Fiona was ripped from the saddle, slamming into the mud hard enough that her ears rang. Pain shot up her hip.
Boots thundered in.
Hands closed around her arms.
She was dragged backward until her spine cracked against a tree, bark cutting through cloak and skin.
“Feisty,” one soldier murmured, gripping both her wrists in one fist so tight her fingers numbed. “Look at her squirm.”
Another pressed close—too close—the stench of sour ale hot on his breath as he grabbed her hip. “Warm little thing, isn’t she? Bet she runs hot.”
“Let me go,” she spat, twisting.
“Do that again,” he taunted, “and I’ll make you regret—”
She kneed him in the balls.
Hard.
He snarled and backhanded her so viciously that her head smacked the tree, vision exploding into white sparks.
Her horse reared behind them in terror as the third soldier stepped in, musket slung but ready. “A Cameron redhead, no less,” he muttered. “Out here with no escort? Nobody’ll mourn her.”
The ground tilted.
Her breath stuttered.
Where was Harris?
Had he really left her?
Had she followed him into the wilds only to die under three cowards’ boots?
The soldier pinning her arms twisted her wrists until she gasped. “You scream, sweetheart,” he whispered, “and we’ll make sure you’re quiet forever.”
The first man grabbed her chin, forcing her face up. His thumb brushing her bottom lip.
“Beg us nice,” he crooned, “and maybe we’ll be gentle.”
Her blood surged, hot and wild.
“Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I’ll carve out your—”
He reached for her cloak tie.
And then—
“LET. HER. GO.”
The voice cracked like thunder.
Every soldier froze.
A heartbeat later, Harris hit the first man so hard his skull bounced off a tree.
The second soldier swung his musket up, Harris wrenched it from his hands and used the butt of it like a hammer, slamming it down across the man’s forearm.
Bone snapped.
