Page 4 of Bride of the Beastly Laird

“I command ye tae stop right there,” he bellowed as she disappeared inside, heading fast toward the stall where the saddled horse was waiting with the stable hand.

She had a foot in the stirrup and was doing her best to leap up onto the horse’s back when Arran seized her from behind and dragged her down. As she fell, he grabbed her around the waist, his hand brushing her breasts, which had now come loose from the fabric tie.

He held her tight against his heaving chest and she could feel his pounding heartbeat, his breath coming fast against her cheek. He smelled of leather and ale and peat smoke. A not altogether unpleasant man-scent that filled her nostrils and reminded her in a reassuring way of her brothers. They were all skilled fighters, but there’d been times when she’d bested them in mock fights in training. What she didn’t have in brawn she made up for in wiles and there’d been many a time she’d been able to outwit them, when they were younger, and bring them to their knees.

“Let me go,” she twisted suddenly, trying to loosen his grip, struggling to catch her breath, her fair hair flying wildly about her.

“Ye take me fer a fool,” he growled holding her fast, his arm around her as solid as a tree branch and every bit as immovable. With his free hand he ripped aside the scarf she’d wound around her face revealing her features. He nodded with recognition.

In the lamp-light his eyes glittered green-gold as he met her gaze. “Nay lad is soft in the chest like ye, me Lady Dahlia MacLeod.” He gave a sharp laugh. “And nay lad has hair that streams like a silver waterfall down his back.”

Shaking her head, she cursed herself for not taking the scissors and snipping off every skerrick of her fair hair before she’d attempted her escape.

There was a sudden flash as the stable-boy who’d been observing their tussle from the shadows raced past them. No doubt afraid of being implicated in whatever mischief Dahlia might still be planning.

Watching her one avenue of escape disappearing out the stable door, she groaned loudly. Arran, disregarding her pounding fists against his chest tightened his hold on her. In a burst of sudden fury, she twisted to face him, letting fly a solid kick, her boot connecting with Arran’s shin with a satisfying thump. He grunted, but his grip on her didn’t waver.

“Hold still, ye wee vixen. There’s nae one tae come tae yer aid and yer horse is back in his stable now. Ye’ll nae be riding this night.”

There was a terrible truth to his words that hit Dahlia a despairing blow, almost robbing the breath from her lungs. But perhaps there was still hope. If only she could somehow release herself from his clutches, she could still take the horse from his stable and ride fast out of here. She was near enough to MacLeod territory to find a friendly crofter or someone loyal to her brother who could offer shelter where she could safely hide from Arran and the Mackinnon men.

Next morning all her hopes would be dashed once they entered Mackinnon lands. There’d be no help for her there. All the farmers and villagers would be too afeared of Bairre Mackinnon’s wrath to provide her with even so much as a sip of water to quench her thirst. Let alone risk their necks by offering her a place to hide. The man was known far and wide as a merciless brute, dealing out summary justice at his whim to any one of his folks who dared to disagree with him or cross him in some way.

Unlike her brother Haldor, who commanded loyalty because of his fairness and kindness as well as his skill as a great warrior, Laird Bairre ruled through fear and the terror he instilled at the prospect of a terrible fate in his dungeon or on the gallows awaiting those who earned his ill will. Whether they deserved it or nae.

She shuddered at the horrifying prospect of becoming Bairre Mackinnon’s bride. Now, with the failure of her first escape plan, the time had come for her to put her feminine wiles to the test.

Allowing her shoulders to slump she willed the remainder of her body to grow limp, hoping Arran would loosen his grip if he felt her resistance weaken.

“Please.” She gentled her voice, injecting it with a slight quiver as if she was on the brink of tears. “I’m yer helpless captive now. A maid is nay match fer a warrior’s strength. Can ye nae allow me to stand free? ‘Tis unseemly fer ye to be clinging tae me the way ye are.” She spoke the words so softly he was forced to lower his head to hear what she was saying. “Would yer laird approve of ye handling his bride in such a manner?”

She held her breath. Every nerve ending tensing for the moment when she was certain he would loosen his hold and she could muster all her power to burst free of him and make a dash for safety.

CHAPTER TWO

Arran smiled to himself. If the lass believed this swift transformation from raging vixen to submissive maiden would fool him into believing she’d given up her battle to escape and was now resigned to her fate, she was sadly mistaken. It was an old trick and one he’d become familiar with as a wee lad learning his warrior skills. An enemy could feign weakness and at the very instant you lowered your guard, he’d have his sword at your throat.

Still, it would be interesting to see what this feisty lass intended.

Moments ticked by and he deliberately slackened his hold on her waist, immediately feeling the tension ripple through her body as she prepared to make her move. He further released his grip. Then, exactly at the moment he’d anticipated, she flew from his arms like a ball from a cannon and raced toward the stable where her horse waited.

He hesitated, observing her fleeing figure, half amused and half admiring. She was determined, he’d give her that.

He reached her as she fumbled with the latch on the stable gate. Seizing her around the waist from behind, he snatched her up again. She kicked out wildly, scratching with her fingernails at his arms where he held her fast. All the while she was shrieking and screeching loud enough to challenge the banshees across the sea in Erin’s Isle, using language that no lady should ever allow to issue from her mouth.

“Put me down, ye God-fersaken bastard. Ye poxy villain. Ye low-life, worthless scum.”

“Hush, melady. If ye bring some poor lad running tae help ye, using language like that, he’s bound to believe me when I tell him ye’re a whore luring unsuspecting customers tae bed her in the stable hay.”

She opened her mouth as if to utter a further shriek, but only a loud and indignant squeak emerged before he hoisted her over his shoulder with one easy movement, as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley. Her fists drummed his back but he paid no more heed to her frantic blows than he would to the bite of a bed bug.

“I caution ye, lass. Keep yer voice down afore ye lose the respect of every farmer and decent man in the tavern.”

She growled a moan but, to his relief, she ceased her shrieks and her pummelling as he carried her across the courtyard and pushed the tavern door open.

“Good, wee lassie. Ye’re showing some common sense at last.”

There was that growl again. “Och ye test me sorely, Arran Mackinnon,” she muttered, a sound that seemed to issue through gritted her teeth.

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