He held her firmly, his grip like an iron band, and rode on, kicking the garron into the cover of the wood.
“They’re here to keep you safe, Gillian. They’ll hold the thieves off until you’re away,” he said through gritted teeth, concentrating on navigating a path through the trees. “I’ll go back if I can, when I know you’re safe—”
But Gillian twisted, pummeled his chest with her fists, wild with fury and grief. He let her blows glance off his leather jack and kept riding. “Please—they’re dying. Go back, please go back,” she begged over and over again, but he rode on.
John drew to a halt so suddenly she almost tumbled off the horse. He pulled her back against his body and tightened his arm around her. “Stay still,” he muttered. He was staring at something, and she turned to look. High on a boulder beside the path stood a man with a crossbow.
“Well, well—like pigeons flying into a snare . . .” the stranger muttered and grinned. His gaze fell on Gillian, raked over her. Then he shifted the aim of the crossbow and she realized the deadly barb was pointed straight at her. “Now what have we here? Drop your weapons or I’ll shoot her dead.”
There was no choice. John dropped his sword on the ground.
* * *
John felt Gillian freeze, her eyes on the brigand above them. He could feel her heart pounding, but he dared not take his eyes off the crossbowman. He tightened his grip on her waist ever so slightly, warning her to keep still, stay silent. The man on the rock was painted blue from neck to hairline, his plaid was dirty and patched. He wore a strip of ragged cloth around his neck like a stained cravat.
“Get off the horse, or I’ll kill ye both,” the brigand ordered.
Gillian didn’t move. He felt her stiffen, draw a sharp little breath, but it was indignation, not fear. She made no move to dismount.
“Is it ransom ye want?” John called out in Gaelic. “How much?”
The man’s eyes flicked over them appraisingly. “Who’s paying?”
“Alasdair Og Sinclair, Chief of Carraig Brigh. Send the men who were with us back to Carraig Brigh. They’ll bring gold.”
The man’s brows rose as he jumped off the rock. He kept his aim steady as he wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, smearing it with blue dye, and leaving a clean patch on his skin “Gold? Maybe we’ll weigh your woman and take her weight in gold as ransom. Maybe we’ll weigh ye both together.”
He came closer, looked at Gillian, his eyes hard, calculating little pebbles. He swallowed at her beauty, and John felt heat rise in his neck. He’d kill the bastard if he touched her. But his sword was on the ground, and the crossbow was still pointed at Gillian’s breast.
* * *
Gillian studied their captor, showed him no fear, though her heart was pounding. He was lean, hungry, and dirty. She saw rage in his eyes, or perhaps it was the glitter of madness, and that made him all the more dangerous. She raised her chin higher.
“A cool one, is she?” he said to John. “Maybe we’ll just keep her, warm her up, and cut your throat.”
She ignored the threat, watched the dirty finger poised on the trigger of the crossbow.
A bead of sweat slithered down her spine. Her dirk was in her sleeve, but he’d kill her before she could reach it, or kill John. She listened for the sound of pursuit, of rescue, but the wood was silent. Did that mean her kinsmen were already dead? Her chest tightened with grief.
“Get off the horse,” their captor commanded again. “First the lass, then ye, Sinclair.”
She dismounted, but not quickly enough. The bowman cursed, gripped the front of her plaid and hauled her down. She fell hard on her hands and knees. John shifted, but the bowman swung his weapon around, pointed it at John’s heart. John froze.
The brigand grabbed her arm. “Get up.” The crossbow was still pointed at John, and she shoved his hand away, trying to throw him off balance for a second, to give John a chance to move, but the hand on her arm tightened. The outlaw drew a sharp breath and she knew he’d felt the dirk strapped to her arm.
He yanked her sleeve, tore it, and exposed the weapon. “Take it off and throw it away,” he ordered. “Any tricks and I’ll shoot your man.”
Gillian tossed the dirk into the leaves. There was blood on the blade from the fighting, and it left a trail of gore on her skin. She swallowed bile. The brigand carefully picked up the thin, sharp weapon, glanced at the blood, and assessed the ruby in the hilt. “This is no lady’s eating knife. It’s a killing weapon. What kind of savage lasses do Sinclairs breed?”
John took advantage of the shift in the man’s attention to reach for the dirk in his belt. The brigand cursed him and fired. John ducked, and the bolt disappeared into the wood.
With a howl of rage, the bowman swung the empty crossbow and struck John on the side of the head. It connected with a sickening crack. Gillian cried out as John dropped to the ground and lay still, blood trickling from his forehead.
She crouched beside him, but the brigand grabbed her arm, dragging her away from him. “If he’s dead, it’s his own fault. Do you want the same?”
Before she could reply, she heard the sound of hoofbeats. Her captor dragged her behind a tree, held the hard barrel of the bow across her throat. “If ye scream, I’ll break your pretty neck,” he warned. Gillian stared into the wood, waited for the horsemen to arrive, prayed they were her kinsmen. She glanced at John, lying unmoving on the path, and blinked back tears.
But another ragged outlaw rode up, and Gillian recognized his mount as Callum’s garron. He was dragging the packhorse behind him. This man had a dirty band of cloth tied across the lower half of his face. His eyes narrowed as he drew up next to John’s body and looked around.
