“She’s Bennett’s betrothed.”
The rebel’s browpulledtogether in a disbelieving frown.
“His betrothed? He has a woman? Bluidyhell, Duncan, why didn’t you slit her throat?”
Amelia shuddered at the Highlander’s unimaginablecallousness while taking note of the fact that the Butcher had a name. It was Duncan.
“I thought better of it.” He swung himself up into the saddle behind her.
A hostile antagonism sparked in the other man’s voice.
“You should’ve done it and left her head to rot in a box.
What’s wrong with you?”
The Butcher reached around Amelia to gather the reins in his fists. “You should know better than to doubt me, Angus.
You know I do not falter. NorwillI, not as long as that English devil is breathing our Scottish air.”
“Oranyair.” Angus stepped out of the way as the horse reared up skittishly.
“We should separate,” the Butcher said, his voice a heavy blade that cut through the tension. “Keep your wits about you, lads, and I’llsee you at the camp.” He urged the horse into a gal op, and they darted forward, leaving the others behind.
Theygallopedfor a short time across the sodden field, then trotted toward the shadowy fringes of the forest. The rain had softened, and the sky gave off an eerie pink glow.
Soaked to the bone, Amelia shivered. Without speaking, the Butcher wrapped his tartan around the both of them. She breathed in his rough, manly scent on the wool and felt the heat from the wide expanse of his chest at her back. She was thankful for that at least, despite the fact that this whole situation had her reeling with fear.
“What is it about you Highlanders?” she asked bitterly, her teeth chattering. “Al you want to do is chop off heads and put them in boxes. Is it some kind of Scottish tradition?”
“It’s none of your concern,” her captor replied, “and I’llthank you not to ask that question again.”
She was quiet for a few minutes while the warmth from the tartan slowly began to ease thechillin her bones.
“Hecalledyou Duncan,” she said. “I heard him. Aren’t you worried I’lltellsomeone your name and the true identity of the Highland Butcherwillbe discovered?”
“There are hundreds of Duncans in the Highlands, lass—so no, I’llnot lose any sleep over it. And since you’re asking more questions, are you not worried I’llchange my mind and slit your throat afterall?” He paused. “Since you know my name.”
Sheswallowed uneasily. “Perhaps a little.”
“Then you should stop asking questions you don’t want to hear the answers to.”
She gathered the tartan about her and tried to ignore the chafing burn of the binds at her wrists.
“I assume that was your famous band of rebels,” she said, because she wanted to keep him talking. She wanted to know why this was happening and learn where they meant to take her. “I’d imagined there were more of you,” she continued. “Because from the stories I’ve heard, you and your friends slaughter entire English armies in three minutes flat.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
She turned her cheek to speak to him over her shoulder.
“So it takes you longer than three minutes to slaughter entire armies?”
He paused. “Nay. Three minutes is accurate.”
She shook her head at the mere idea of it.
“But we don’t attack armies,” he said, correcting her.
“We’re not daft.”
