Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set Read Online Free PDF Page A

through her ankle as she slammed into the ground. Her vision darkened and she fought to suck in a breath. She needed to keep moving but her exhausted body refused to obey her.
    “I say she went this way,” a harsh voice barked.
    Terror knifed through her heart and her fingers closed around a thick stick.
    Catriona felt the vibration of the earth before she truly heard the sound. The dull thud of hoofbeats reverberated in an even cadence, the stride long and heavy. She looked up, trying to blink her vision clear. Time seemed to slow, matching the pace of the ominous meter, and her heartbeat joined it. Through the trees, she spotted a huge gray destrier charging toward her like a specter formed of swirling mist. She gaped at it, wondering if she was so exhausted she’d begun to hallucinate.
    The sound of its hooves grew stronger.
    Finely armored with plate and mail, the massive beast’s long stride swallowed the ground. The knight who rode the animal appeared as a giant as well, the colors of his brat muted with dirt and mud. The destrier continued its charge, heading straight toward her. The knight lifted his claymore.
    Catriona remained rooted in terror as the ghostly apparition thundered closer. Suddenly, the beast gathered itself and shifted its weight to its haunches. It launched itself over the ditch and the deadwood, landing easily on the other side.
    The knight bellowed his war cry.
“Cruach Mór!”
    She peeked over the deadwood and time abruptly righted itself. The knight’s claymore crashed down on the helm of one of Catriona’s pursuers, driving it into his skull. Blood flew as the man toppled from his horse. The knight’s claymore snapped around to the left, catching a second serjant in the jaw, ripping it off and breaking his neck.
    Catriona could only stare in horror at the carnage and at the giant knight, who wielded the two handed claymore as if it were nothing more than a bastard sword.
    The gray destrier reared, screaming its challenge. The knight’s war cry answered and the horse lunged past a third serjant. The knight slammed his claymore into the man’s back. Blood flew from the serjant’s mouth and he hit the ground, his dead eyes wide with shock and horror.
    The knight pulled his horse to a sliding stop, gazing at the bodies around him. He dismounted and moved toward Catriona.
    She drew herself up to her knees, hefting the stick, though inwardly she cringed. There was only one man who fought with a claymore in Inglewood. Strickland. Though why he had just slaughtered his own men, she had no idea. She was hardly a match for an armored knight, but he wouldn’t take her without a fight.
    “Whoreson!” she spat. “Bloody cod-sucking swine!”
    The knight paused for a moment, then thrust the tip of his claymore into the earth, where the weapon remained upright. His attitude seemed to be one of exasperation and forced patience.
    Catriona’s nerves stretched even tighter. “A pox on your cock! Do your worst!”
    The huge knight ripped off his helm and spoke in a deep but mild voice. “And after that, lass, what will ye do to me? Steal my clothes and hide them until I turn blue with cold or put another dead rat in my pack?”
    She stared at him, now certain he was truly a ghost. She examined his face, shadowed with a day’s growth of beard, his strong jawline, his high cheekbones, and his elegant dark eyebrows. His eyes . . . sea-green in color . . . suddenly, she knew. It could be no other man.
    “Branan?” she whispered, waiting for her ghostly savior to vanish into the mist that had created him. Tears pushed forward and trickled down her cheeks. She stumbled on her injured ankle and threw herself into his arms, sobbing.
    He caught her easily and his embrace tightened. “Sweet Catriona,” he whispered, his voice a rich baritone.
    A body that felt as if it were made of granite and steel engulfed her. She reveled in the strength of his arms, the warmth of his breath against her