I’m doomed. I cannae fight them an’ I cannae escape them.
“Get the rope,” one snapped. “She’s worth somethin’, aye, but only if she daesnae scratch out our eyes first.”
Within moments, one of them crouched down next to her, quickly tying her wrists behind her back as two others held her still. Her throat burned with her screams, her voice now hoarse and rough. The cord dug into her wrists like fire, cutting deep as they bound her, tighter and tighter, until her fingers throbbed with numbness. Her ankles were tied next, the rope so tight she cried out furiously.
Still she fought—squirming, spitting curses, thrashing like a creature half-mad with rage and terror.
“Let go o’ me, ye brutes! Animals!”
They didn’t care. No matter what insults she hurled at them, they fell upon deaf ears.
They shoved her hard onto her side, but instead of attacking her as she expected, they yanked her satchel away. The food, her coin, her carefully packed herbs—all dumped into the dirt and picked over like scraps. She watched with growing dread as they pocketed what little she had left, their hands soon rifling through her cloak and bodice in search of anything else to steal.
I’ll starve without coin. How will I make it tae the Lowlands?
She refused to believe that she wouldn’t make it due to the attack. She refused to believe she would be held their captive, that there was no saving herself. The Lowlands were still the goal; anything else was unthinkable.
Isabeau’s vision blurred with hot, furious tears. Without money, she had nothing—no way to pay her way there, no way to buy food or passage. If she stayed there someone would recognize her. Someone would drag her straight back to her father.
One of the men leaned closer, eyes narrowing as he glanced down her skirts.
“What about under here?” he sneered, reaching for the hem.
Her scream tore through the woods like thunder. She kicked at him with stiff, furious legs, but before he could touch her, another sound cracked through the underbrush.
Another set of footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
The thieves froze, and from the shadows ahead, a figure stepped into the path.
Hood drawn low, obscuring his face in the dying light, Isabeau couldn’t make out his features, but she could see he was tall, broad-shouldered. Something about the way he moved made the air still, as though the very world around them held its breath.
And though he didn’t speak, Isabeau knew his gaze was on her. She felt it like a prickle on the back of her neck, like a shiver that refused to fade.
Who is this man who hides his face?
CHAPTER TWO
The thieves were a blur in Isabeau’s vision. Two of them lunged at the stranger, their blades flashing in their hands, and Isabeau’s breath caught. The man moved just as fast, cutting down the largest of the thieves with one, swift swipe of his dirk.
Never before had Isabeau seen such speed and confidence, such skills. Never before had she seen someone strike down another man with such ease, like he was nothing but a sack of grain. The thief crumbled to the ground, falling dead before he had even hit the soil, and the stranger was quick to set his sights on his next target—the young man who had looked at her with that detestable sneer.
He’s so strong… he looks like a statue brought tae life.
The younger one hesitated for a moment after seeing the show of brutality before his eyes. But then, his blade met the stranger’s with a clang, the two of them clashing with echoed roars. Isabeau watched them, her head held high off the ground, herneck craning as she tried to keep up with their fight as the other two men held her still, eager to see what the stranger would do—if he would manage to kill the other, if he would free her from these men.
But if he frees me, will I only be held captive by different hands?
Was that stranger a good Samaritan, someone who saw her suffer and wanted to help her? Or did he want to take advantage of her himself, to do to her the very same thing those men wanted to do?
Isabeau didn’t know, and she wouldn’t find out—not until the man had killed them all, if he could even do that. But her odds were much better if she was against one man than four, no matter how dangerous and ruthless said man was.
But why would he hurt me after savin’ me?
The men’s blades clashed again and again, their shouts deafening in the quiet road. Isabeau watched them with a racing heart, her chest rattling with it, her throat tight, her eyes burning. The stranger moved like a man possessed, like a wild, rabid animal whose only goal was to kill—and kill he did. His blade plunged into the man’s chest, slicing him open, and he watched as he stumbled backwards, clutching at the wound.
He hadn’t even hit the ground before the stranger turned to her, his blade dripping with blood.
“Damn ye,” one of the men holding her said under his breath as he yanked Isabeau up to her feet, the sudden motion making her dizzy. It took her a second or two, but then she struggled to get free, twisting in his hands, only for the man to hold her tighter, tight enough for bruises to bloom over her arms, over scars that had already healed and others that were still healing. But when the other who remained pressed the tip of his blade against her side, she stilled, her blood running cold.
