Page 47 of The Highlander’s Savage Vow

CHAPTER TWO

T he man reached for her again, and Ailis screamed.

“Quiet!” the man growled, the sound of his voice chilling her to the core. “Shut yer mouth an’ come with me. Ye’ve made it hard enough fer all o’ us.”

But in response, Ailis only screamed more.

It wasn’t a cry of fear—it was something deeper, primal.

It was cry of a hunted creature whose legs still had one last run left in them.

As long as blood rushed through her veins, as long as she could still draw breath, Ailis would fight to the last heartbeat to escape her captor.

She twisted violently, elbowing her attacker in the side, her shout reverberating through her body and echoing in the empty air around them, traveling far and wide.

Swiftly, she pushed herself to her feet and broke into a sprint, weaving through the men who had gathered around her on horseback.

With the horses’ hooves sinking into the mud, it was difficult for them to switch their routes, to follow her out towards the tree line.

Behind her, the man cursed, and Ailis heard the squelch of his boots in the bog waters as he chased after her, screaming things she could not hear over the rush of wind and blood in her ears.

“Let go o’ me!” she called out to the man, her voice a piercing shriek. “Why are ye chasin’ me?”

There was no answer, and Ailis knew that even if the man had given her one, it wouldn’t have stopped her.

The bog pulled at her feet with every step, the waterlogged earth becoming unstitched beneath her feet. Her skirts were sodden and torn, tangled around her legs. And yet, she still ran. She had to run, to get as far away from those men as possible.

They were her father’s men; Ailis could tell, not only by their shouts as they screamed at each other to catch her and bring her back, but also from the crest they wore, as familiar to her as her own skin.

Behind her, the hooves floundered in the muck. The horses couldn’t match her pace now—not there. She was limber and fast, sure-footed in the uneven ground. Shouts rose, angry and sharp, the voices of her father’s men echoing across the moorland.

“Stop her!”

“She willnae get far!”

“Ye’re only makin’ it difficult fer yerself!” Jamie’s familiar voice called out to her, sudden and jarring like a flash of lightning in the dark. “We’ll catch ye an’ drag ye back whether ye like it or nae!”

Each word bit into her like a lash. Her chest ached, fire in her lungs, but she kept going—one foot after the other, her pursuit of freedom as relentless as the men’s pursuit of her.

More than anything else, it was a battle of wits—one she was determined to win.

Pain pierced through her shoulder with every step she took, passing as a wave through her body.

Ailis could feel the slow drip of sweat on her back, she could taste blood on her tongue.

The cold air and the stress under which she was putting her lungs were affecting her more than any muscle fatigue could.

At any moment, she expected her body to give in; to give up.

At any moment, she expected to find herself sprawled in the mud, face-first on the ground as the men surrounded her and dragged her back home.

But the thought of seeing her father again—the thought of facing him and his self-satisfied smirk, telling her that she was nothing but a failure—just that thought was enough to give her the push she needed.

Soon, her father’s men would be unable to follow.

Soon, she would be in Caithness lands, where those men were not welcome.

Well, technically, neither am I.

The men closed in on her, surrounding her from all sides. And then, just when she least expected it, more hoofbeats approached from the east, horses pouring into the bog guided by their riders.

Ailis’ heart stuttered.

There are more of them!

There was only one of her and already a dozen men in pursuit, and now there seemed to be twice as many—and all because she had managed to evade them for so long. How could she avoid them all? What path could lead her to safety when she was surrounded like this?

She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to. Her father would not suffer disobedience, especially not from a daughter he had never wanted, and so if the first group failed, the second wouldn’t.

But then, something changed. Something seemed to shift in the air, and it took her a few moments to realize Jamie and his men had stopped running after her, the sound of their horses fading in the short distance.

When she glanced at them over her shoulder, the men behind her, her father’s men, had faltered.

“Shite,” one said. “That’s too many o’ them.”

“We’ve gone too far!” called another. “We’re in Caithness lands!”

