“Perhaps.”
She shook her head, nervousness overtaking her. Far ahead, she could see where the forest fell away. Beyond the trees, the road cut through fields of tall, waving grass. Sunlight drenched the world in warm invitation. It was as if they traveled a tunnel and would soon spill out into the afternoon’s brightness. Perhaps she shouldn’t have distracted him with her questions, shouldn’t have stirred up those things that haunted him when he needed his concentration.
She pursed her lips and tried to shrug off her sudden unease. Alasdair, who’d obviously lived a rather dangerous life for years, was making her paranoid. There was nothing to be leery of. It was a fine, sunny afternoon. The end of the trees drew near.
Alasdair cracked the reins. The team bolted forward, galloping toward the sunlight. Bridget let out a shriek of surprise. She clung to the side rail. The curricle jostled, fit to throw her out.
“What are you doing?” she yelled.
A shot rang out. Another. The horses squealed. One went down. The curricle careened to the side. It shot upward. Shrieks of equine pain ricocheted through the forest.
Bridget flew through the air. Strong arms wrapped about her, tucked her against a body made of iron. They crashed to the ground, her on top. Their momentum rolled them, but somehow Alasdair’s arms were like a cage, keeping her cradled inside.
They slid to a halt. She had just enough time to realize she lay sprawled against him, that his coat was in tatters. Hands seized her shoulders and hauled her up.
“Take her,” a man ordered.
Alasdair leapt to his feet. His fist shot out. The man gripping Bridget went down. She stumbled free of his flailing limbs as others clutched at her. Hooves rang out, drawing nearer. She flailed at the grasping hands.
At least a dozen men swarmed Alasdair. They called to each other, cursed and yelled. He fought in silence, each kick or blow sending one of them reeling. Hands grasped her arms, her shoulders. A horse skidded to a stop beside her.
A sack dropped over her head. Bridget screamed. She clawed at the sack, but someone held the rough material in place. She was hoisted from her feet, onto the horse and into a pair of waiting arms.
She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear Alasdair. She thrashed against the arms that wrapped about her, pinning hers to her sides. Her captor’s hold didn’t slacken. His horse started moving. As she gasped the stifling air of the sack and struggled to break free, the sounds of men shouting and cursing faded.
