Page 4 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

An arrow punched through the carriage window in a shower of splintered wood, the steel point hissing past Morag's ear to embed itself in the opposite wall. She felt fire streak across her forehead where the fletching had scraped skin.

"Morag!" Isla screamed.

Blood. There was blood trickling down into her eye, but Morag's mind went crystal clear with the kind of calm that came before a storm. She grabbed Isla by the shoulders and hauled her down behind the bench seat.

"Stay down and dinnae move," she commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. "Wait fer me tae tell ye when tae run."

The battle raged around their carriage like a living thing. Through the shattered window, Morag caught glimpses of MacDuff soldiers fighting off several attackers at once. The young soldier's bow sang again and again until she heard a sickening thud, followed by his cry of pain.

"Me Captain!" his voice, raw with desperation.

Then silence from that direction.

The carriage rocked violently as something slammed against its side. Isla whimpered, pressing herself smaller against the floor, but Morag found herself rising slightly, peering through the chaos to count their enemies.

Dear God, they're too many. Far too many.

The sounds of fighting grew more distant as the battle spread, the two remaining guards being drawn away from the carriage by the sheer number of attackers. In the growing quiet around their shelter, Morag heard something that made her blood turn to ice—the soft scrape of a boot on the carriage step.

The door handle turned.

"Isla," she whispered urgently. "Remember what I told ye."

The door swung open to reveal a bearded face, scarred and grinning with triumph. The man's eyes swept the interior and fixed on Morag with unmistakable recognition.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

Without thinking, Morag threw her full weight against the door. The heavy wood slammed into the man's face with a satisfying crunch, sending him staggering backward. Blood streamed from his nose, leading to a barrage of curse words that hurt Morag's delicate lady ears despite the circumstances.

"Run!" she shouted to Isla, shoving the girl toward the opposite door. "Run and dinnae look back!"

Isla scrambled out the far side of the carriage, her skirts tangling around her legs as she stumbled into the underbrush. For a heartbeat, Morag saw the girl's terrified face looking back.

"Go!" Morag screamed. And Isla ran.

Morag turned back to the man. She did not wait to see if he had recovered but shoved him hard one more time in the chest, sending him sprawling into the mud.

Seeing her chance, she bolted from the carriage. Behind her, she heard the man roar with rage. "The lass! Get the lass!"

She heard heavy boot sounds coming after her. Clearly, the man cared nothing for poor Isla fleeing in the opposite direction. It was Morag he wanted, and Morag he'd follow.

Good, she thought fiercely, gathering her skirts and plunging deeper into the trees. Follow me, ye bastard. Let Isla get away safe. She'll tell faither.

The forest closed around her like a living wall. Thick Scottish pine and ancient oak with branches so dense they blocked out most of the dying light.

Morag's lungs burned as she ran, her fine traveling dress catching on every thorn and branch, but she did not slow. She'd been running MacDuff woods since she could walk, knew how to move silent as a deer when she needed to.

Behind her, she could hear the man crashing through the underbrush like a mad boar, all noise and fury. He was a very big man, obviously strong, but that would only help him if he caught her. For now, she was faster. Which was all she needed to be to lose him in these trees. She would find a burn to follow, or a cave to hide in until he gave up and went back to his fellows.

Come on, Morag. This is another hide and seek between ye and Ruaridh.

Morag leaped over a fallen log, her heart hammering. Just ahead, she could see a gap in the trees where moonlight filtered through. If she could reach that clearing, maybe find another way through⁠—

Her foot caught.

Morag pitched forward with a cry, her hands flying out to break her fall. She hit the forest floor hard, her palms scraping against stone and root, her knee striking something sharp enough to tear through fabric and skin.

"Nay," she gasped, struggling to free her foot from the twisted roots. "Nay, nay, nay."