Page 5 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
He did not care what they did—she meant nothing to him until she was cold and dead.
The water behind her was too deep and cold to offer an escape as the two men on foot stepped forward. The taller one was grinning, his few teeth gleaming in the dim light.
“Come ‘ere, lass,” he said in a sickly-sweet voice.
She could make out his features now, see the lines across his forehead and the dark beard that seemed to swallow half of his face. He was as hideous and hungry as a wolf, his eyes gleaming as they took her in.
“Run!” a voice cut through the night, sharp and commanding.
Freya’s heart leaped into her throat, and the men froze, turning toward the sound of thundering hooves against the earth. A dark, cloaked figure broke through the trees, riding hard atop a midnight-black horse. One hand wielded a cavalry lance, the other a round shield.
Freya did not recognize the rider, but she knew a blessing when she saw one. Without a second thought, she gripped Seileach’s reins tighter. Moving quickly, she reached up for the saddle, preparing to hoist herself up. She had just gotten one foot in the stirrup, rising to swing the other over the horse’s back, when a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder and pulled her down.
Freya fell, her spectacles thrown off her face, her slightly blurred gaze cast up at the still-darkening sky. More and more stars shimmered above her as time seemed to slow down. Her body hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs. Pain shot through her ribs, and for a moment, she could do nothing but let out a surprised gasp. All around her, the trees spun, and her heartbeat roared in her ears.
Dazed, her eyes struggled to focus as she lay on the cold, hard ground. Freya could hardly make out the shape of her savior, who moved like a shadow, dark and swift, weaving as they fought off the shorter man and the other rider. She heard the sound of steel clashing, ringing out into the night. She could barely breathe; her body felt heavy, her limbs foreign.
A hideous face appeared over her, shadows twisting over grimy and pockmarked skin. The tall man’s breath smelled of rot and old ale as he straddled her, pinning her until she felt every pebble digging into her back.
“Ye willnae be so bonny when I’m done with ye,” he promised, his lips curling into an ugly grin as his bony fingers found her throat.
Her hands shot up, desperately clawing at his arms, but the pressure was unbearable. There was nothing she could do as her vision began to blur. Dark spots danced before her eyes, and panic surged in her chest.
Is this vile creature the last thing I will see?
Her thoughts scattered.
Laura… Adam… please…
Her mind reached out for something, someone. Anyone. The pressure tightened around her throat, her body trying to move as everything seemed to fade.
And then, suddenly, she gasped.
The grip around her throat loosened, and something hot splattered across her face. Freya gasped, coughing violently as she gulped in the air. Her vision cleared just enough to see the tall man above her begin to slump, a guttural sound escaping him. Something warm and wet seeped through her clothes, finding her skin. The man was shoved off her, falling to the ground at her side.
A tall figure stood over her now, casting a long shadow against the night sky. He no longer held a lance in his hand but a broadsword, the blade dripping with blood, glistening in the faint moonlight. Freya stared at him, her eyes widening. A nightmare brought to life.
The Devil himself.
Anyone but him.
Her mind was spinning, her breaths shallow as she stared up at Doughall Scott, now kneeling next to her. His face was partially shadowed, the moonlight illuminating his features and turning them sharp and cruel. Even in this light, even with his blade bloodied, he was disarmingly handsome.
Damn him.
She blinked, dazed, her body trembling as she struggled to make sense of what was happening right before her eyes. LairdMacGordon, a man she hoped she would never lay her eyes on again, was here. Her gaze slowly moved to the tall man’s body, which was a heap of silence. She quickly looked away, bile rising in her throat. Doughall had run his blade through the man’s throat…
I’m alive. Or am I in Hell?
Doughall reached out, his fingers taking her by the chin, forcing her gaze to settle on his face. His eyes were the shade of cold steel, shimmering in the moonlight as he studied her. The contact sent a jolt through her, and her skin crawled at his rough touch. She wanted to recoil, to slap his hand away, but she could not move, could not think clearly enough to even make sense of her mind.
Doughall was a monster, a devil—she knew this. She had seen him kill a man with her own eyes, years ago. And yet, he was here, saving her from whatever those wretches had planned.
“Why are ye here?” Her voice was raspy and uneven, as if she had not spoken in years. It sounded foreign to her, like it was coming from someone else entirely.
He stared back at her, then dropped his hand. “Are ye hurt?”
Freya shook her head, but she wasn’t sure. There was a dull ache in her back and ribs, radiating through her. But in her state, she could not tell if anything had been broken, if there had been any damage.
