Page 3 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)
CHAPTER THREE
" I t has been hours, me lady, are ye sure it is this stable? The sun is settin' soon," Peter asked as he stood guard.
"Aye, tis the only one on the western edge of the main road. This must be it," she said.
Maisie's impatience was a restless thing, a low burn of excitement she could scarcely contain.
"If ye daenae mind, I need to step out for a moment to see to some business . I shall be quick," Peter said.
Maisie understood Peter meant that nature called. "Very well," she said.
She paced the stable, waiting for the man with the promised painting to appear.
Byrne's name stirred something fierce inside her; the artist's work was known in the Highlands, her brush capturing the wild beauty of their land with a magic few could match.
Maisie thought of how having such a treasure for the auction could double the funds they'd raise for the flood victims, those poor souls who had lost so much to the swollen river.
This wasn't just about art; it was about doing something that mattered, something that made her useful.
For too long she had felt like a shadow in the McGowan clan, the younger sister left behind while Lavina did good work as the lady of the clan.
Maisie's thoughts flickered bitterly to the marriage offers she'd never received, to the quiet whispers that she was too tall, too sharp-featured, too much a wild thing to ever catch the eye of a good match.
Yet here she was, standing with purpose on the edge of something real.
If she could succeed at this, she'd carve out a place for herself beyond mere family name.
A sudden noise behind her made Maisie whirl around, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Peter, did ye see anyone on the road?" she asked as the guard returned.
But instead of the guard, she found herself staring straight into the gleam of a sword's blade, inches from her nose. The cold steel caught the fading light, and Maisie's breath hitched as danger closed in faster than she could have imagined.
The two men moved with swift precision beneath the dim light of the stables, shadows flitting across the rough stone walls. They both wore scarves over the lower half of their faces, concealing their identities.
One of them held Peter, who grunted as he struggled, but was overpowered and bound with a rough rope.
"Peter!" Maisie's heart leapt with relief; Peter was caught, but at least he was alive.
She prayed silently that no worse harm would come to him. The second man, the one who held the sword inches from her face, loomed close, his presence fierce and unmistakably dangerous.
His broad chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, muscles taut beneath his worn leather jerkin.
He was beastly in build, a jagged scar cutting through his right eyebrow, giving him an air of savage authority.
His dark eyes, nearly black, locked onto Maisie with a cruel intensity that sent shivers racing down her spine.
Yet beneath that wild danger, there was an attractiveness whose power and menace drew as much awe as fear.
"Tell me what ye ken," the scarred man demanded, his voice low and harsh like a growl from the wild.
Maisie swallowed hard, confusion swirling through her terror.
"I daenae ken what ye speak of," she said, voice trembling but steady, eyes wide and searching for any hint of mercy. Her mind raced, desperate to understand what this man thought she knew.
"If ye're nae willin' to speak, then I'll make ye talk." His grip tightened ever so slightly on the hilt of his sword, the threat clear in his posture.
Maisie's breath hitched, knowing he meant to break her will, whatever it took.
Before she could reply, the second man glanced toward the shadowed entrance, his voice sharp and urgent.
"Someone's comin'." The warning sliced through the tense stillness, and the scarred man's gaze flicked to the doorway with a dangerous glint.
"Help-!" Maisie shouted but her voice was quickly muffled as the man put his hand over her mouth, stopping her.
She felt his strong grip as he seized Maisie's arm and hauled her toward a horse tethered nearby. She struggled fiercely, her voice rising in protest.
"Let me go," she attempted to shout, but it was muffled by his large hand. His grip was iron, unyielding and swift.
The other man chuckled darkly as he watched her resistance. "Aye, she's a feisty filly," he said with cruel amusement, the laughter echoing coldly in the quiet stable.
Maisie's mind burned with fury—how dare they treat her like property, like a beast to be caught? Yet beneath the anger, a well of fear curled tight in her belly, stifling her voice and making her hands tremble.
Her gaze darted to Peter, still bound and helpless as the other man tied him in the corner.
