She prayed silently that no worse harm would come to him. The second man, the one who held the sword inches from her face, loomed close, his presence fierce and unmistakably dangerous.
His broad chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, muscles taut beneath his worn leather jerkin. He was beastly in build, a jagged scar cutting through his right eyebrow, giving him an air of savage authority. His dark eyes, nearly black, locked onto Maisie with a cruel intensity that sent shivers racing down her spine. Yet beneath that wild danger, there was an attractiveness whose power and menace drew as much awe as fear.
"Tell me what ye ken," the scarred man demanded, his voice low and harsh like a growl from the wild.
Maisie swallowed hard, confusion swirling through her terror.
"I daenae ken what ye speak of," she said, voice trembling but steady, eyes wide and searching for any hint of mercy. Her mind raced, desperate to understand what this man thought she knew.
"If ye're nae willin' to speak, then I'll make ye talk." His grip tightened ever so slightly on the hilt of his sword, the threat clear in his posture.
Maisie's breath hitched, knowing he meant to break her will, whatever it took.
Before she could reply, the second man glanced toward the shadowed entrance, his voice sharp and urgent.
"Someone's comin'." The warning sliced through the tense stillness, and the scarred man's gaze flicked to the doorway with a dangerous glint.
"Help-!" Maisie shouted but her voice was quickly muffled as the man put his hand over her mouth, stopping her.
She felt his strong grip as he seized Maisie's arm and hauled her toward a horse tethered nearby. She struggled fiercely, her voice rising in protest.
"Let me go," she attempted to shout, but it was muffled by his large hand. His grip was iron, unyielding and swift.
The other man chuckled darkly as he watched her resistance. "Aye, she's a feisty filly," he said with cruel amusement, the laughter echoing coldly in the quiet stable.
Maisie's mind burned with fury—how dare they treat her like property, like a beast to be caught? Yet beneath the anger, a well of fear curled tight in her belly, stifling her voice and making her hands tremble.
Her gaze darted to Peter, still bound and helpless as the other man tied him in the corner.
"Ye'll keep quiet," the scarred man said, his voice a low threat that rumbled against her ear. "An' I'll see that the man who watched over ye lives." His breath was warm on her neck as he stood behind her, but there was no kindness in the promise.
Maisie's eyes flicked to Peter, who sat bound. His wide eyes met hers, filled with fear but also a silent plea.
She swallowed hard, weighing her options, her mind spinning with terror and uncertainty.
"I'll stay quiet," she whispered, the words tasting bitter in her mouth. Her gaze lingered on Peter a moment longer, the thought of his safety grounding her trembling resolve.
The other man entered with two horses.
"Get on the horse," the man with the scar said.
She obeyed and mounted the saddle. A coarse rope bit into Maisie's wrists as the man with the scar tied her to the saddle's horn, his hands rough but practiced.
The chill of the evening air seeped through her cloak, but it was nothing compared to the cold knot twisting in her stomach. She dared not struggle now; her hands were bound tight, and the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on her chest. Sheglanced sideways, heart pounding, as the scarred man swung himself atop the horse behind her, settling close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
Without another word, the horses jolted forward, their hooves thudding softly against the frozen ground as they slipped out of the stable yard.
Maisie turned over her shoulder to see a wagon approaching in the distance. She cursed how slowly it moved, for although they heard the clattering it made in the stable, it was too far for the driver to see that she was bound—a captive.
Maisie's breath came in shallow puffs as the cold night air brushed her face, the rope cutting into her wrists a constant reminder of her helplessness. She tried to steady her mind, forcing herself to count the beats of the horses' hooves, to hold onto the rhythm instead of the rising fear. Her thoughts kept drifting to the auction and the people who needed her help, those whose cottages had been swept away by the flood. She had promised to raise coin, to make a difference. Now, the promise seemed a fragile thread slipping through her fingers.
The scarred man's presence was a heavy weight behind her, silent but watchful. Maisie could feel his eyes on her, dark and unreadable, and though he spoke little, she knew he was the kind who measured every word, every gesture.
Sunset gave way to moonlight filtering through the branches, casting dappled silver on the riders as they pressed on, the village fading into darkness behind them.
Maisie's thoughts raced.
Why have they taken me? What do they truly want from me?