“Grab the lass!” Jamie called out to them in a growl, unsheathing his sword with a hissing sound as the blade dragged against the leather sheath.

Ailis paled at the sight of it, at the flash of light reflected on its sharp edge.

Though she knew it wasn’t meant for her, her blood still ran cold in her veins, chilling her to the bone.

But her feet slowed. Her breath tore in and out of her. She turned, confusion flooding her expression. The men were hesitating, shifting nervously. But two of them—either bolder or more foolish than the rest—broke from the group and charged after her again.

“The sooner we have her, the sooner we can leave!” one of them called out as he approached her, clearly determined to complete the task assigned to him and his fellow soldiers before returning home.

Ailis couldn’t even blame him for it—if her father found out they had let her escape because they had encountered another party, then he would have their heads.

They had been sent there with a mission in mind, and they had to complete it, no matter what.

“Ye fool!” the man told her, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “They’ll have our heads fer this! Ye dragged us all intae this mess!”

Ailis frowned in confusion. It took her a few moments to realize that the men who were approaching from the east were, in fact, from Clan Caithness, and that was why her father’s men had hesitated, reluctant to proceed any farther.

This could be me chance.

The man rushed towards her, but that only put Ailis into motion again, forcing her to run.

But the man was faster, already closing the distance between them.

Before she knew it, he lunged, tackling her to the ground.

Ailis slammed into the wet peat, falling on her back, and a scream died in her throat just as it tried to claw its way out of her, her breath knocked out of her lungs.

Still, she kicked and thrashed, desperately trying to free herself from his grasp, but he was already unfastening a rope from his belt, pushing her onto her stomach on the dirt and twisting her arms behind her back.

“Hold still!” he snarled, his breath hot on her face. “Ye’re done runnin’ now.”

Ailis thrashed beneath him, fury and terror coursing through her veins like fire. “I willnae go back tae that monster!”

“Ye dinnae get tae choose.”

The man spoke so simply, so resolutely, that for a moment, Ailis believed him. She believed that she had no other choice, that there was no reason left to fight. But as long as she breathed, she would crave the freedom she couldn’t have at home, and as long as she craved it, she would fight for it.

Ailis felt the rope tightening around her wrists, the sharp bite of it cutting off her circulation and chafing the tender skin. Her captor stood, dragging her up by the bindings like a sack of grain, and she stumbled after him, nearly choking on her own rage.

In the distance, a horn blew, low and deep, a haunting sound that seemed to rise from the bog itself. The ground shook faintly with the rhythm of approaching horses.

Clan Caithness was too close now; there was no escape for her father’s men. The sound of that horn was the sound of battle, the herald of spilled blood and lives lost. And from the eastern rise, they appeared—riders cloaked with the Caithness insignia, swords drawn and at the ready.

The Sutherland men had no option but to draw their own swords, pushing their horses forward, spilling into the sudden eruption of battle.

The man who held Ailis shoved her roughly to the ground and swiftly drew his blade.

“Stay down!” he yelled. “Ye dinnae wish tae see this.”

But she did. Ailis wanted to see it—no, she had to see it, to witness what would happen there and act accordingly. If Clan Caithness won the fight, then she still had a chance. If they could stop her father’s men, then she could plead with their laird to give her shelter in his home.

She raised her head just as steel met steel.

The fight seemed to explode all around her in a single moment, soldiers from both sides clashing like a wave against rock—a relentless attack on a seemingly undefeatable object.

Screams filled the air, the first men falling to the earth that was now soft with their blood as much as with the water of the bog.

It seeped into the soil, their bodies sinking half within the earth’s embrace, as though it was parting by itself to welcome them to their graves.

As though the land itself craved the blood.

And there—among the chaos, as she thrashed and tried to unbind her hands, Ailis saw him.

He moved like a shadow, his dark cloak swirling around his legs. His face was half-smeared with blood, though it didn’t seem to be his own, and his eyes—sharp and pale as winter skies—locked onto the Sutherland men with the cold certainty of death.

Who is that? Is he a warrior or a god that has taken on the likeness of man?