Page 11 of Captured By the Cruel Highlander
The question surprised her.
“Nay,” she admitted truthfully. “I couldnae eat before the weddin’… I didnae feel well.”
He nodded once and went back to the saddle bag. He rummaged through it on the opposite side and pulled out some bread and something wrapped in paper.
He crouched down on the ground beside her feet, eyeing her warily.
“Now,” he said, “ye can keep tryin’ to hurt yerself and bein’ a nuisance, or ye can have somethin’ to eat. Afterward, I’ll take ye back to me castle, and ye can wait for me to kill that idiot. Then ye’ll be free to live yer life as though nothin’ has happened.”
He unwrapped the bundle, which turned out to be ham and cheese, and made an inelegant but tasty-looking sandwich, with slices of cheese sticking out at odd angles between the bread slices. He handed it to her without a word.
Emily looked down at it in confusion. “What about ye?” she asked.
“It’ll be dark by the time we get there, and ye havenae had any food since this mornin’. Ye must be starvin’.”
The insistent look in his eyes made her take the sandwich, and at the first bite, she realized how true that statement was. She was famished, and as she took the second bite, there was a look of satisfaction in his dark gaze.
As the wind picked up, she finished most of the bread, but then she handed the final few mouthfuls to him. He ate the whole thing in one bite, his gaze contemplative.
Feeling a little better, she pulled herself to her feet, and the wind whipped at her skirts as she regained her balance. Laird MacNiall rose too, much faster than she would have expected—he looked ready to chase her again.
“Ye said that I would have to marry ye. Have ye changed yer mind so fast?”
“Let’s reach me castle and get some rest. I’ll explain everythin’ to ye then.”
She shook her head. “If we waste time like this, me family will be in danger.” Her voice cracked on the words, worry laced through every syllable.
“If he wants ye back in one piece, he willnae hurt them,” he said dismissively.
She scoffed loudly. “Ye cannae possibly ken that.”
But he was already walking toward Buck, his back to her.
She followed, limping a little and skirting over the tufts of grass, attempting not to fall back into the water. She was cold, and the wide landscape felt harsher than it had before.
“Are ye goin’ to kill me?” she demanded.
“Nay,” he said casually, as though discussing the weather. “But James Stewart doesnae ken that, does he?”
He winked at her as he reached the horse, holding out a hand to help her back into the saddle.
Emily stared at his hand, unsure what to do. She glanced around her one final time, looking for another escape from her predicament, but she knew he would simply catch her again. Without a horse, she had no chance of beating him on foot. A castle and a warm fire were better than spending a night in the marshes.
She sighed and walked to Buck. The horse nickered at her in a friendly way, and she patted his neck.
Placing her hands on the saddle, she attempted to haul herself up, but just as before, she was too small to find enough purchase. As she bent her knee, it throbbed painfully, and she moaned despite herself.
“Want me to give ye a leg up?”
She glowered at him, but after another failed attempt, he sighed, and strong hands encircled her waist. She was lifted onto the horse as though she weighed nothing at all. It was odd, to feel cared for by this man, but his strength made her feel grounded and settled her fractured nerves.
“Did I nae say yer knee would fall off if ye dinnae let it heal?” he asked.
“Ye said it would turn black.”
“Which would ye prefer?”
“I’d prefer to be at home with me braither and faither.”
