Page 5 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

Heavy footsteps crashed through the bracken behind her, growing closer with each passing second. Morag's fingers flew to the hidden pocket in her dress, closing around the weight of her mother's dagger. The blade sang free of its sheath as she twisted around to saw frantically at the roots binding her ankle.

Come on, come on, she urged silently, the steel biting through the gnarled wood. Behind her, she could hear her pursuer's ragged breathing, could practically feel his presence bearing down on her like a hunting hound.

The last root parted with a soft snap.

Morag surged to her feet, spinning around with the dagger raised just as the man's shadow fell over her like a death shroud. His eyes narrowed when he saw the blade gleaming in her fist

"Well, well," the man panted, wiping blood from his broken nose with the back of his hand. "Thought ye could outrun me, did ye, lass?"

Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him. They were both armed, both grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag's skin crawl. She recognized the look from her brother's stories of border raiders and cattle thieves.

"Stay back!" she snarled, finally freeing her foot and scrambling backward on her hands. "I ken how tae use this!"

The man's broken nose was still streaming blood, but he grinned anyway. "Dae ye now, lass? That's a bonny wee blade fer such a bonny wee lass."

He lunged.

Morag slashed out with the dagger, but he was fast. His hand shot out like a striking snake, iron fingers clamping around her wrist. He squeezed until she cried out, her grip loosening involuntarily.

The dagger tumbled from her nerveless fingers, landing in the fallen leaves with a soft thud.

"There's a good lass," the man panted, his grip like a vise around her wrist. "Nay need tae make this bloodier than ye've already made it."

Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him, both armed, and grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag's stomach turn to water. She'd lost her only weapon, her only chance.

But she hadn't lost her voice.

"Get away from me!" she snarled, trying to wrench free of his grip. "Ye have nae right tae dae this."

"Aye, we dae." The first man lunged forward and caught her wrist before she could reach for her hidden dagger. "Laird Ronan Fraser is expecting ye, lass. Been waiting quite some time, from what I hear."

Morag's blood turned to ice. "Fraser? Ye're mad! I'm bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong. We just married, in fact! Ye have the wrong woman!"

The men exchanged glances, and the lanky fellow with stringy hair actually laughed.

"Oh, we ken exactly who ye are, Morag MacDuff," he said, pulling a length of rope from his belt. "And Fraser's been very specific about wanting ye brought tae him. Alive and... unspoiled, which is quite unfortunate."

"I tell ye, ye're making a mistake!" Morag struggled as they forced her hands behind her back, the rope biting into her wrists. "Let me go, ye bloody savages! Ye dare tae take the daughter of Laird Alistair MacDuff, bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong! I demand ye put me down this instant!"

"Yer faither's too far away tae help ye now," the first man growled, testing the knots. "And as fer Armstrong..." He shrugged. "That match was never meant tae be."

The rope was tight. Already Morag could feel her fingers starting to tingle as the bonds cut off her blood. But she couldn't stop fighting, couldn't stop trying to reason with them.

"Please," she said, hating the desperation in her own voice. "Whatever Fraser's paying ye, me faither will double it. Triple it! Just let me go!"

"Sorry, lass." The lanky one almost sounded like he meant it. "We may be men fer hire, but we have our code of honor. We have been given orders."

Strong arms lifted her from the forest floor like she weighed nothing at all. Morag kicked and writhed, but bound as she was, her struggles only earned her a tighter grip.

"Easy now," her captor grunted. "Dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be."

"Harder?" Morag spat. "Ye're kidnapping me on me wedding journey! How could it possibly be harder?"

But the men were already carrying her back through the trees, back toward whatever horses they'd left waiting. Around them, everywhere was still except for the natural sounds of the forest.

"Move faster," the bearded one snarled. "Fraser wants her delivered before⁠—"

"I willnae go!" Morag twisted violently, managing to wrench one arm partially free. "I willnae be any man's prize! Let me go!"

The man carrying her stumbled as she fought, cursing as her elbow caught him in the ribs. "Bloody hell, hold still!"

"Make me, ye coward!"

His patience snapped. He dropped her legs, letting her feet hit the ground hard while his companion kept hold of her shoulders. His hand drew back, palm open, aimed at her defiant face.

"Maybe this will teach ye some⁠—"

"Put. Her. Down."

The voice cut through the forest like the toll of a death bell—deep, commanding, and utterly without fear. All three men froze, the raised hand halting mid-swing as they spun toward the sound.

Through the trees stepped a figure that seemed carved from Highland legend itself. Tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the predatory grace of a born warrior. Dark hair, piercing eyes that missed nothing, and a presence that made the very air seem to thicken with danger.

Morag's breath caught in her throat. Even bound and terrified, she could not help but notice the way he moved—like controlled violence wrapped in human form. The way his hand rested on his sword hilt with casual familiarity. The way her captors suddenly looked like children caught stealing apples.

This was no ordinary man.

This was death walking through the Highland forest, and he was looking at her captors like they were already dead.