She was indeed looking at two hairy legs with wool stockingsfallingdown around the tops of the boots, and a green plaid kilt reaching to the knees.
“God in heaven!” she shouted as the unexpected Highlander’s raucous laughter disturbed the quiet dawn. She was completely done for now.allhope was gone.
The Butcher rose to his feet, and she was at least grateful to feel the crushing weight of his body come away from her, so that she could breathe again and get her mind out of that dangerous cloud of sensation.
“Should’ve known you’d be shaggin’ some wench in a field,” the new arrival said, “when you’re supposed to be gettin’ your arse in and out of FortWilliam.” He looked up at the rainy sky. “Not much of a night for shaggin’, though.”
Stillon her back, pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead, Amelia looked up through the driving rain at the second Highlander and, to her utter dismay, found herself looking at not one buttwoScots, who were shoving the Butcher back and forth between themlike a couple of schoolyard bullies.
“Get your fookin’ hands off me,” he growled.
God help themall, there was going to be a bloodbath.
She glanced uneasily at his axe in the saddle scabbard, twenty feet away. Perhaps she could get to it.…
Amelia sat up on her knees, but when she looked back at the three brawling brutes—and saw that the other two both carried pistols and claymores—she knew there was no chance that she could win an axe fight against them. They were warriors. It would be suicide.
«Well, did you get in and out, ye horny bugger?” the second Highlander asked. He stood at least six feettall, with freckles, a red beard, and a shaggy mane of hair, which might have made him appear less threatening were it not for the diagonal scar that slashed across his face from eyebrow to nose. His eyes gleamed like two green marbles in the morning light.
Stilllaughing, he staggered away from the Butcher and withdrew a pewter flask from his sporran. He tipped it up, took a drink, and held it out.
The Butcher accepted it and guzzled deeply. “You referring to the wench or the fort, Gawyn?” he asked. “If it’s the latter, I was in and out quick enough. Wasn’t so quick with the lady, though.”
He handed the flask back, swiped a hand across his mouth, and strode to where Ameliastillsat in the grass, trying to assess the situation. He grabbed her by the arm andpulledher to her feet. “And she isn’t just any wench,” he told them. “She’s a prize worth her weight in gold.”
Amelia tried to pry his hand off her arm, but his grip was forged of steel. “Let me go,” she ground out.
The first Highlander—a short, stocky, fair-haired Scot with the face of a bulldog—pulled a flask from his sporran aswell.
“She’s feisty, I’llgive her that.”
“Aye, but she’s quivering like a skinned rabbit,” the other one said. “What’d you do to her?”
“I did nothing,” the Butcher replied. “She’s cold and wet, that’sall.”
«Well, she shouldn’t have beenrollingaround in the wet grass,” thetallone said. “Is she dim-witted?”
The Butcher led her back to the horse without answering.
“Why don’t you just drag me by the hair?” she suggested irritably,stillworking to pry his fingers from her arm while her body shivered and her teeth began to chatter. “Isn’t that what you barbarians usual y do?”
The other two looked at each other and burst into a chorus of laughter, but the Butcher didn’t crack a smile.
“We can’t stay here,” he said. “It’llbefulldaylight soon, and there are English patrols just beyond the forest.” He lifted her into the saddle again, and looked up at her with clever eyes.
“But don’t get any ideas, lassie. One peep out of you and youwillbe skinned alive. I’llbe more than happy to do the honors myself.”
Just then, the thunder of approaching hoofbeats cut through the drizzly dawn. A fourth Highlander rode up and hopped off a pale gray horse while the animal wasstilltrotting at a quick pace.
This latest addition to the unruly crew had long golden hair, and his eyes were two turquoise pools of malicious tenacity.
He, too, wastall, enormous, and beastlike. “Did youkillhim?”
he asked, striding fast toward them.
The Butcher glanced at him briefly. “Nay. He wasn’t there.”
“Wasn’t there?” The golden-haired Scot looked up at Amelia. She sat high in the saddle looking down at him while the Butcher wrapped a thin, coarse twine around her wrists and tied it tight. “Who’s this, then?”
