Not McMurphy men. Not Elijah’s banners.
Her heart began to pound so violently she thought it might break her ribs. Panic swelled once more, entirely unbridled, the force fit so great it threatened to choke her.
“Nay,” she whispered.
The tree at her back was massive, its trunk wide and unyielding, the bark rough against her damp cloak. She was seated at its base like an offering, utterly exposed to the elements, and though the rain had long since ceased, she couldn’t say the same about the wind.
“Nay… nay, please?—”
Her voice rose, cracked, then broke free entirely.
“Help!” Lydia screamed, the word ripping out of her throat with everything she had. “Help me! Please!”
Heads turned but not in alarm.
In irritation.
One man glanced her way, his expression flat, then looked back to his companion with a shrug. Another smirked faintly as he passed, his eyes sliding over her like she was no more than an inconvenience.
The realization struck her like ice water.
There is nay one here who will help me.
Her scream faltered, dissolving into a ragged sob she couldn’t stop. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in sharp, panickedbursts as she twisted again against her bonds, desperate, irrational hope urging her to try anyway.
“Please,” she choked, her voice hoarse now. “I’m… I’m pregnant. Please.”
The word felt like a talisman and a curse all at once.
A soldier paused this time. He looked at her properly, his eyes narrowing, not with pity but calculation. After a moment, he turned away and muttered something to another man that made them both mumble amongst themselves quietly. They seemed hesitant, and hope surged through her. If she could only convince them she was telling the truth, if she could only make them care enough to release her from her bonds?—
But then they turned away from her, retreating hastily.
Lydia’s stomach dropped. She pressed her back harder against the tree, as if she could disappear into it, curling inward despite the pain in her wrists.
Her gaze darted around the camp, cataloguing what she could through the fog of fear—how many men, where their weapons were, which direction the land sloped. She could hear distant movement—horses, perhaps, or men shifting position beyond the trees. And in the distance, Lydia caught a glimpse of the man himself.
Sebastian.
A sharp tremor ran through her—not fear this time but anger, hot and fierce enough to cut through the panic.
“Ye willnae have what ye seek,” she whispered fiercely though no one seemed to hear. “Ye willnae have this bairn.”
Her hands clenched behind her back as best they could, nails biting into her palms. She swallowed hard, forcing her breathing to slow despite the terror clawing at her throat.
After appearing in her line of vision, it didn’t take long for Sebastian to notice she was awake.
He had been standing near the fire, his hands clasped behind his back, listening to one of his men with only half an ear. When Lydia shifted against the tree, when her shoulders stiffened and her chin lifted in defiance rather than confusion, his mouth curved slowly, deliberately, like a man savoring a long-awaited taste.
In a few, large steps, he was standing before her, towering over her sitting form. He sauntered toward her with infuriating leisure, his boots crunching softly on wet leaves, his belly straining the fine cut of his doublet. He looked almost comfortable, as though this clearing was his drawing room and she a guest who had overstayed her welcome.
“Well,” he said mildly, “ye’re awake.”
The sound of his voice made Lydia’s skin crawl. Her heart thundered, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. She would not cower before him; she would not give him the satisfaction. Cowering and groveling was what he expected, what he desired, and Lydia was determined to give him neither.
Sebastian stopped a few paces away, his head tilting as he examined her. Mud streaked her hem, her hair had come loose, and there was a raw mark on her wrist where the rope bit into skin.
“Still bonnie,” he remarked. “A pity that yer life must end this way.”
