Freya glared up at the man's wide, blunt face. “I have the same advice for ye.” She drew up her leg with all the force she could muster and hit him square between the legs with the point of her shoe. The man pitched forward with a squeak and clutched at his wounded genitals.
No sooner had the man gone down than the one in front of Lily drew back his arm and punched her across the face. She went down with such suddenness, Freya feared the older woman might be dead. The knife she held skittered from her and landed by Freya's foot.
A withered hand extended blindly from Lily’s crumpled form. Freya fumbled with her own waistband to draw free the pistol and kicked the blade over to Lily.
One bullet. Freya had one bullet loaded. She glanced to the man bent over in front of her, the one leering over Ewan’s mother, another stalking toward her while the fourth strode confidently through the doorway to the heart of the house. As if he lived there. As if he belonged.
Lily’s hand found the handle of the blade and she bolted upright. This time there was no tremble of hesitation. This time the jagged blade plunged into the tender, vulnerable skin of the soldier’s throat.
The first man straightened with offense and then winced at his injured crotch. “Get the bitch.” He motioned to the man approaching behind him, indicating Freya. “We'll have her first. The old one's not going to go anywhere. Let her watch her daughter be used before we kill them both.”
Freya's fingers burrowed frantically into the smooth cotton of her dress, skimming the heavy bulk of the pistol atop a layer of fabric. Panic scrabbled through her thoughts and turned her mind to jelly. And then clarity intervened, beautiful and logical.
There were two men. One pistol with one bullet wouldn't do. But a hunting blade might.
Thoughts finally clear, Freya pulled the blade from her waist and slashed at the new man. He was short, smaller than her, with stocky arms and legs and a belly that strained against his wool coat. He yelped and drew back like a scalded cat.
The first man grabbed her around the waist. “Stop fooling around and get her.”
“I'm not fooling around,” the stocky man said. “She cut me.”
Freya jerked her elbow back hard and caught the other man in the gut. Before he had time to react, she drew her heel down hard on his foot. The man cursed and let her go. She lunged for the stocky man, blade swiping the air with an audible whip.
He leapt back, as expected.
She ran forward, over the bleeding form of Captain Crosby. If she could lure the two men outside, only one would remain inside. She would have the advantage outside as only one man could come through the door at a time.
One blade. One bullet. Two men.
The chilled night air nipped at her cheeks, but the extreme cold was not what made her go still.
Clemmons stood behind Ewan with a pistol aimed directly at his head. Freya had a choice to make an immediate decision - one which would cost either his life or hers. She pulled back the hand that held the dagger and launched it at Clemmons.
The first man slammed into her from behind. She flew forward and landed face down on the cold, hard floorboards of the porch. The second man's footsteps reverberated under her throbbing cheek.
One at a time through the door, as she'd predicted. A slick, ugly ball of dread coiled low in her belly. She knew where this would lead. She squeezed her eyes closed and tried not to think of Marian's screams as she had tried to fight. But Freya wouldn't cry out. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
The pistol.
Her arm flopped numbly at her side, fingertips grazing the fabric, finding the slit. Yes, almost there. Her nails skidded over the polished metal of the barrel.
Rough hands grabbed her around the waist and hauled her upright. Her hand was wrenched from her pocket with the action. She gazed frantically around her in the hopes of seeing Ewan or Clemmons. To know if she'd been successful.
There hadn't been a pistol shot fired. Surely that meant—
A fist came at her face and landed full force on her eye. Her head flew back and she sagged against the man holding her. The world blinked around her and her footing was no longer steady.
She was being tipped back. Her head swam with thick, muddy thoughts. Don't scream. Don't scream.
Her arms were roughly pulled behind her and something squeezed around her neck.
The jingling of a belt being unfastened entered her awareness and alarm shot through her. She was going to be raped.
Her body writhed against the man holding her, but the vise around her neck only tightened. Her efforts were in vain. The man pulled down his pants and in the blur of her vision, she caught the brilliance of his pale moonlit skin against the black of a starless night.
The weight of her skirts lifted. Cold air scrabbled over her skin like greedy fingers. She was vulnerable, exposed. Helpless. Angry tears burned in her eyes and the knot in her throat had little to do with being choked.
Ewan had been angry with himself for having taken her maidenhead. She was all the gladder for him doing so now. Better her first time be with a man she loved than like this.
The man shoved at her knees and jerked them painfully apart. Her muscles seemed to splinter beneath for the force of him. She wielded her final weapon of defiance – her hatred. She glared up at him and said nothing, not even when a shadow loomed over him.
***
Ewan exploded forward, propelled by the force of glowing-hot rage. He hooked the man's neck with his manacled hands and yanked him back. The man was pulled from Freya with a rasping cough choking out of his throat.
He was still naked from the waist down. Ewan kept his gaze locked on the man's wide brown eyes, unable to even look at the man's nudity, to acknowledge the disgusting intent.
All this had been Ewan's fault, and by God he would see it to rights.
Ewan drew his arms up, hands clasped together to lock the manacles into place, and brought the double fist of metal down hard on the man's face. A deep, popping crunch came from beneath Ewan's fists and blood gushed down the man's face. He sputtered, sending a spray of blood spattering onto the darkened porch.
A hearty smack sounded from several feet away where Freya had been left with the last man. The redcoat Ewan fought kicked him in the side where the bullet wound still healed. Pain exploded into white flickering stars before Ewan's eyes.
Before Ewan could recover, the man shoved him and scrambled to his feet.
Ewan blinked against the pain and regarded the half-naked man standing over him. With a pistol.
The man cocked the weapon and it fired with a deafening explosion.
Only nothing emerged from the man's weapon. Nothing tore into Ewan's body save the pain already blazing at his waist. Confusion grappled him for a mind-numbing second until the half-naked soldier fell to the side, revealing Freya behind him, gripping a pistol. A curl of gray smoke licked up from the muzzle and trailed into the icy air.
“Ewan.” There was alarm in her voice, fear.
For him.
He shoved aside the pain at his side and forced himself to sit up. Blood spattered her dress. “Are ye hurt?”
“Nay.” She sank beside him. “Are ye?”