But behind him, he felt the tremor of Iona’s breath. The rigid stillness of a child witnessing something that could not be unwitnessed.
He let the man go.
If he survived long enough to reach whoever had sent him, he would carry a message carved into flesh.
Frederick wiped his blade once against the fallen man’s cloak before sheathing it.
The smell of blood was metallic and thick. It clung to the back of his throat.
He turned.
Jamie stood wide-eyed, hands clenched at his sides. No tears. No scream. Just intense, unblinking focus.
Iona, however, was frozen.
Her hands still covered Jamie’s eyes, though the child had clearly pushed them away to look. Her knuckles were white. Her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, unseeing.
“Lass?” he said, stepping closer.
No response.
He reached out and touched her cheek lightly with blood-streaked fingers before remembering himself and withdrawing.
Her skin was cold beneath his palm.
“Iona,” he said more firmly.
She blinked as if surfacing from deep water.
Her eyes dropped immediately to Jamie.
“Are ye hurt?” she demanded, voice shaking now that the danger had gone.
Jamie shook his head. “Nay.”
She dropped to her knees and ran trembling hands over small shoulders, down arms, checking for wounds that were not there.
Satisfied at last, she exhaled in a broken rush and pulled Jamie tightly into her chest.
Frederick felt an unfamiliar twist low in his ribs.
Jamie looked over Iona’s shoulder at him.
“Thank ye,” the child said quietly.
There was no fear in those green eyes now. Only appreciation and respect.
Frederick inclined his head once, not realizing he had to prove himself to a bairn.
Iona rose slowly, keeping one arm wrapped around Jamie as if the world might snatch the child away if she loosened her hold. And her body angled toward his.
For the first time since he had seen her again, the defiance softened.
“Thank ye,” she said. And this time there was no bitterness. No pride. Just truth.
He nodded once. “Aye, anytime, lass.”
She nodded.