Page 47 of A Bride for the Kilted Beast

He decided he would go for a ride and try to clear his head. Then he would go and find Lillie and apologize to her.

He entered the stables and went to the stall, where his favorite stallion Douglas was housed. The big black beast put his head over the top of the door and nuzzled at his master’s face, nibbling at his hair and ears.

“Leave me be, ye joker,” Diarmaid told him, leaning against the stall door and pushing Douglas’ head away with gentle affection. “Are ye ready tae come out fer a wee ride?”

The beast whickered, which was usual, but then, he rolled his eyes and stamped his feet, which most certainly was not.

“Hey, what’s up, lad? What’s troublin’ ye, eh?” Diarmaid asked the horse, immediately concerned. He stoked Douglas’ velvety nose in an attempt to soothe him. But the horse pranced a little in his box, still seemingly spooked by something.

“Maybe ye’ve been shut up fer too long, eh? Ye’re restless. Let’s get ye out.” Diarmaid opened the door of the box, and Douglas came walking out by himself. But rather than calming down, he whickered again and shook his head. Diarmaid knew his horse well enough to know he was bothered by something.

Thinking a ride out would help calm the animal, Diarmaid went and got his saddle from the rack and put it on Douglas. However, the horse was not happy and continued to move restlessly, snorting and shaking his head.

“What’s spookin’ ye, eh? Can ye nae tell me?” Diarmaid asked Douglas, finishing fitting the saddle and taking the reins to lead him outside. But he suddenly heard what he thought was footsteps somewhere behind him and stopped to listen. The horse pranced restlessly, clearly unhappy. Diarmaid stood still, but he did not hear the sound again.

Ach, ye’re imaginin’ things now, man.

But the very next second he knew he had not been imagining it at all, for he was suddenly grabbed roughly from behind by his arms.

“Hey, what are ye doin’? Who are ye? Let me go!” Diarmaid yelled, trying to fight loose of the iron grip holding him. Douglas reared up in panic, narrowly missing Diarmaid’s head as his hooves crashed down to the floor. Diarmaid struggled to free himself, but before he could, there came a mighty blow at the back of his head.

His skull felt like it had exploded, and he felt his knees going. They hit the floor before he collapsed sideways. The last thing he saw as the light faded from in front of his eyes was Douglas, prancing and rolling his eyes in fear. Then, the picture faded, and the world went black.

It was the agonizing pain in his head that woke him. It pounded with each heartbeat, as if someone was regularly hitting him with a hammer. His thoughts swam, and he kept his eyes closed against the bright light that was trying to force itself under the lids, threatening to worsen the pain.

He tried to raise his arm to shield his eyes from the light, and frowned to find he could not. He tried again, with both arms this time, but his struggles only created more agony, this time in his shoulders and chest.

His eyes flew open regardless of the light, and he realized with shock that his arms had been dragged backwards around the trunk of a pine tree and were tied tightly behind him. His legs were bound with a thick coil of rope that wound around the trunk. He was completely immobilized!

His heart now in his boots, he peered through the clamor in his head and saw he was in a small clearing in a wood. Ahead of him, several steps away, three men were crouched, talking in low voices, their words indistinguishable. They were beefy looking fellows, obviously warriors, all armed with claymores. And each of them had over his shoulder a plaid of Lennox tartan.

Odhrán.

Unfortunately, a moment later, one of the men happened to glance his way. Diarmaid immediately closed his eyes and dropped his head, feigning unconsciousness. But he knew at once the man had seen him, for he started and did a double take, then his ugly face split into a malicious grin.

“Hey, lads, looks who’s back in the land o’ the livin’!” he declared, rising to his considerable height. His head was shaved except for a single warrior lock at the crown, one of his front teeth appeared to be made of gold, and he sported a crisscross scar on one cheek.

His two companions turned to look at Diarmaid, also springing up, examining him with interest as they approached and hemmed him in.

“Good day tae ye, Laird o’ Kincaid. We hope you’re enjoyin’ our hospitality, though I’m guessin’ ’tis nae quite as luxurious as ye’re used tae,” Goldtooth taunted him. “Now, I think ye ken why you’re here.”

Diarmaid knew all too well, but he did not bother to respond, knowing there was no point.

“So, ye can avoid unpleasantness if ye tell us where the girl is,” Goldtooth went on, grinning and breathing his foul breath into Diarmaid’s face. Once again, Diarmaid did not react. For his silence, he received a stinging blow from Goldtooth’s hand that sent his head flying violently sideways. The next blow fell on his other cheek, sending it back the other way.

Diarmaid’s head was now ringing, there was a loud rushing sound in his ears, and he could taste blood in his mouth. The pain was immense, and he knew it was not going to stop anytime soon.

“Where’s the McIrving lassie?” Goldtooth quizzed. “We ken ye have her.”

Diarmaid shook his head and mumbled, “I dinnae ken what ye’re on about. What lassie?”

The man to his right punched him hard in the ribs, while the one to the left kicked him hard in the leg.

“I dinnae believe ye,” Goldtooth said, landing a punch to Diarmaid’s face that had him spitting blood and a fragment of tooth. “Ye stole her, so we ken very well ye have her. I’ll ask ye again. Where is she?”

“Ye’ve made a mistake,” Diarmaid croaked out, determined not to give way. “I dinnae have this lass ye speak of.”

Goldtooth punched him again. “McIrving. Morin McIrving is her name, and we ken ye carried her away from the auction, so dinnae try tae deny it. Just hand her over and we’ll go away,”