"Ye'll keep quiet," the scarred man said, his voice a low threat that rumbled against her ear. "An' I'll see that the man who watched over ye lives." His breath was warm on her neck as he stood behind her, but there was no kindness in the promise.
Maisie's eyes flicked to Peter, who sat bound. His wide eyes met hers, filled with fear but also a silent plea.
She swallowed hard, weighing her options, her mind spinning with terror and uncertainty.
"I'll stay quiet," she whispered, the words tasting bitter in her mouth. Her gaze lingered on Peter a moment longer, the thought of his safety grounding her trembling resolve.
The other man entered with two horses.
"Get on the horse," the man with the scar said.
She obeyed and mounted the saddle. A coarse rope bit into Maisie's wrists as the man with the scar tied her to the saddle's horn, his hands rough but practiced.
The chill of the evening air seeped through her cloak, but it was nothing compared to the cold knot twisting in her stomach.
She dared not struggle now; her hands were bound tight, and the weight of what was to come pressed heavily on her chest. She glanced sideways, heart pounding, as the scarred man swung himself atop the horse behind her, settling close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
Without another word, the horses jolted forward, their hooves thudding softly against the frozen ground as they slipped out of the stable yard.
Maisie turned over her shoulder to see a wagon approaching in the distance. She cursed how slowly it moved, for although they heard the clattering it made in the stable, it was too far for the driver to see that she was bound—a captive.
Maisie's breath came in shallow puffs as the cold night air brushed her face, the rope cutting into her wrists a constant reminder of her helplessness.
She tried to steady her mind, forcing herself to count the beats of the horses' hooves, to hold onto the rhythm instead of the rising fear.
Her thoughts kept drifting to the auction and the people who needed her help, those whose cottages had been swept away by the flood.
She had promised to raise coin, to make a difference.
Now, the promise seemed a fragile thread slipping through her fingers.
The scarred man's presence was a heavy weight behind her, silent but watchful. Maisie could feel his eyes on her, dark and unreadable, and though he spoke little, she knew he was the kind who measured every word, every gesture.
Sunset gave way to moonlight filtering through the branches, casting dappled silver on the riders as they pressed on, the village fading into darkness behind them.
Maisie's thoughts raced.
Why have they taken me? What do they truly want from me?
The letter, the painting, it seemed now that there was far more tangled beneath the surface than she had guessed.
"Who are ye?" she asked. "Ye have the wrong person."
She tried to keep her voice steady without seeming weak, but every attempt was met with silence or a sharp grunt from the man behind her.
Yet beneath the fear, a stubborn flame of defiance burned.
Hold it together. Ye can get out of this.
As the horses moved steadily forward, Maisie's gaze lifted to the sky, where stars blinked cold and distant. Somewhere out there, Lavina waited, and Peter would eventually be found, and they would mount a search. Hope flickered like a distant beacon, and she clung to it fiercely.
The scarred man shifted behind her, breaking the silence with a low, gruff voice.
"Ye want to speak now and tell me what I want to ken?"
"How can I when I daenae ken what ye want? I've told ye already I am nae the person ye seek," she said.
"Yer lies will be met with silence," he groaned.
"I daenae lie," she said, annoyed. But he did not respond to her after that.
Hours passed as the night deepened, the horses' steady pace carrying them farther from the safety she knew.
Maisie's mind drifted between moments of fierce determination and quiet desperation. And though bound and captive, a plan began to form, a way to turn this nightmare to her favor.
Escape.
"These bonds are too tight. With every jolt of the horse the ropes slice into me wrists," she said.
There was no reply, so she continued, "It willnae do ye good to have me leavin' a trail of blood to be followed. Or to be ill with the fever from the wounds. What then? Have ye thought of that?"
The man groaned behind her. Then he reached one arm around her pulling her close against him. She gasped, feeling the hardness of his chest as he loosed the bonds a little.
"There. Now be a good lassie, stay quiet, and obey me. Or ye will be punished."