Page 87 of The Highlander's Accidental Wife
“I will kill them all,” he snarled. “They will ken me wrath for touchin’ ye, me love.”
Charging toward his chest, he took out dirks and strapped them to his belt, then lifted his two blades and strapped them on, too.
There was a commotion in the hallway, and then guards burst in, with servants not far behind.
“Milaird,” cried one man. “What is amiss? What…?” He gazed around, then toward Helena’s door, paling. “Nay.”
“Aye,” Damien roared. “They’ve taken me bride.” He stormed across the room and caught the man by the front of his hauberk. “And if anything happens to her, nae one of ye will keep yer feckin’ useless heads.”
Ragged breaths tore from Helena, the world blurry without her glasses, and yet the ache from her arms being tied to a horse was all too sharp. The ride had felt endless, the gag in her mouth irritating, and the poor horse below her struggling to keep up with the men around them.
All their horses, though, seemed ill-fed and thin.
Not the man next to her, though. He rode with a smug expression on his face, his round figure all too familiar.
An angry huff escaped Helena when she met her stepbrother’s eyes. Bartholomew had been waiting in her rooms, rifling through her desk, and enraging her so that she did not think torun or scream for help. Instead, she’d marched in and demanded to know what he was up to. Why he was in her home without announcing himself.
And when he’d turned around with a smirk, his eyes flicking over her shoulder, she had no time to turn and run. No, her arms had been caught in an iron grip, while a man had laughed softly in her ear.
“He’s helpin’ me, lass, ye ken?” The grip had tightened until she cried out, and he turned her, grinning, while she reeled.
She saw the dark red hair, the cruel smile, and the pitiless eyes. A strange man who looked like Damien, but without his warmth or intelligence. Stunned, all she could do was stare, even as she screamed at herself to call for help.
“Milady, we havenae met, but I am the rightful Laird of Morighe.”
“Lachlan,” Helena had gasped and made to scream.
But he’d been too fast, snatching her glasses and striking her. Then, his men had pounced, tying her up and gagging her, while she struggled and fought, watching helplessly as Lachlan placed her glasses on her desk.
Her heart had seized at that, picturing Damien coming in and finding them.
The next moments were a panicked slip of time in her head, moving too fast and too slow. They’d dragged her outside, tied her to a horse, and then rode out through a back gate. There had been bodies in the snow, and a sob had risen in Helena’s chest. Those were her people, butchered by this monster on the eve of her wedding.
All around them, the night seemed too endless, too cold, and the stars that had smoldered now watched with aloof distance.
Helena squinted as the landscape changed and they suddenly rode onto a beach, with a sharp spit of rock carving itself into the ocean. She had no notion of where they’d gone. North, she thought.
But there, not far from the shore, was a large ship bobbing on the waves.
The waves slammed into the cliff and sprayed water into the air, and Helena could hear the ominous creaking of the wood from here.
Wait, this is…
At that moment, her horse stopped, and she would’ve fallen off if she wasn’t tied to it. Then, Lachlan’s men were swarming her, and Lachlan appeared, weaving through them. He pulled her down and smiled, then caught her chin in a hard grip.
“If ye promise nae to make too much of a fuss, I’ll take off yer gag.”
Helena narrowed her eyes, and the pirate laughed, then tore the gag off her face.
“This is the Shipmaw, of Reaper’s Point,” Helena gasped.
“Och, ye are clever,” Lachlan crooned. “Yer braither was right about that.”
“This is a deathtrap,” she hissed and pointed. “The cliffs and rocks made for deadly tides that change in a heartbeat. Do you know how many sailors and pirates have died here?” Her heart slammed in her chest as Lachlan dragged her forward.
Gwendolyn had explained it to her on that cozy and rainy afternoon, tracing an elegant finger up the coast and explaining the borders of Galeclere.
“You all are in terrible danger.”
