Page 5 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
She hit the ground hard, air rushing from her lungs. Still, she scrambled to her feet, dagger now in hand as three men dismounted and advanced.
"Well, well," the largest one chuckled, his face scarred and brutal in the moonlight. "Lady Isolde MacAlpin, out fer a midnight ride. Laird Wallace will be pleased."
Wallace! I should have kenned!
"Tell yer master I'm nae interested in his attentions," Isolde spat, circling slowly, dagger gleaming. "I'd sooner wed a toad."
The men laughed, spreading out to surround her. "It's nae a proposal we're bringing ye, m'lady," the scarred one said. "It's an order. Ye'll make a dutiful bride at our laird's side, whether ye wish it or nae. The MacAlpin lands will be his one way or another."
"I'll die first," Isolde hissed, lunging suddenly at the nearest man.
Her dagger slashed across his arm, drawing a howl of pain. She spun, kicking hard at the second man's knee, feeling it buckle beneath her boot. But the scarred leader caught her from behind, massive arms wrapping around her.
Isolde drove her head backward, feeling the satisfying crunch as her skull connected with his nose. His grip loosened enough for her to twist, bringing her knee up sharply between his legs.
"Ye witch!" he gasped, doubling over.
She clawed at his face, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek before the other men recovered. One grabbed her hair, yanking her head back while the other twisted the dagger from her grip.
"Naething was said about bringing ye unharmed," the scarred leader growled, blood streaming from his nose into his beard as he straightened. "Just alive."
"Ye can tell yer—" Isolde's defiant words cut off as he backhanded her across the face, splitting her lip. She tasted blood but refused to cry out.
"Enough talk," he snarled, grabbing her chin. "Bind her hands. We ride fer?—"
The snap of a twig and the soft thud of boots hitting earth silenced him. It was their only warning before a shadow detached itself from the darkness behind them.
CHAPTER TWO
The thud of steel met flesh before the men could turn. The scarred man howled in pain as a blade sliced across his back. He stumbled forward, releasing Isolde as he turned to face this new threat.
Isolde fell back, eyes widening as she recognized her rescuer. Laird Ciaran MacCraith, his face fierce in the moonlight, was a far cry from the charming dancer she had run out on at the ball.
"Kill him!" the scarred leader roared, drawing his own sword. The three men formed a semicircle, stalking toward Ciaran with weapons raised.
The first attacker lunged with a wild swing. Ciaran sidestepped with practiced ease, his blade meeting the man's with a ringing clash before sliding down to slice across his opponent's forearm. The man cried out but pressed forward, joined by his companions in a coordinated attack.
Ciaran moved like water between them, his footwork precise where theirs was clumsy. His sword became an extension of his arm, parrying, striking, drawing blood with each calculated movement. Where they hacked and slashed, he executed controlled strikes that spoke of years of disciplined training.
One man fell to his knees, clutching a deep gash in his thigh. Another stumbled back, blood pouring from a cut above his eye. The scarred leader, seeing his advantage disappear, glanced between his injured companions and the barely winded laird.
"Run!" he finally shouted, scrambling backward toward his horse. The others followed, cursing as they fled.
The attackers crashed through the forest, disappearing into the darkness with Ciaran's curses following them into the night. Only when their hoofbeats faded did he turn back to Isolde, sheathing his blade.
"Are ye hurt, lass?" Ciaran asked. Blood pounded in his ears, the battle rage still coursing through his veins.
Something about her had drawn him away from duty—perhaps the way she'd stood her ground against his teasing, or how she'd matched him word for word without cowering as most lasses did. She was fire where others were merely smoke, and he'd been unable to resist the pull of her flame.
His impulsive decision to follow her had saved her life, though he'd had no choice in letting the bastards who attacked her go. Making sure she was alright was more important, and if she told him who they were, getting them would prove easy enough.
Now, watching her in the moonlight, he wondered what other surprises this mysterious woman might hold.
She touched her lip where blood had already begun to dry. "Nothing lasting," she said, pride evident in her voice though it caught on the words.
For all her brave front, Ciaran could see the way her shoulders shook, how she clutched at the torn fabric of her gown as though it might shield her from memories still fresh and raw. Ciaran studied her in the dappled moonlight. Her mask remained firmly in place, but he could see now how the fear she fought to hide mixed with her fierce spirit burned behind those blue eyes.
Though she stood tall despite her torn gown, when she took a step forward, her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
