But Lord Murray’s threat was lost in the deafening thunder of horses and the sudden burst of loud voices coming from outside.
Her pulse shot up in an explosion of comprehension: They were being attacked.
From the quizzical expression on his face, it was clear that William had not yet realized what was happening. He was a Lowlander to the core—a courtier, not a fighter. For a moment, Flora felt a stab of frustration; then she chastised herself for being unfair. She wouldn’t want it otherwise. But clearly, in this situation, he was going to be of little help.
She could hear the sporadic clash of steel against steel moving closer. They didn’t have much time. Grabbing his arm, she forced his gaze to hers. “We’re under attack.” A shot rang out, punctuating her words. “Do you have anything? A weapon of any sort?”
He shook his head. “I have no use for weaponry, my men are well armed.”
Flora cursed, not bothering to curb her tongue.
His frown returned. “Really, my dear. You mustn’t say such things. Not when we are married.”
Another shot rang out.
She bit back the sarcastic retort that sprang to her lips. Married? They might not be alive in an hour. Did he not understand the desperation of their situation? Scotland was rife with brigands who roamed the countryside. Outlaws. Broken men without clans who weren’t known for their mercy. Flora had thought there would be some protection in staying close to Edinburgh. She was wrong.
Lord Murray was exhibiting the arrogant obtuseness characteristic of many courtiers—the confidence that rank and wealth would protect him. But a few muskets would not stop a Highland sword or bow for long. They needed something to defend themselves with.
“A sword,” she said urgently, trying to mask her impatience. “Surely you have a sword?”
“Of course. Every man at court carries one. But I did not want to be bothered with it at my side during the journey, so the driver strapped it to the box with your gown. I do still have my dagger.” He slid the blade from the scabbard at his waist and held it out to her. From the heavily jewel-encrusted hilt, Flora could tell that it was intended for adornment and not battle. But the six-inch blade would suffice well enough.
From the awkward way he held the blade, as if it were distasteful, it was obvious he didn’t know how to use it. “I’m afraid I don’t have much experience—”
She did. “I’ll take it.” Flora slid the dagger into the fold of her cloak right before the door swung open with a crash.
And everything happened at once.
Before she could scream or make a move to defend herself, she was plucked roughly from the safety of the carriage into the viselike hold of a man. A very large man. Who from the feel of him was as strong as an ox.
She gasped from the force of being brought up hard against the granite wall of his chest. Laid out against him, the full length of her body was plastered against hard, unyielding stone.
Dear God, no one had ever dared to hold her like this.She’d never been this aware of…anything. Her cheeks burned with indignation and from the sudden blast of heat that seemed to radiate from him. He’d wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed it up snuggly under the heavy weight of her bosom, making her deeply conscious of the rise and fall of her breasts against his arm. Although she was not a small woman, her head tucked easily under his chin. But the worst part was that with her back to his chest, her bottom was pressed directly against his groin.
Instinctively, she rebelled at the closeness. At the intimacy of being molded against the hard-muscled body of a filthy villain.
Except that he didn’t smell filthy at all. He smelled of myrtle and heather, with the faintest hint of the sea.
Furious at the direction of her thoughts, she turned her outrage on her captor. “Get your hands off me!” She struggled to wrench free, but it was useless. His arm was as rigid as steel. Though he was restraining her with only one arm, she’d barely moved an inch.
“I’m afraid not, my sweet.”
She froze at the lilting sound of the burr in his voice. A Highlander. His voice made the hair on her arms stand straight on end. It was almost hypnotic. Deep and dark, with an indisputable edge of danger.
Her blood ran cold. The direness of their predicament had just grown markedly worse. Highlanders had the morals of the devil. Unless she could think of something, they were as good as dead.
Repressing the impulse to struggle further, Flora stilled, feigning submission, giving herself a moment to appraise the situation. The night was dark, but the full moon softly lit the wide expanse of moorland, enabling her to see just enough—or perhaps too much. Because what she saw wasn’t good. They were surrounded by about a score of powerful-looking men dressed inbreacan feiles,the belted plaids of the Highlands, all brandishing enormous two-handed claymores. To a one, their faces were hard and uncompromising. These were fighting men, warriors.
But they did not bear the hungry, feral look of hunted men. Glancing down, she noticed the finely spun linen shirt of the man holding her. His plaid was also of fine quality—soft and smooth to the touch.
If they weren’t outlaws, just who were they, and what did they want?
She didn’t intend to stay and find out. Every nerve in her body clamored to break free, to escape from danger. But her options were few.
The handful of men whom Lord Murray had brought as an escort were greatly outnumbered and, from the looks of things, had given up without much of a fight. She saw a few muskets and hagbuts scattered at their feet, although most still held their swords.
But surrender was not in Flora’s nature.Especiallyto barbarians. And she had no doubt that these men were Highlanders. If their speech hadn’t given them away, the manner of their dress left no doubt.
