Page 18 of The Highlander’s Illicit Bride (Wicked Highland Lairds #1)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
T he fog had eventually lifted, and they spent most of the day riding in silence.
Struan though, couldn’t keep his mind off the kiss they’d shared.
After pulling away, Isolde had gone abruptly to the horse and despite the fact that their bodies were now pressed together on the back of it, she had managed to keep some distance between them.
She was stiff and unyielding, and said but a few words to him since they’d left their campsite on the moor.
Struan had felt the heat and the passion in her kiss. He knew she had wanted and enjoyed it every bit as much as he had. And he was relatively certain Isolde was thinking about it too. He wanted to ask her about it but he could tell she would not be receptive to the conversation.
With a heavy sigh in his heart, he guided the horse off the moor and onto a path that cut through a thick forest. Though far from her father’s lands, they were still near Cluny Castle, so he thought it best if they remained vigilant and cautious, sticking to back trails and hunting paths rather than traveling on the main roads.
“Dae ye need a break?” he asked. “Tae stretch yer legs a bit?”
She nodded. “Aye. It’d be nice tae walk about a little.”
Struan stopped their mount beside a river and slipped off the back of the horse.
He turned and helped her down, longing to touch her.
However, Isolde immediately stepped away from him and walked to the edge of the river.
With her back to him, she folded her arms over her chest and watched the sunlight glinting off the surface of the water.
Struan frowned as he walked the horse to a narrow clearing where it could take a drink and graze on some grass.
As he walked back to where she stood, he froze.
His skin tingled and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.
He cut his eyes left and right, scanning the forest around them.
Shafts of golden sunlight speared down through the canopy overhead, dappling the ground while leaving much of it in gloomy shadow.
On the surface, nothing seemed amiss. But he was sure something was.
The birdsong that had filled the air earlier had disappeared. Nothing stirred in the foliage and not a single sound could be heard anywhere. It was as if the entire world around them was holding its breath. And Struan knew that likely meant one thing.
“Isolde,” he called.
Before the words had fully left his mouth, two men burst from the foliage, naked blades in hand, and rushed toward her. Struan saw Isolde turn and pulled his own blade to rush forward.
He recognized the MacPherson tartan and sigil the two men wore and felt a churning in his gut. These men were well trained and fierce in battle, with their focus now on Struan as he bore down on them, their swords ready.
“Isolde, run!” Struan shouted.
As she turned and bolted, the first man rushed forward to meet him and their swords clashed with a high ringing sound that filled the air around them.
The soldier stepped back then lunged forward, the tip of his blade leading the way.
Struan knocked the blade aside with his own, then threw a punch that caught the man in the jaw.
His head snapped viciously to the side and blood flowed from his nose freely.
But he remained on his feet and slashed at Struan, driving him back a couple of steps.
“We’ve nay quarrel with ye, stranger,” the man said. “We’re here for the woman.”
“If ye want her, ye’ll have tae go through me.”
“Ye dinnae want tae dae this.”
Struan’s mouth quirked upward in a half-grin. “’Tis ye who doesnae want tae dae this,” he said. “Turn around and ride out now or I promise ye that every one of ye will die here today.”
The men’s faces hardened and their grips on their blades tightened. “’Tis yer last chance. Leave now, let us take the woman, or die.”
“Dae what ye have tae dae,” Struan said. “But ye’ll only be takin’ her over me dead corpse.”
“So be it.”
The words had barely cleared the man’s throat when the second man engaged, coming with an overhand strike that, if it landed, would have cleaved his skull in two.
Struan got his blade up in time to block it, the force of the blow reverberating down his arm.
He positioned his leg out, catching the man in the gut with his boot.
The soldier staggered backward, wheezing as the air was driven from his lungs.
The first man wasted no time though and bore down on him, drawing back and slicing at his midsection with a blow that could disembowel him.
Struan spun to get out of the way but felt the edge of the blade slip along his side, opening a shallow slice just above his hip.
Blood, thick and warm, flowed from the wound but the soldier had overextended himself, allowing Struan to pivot back and dive his blade straight through his gut.
The man’s eyes widened, and blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he dropped to his knees.
As Struan tried to wrench his blade free of the dying man, he looked in the direction Isolde had run.
He didn’t see her and hoped she’d gotten away.
Or at least, had found a good hiding spot.
As he stared after her though, a line of white-hot fire erupted along his back.
He had time enough to glance over his shoulder and see the second soldier behind him and felt a river of blood spilling from his body.
Struan began to turn but the soldier brought the pommel of his blade crashing down on the back of his head.
There was a flash of pain and a blinding white light and suddenly, Struan felt weightless and watched as the ground rushed up to meet him.