She felt his arm slipping around her and then held on when he steered his horse out of the stable. His chest felt like armor against her back—warm, malleable armor. His breath atop her head covered herin warmth and the scent of mint.
They almost reached the inn when a group of mounted men appeared from around the back of the inn.
The chief pulled on the reins, bringing his mount to a halt. Behind him, his cousins halted their mounts as well.
He took hold of Ismay’s hand and lowered her from the saddle. “Go to the inn. Get inside and dinna come oot until I come fer ye. Go!”
She ran, keeping her eyes on the group of men. They didn’t seem interested in her but kept their gazes fastened on the chief guarding her passage. Were they going to fight? Who were they? There were about eighteen of them. Surely the chief and his three cousins, not including Lewis the innkeeper, were no match for them. But when two of them moved to cut her off, the chief’s horse was there, his sword gleaming against the morning sun.
She turned away, squeezing her eyes shut in time to miss the chief’s blade from cutting down both men and spewing blood across his face.
Without a second look, she disappeared into the inn and ran for the innkeeper. “Lewis!” she shouted up the stairs. When he appeared, she told him about the group of men outside.
“Mackintoshes,” he muttered, grabbed his sword, and ran from the inn.
She looked around at the empty tavern and then hurried to bolt the door. Feeling a bit safer, she went to the window. Was it wide enough for one of those men to squeeze through? More importantly, was the chief still alive?
She pushed the short curtain aside and looked out at the mayhem being inflicted on the MacKintoshes. Mostly by one man. Constantine Cameron moved like a mist in the cool wind, passing over the men and leaving those who opposed him bleeding in his wake.
Her eyes watched, both in horror and in awe, ashe struck men down from his saddle. Why? Why had the MacKintoshes come here to pick a fight?
She realized quickly that she would never understand the ways of men. She turned to look away from the bloodshed and walked straight into the arms of a man. She didn’t have time to look up to see who it was when she was struck and fell against him.
She woke up once, strewn across a man’s thighs, bouncing this way and that, making her head pound. They were on a horse. Her curls fell over her face, free of her bonnet. Where was he taking her? Was it Chief MacRae? Had he found her already?
She drifted back into unconsciousness. She didn’t dream. She wished she had. She would have liked to have dreamed of living in a convent somewhere far away—or in home near Ben Nevis with a man who—. She came awake again hanging over a man’s shoulder. Who…? Where…?
“Ch…Chief?”
He didn’t answer. She wasn’t surprised. She did not mistake this brute for the Cameron chief. Her captor was rough, almost throwing her to the hay-covered floor.
“Dinna bother trying to run away. Ye will find an arrow or two in yer back. Understand?”
His voice was gravelly and filled with fear and uncertainty. Definitely not the Cameron chief.
He crouched in front of her and locked his gaze with hers. His eyes were green but they grew darker as they roved over her with naked male intent. “I see why the Lochiel guarded ye so vigilantly. Though I wouldna have believed it if I hadna seen it with my own eyes. ’Tis rumored he hasna had a woman since he killed his wife years ago.”
The chief had killed his wife? Did she believe it? She would ask him when she saw him next. She had no doubt he would come for her. For some mad reason, he’d given his protection to her. He wouldn’t have stayed at the inn with her for two days if his promise meant nothing.
“I intend to discover what makes ye so special,” the brute said in a thick voice.
“Truly?” Ismay mocked. “More important men than ye have sought to discover the same thing and it cost them their lives.” There was only one, but she didn’t doubt that she could have killed Chief MacRae when he sawed off her hair. “But I promise ye this; If I dinna kill ye, the Lochiel will fer certain. Am I important enough to lose ye life over?”
In the moments he took mulling it over, she flicked her gaze over his waist and anywhere he kept a weapon.
“Ye willna kill me, lass. Neither will yer lover. And dinna fear,” he reached out and ran the backs of his knuckles over her cheek, “I will leave ye alive to grow fat with my child while he watches.”
She wasn’t sure if she could actually do it again. But if he came any closer…her heart raced fast and hard. She fought to keep a clear head. She prayed he wouldn’t try anything. But she couldn’t weep. Not yet. She wouldn’t hesitate.
Spotting a six-inch dagger tucked under his belt, she grit her teeth and prepared herself to reach for it and slice his throat.
An almost deafening crash sounded as the door to wherever they were splintered and shattered to the floor. Her crouching captor spun on the balls of his feet to face a brooding Constantine Cameron.
Her abductor rose, but the Lochiel was faster, drawing his sword and swinging it across the MacKintosh kinsman’s chest, killing him where he stood. He didn’t wait for the man to fall but pushed him out of his path to Ismay.
Her protector bent to her, giving her a once over. He looked to be in pain at the sight of her. Momentarily.
His men rushed in next and stared at her, and her bare head.
