“Ye’re only makin’ it worse fer yerself, lass,” the man growled, yanking her back again, knocking the air from her lungs. She hit the ground and rolled. When she tried to rise to continue her escape the captor’s hands clamped down firmly upon her waist. “Enough!” he shouted.
“You’re miserable cowards,” she growled through the sting of the tears she could no longer hold back. Fury blazing through her.
The man struck her across the face, not with excessive force but hard enough that her world spun. Elsie let out a gasp.
He dragged her back toward the wagon, and even though she dug her heels into the earth, she was not strong enough to stop him. Still, she fought, screaming, biting, kicking.
“Dougal, get over here, an’ help me wi’ this beast,” her captor called to his friend.
“Keep her held,” the other man, Dougal, shouted. Elsie was not strong enough to fight off two captors, but she could not stop. She had to free herself. She kicked harder, twisting her body to try and loosen the hold upon her, even as Dougal approached and grabbed at her flailing leg.
Then she heard it again, this time closer. Horses.
“Help!” she screamed using every ounce of air in her chest. “Someone! Help me!”
“Shut her mouth!” the first man barked.
“HELP!” she screamed again, defiant as her shouting echoed over the moor like a battle cry. “SOMEONE!! PLEASE!”
The men swore, struggling to keep her silent, but she refused to stop. Even as cold, rough hands clamped over her mouth and pain tore through her, she fought with everything she had, because deep in her soul she knew this moment might be the only one between her salvation or utter ruin.
“PLEASE! I know you’re out there, please help…”
CHAPTER TWO
The wind cut sharply from the north, carrying with it the salty freshness of the sea—that coupled with peat smoke on the air told Halvard MacLeod, Laird of Clan MacLeod of Rasaay, that winter was on its way. A hard winter, if his instincts were correct.
He pressed his knees into his horse’s flanks, urging the stallion up onto the final rise overlooking the moor. Normally he’d savor the view, the rolling heather, the silver break of the sea, the mountains he called home, brooding like old gods against the horizon. But currently, his mind was not present. His thoughts were fully consumed by what was happening miles ahead at Brochel Castle. More precisely, the unwelcome company waiting within its walls. A royal envoy awaited him, like executioners in silks with powdered wigs, believing they had the right to stride among his lands and people wherever they pleased.
His second, Sten, had rode out to meet him with the news. “They arrived two days ago,” he had said with a grim expression. Keeping pace beside him now, he continued on. “Three men, allwith the seal of the king. Led by Thomas Redfern. They’ve been waitin’, impatient, nerves on edge, m’laird.”
“And ye’ve offered them our finest whisky, to dull their impatience, I hope,” Halvard groaned. Running a hand through his unkempt, dark blond hair. At least Thomas Redfern was fair minded, or at least that was how his reputation preceded him.
“Aye,” Sten replied. “And prayed ye’d come back sooner.”
Halvard almost smiled at his friend, but the closer they drew to home, the heavier the weight of inevitability sat on his shoulders, burdened by his visitors. It settled heavier with each hoofbeat toward home. Duty, always duty.
They continued on in companionable silence, but as they rounded the birch grove and the land opened into that wide stretch of moor, Sten’s posture changed. Halvard felt it as well, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. The type that preceded danger.
Ahead on the road a wagon sat, two exhausted horsed tied to it and guarded by two men whose alertness made no sense out in the middle of nowhere, hours and miles from the nearest village. They were too sharp, trained perhaps. They held weapons that did not fit in with a farmer’s load.
Halvard’s gaze narrowed. He knew every man within miles, every family, every tenant. These men were not of this place. They were strangers.
“Are ye thinkin’ th’ same as I?” Sten leaned in.
“Aye,” Halvard responded, his hand naturally moving to rest on the hilt of his sword. Old instincts honed over too many battles snaked under his belt, refusing to be ignored by his gut. “Travelers armed like raiders. Stay close, we’ll pass slow.”
They approached the men at a controlled trot, as unthreatening as two Highland warriors with many years of battle experience could appear. But as the distance between the men closed something changed. The hair on Halvard’s neck stood at firm attention as he identified a sound which could only be one thing.
A woman’s scream.
Halvard reined in hard as the blood running through his veins turned cold. His stallion reared, snorting. Another cry came, this one desperate, pleading. The wagon ahead began to lurch forward and he heard a distinct curse come from a man, as he dragged something––no, someone––from the ground, attempting to open the back hatch of the wagon as it slowly began to move.
“By god,” Sten muttered next to him, already with his blade drawn. “It’s a wo…”
Halvard didn’t allow his friend to finish, he was already moving, spurring his horse forward, the thunderous roar of his horse breaking across the moor like a winter gale. The men turned, clearly not expecting company. One reached for a musket, butHalvard was quick. He slammed into the brute, steel flashing as he sent the man sprawling into the heather.
The second man spun, dragging the woman back toward the wagon. Halvard could see the fight in her. She was flailing, wild as a boar. Her skirts were torn, and her golden hair was loose, catching the sun like fire. His chest clenched as he saw her mouth had been bloodied and her wrists were clearly raw from being bound. Rage built up inside him. To treat a woman in such a manner was unconscionable. Then he saw her eyes… the lass’ eyes arrested him. Despite what she was clearly going through, they remained bright, their emerald depths defiant.
