Page 5 of Claimed by the Ruthless Highlander (Taming the Highland Devils #2)

CHAPTER FIVE

I f there was ever a moment to escape, it was now.

She kept her breathing even, forcing herself not to look too eager, her fingers twisting at the rope tying the horse to the branch.

While the man with the scar spoke low to the other rider, she worked the knot inch by inch.

The fibers scraped her skin raw, but the pain barely registered.

Her focus sharpened on the faint give in the binding, and her pulse hammered when she felt the rope slip a little more.

She stayed still, feigning being obedient as she fed the horse a morsel of bread, even as her heart pounded like a drum.

Then without a second thought, she moved behind the horse and gave it a sharp whack on it's flank.

"Ya!" she shouted as the horse startled and ran away.

She turned and ran in the opposite direction into a thicket she had already picked out when she sat eating and drinking. It was the thickest and hence the easiest to hide in the dark. Branches whipped at her face as she plunged into the undergrowth.

"Blast it, the wee witch is runnin' for it!" the man barked. "Get the horse! I will get her!"

The forest swallowed her quickly, the thick brush clawing at her skirts as she darted between close-packed trees. She aimed for the densest growth she could see, knowing a horse couldn't follow easily there.

Twigs snapped underfoot, and the scent of damp moss filled her nose as she ducked beneath low boughs. Her breath came ragged, but she didn't dare slow down.

Behind her, there was the pounding of boots and the sharp curse of the man she'd fled from.

The sound spurred her onward, each stride fueled by terror and defiance.

She leapt over a fallen log, the rough bark scraping her shins, and dove into a patch of brambles.

The thorns bit into her arms, but she clenched her teeth and pushed through.

"Where are ye, lass?"

His voice sounded closer than she wanted, and her stomach knotted. She knew she couldn't let them see where she was heading, so she veered left, crashing through a wall of shrubs.

"If ye think ye can slip me in these woods, ye're sorely mistaken."

Maisie bit her lip and did not make a sound.

"Ye're fast, I'll give ye that."

Maisie's lungs burned as she pushed deeper into the dark maze.

The ground sloped downward, slick with fallen leaves, and she nearly lost her footing before catching herself on a tree trunk.

She glanced over her shoulder, glimpsing flickers of movement between the trees, too close for comfort.

Fear clawed at her throat, but so did determination.

She heard the horse's hooves approaching as the other man returned.

"Ye circle round the ridge," the scarred man ordered, his voice drifting closer through the shadows. "I'll drive her towards ye."

"Aye," the other man agreed, "But if I get to her first, I'll be expectin' a reward for the trouble."

"Touch her, and I'll cut yer bloody hand off," came the snarled reply. "She's mine to deal with."

Maisie shoved herself onward, her skirts tearing on hidden thorns as she scrambled over uneven ground.

Her heart thundered so loudly she feared they could track her by the sound alone.

She could hear them splitting apart, their footsteps weaving through the forest like predators on the hunt.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl gave a mournful call, but to Maisie, it sounded like a warning.

She stumbled over the roots, but a rough arm caught her around the waist before she could take another step.

She cried out, twisting in his grip, but he hoisted her off the ground as though she weighed nothing.

The scarred man's breath was warm against her ear as he growled low, "Ye've been a bad lass, runnin' like that."

His voice was cold, threaded with an edge that made her stomach clench in fear.

He carried her back toward the horses with an unyielding grip, his stride long and sure.

"And bad lasses get punished for disobeyin' me," he added, his tone almost casual, but no less dangerous.

Maisie's heart pounded, her mind racing for some way out, yet none came.

The other man brought the horse around. She was set back on the saddle, tying her more securely this time.

"Ye've the wrong person, I already told ye" she said quickly, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound firm. "I daenae ken what ye want, but I swear it's nae me ye're after. Let me go before ye make a fool of yerself to every clan in the land."

He swung into the saddle behind her, the weight of his presence looming close. "Best ye keep yer tongue still," he said evenly. "The more ye talk, the more trouble ye invite for yerself."

Maisie's hands tightened on the worn leather of the saddle, her knuckles white. "So ye'll just steal a woman away without so much as explainin' why?" she asked, her voice sharp now, though fear coiled deep inside. "That's the way of a coward, nae a man."

"Careful, lass," he murmured, his tone dark with warning. "I've nay qualms about teachin' ye the manners ye've sorely missed."

