“Lass, dinnae be daft!”
His voice boomed after her, but she darted off between the trees, shivering, her frigid hair clinging to her back. She knew not where she was running.
“Ye’ll freeze out there…”
He tried to reason with her, but her legs kept moving, carrying her deeper into the woods, as she had when she had fledthe inn earlier. Her heart was in her throat, and she cast a look over her shoulder at him.
“Stay away from me!”
But, as she turned, her foot caught on an exposed root, and she tumbled forward. He lunged for her, catching her in his arms before she struck a rock on the ground beneath her.
“Ye glaikit lass,” he snapped at her, pulling her back to her feet. He released her at once, his eyes narrowing, as though daring her to take off again.
And she could have fought him, she knew that much. She could have told him that she would be fine out here, that taking her back to what was waiting for her was a thousand times worse than leaving her out here in the woods to let the nighttime cold wrap around her frail body. But she could sense, from the way he was looking at her, that he would not have accepted it as an answer. He wouldn’t leave her out here. There was something in him that refused to allow her to slip through his fingers so easily, much like the stag that had lain at his feet a few moments earlier.
Slowly, she nodded, her gaze drifting to the ground. She longed for the words to tell him what was truly going on with her; that he would be taking her back to a nightmare she knew not when she would wake from.
Instead, he moved towards her, took her arm in his strong grip, and began steering her with confidence through the confines of the forest. He clearly knew the place well, and there was some part of her that was grateful for that, some part of her that was glad she didn’t have to try and survive here alone any longer.
Even if being by his side would cost her the little freedom she had left.
3
As the hooves of Finch thundered against the damp path beneath them, Arran couldn’t help but notice the way she stiffened in his arms with every jostle.
His arms were around her, holding on to the worn leather reins as he took them towards the inn where her family were staying, but his mind was full of questions.What was a girl like her doing out in the woods alone? Was she fleeing from something? And was he carrying her right back to whatever it was she had tried to leave behind?
He couldn’t help but notice the way she had shivered when she’d first climbed on top of Finch, the large horse that Arran had ridden for the better part of a decade now. A gray and white beast with dark speckles around his throat, he had been a wild foal, but Arran had taken the time to tame him, and he had been rewarded for his patience. Now, Finch galloped like the wind, as though he knew that it was urgent.
But the speed of his run let the cold air rush over her body, and, with little to cover herself, she had to draw back into him to try and ward it off. Not that he took much issue with her closeness, at least now, that the scent of her hair, of her skin,filled his senses, stirring in him a desire he’d not felt in a long time—if ever before.
She seemed tense, he could feel it written all over her body. There was something she was dreading about what she was to face when she reached her family again, and he knew it. But what? What could she have done that was so bad, she feared her own family might not forgive her for it? He struggled to believe that someone like her could have caused so much harm…
He brushed the thought aside—a foolish notion, and he knew it. If he had taken the way people looked at face value, judged them purely on their beauty and grace, he’d not have lasted long as a Laird. Her elegance, her soft, slim body, the curve of her waist against his arms, none of it meant anything. Not truly.
Nor the fact that she seemed to fit into his arms as though she had been made for him. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the road ahead, as the sight of the village made its way into view. It was nothing more than a small farming town, one of the handful that filled out his land, a collection of small houses surrounding an inn which looked as though it had stood there longer than the hills, judging by the frayed stonework that covered the falls. Several large hills sat ominously on the horizon, draped in a low fog that could have contained any number of creatures or men alike.
There were a handful of lights glowing against the dimming sky, and he knew the inn would be warm and safe. Perhaps he would even earn a flask of ale for the trouble of bringing her back after she had fled.
He slowed Finch to a canter and then a trot as they approached the inn, and he noticed how she drew back into him, pushing herself against his chest as though trying to lose herself there, to hide out from whatever was waiting for her inside. He hesitated for a moment, a thousand words on the tip of his tongue. He knew he could have offered her a chance to leave.
He hopped off the horse and offered her a hand to help her down. She hesitated for a moment before she slipped her small palm into his, allowing him to aid her off the horse. For a moment, the two of them stood there, a few yards from the inn, and she clutched on to him as though she could scarcely bear to let go. Her eyes bored into his, and he felt a stir of protectiveness rise through him—a ridiculous thought. She could have been a spy or a trespasser, any number of villainous plans in that pretty little head of hers, and just because she was looking at him like that didn’t mean he had to give in.
“Ye’re ready?” he demanded gruffly, pulling his hand back sharply. She seemed a little shocked by the tone of his voice, but then gestured down to what she was wearing.
“I can’t go in like this,” she pointed out. He’d hardly thought of that, but she was right. They’d make all kinds of assumptions about what he had done to her if she walked in wearing his clothes, and he knew better than to cause more trouble than he likely already had. He grimaced.
“Stay here,” he ordered her. “I’ll find yer father. What does he look like?”
“He’s… a plump little man,” she replied, and he almost laughed at the tone to her voice. “And I’m sure he’ll be angry…”
“Angry, aye?” he remarked, sounding amused, as though the mere thought of him being angry was entertaining.
“Yes, and he’s a very… powerful man,” she added, finding herself slightly defensive, though she didn’t know why. “You should be careful?—"
A chuckle escaped his lips.
“I’ve handled far worse than him over the years, lass.”
