Page 63 of The Highlander's Dangerous Bride

The boy slipped away in to the crowd, and Raven headed for theMistress Anne. She could already see that the crew were preparing to leave, with many of them seated and ready to row. Others were working at various tasks, and there were a couple of passengers already waiting to sail. She noticed that two of them appeared to be monks wearing hooded cassocks.

She hailed one of the crew, a tall, lanky fellow in an oilskin coat, with light-colored eyes, a scrubby, red-gold beard, and pale red hair poking out from beneath a filthy canvas cap. She disliked the look of him on sight. He seemed vaguely familiar, but Raven could not place him and put it down to her imagination.

“Aye?” he asked, his voice a nasal whine.

Raven hid a shiver of revulsion. “I understand I’m supposed tae meet Arne MacLeod aboard before ye set sail, is that right?” Raven replied, putting on her best impersonation of a youth.

“Aye, that’s right. Come aboard. He said he’ll be here shortly tae meet ye,” he told her, as he moved aside to let her board.

She nodded to avoid speaking again and stepped into the unsteady vessel unassisted to keep up the façade of youthful masculinity.

“Ye can sit over there tae wait if ye like,” the giant said, pointing at the usual wooden benches amidships. Raven gingerly stepped across and sat down as far away from the other passengers as she could to wait for Arne, her mind instantly filling with troubling memories of the last time she was on a birlinn.

That distracted her from noticing when the one of the crew untied the painter from the dock, and the rowers picked up their oars and began pulling the boat with powerful stokes away from the quay.

“Hey, wait!” she exclaimed, jerking out of her reverie and suddenly realizing what was happening. She jumped up and ran to the back of the boat, nearest the quay, which was now a good fifteen to twenty feet away. “Ye’re nae supposed tae leave until me partner gets here, Mr. MacLeod,” she yelled at the crewman who had let her aboard.

But he ignored her shouts, and so did everybody else. A horrible feeling of dread came over her.Something’s very wrong with all of this, she thought in a panic. She ran to the edge and prepared to dive into the water, to swim back to the quay. But a pair of strong arms caught her from behind.

She looked over her shoulder to see it was one of the monks. “Let go of me!” she shouted, kicking out backwards at his legs, struggling to free herself, but the man’s grip was like iron, biting into her arms.

“Get yer hands of me, ye bastard!” she shouted, about to bite him when his hood fell back a little. When she saw who it was, the blood froze in her veins. She began fighting harder, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Arne! Arne! Anyone, help, I’m bein’ kidnapped!” over and over.

Her desperate shrieks sliced through the air as the birlinn rapidly traveled farther out to sea, but she spied people on the quay turning to look towards the boat. Hope sparking in her breast, she redoubled her efforts to shake off her captor.

She heaved in another breath, ready to scream for help again, when a large hand covered her mouth and cut her off. She bit down on it as hard as she could and stamped down on the man’s toes.

“Ach, ye wee bitch!” he hissed in pain, dropping his hand and stumbling backwards. She shrieked, “Arne! Help!”

“Shut yer noise!” came a rumbling voice she recognized all too well. It sent terror ripping through her. A hard blow hit her temple, knocking her to the deck, sending her cap flying. Her head spun for a moment while she rested on all fours, the taste of iron on her tongue. But then she scrambled towards the side of the vessel, intending to jump overboard, still screaming for Arne to come and save her.

But someone seized her by her hair and yanked her head back violently. Raven screamed in pain and fear as she was pulled to her feet by her hair.

“Ye’re nae goin’ anywhere, except back tae Barra.” The familiar deep voice rumbled harshly in her ear. Hot, foul breath filled her nostrils, making her gag. She found herself being swung around as if she were a marionette on strings. The pain was so excruciating, it felt as though hair was going to be torn out by the roots.

“Yer husband’s missed ye, lassie. Ye’ve put him tae a lot of trouble, but he’s very eager tae see ye and have a proper reunion. He has quite a celebration planned.”

With the bravado of one who now believed she had nothing to lose, Raven spat dead center into the lifeless eyes and ugly, mutilated face of Jethro Maddox. He let out a growl and backhanded her across the face, knocking her out cold. Then he dropped her to the deck as though she were a sack of turnips.

“Tie the bitch!” he roared, striding away, “And row faster, ye lazy bastards, or ye’ll feel the weight of me hand as well.”

Thus encouraged, the oarsmen redoubled their efforts. The quay at Oban receded as their oars sliced the through the choppy waters, speeding their unconscious captive back into her husband’s vengeful arms.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Arne had just finished seeing to the horses and was making his way back to the front entrance of the inn, intending to go into the bar and talk to the innkeeper. He was coming around the corner of the building, the saddlebags and blankets slung over his shoulder when a terrible, heart-wrenching scream ripped through the air.

“Arne! Help!”

Raven, recognizing her voice at once, his heart thumped painfully in his chest and his blood froze in his veins. Filled with sudden terror for her safety, he dropped everything he was carrying and ran out onto the quay, pushing through the bustling crowd to the edge, certain the cries had come from somewhere out on the water.

His eyes frantically scanned the sea, but boats and ships and barges were everywhere, and he could not see her. He cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Raven! Where are ye?”

More of her screams came echoing over the water, desperate pleas for him to come and help her. Every syllable stabbed at him like a blade.

“If she’s a lass dressed like a lad who’s screamin’ fer ye then she’s on that birlinn, lad, theLady Anne, out there, look,” a man in an oilskin coat called to him from the deck of another birlinn that was moored about fifty feet away from him.

Arne followed the man’s pointing arm. About a quarter of a mile out to sea, he made out a small figure on the deck of another birlinn, waving its arms. Raven’s screams carried to him on the sea breeze despite the hurly-burly going on around him. He watched in horror when a huge figure in garb resembling that of a monk grabbed her from behind and restrained her.

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