Page 11 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
A man appeared on the road, and she drew to a halt, her heart pounding. A sudden sense of awareness crept over her, and her hands grew cold as she clenched them. The man did not hurry, simply kept up a leisurely pace, and she tried to start walking again.
But she could not. Not when every instinct screamed at her to go back to the tavern, to find Laird Ronson and beg for his protection.
No, I don’t need him.
She kept walking, even as Morgana’s voice echoed in her mind.
“Ye be careful now and stick to the Laird.”
Had Morgana recognized her from those dratted sketches? Had they made it this far north in such a short time? Worse, would this man hurt her?
Swallowing, Emma lowered her gaze and tried not to walk too fast or too slow. When the man simply nodded at her, she felt a surge of relief and began walking faster, until he spoke.
“Do I ken ye?”
Emma turned, but he was already there, shoving her against a tree and grinning, a blade at her throat. His cruel face and dark, empty eyes rooted her to the spot. And when he smiled, she wished she had listened to Morgana.
I’m going to die.
“Please—” Emma managed to whisper, even though she knew it was of no use.
This was the bandit from before, who had managed to run away from the Highlander.
And this time, she knew the bandit would ensure she did not escape.
The man did not even blink, simply pulled out a blade in an almost perfunctory manner and tilted his head to the side. “Ye thought ye could get away?” He shook his head. “Stupid wench—spreadin’ yer legs for a fool Queen.”
He would kill her and never think of her again. Her parents, the Highlander… they would never know?—
“Easy,” the bandit crooned. “I willnae hurt ye—much. Nae when me master needs ye to set things right in England.” He wrenched her forward and then shoved her toward a narrower path that seemed to snake down to the shore. “Walk. And dinnae ye dare think of tryin’ to lead me on another merry chase, Emma Wells.”
“I’m not?—”
“Oh, but ye are. I kenned to stick close to that rat bastard Ronson, kenned he’d meant to track ye down. And there’s nay greater hunter in all of Scotland. So, of course, we cannae let him ken that I’m here.Go.”
Emma began to walk, a sob bubbling up her throat. She did not look south, even though something tugged her heart in thatdirection, and she trembled. Whoever this man worked for, this fate seemed more ominous than whatever Ronson wanted.
When they reached the bottom of the slope, the woods began to thin, and a sandy cove stretched ahead.
“Here.” The bandit yanked her around and then tied a strip of grimy yellow and brown plaid around her wrist. “Dinnae lose that on the pain of death, girl.”
A clatter of rocks sounded from behind them, and the man whirled around, then cursed. His eyes darted around, and he switched the sword back and forth.
“Shite,” he hissed. “Well, Darrow said if I couldnae get her away, the body would do.”
Emma did not understand his meaning until he turned to her and lifted his blade. She could not think or move, only heard the whistle of air, of certain death?—
A high-pitched, garbled scream cut through the morning air, and a flock of startled birds flew into the sky. Or maybe that was Emma’s thoughts, scattered like her heartbeats all over the forest.
For a moment, the man had been about to cut her down, and now his blade had clattered to the ground as he clutched at the stump of what was left of his sword arm.
He wailed in pain, blood spurting everywhere, and Emma blinked, swaying. Then, he looked up at her and pure terror twisted his face.
“Ye,” the bandit croaked. “Ye bastard, devil-spawn. Me master will see ye hanged?—”
Emma sensed someone at her back then, and the bandit’s terror became her own. Or perhaps the sight of all that blood was too much. Either way, her mind simply gave up, and darkness blotted out her vision.
She tried to fight it to no avail. Yet, in the brief seconds before she lost consciousness, she thought someone caught her—someone familiar. And then, she knew no more.
