Gillian’s captor whistled, then dragged Gillian out of the bush. The man on the horse stared at her, then jerked his head toward John. “Is he dead?”
The crossbowman shrugged. “I haven’t had time to check.”
The newcomer leaned over John. Gillian held her breath.
“He’s breathing.”
“He says he and the wench are valuable, worth their weight in gold if we ransom them,” the crossbowman said.
The other man looked at Gillian again, his blue eyes widening in speculation—or hope. “Aye? What about the rule, Rabbie? No hostages, no witnesses. It’s your own rule—”
The crossbowman tightened his grip on Gillian’s arm, squeezing painfully. It hurt but she refused to give him the satisfaction of making her cry out. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Take off your petticoat, mistress.” Her breath caught.
The other man lowered his mask. “What for?”
Rabbie made a low sound in his throat. “Tear it up, use it to bind her man.”
He dropped the empty crossbow and held her dirk under her chin as Gillian untied her petticoat, shimmied out of it, and handed it over. John still hadn’t moved. He was so pale. The second thief used John’s dirk to shred the garment. He grunted at John’s dead weight as he dragged him across the clearing to prop him against a tree. John’s head lolled, but he didn’t wake. He yanked John’s arms behind the tree and tied them. “He’s heavy. By weight, he’ll be worth a fortune indeed. Who’s willing to pay that much?” He searched inside John’s clothes. His hand closed on the leather pouch that Gillian had seen around John’s neck at the farm. “What’s this?”
Gillian’s captor grabbed it from his comrade and shook it, then tossed it aside. “Who cares? There’s no coins in it. Still, he said they’re Sinclairs,” Rabbie said. “Rich folk.”
“Sinclairs?” The man crossed to rub a fold of Gillian’sarisaidbetween his dirty fingers. She held still, refused to cower. “That’s not a Sinclair plaid she’s wearin’, Rabbie, and he’s got no plaid at all.”
Rabbie grabbed her chin in his hand, tipped her head back, and stared into her face. “Who are ye?”
“A MacLeod,” she said. His fingers dug into her jaw painfully.
“As long as you’re not a Mackenzie.” He untied the dirty rag around his throat and revealed a ropy red scar around his neck. “The MacKenzies tried to hang me.”
“I don’t know the MacKenzies,” Gillian said fiercely. “I do know that if you kill us, it will be you who pays—with your own life.”
The two outlaws exchanged a laugh. “Aye? Who are ye that they’re so eager to have ye back?” Rabbie asked.
She held her tongue. Rabbie pressed her back against a tree. He held her dirk against her throat while he groped her breasts with his other hand. “What about a raped lass? Will they pay then?”
Gillian kept her eyes on his face. “I’ll cut your throat myself.”
Rabbie laughed. “Och, will ye now?” She held his gaze until he looked away first. He let her go, flung her to the ground, put his foot on her belly. “Tie her, too. We’ll wait for the others to return, decide what to do with her then.”
The other man looked at Gillian. “I want the gold, Rabbie. I say we put it to a vote. Think on it—ye can buy all the whores ye want—willing ones—with all that gold.”
They bound her to a tree away from John. It was growing dark now, and Rabbie sat on the boulder cleaning his nails with her dirk, while the other man paced. “What’s taking so long?”
“Maybe they stopped to bury the bodies,” Rabbie said. Gillian felt horror and icy fury fill her. She curled her fingers into fists, and pulled against her bonds, but they held tight.
“Then who’ll go for the ransom?” the other man asked.
Rabbie looked at the dirk, ran his thumb along the blade. “Maybe we’ll just send one of the lass’s fingers with a note,” he said, looking at her. “Can ye write?” She glared at him and didn’t answer.
“So little to say? Do ye not have a tongue to speak with?” Rabbie asked, crossing to grip her chin. He used his dirty fingers to pry her mouth open to look. She bit down, and he yelped and drew back. She spat blood. With a curse, he doubled his fist and hit her, connecting hard with her cheek. Her head twisted, and she shut her eyes against the flare of pain, tasted her own blood mixed with his. She forced herself to stay conscious, not to give in.
She was a Fearsome MacLeod of Glen Iolair, and she not going to die like this.
* * *
Twilight was turning to night, and Gillian watched the two thieves pace around the packhorse impatiently, waiting for their comrades. They lit a fire for light and warmth, and as a beacon to guide their friends to them.
“I say we open the packs, take what we want and leave the rest. The others can choose for themselves when they get here,” Rabbie said, looking at the laden packhorse. He slashed the rope that bound the canvas packs. The horse shied as the bundle fell from its back.
