“Ye can run … but we’ll catch ye!”
She’d caught a glimpse of her father earlier as she rolled to her feet. He wasn’t as fast as some of the younger men, but he was still pursuing her. And the ruthlessness in his gaze made her gut clench.
A hand scraped at her shoulder, but she jerked away, twisting and stumbling over the thick roots. She nearly fell, righted herself, and flung herself down the shallow decline, branches whipping her face and throat.
And then, suddenly, the trees gave way. The branches that had obstructed her drew back, and the wind slapped at her cheeks. She raced down a bank, sliding on ferns, and stumbled out onto the road.
Terror caught her by the throat then. Out in the open, she was doomed. The trees had obstructed her, but they’d also helped her. She’d never outrun the Macquaries now.
And yet, she tried.
Her boots hammered against packed earth and stones, the rasp of her breathing echoing through her skull.
Another hand grabbed at her, snagging at her hair.
Screaming, she twisted free, only to run into something solid.
Her pursuers surrounded her.
Her father pushed his way in, jaw tight, sweat slicking his lean face. He still held his dirk. The long, thin blade glinted in the sunlight.
A sob tore from her throat.
It was over.
The ground trembled then, the thunder of hoofbeats slicing through the whine of the wind and Hazel’s ragged breathing and pounding heart.
Struggling against the man who held her now, hard fingers biting into her arms, while his chieftain approached, her gaze cut north.
A knot of horses had just appeared on the crest of the hill. A large wolfhound ran with them.
She caught a flash of red, and her pulse leaped.
The Maclean clan sash draped over the chest of the warrior out front. Dark hair. Golden skin.
Craeg.
26: SLAYING THE BEAST
CRAEG SPIED THE men first—a knot of them surrounding someone on the road ahead.
Clad in travel-stained braies, leines, and jerkins, they wore no clan sash to identify them.
But he recognized one of the warriors. Tall, lean with greying black hair.
Hamish Macquarie.
And as Ruadh ate up the distance between them, he caught sight of a dark-haired woman struggling in their midst.
His heart lurched into his throat.
Hazel?
What is she doing out here?
Steel flashed in the afternoon light, and his stomach dropped.
His roar splintered the air, and he dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks. Ruadh leaped forward, his stride flattening out into a gallop. Behind him, he heard the others give chase too. Reaching to his hip, he drew his dirk. His heavy claidheamh-mòr was still strapped across his back. This wasn’t the time to draw it. Not yet.
