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The Maiden of Ireland
They tumbled and rolled, breath rasping and hands grappling for discarded weapons. Nearby, the pitch fire had risen to a roaring blaze. Heat lapped at Wesley’s back and singed the ends of his hair. Irish shouts and running feet sounded behind him, coming closer.
He slammed his opponent against the ground. A rush of breath flowed from behind the helm. The silk veil snagged on Wesley’s gauntlet. He heard a ripping noise and a metallic clatter as the helm came off and rolled away.
Wesley lifted his hand. One chop to the windpipe and—
“Good God Almighty!” The words burst from him on a flood of astonishment. Lying beneath him, awaiting the death blow, with tawny hair framing a savagely lovely face, was Caitlin MacBride.
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