He wasn’t dead.
He stayed like that for a minute, letting her feel his weight, letting her feel her helplessness, before rolling her over onto her back. Since she had lost her cap in the fracas, her hair streamed across her face and tangled in her lashes. He pinned her shoulders to the ground with his arms and pressed the long length of his body against her to keep her down.
He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t need to. Anger radiated from him as bright and hot as wildfire.
A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. “William! Help me.” He had the sword, and sprawled out on top of her, the brigand was vulnerable. William stood stone still, as if he hadn’t heard her. “William!” Their eyes met. She saw fear—for himself—and guilt. The blood drained out of her.He’s going to leave me. And before she could react, he turned and ran.
Stunned, Flora watched as he disappeared into the darkness. She couldn’t believe it. Her betrothed had left her to the mercy—assuming they had any—of the brigands.
The man on top of her murmured an uncomplimentary expletive, echoing her thoughts exactly. She’d erred badly. To think she might have married him.
But her mind was quickly driven from Lord Murray’s betrayal.
The brigand was touching her. Covering her body with his enormous hands. Sliding over her breasts, hips, around her bottom, and down the length of her legs. She froze, shock slipping into panic.
“What are you doing? Stop!” She tried to break free, but he had her trapped. With his weight on her, she couldn’t budge. She’d never felt so helpless. Tears burned her eyes. “Please. Don’t do this.”
Ignoring her frightened pleas, his hands, so large and unfamiliar on her body, continued their methodical plunder. He didn’t miss an inch. There was something hard and calculated about his movements, almost detached. But when his hand slid between her legs, she lashed out as if scalded. With the quick burst of strength, she managed to free a hand long enough to rake her nails across his cheek.
He swore and caught hold of her wrists, pinning them together above her head. Lowering his face to hers, he said menacingly, “Enough. You test my patience, my wee banshee.” Stretched out beneath him, she stared up into his eyes—breathing hard from her struggles, her bosom heaving conspicuously. He stilled, and something changed. The detachment was gone. His eyes fell on her breasts, lingering. Heat spread across her chest. But his gaze hardened and snapped back to her face. “Your fears on that score are unfounded. I simply do not relish another dirk in my back.”
Side. But she thought it best not to argue the point. “I’m unarmed.”
“I don’t think I’ll take your word for it.”
When he’d satisfied himself that she was telling the truth, he sprang to his feet, and she found herself unceremoniously pulled up after him. She’d calmed, but her heart still pounded.
Without the heat of his body, she immediately noticed that her gown felt wet. She placed a hand on her stomach, then jerked it away. The sharp metallic smell sent a wave of nausea crashing over her. It was blood. His blood. She glanced at his chest and blanched, noticing the dark crimson stain that penetrated the thick wool of his plaid. It must hurt him something fierce, but he gave no evidence of any injury.
But any guilt she might have experienced was swiftly eradicated. He dragged her back toward the carriage, her arm clenched in a viselike grip, a physical reminder of her circumstances.
“You’re hurting me.”
He spun her around and pinned her with his gaze. His eyes glowed in the moonlight. Blue. A penetrating blue that bored right into her. His gaze was like the rest of him, hard and uncompromising—with an unmistakable tinge of danger. Her stomach fluttered. With fear? It should be.
His face was strong and lean, all hard angles and raw masculinity—there was nothing soft about him. His nose had been broken more than once, but that and the scattering of scars across his face only added to his rugged appeal. Four fresh scratches scored down his cheek. Flora wouldn’t feel sorry for it, but they didn’t look deep enough to scar.
His squared jaw was firmly clenched, and tiny white lines were etched around his mouth. For a Highlander, his hair was unusually short and well groomed, just long enough to fall in gentle waves past his ears. It was either dark brown or black, she couldn’t tell.
Standing before him, face-to-face, she realized for the first time just how big he was. Tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled. But she wouldn’t allow his size to intimidate her. She was used to large men—her brothers were all similarly built. Still, she’d felt his strength firsthand, and it was hard not to be unsettled.
“It’s either my hand or I can tie you up.” He gave her a long look, one that made her think he would like nothing more. “You decide.”
Mortified heat burned her cheeks. She lifted her chin a little to glare at him. “Hand.”
“Good decision. But if you try to run again, I will not be so generous.”
“Generous.” She made a sharp sound of derision. “You are kidnapping me. Am I supposed to thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
“I was not…” But her reprimand dropped off as they rounded the carriage. She tensed, sure that she would see many of Lord Murray’s men lying dead on the ground. Her gaze darted around, then widened, shocked to find them all accounted for. They had surrendered, and this time the brigands had made sure to divest them of their weapons, but otherwise Lord Murray’s men appeared largely unharmed. The worst injury appeared to belong to a Highlander who’d been shot in the arm.
It didn’t make any sense. It was almost as if their attackers had gone out of their way not to hurt anyone. Not what she expected from barbarians. She turned to look at him appraisingly. “What do you want with me?”
His face was like stone, giving no hint of his thoughts.
“Where are you taking me?”
