Though his days of loathing the English simply because of their birth were done, he placed about as much trust in them as he did his laird’s wife’s bastard da. Page’s father was the epitome of those he’d come to despise—those who had murdered his parents. And yet, because of Page, he no longer heard that distinctive accent and saw black rage, though neither did he feel at ease in their presence.
This woman was no exception.
She was a Sassenach and where there was one there were bound to be more. He scowled at that thought. Like vermin, they traveled together in bucktoothed packs. While he was standing there admiring her bosom they were like to be preparing to pounce upon him and rob him to his bloody teeth.
In fact, he didn’t recall her from Meghan and Lyon Montgomerie’s wedding and that fact niggled at him…
Feeling suddenly wary, he turned to study the woods from where she’d appeared.
His neck prickled as he examined the forest surrounding them. His warrior’s intuition told him there was someone there... in the trees... watching...
He spied the man nearly hidden by a cluster of oaks. An Englishman, no doubt, by the manner of his dress. He was standing, bow in hand, ready to loose an arrow. At first Broc thought himself the quarry, but the man was so fixed upon his target that he didn’t even realize Broc had spied him.
He was after the woman, he realized.He stood there an instant too long. The arrow flew.
Broc didn’t think, only reacted. He hurled himself at the girl.
CHAPTER 4
Elizabet scream. “Let go of me!” she demanded.
He dragged her up with him as he got to his feet, jerking her toward him. She gasped at the knife that suddenly appeared in his hand, though she somehow sensed it wasn’t meant for her. “What are you doing? Let me go!”
“Shut up!” he snarled.
“No!” Elizabet said and screamed again, louder this time. “I’m not alone!” she warned him.
“So I noticed. Who’s that bowman?”
What the devil was he talking about?
Elizabet struggled against his unyielding grip. “I said let go! You are hurting me!”
He swung her about to face him suddenly, glaring at her. “Not as much as that bowman intended to!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about! What bowman? I saw no bowman!” She thought it was likely her brother and father’s men come to rescue her, but she wasn’t about to tell him so.
“Elizabet!” her brother John suddenly shouted from the woods, confirming her suspicions.
“John!”
She wanted to warn him to go get help because her brother was no match for this Scots barbarian, but thebehemoth jerked her against him and slapped a hand against her mouth.
Jesu, but he was smothering her!
Elizabet bit his thumb. He yelped in pain but didn’t release her and she bit harder.
He brought his knife to her throat. “Let go of the thumb, wench!” he demanded, “or I’ll leave you to their mercy!”
What was he talking about?
Leave her to whose mercy?
Suddenly, there was a shout unlike any Elizabet had ever heard as her brother came charging from the tree line. He was bellowing hideously, and Elizabet couldn’t tell whether it was in anger or in fear. Mayhap both?
“Release her, Scots bastard!”
Elizabet let go of the man’s thumb long enough to scream her brother’s name. “Nay!” she shouted, and tried again to warn him to go get help, but the Scot cast her roughly away, switching his dagger to his injured hand and unsheathing his sword with his right, wielding it in a movement so swift she could scarce believe her eyes. She had completely misjudged him.
