Page 111 of Death at a Highland Wedding

“Liedown.”

I lower myself to my knees. “Ezra let you have your way with Lenore. That’s what happened, isn’t it? You two shared her. Against her will.”

“Any woman who would consent to such a thing is a whore. I do not consort with whores.”

“What about the wildcat?”

That nearly does the trick. He rocks back, thrown by the seeming non sequitur. But his hands grip the rifle tighter. Then he smiles. “If you mean Miss Lenore, shewassomething of a wildcat. So much fight for a lame girl. You would have thought she would be happy for the attention.”

My stomach twists, but I push on. “I mean the wildcat. You poisoned it and put it into that trap.”

His face scrunches up. “Did that slap addle your brain, girl? What does the cat have to do with this? And what is this talk of poison? The beast was caught in the trap.”

“No, it was placed there. After it died of poison.”

More confusion. “I do not know what—”

His grip loosens on the rifle, the barrel dropping just enough. I dodge to the side and grab for the barrel. He’s faster, wrenching it away, and I slash with my knife. The blade catches him on the hand. He hisses, but he doesn’t drop the rifle, doesn’t even loosen his grip.

I pull back my switchblade to stab, but he swings the rifle and the barrel strikes my funny bone. I gasp, my grip automatically loosening on theblade, and my knife starts to drop, but I manage to catch it with my other hand.

That leaves my weapon in the wrong hand. Müller moves, and my gaze is fixed on that rifle barrel, ready for it to swing up. When one hand releases the gun, I lunge to take advantage, which is exactly what he wants, as his fist plows into my stomach.

I fly back, feet scrambling for purchase, but the ground is slick with dew. My boot slips. I go down on one knee, and he hits me again, fist smacking my jaw so hard I fall back.

I twist as I fall, and I manage to flip over.

“Good,” he grunts. “Lie on your stomach.”

I start to lower myself. Then I vault up, and my brain screams that he has a rifle, and running is the last thing I should do. But it’s also the only thing Icando, and as I tear back toward the bushes, I veer a split second before I hear the crack of the rifle. The shot whizzes past me.

I keep running, swerving erratically. I’m almost at the bushes when my damn boot slips again. The rifle cracks. Something hits me hard in the back, pain exploding. All I know is that it staggers me but I don’t fall.

It’s a low caliber rifle. Meant for shooting small game.

I’ve still been shot.Shot.

I dive into the bushes.

Müller fires again, this shot going wild.

I get on the other side of those bushes and then dart across the road to the next row as I struggle to catch my breath. Did the bullet hit my lung?

Keep going!

I dive into the bushes and through to the other side. And on that other side? Wide-open meadow that I can’t cross without Müller seeing me and shooting me dead.

I struggle for breath.

The bullet hit my lung, didn’t it? I can localize the pain now. It’s the right side of my back, about halfway up. Where the bullet could pass through my ribs and pierce my lungs.

Don’t think about that. Think about the guy who still has the gun, the one chasing you.

I try for a deeper breath. It hurts, but I manage it. Then I creep alongthe bushes, knife gripped tight as I look for a spot to hide. I find it just in time, and I wriggle in carefully, all too aware of Müller’s heavy breathing only a few meters away.

A grunt tells me he makes it through the bushes just as I get hidden.

I slow my breathing.