The Black Knight of Ashfern

Chapter 2

Nan stared at the stranger standing before her, his features concealed by the shadow of the alley as he yanked her attacker away.

"What poor manners you must have to force a woman to your will. And out here in the open, no less." The stranger spoke his tone like water running over stone, easy and unencumbered.

"Sod off ye blackguard! The bitch is mine!" Michael snarled, whipping around to face the stranger, a knife shining ready in his hand.

"Really?" The stranger questioned, his tone feigning interest. "Has this man paid for your time, Miss?" he asked, looking to Nan. Fervently, she shook her head, still too stunned to speak. "Well, with that being said, it seems she is not." The stranger replied with a single short shake of his head. Stepping back just in time to avoid the stab of Michael's knife as he charged at the stranger, tripping over his own two feet when the stranger hooked his ankle with his cane, causing Michael to stumble several feet out into the open. Before righting himself and turning back at him once more, again he charged, only to be pelted across the face with one of the empty bottles Nan had gotten from Tom's Pub.

Like a sack of potatoes, Michael fell to the ground unconscious, his face battered and bleeding worse than it had when he had run into the wall outside the pub. With a barely leashed rage, Nan tossed the neck of the bottle aside and slammed her foot into the drunk's side. One, two, three times before the stranger's cane braced against her leg to stop her.

"He's down. You needn't kill the fool. Though, I understand why you'd wish to." He stated, her eyes jumping to the vicinity of his face. In the meager light of the street lamps, Nan could only make out the shape of his face, any detail beyond that was swallowed by the dark. So she looked at the rest of him, trying to piece together who had come to her aid. He was tall, nearly a head taller than she was, with wide shoulders, his coat clung perfectly to his frame, which, along with his polished boots, top hat, and impeccable speech, told her he was gentry. If there was more to know of him Nan felt ill at ease to discover it.

"Ye have me thanks, Sir," Nan nodded to the man standing before her.

"Consider us even." He replied, in turn, stepping over Michael's body as he moved past her. Nan's head jerked after him, her brow creased in puzzlement.

"Even?" She questioned.

"You warned me of the tide." He answered as he walked on rising his cane as he tipped his hat to her.

"You're the scarred man!" Nan announced, knowing full well why he had stopped and was now turning back to her. Removing his hat to show what the dark had kept hidden. He was indeed the scarred man from the beach, though, in the light of the lamps, his scars looked far more severe than they had under the afternoon sun. It made his face look warped and unnatural, almost ghoulish, as he glared at her with far more ire than he had shown her when she'd woken him.

"Tell me, Miss do you make a habit of insulting all your rescuers?" He practically growled, the anger in his tone blatant.

"I've not had many to insult." She replied, guilelessly as she watched him. "And it was not meant as such, Sir. I'd gladly call ye by your name. If I knew it. As it is, my calling ye by yer scars is no different than you calling me by me eyes, or hair. It was the thing I remembered first." She explained with a shrug, turning to face him fully.

"And if I were to call you the dirty little girl from the beach, you would not take offense?" He bit back.

"I've naught to take offense, Sir. I am what you say." She smiled, a small tolerant thing, as she lifted the edge of her tattered skirts to prove her point. "Though, you have an odd sense of balance." She added a moment later.