same men returned?

Or could it be Ia and her family?

But nay.

It was not.

As though he’d read her mind, Málik shook his head, then lifted a finger to his lips, begging Gwendolyn to remain silent. And then, quietly, carefully, he unsheathed the sword at his back and disappeared into the common room.

Gwendolyn’s heart hammered fiercely.

“Check the house,” bellowed another man, this one coming closer. Then booted steps—coming quickly, loudly fiercely, like the beating of her heart.

Gods.

She’d left her sword on the horse she’d meant to ride. Instinctively, her hand moved down along her thigh, past the bandages, to her boot, reaching for the small blade she kept there. It wasn’t big, but it was sharp enough to put out an eye, and she would do it.

For a terrifying instant, Gwendolyn considered what she would do if they found Málik and harmed him. It spurred her into motion. She didn’t think, only acted.

She couldn’t remain here, hiding like a coward, whilst they hurt him! Moving swiftly to the bower door, she found a burly man entering the cottage, his hand still on the knob. Málik stood hidden on the other side of the door, his entire body cast in shadow behind it. Gwendolyn didn’t even have the time to worry about the glower he sent her.

She faced the scene with wide, frightened eyes, recognizing this man as the raider who had attacked her uncle’s home. Only for an instant, his head tilted, as though surprised to see her, but his surprise was his undoing.

Málik moved swiftly around the door, seizing him by his long, scraggly hair, and then dragged him into the room. In what appeared to be a swift, macabre dance, he slit the man’s throat, then pushed him aside, dragging him by the hair until he, too, vanished behind the door.

From her vantage, Gwendolyn could see that there was one more man outside. Now, he stood in plain view of the door, and he turned, drawn by the noises in the cottage.

Gwendolyn froze at the sight of him marching in her direction, his face splitting wide with a malevolent grin. She couldn’t speak or move.

Once more, Málik placed a hand to his lips and though Gwendolyn could only see him in her periphery, she daren’t turn her head in his direction. Not wanting to give him away, she tried hard not to look away from the approaching warrior, no matter that every bone in her body screamed for her to flee. The knife in her hand trembled.

Or perhaps it was only her hand?

He came closer.

Closer.

Closer.

Closer.

“I don’t know how you escaped,” he snarled when he was close enough to see inside the darkened hovel. “But I won’t give you another chance.”

His dark eyes glinted with ill-intent.

Somehow, Gwendolyn met his gaze squarely, showing him the blade in her hand, so it glinted against the morning sun. But this only made him bark with laughter, and still he paused… just inside the door, where his gaze found and settled on the boots of his fallen companion.

The smile abandoned his lips.

Málik moved with haste, deftly pressing his sword against the man’s throat. Only this time, the man was quick as well. He shoved backward, butting his thick head against Málik’s face.

Gwendolyn heard him cry out, and both men tumbled to the floor. For an instant, she stood frozen as they battled, swords too unwieldy to use in such proximity.

The raider put a knee on Málik’s sword hand, pressing his full weight against it, and Málik bucked beneath him, trying to displace him. Perhaps he could have, but the instant the man gave Gwendolyn his back, she rushed forward in defense of Málik, thrusting her small blade precisely where Málik had taught her—straight into the man’s reins.

Just like he said, the man dropped like a stone, and Gwendolyn stood back, staring dumbly at the body as Málik pushed him away, then sprang to his feet, and dusted himself off.

His gaze narrowed on Gwendolyn. “I told you to stay,” he said.

Gwendolyn hitched her chin. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed?

She shrugged, unable to confess the powerful surge of emotion she’d felt over the possibility of losing him. “You should say thank you,” she returned with a tremulous smile. “This time, I saved you.”

“Indeed, Princess,” he said. But the smile he returned didn’t match his tone or his words. “But don’t be too pleased with yourself; we fae have eight lives.”

In answer, Gwendolyn furrowed her brow. “I thought this was cats?”

“Alas, cats carry more favor with the gods. They have nine,” he said, winking. “One more than we. But let us go before his friends come searching.”

Gwendolyn needn’t be told twice. Re-sheathing the blade at her boot, she preceded him out the door.