He nodded to her captor. “Let the lass go.” The man withdrew the knife from her neck and released her. Sarra stumbled forward. On an oath, Giric sheathed his blade as he ran to her and drew her against his chest. Her body trembled against his as he glared at each man, his gaze halting on Léod. The bastard. Giric pressed a kiss on Sarra’s brow. “Stay here.” Anger raged within as he strode to the men’s leader, a man he knew well. He and Léod had reived together since their sixth summers, and had both trained beneath his father’s hand. Although as Giric was in line for a title, every so often he’d caught Léod watching him with envy. Over the years he’d ignored the man’s resentment, the slights, and the snide comments. Until now. A pace away, he caught Léod’s neck, pleased to see fear on his face. “If I ever find you within a league of Sarra, I will kill you.” He shoved. Léod stumbled back, sprawled onto the snow. His heart pounding, Giric glared at Léod’s men.
