Page 38 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

The words echoed in her head as they forced her onward through the darkening woods. Was it possible that Colin's feelings had been real, even if his methods were wrong? And how would they even know?

It no longer mattered. By the following day, they might both be dead, and all her anger about dowries and deception would seem like children's games compared to the very real danger bearing down on them both.

Unless…

Morag’s heart began to race at the thoughts whirling around in her head.

They'd been riding hard for what felt like two hours to Morag when the leader finally called a halt beside a rocky outcrop. The horses were lathered with sweat, their breathing labored from the punishing pace.

"Rest the mounts," he commanded, swinging down from his saddle. "We cannae afford tae have them flounder before we reach Fraser lands."

Morag's captor grabbed her roughly by the waist and hauled her down from the horse. Her legs nearly buckled when her feet hit the ground, weak from being bound and from the terror that had been coursing through her veins.

"Easy there, lass," the man sneered, steadying her with hands that lingered too long on her waist. "Wouldnae want ye tae fall and damage yerself."

Morag jerked away from his touch, her skin crawling. "Keep yer filthy hands tae yerself."

The man's eyes glittered with malice. "Proud little thing, aren't ye? Fraser will enjoy breaking that spirit."

They'd been riding hard for what felt like hours when the leader finally called a halt beside a rocky outcrop. The horses were lathered with sweat, their breathing labored from the punishing pace.

"Rest the mounts," he commanded, swinging down from his saddle. "We cannae afford tae have them founder before we reach Fraser lands."

Morag's captor grabbed her roughly by the waist and hauled her down from the horse. Her legs nearly buckled when her feet hit the ground. She was weak from the rough ride with her hands bound.

The men started pulling dried meat and bread from their saddlebags.

"I'm starvin'," she said, her stomach genuinely growling. "And me hands are going numb from these ropes. How am I supposed tae eat like this?"

The leader looked at her bound wrists, then at his men who were settling down to eat.

"She's got a point," one of them said through a mouthful of bread. "Fraser wants her alive and healthy. Hard tae eat properly trussed up like a chicken."

"Please," Morag added, making her voice as pitiful as possible. “I just want tae eat without chokin'."

The leader considered this, glancing around at the empty moorland surrounding them. "Aye, fine. But keep an eye on her every move."

They untied her hands completely. Morag rubbed her wrists gratefully, working feeling back into her fingers while they handed her a piece of bread and some dried meat.

She ate slowly, deliberately, buying time while she studied their positions.

The men had relaxed somewhat, focused on their own food and the care of their horses.

When she was certain they were distracted, Morag suddenly bolted, sprinting toward the tree line with every ounce of speed she possessed.

"The wench is running!" one of them shouted.

Morag's heart leaped into her throat as the sounds of pursuit crashed through the underbrush behind her. But she had an advantage now—she was smaller, lighter, able to slip through gaps in the vegetation that would slow her larger pursuers.

Think like Ruaridh taught ye . Step light, avoid the dry branches, use the shadows.

She dodged between trees, her feet finding purchase on mossy stones and soft earth. Behind her, she could hear the men crashing through the forest like wounded bears, their curses and shouts growing fainter as she increased the distance between them.

I can dae this. I can actually dae this. I just have tae find somewhere tae hide.

For the first time since her capture, hope bloomed in her chest. She was free, she was alive, and if she could just make it back to the road?—

Strong arms wrapped around her waist from behind, lifting her clear off the ground. She'd been so focused on the sounds of pursuit behind her that she'd never heard the man who'd circled around to cut off her escape.

"Going somewhere, lass?" The leader's voice was soft and dangerous against her ear as she struggled in his grip. "Very clever of ye. But we've been hunting these woods since we were lads. Did ye really think ye could outrun us on our own ground?"

Morag's heart sank as the other men emerged from the trees, their faces twisted with anger and exertion. The hope that had sustained her during her brief flight crumbled into ash.

It no longer mattered. The thought came to her with grim clarity as they bound her hands once again, this time with bonds twice as thick.

By the time Collin came for her, he’d be walking into a trap that would kill him.

All her anger about dowries and deception would seem like children's games compared to the very real danger bearing down on them both.

All she could do now was survive long enough to see him again—and pray that by some miracle, Collin would figure out their plan, and that when he came for her, he wouldn't be riding straight into his own grave.