Page 55 of Taming the Scot
“So here’s how it’s going to be, lass. Ye either can come with us willingly, or we can tie ye up and drag ye back through the streets. But either way, ye’re no’ leaving here unless it’s with us.”
Every inch of her body grew cold then. She knew what they said was true. Her tongue ran over the chip in her tooth again, back and forth. It’d been their gift to her as a warning the last time.
To go willingly into the nightmare went against her nature and promised worse than a broken tooth. Bronwen stiffened, readying herself for the fight of her life. She tightened her fists, wishing she had a weapon.
“Och, but the lass wants to play it rough,” said one to the other. Their toothy grins glinted in the little light afforded by the stars and moon and a few candles in windows.
Her stomach tightened, and she worked hard to swallow the bile in her throat. This was not going to be enjoyable at all.
“We like it rough,” said the big one.
The smaller brute balled a fist and reached back. She anticipated the blow, prepared to block it as best she could, maybe even dodge his meaty fist—but it didn’t come. Instead, the bastard was yanked off his feet and tossed somewhere into the darkness. The sound of his body smacking into the ground echoed in the alleyway. The other man whirled to fight whoever had come.
That was when Bronwen saw him.
Euan.
The rage on his face was intense and powerful. There was no hesitation as he punched the larger ruffian in the nose. His head snapped back, and he teetered on his feet for a second before collapsing onto the ground. A scrambling sound came from somewhere in the darkness as the other lout crawled to his feet and lurched forward as if to tackle Euan.
But the captain dispatched him with a blow beneath the chin, sending him sprawling backward, his consciousness snuffed out like a candle in the wind.
Neither of the men moved, knocked out by a single punch from Euan. Bronwen stood blinking, stunned, and then her entire body started to tremble.
“Are ye all right?” Euan gathered her in his arms, and she could feel and hear his heart pounding beneath his clothes as she sank gratefully into his embrace, clutching to him.
“Ye found me,” she said breathlessly, amazed.
“Aye, of course. Ye think I was going to let ye run off into the night?” He tipped her chin up, so their eyes locked. His face was full of concern. “I said I loved ye, Bronwen. And I meant it.”
He bent to kiss her then, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back with all the passion she possessed. This man loved her, had saved her from her nightmares—not once, not twice, but multiple times now.
And she knew he loved her, because she could feel it every time he looked at her. Felt it in the way he held her now, the way his harsh breath fanned over her face as he claimed her mouth.
Her heart reached from within her chest to grasp on to his because she loved him too. Desperately. Wanted to be with him. Walking away from his proposal, his love, had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. And it would be harder still.
Because it didn’t matter that he loved her, and she loved him. What mattered was the implications of what a union between them would bring. As much as she wanted to bask in this moment, to give in, nothing had changed.
So, this had to be goodbye.
But blast it all. Why did it have to hurt so much?
14
Euan had hailed a hackney back to his house and hadn’t let go of Bronwen’s hand the entire ride. But once they’d stepped through the doors, she’d sailed up the stairs to her bedroom, leaving him to take care of a few other details, such as sending a footman back to inform his sisters of what had happened and that they should feel free to stay at the ball under the guidance of Jaime and Giselle. He’d also directed a footman to locate a magistrate, giving him the exact location of the downed men in the hope they might still find them there.
In his haste to get Bronwen to safety, he’d not thought of having the men apprehended.
With those details settled, he went in search of Bronwen. He needed to make sure she was all right. She’d barely spoken two words in the hackney, but her fingers had been cold, and she’d shuddered every so often beside him. She must have had the fright of her life before those arseholes had cornered her in the alleyway. Thank God he’d found her when he did; else, he wasn’t sure what he would have come upon—only that it would have been a nightmare to them both.
His knock at her door went unanswered, and he feared she’d already packed her things and run away. He pressed his forehead to the wood panels, closed his eyes and called out her name. “Bronwen. Please answer.”
A second later, the door wrenched open, and there she stood, pale, her hair unraveling down her back. She was still in her gown but judging from how it slouched against her shoulders, she’d made a valiant attempt to get the damn thing off.
Out of his periphery, he could see that her bed was piled with her belongings, her satchel open wide. Nay, nay, nay. She couldn’t leave.
“Please do no’ go,” he said, gaze back on her, imploring. Why did it feel as if his body was being wrenched in half? “Running is no’ going to solve anything between us or your past.”
“It will keep me safe. And ye and your sisters.”