They rode in silence after that, the only sounds the creak of leather and the steady beat of hooves on the damp earth for an hour. Maisie's eyes darted to the trees, watching as they grew thinner, the air shifting. There was a faint tang in the wind now, one she knew well, salt and brine.

Is it the sea? But have we traveled so far?

Her chest tightened as realization struck. They were leaving her homelands behind, the safety of the McGowan territory fading with every step. Wherever he was taking her, it was far from where anyone would come looking. And the sea breeze told her they were riding toward a place she had never been.

An hour later, the sun was rising over a castle. It rose before her like something from a dream, its high stone towers stretching toward the sky. The sea lapped against the cliffs below, sending up a salty mist that mingled with the crisp mountain air drifting from the peaks beyond.

Maisie's breath caught, her eyes darting from the waves to the snow-dusted ridges in the distance, never had she seen sea and mountain share the same view. For a fleeting moment, she forgot she was a prisoner, her awe at the sight softening the fear that had gripped her since the stables.

Behind her, she felt the steady rise and fall of the man's chest, solid and unyielding against her back. His voice rumbled low as he commanded the gates to open, and the vibration traveled through her, making her cheeks warm.

She hated the way her stomach fluttered, hated that her body reacted to him in ways her mind scorned. This was the man who had taken her from her home, he was the enemy, and yet she could not ignore the heat curling deep within her.

The massive gates groaned as they swung inward, the horse's hooves clicking against the stone path within. They passed beneath the shadow of the portcullis, the air cooler inside the walls, smelling faintly of hay and smoke.

In one smooth movement, the man swung himself down from the saddle, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. Before she could even attempt to dismount herself, his large hands were on her waist, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a feather.

She landed on her feet, though a bit unsteady, the warmth of his touch lingering far too long in her mind. He stood before her now, without the scarf that had hid his face for so long.

She realized with a start that he was very attractive and even taller than she'd thought as he loomed over her.

Broad shoulders filled his tunic, his scar only serving to make his rugged features more striking.

Maisie's breath hitched in frustration. Of course she would find him handsome; her cursed heart always had poor judgment.

Up close, the strength in his frame was impossible to ignore, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. She told herself it was hatred she felt, not fascination, but her body was a poor liar.

She tore her gaze away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he affected her. Still, she could not stop the rush of heat that crept up her neck every time his shadow seemed to fall over her.

"Take the horses, and get some food," the man with the scar said to the other.

"Right away," he said.

"Lass, ye're comin' with me," he said gruffly, jerking his head toward the inner courtyard.

The single word was enough to pull her from her thoughts, reminding her sharply of her place.

She followed because she had little choice, but each step was taken with her chin high, determined to show him he hadn't broken her.

The cobblestones beneath her boots felt cold, but the air around him was anything but.

They passed under an archway into a courtyard bustling with activity, stablehands leading horses, women carrying baskets of fresh linens, and men hauling barrels toward what must have been the kitchens. All eyes turned to her for a moment before returning to their work.

Maisie kept her gaze fixed ahead, though she could feel him walking just close enough that his presence loomed.

She didn't want to admit that the nearness was strangely…

steadying, even if she despised him. In another life, without the kidnapping and the fear, she might have found his confidence and strength alluring.

But this wasn't another life; this was a cage with stone walls, and he was the man who had locked the door.

"Where are ye takin' me?" she asked. "Who lives in this castle?"

But he didn't answer her. She suddenly grew very nervous that this man was taking her to some laird. She imagined it was a ruthless laird who stole women at will and held them as prisoners. Her stomach turned.

Maisie's mind whirled, torn between the urge to explore and the need to plan an escape. Every sense was heightened, from the thud of his boots beside hers to the faint scrape of metal from the belt at his hip.

I daenae want to be some prize to a brutish old laird. I would rather stay with the man with the scar.

The intrusive thought led to more. The ache of touching that scar on his brow flashed, unbidden, into her mind, and she cursed herself for it instantly. Whatever fascination she felt was dangerous, foolish, and unwanted.

He stopped abruptly, turning to face her fully. "Ye'll keep close," he said, his tone more command than request. His gaze locked with hers, and she could feel herself bristling under it, but she refused to look away.

Even as she stared him down, her heartbeat betrayed her, pounding far too fast for her liking. She hated that she noticed the way the light caught in his hair, or how the faint salt air clung to him like another layer of skin.

She hated that part of her wondered what his hands would feel like without the cruel grip he'd used to take her.

And most of all, she hated that she couldn't quite silence these thoughts.