Page 3 of Bride of the Merciless Laird
To her horror and building despair, she glimpsed the fallen, motionless, shapes of Dugal and Ghillie lying where they’d so bravely fought for her. She made a mewling sound in her throat and one of the men laughed.
She cast him a deathly look of loathing.
“We made short work of yer men, milady.” He chuckled again before turning to the men gripping her arms. “Nay time tae waste, lads, the laird is waiting.”
Her heart froze over at his words.
Harris kent…
There was no doubt in her mind that the ‘laird’ he mentioned was the man her family had long suspected of sending the threatening notes. Her former betrothed, a man she’d once trusted with all her being, Laird Harris MacDonald.
But how had these men located her so easily? They must have been aware she’d be traveling that way and laid in wait for her arrival.
Of course, a spy in the castle at Scorrybreac must have revealed the plan to send her to safety at the distant priory. She had hoped that, as she was travelling in the depths of winter, a time when few travelers were foolhardy enough to be on the roads, her departure would be unnoticed. Both she and Edmund had hoped the snowfall, storms, and the freezing weather would hoodwink her nemesis into believing she would never set forth under such conditions.
It was obvious Harris – she was certain now it was him– had called their bluff and sent his minions to accost her.
“Where are ye taking me?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Think ye can just drag me off like a sack of grain?”
Are we heading tae the woods? Dear God, naebody will find me there, I cannae let them drag me there!
“Let me go.” she snapped, thrashing against their hold. She knew shouting would do little good, but the silence of the woods made her words echo louder, braver, than she felt inside.
At the sight of their horses waiting, her heart sank. Once they were mounted and on their way, no one would have any knowledge of where she was or how to find her.
Her mind was reeling. Now that her defenders had been so cruelly dispatched, she held little or no hope of rescue. By the time word reached her half-brother that she was missing, she would have long been at the mercy of a man who had threatened her.
That is, if she still lived.
Would they take her to Sleat on the Isle of Skye, to the home of her former betrothed? Or would they simply deal with her in the woods, here, now, out of sight of the small, unseeing, scattering of houses?
She did not allow herself to lose hope altogether. If they planned to sail back to Skye there might be a chance of saving herself. There must be something she could do despite the obvious threat those rough men posed. It was clear to her they meant her nothing but harm and would stop at nothing.
Renewing her struggle, she attempted to bite one of the brute hands that clutched her arm.
“Ye wee vixen,” the man grunted and slapped her hard across the face. “Stop yer struggling.”
Her head flew back with the impact and she gasped at the sudden pain. Her chest ached with the effort of drawing breath, but she pulled again at the hands holding her.
After tramping for some minutes through the woods, they arrived at the banks of a small, frozen burn. Grunting with the effort, they dragged her, slipping and sliding, over pebbles to cross the solid expanse of ice ahead of them.
The slick, slithery surface made it difficult for the men holding her to keep their balance as she struggled. Feeling their grip on her loosening, she deliberately allowed her feet to slide out from under her. Tumbling onto the ice she brought her two captors down with her in a tangle of limbs. Her hands suddenly free, she struggled to her feet and pulled down the cloth gag around her mouth, screaming at the top of her lungs.
With the men clutched at her skirts as they attempted to rise, she stamped down hard, wrenching herself free as their fingers slipped from the cloth. She staggered on the rough ice, arms flailing for balance, before forcing her legs into motion and breaking away in a wild dash. She was more nimble and lighter than her pursuers, and she managed to gain a yard or two as they stumbled behind her, yelling at her to stop.
“It will go worse fer ye, ye little vixen, when we catch ye,” one of the men shouted.
“Aye. I’ll tan that wee hide of yer bahookie so that it’s black and blue. Ye’ll nay sit fer a week without squeaking in pain,” called another.
She kept on, holding her skirt high, ignoring their threats, her pounding heart jolting at the hateful man’s words.
If he contemplates me pain lasting fer a week, it must mean I’m tae be kept alive fer at least that length of time.
Her will kept her upright, forging ahead with no idea where she was going, yet building faint hopes she might somehow evade her captors. They were so close behind her she could hear their harsh breaths as they struggled on the icy surface, but she was inching ahead.
Yet the power of her determination could not stretch much further. Her strength was ebbing fast when she felt hands scrabbling at her skirt, wrenching her backwards, forcing her to lose her balance and slip onto the ice.
Her two pursuers grabbed at her, attempting to pinion her legs as she kicked out at them, using all her strength and was rewarded with a grunt from one of them. But despite her efforts, she was powerless against their fierce strength. She let fly a Banshee scream, emptying her lungs, her heart plummeting as the full recognition of the deathly danger she was in hit home.
