"Curse it,” muttered Storm. “A trap. But whose and why?"
"I believe he is about to tell us,” Islaen murmured as one of the men moved to face them. “'Tisnae MacLennon. Too fat and short."
"Ah, two lovely damsels in one net."
"Who are ye and what do ye want?” Islaen demanded, fighting to sound unafraid.
"When ye ken who I am, m'lady, ye will ken weel what I want."
Something about the man's voice chilled Islaen's blood. She sat tensely as he removed his helmet then she gasped. Despite the now crooked nose and two disfiguring scars there was little mistaking the man that now faced her.
"Fraser."
"Ah, so ye remember me, do ye, sweeting? Weel, no more to say?"
"Ye are mad, Fraser,” Storm snapped. “Ye harm either of us and ye will soon be so full of swords ye will look like a hedgehog."
"Ah, Tavis's Sassanach bitch."
"She is naught to you, Fraser. Let her go,” Islaen demanded. “Your quarrel is with me, not her."
"So she can raise the clan? I think not. Come along,” he said and signaled one of his men to take Beltraine's reins.
"Where are ye taking us?"
"To Hell, m'lady. Aye, to Hell.” Fraser laughed and Islaen shuddered, feeling Storm echo it. “And, with the bait I hold, t'will not be long ere your husband joins us there."
