He came at her the moment she opened her mouth. She tried to scramble away, feet slipping on damp heather. “Listen to me! I am the countess of Kincreag! You’ve obviously made a terrible mistake, but if you return me now, I’m sure my husband will be lenient.”
The young man hauled her off the ground. “I’vemade no mistake,” he said, speaking Scots now. “It’s you we want.”
Gillian started to scream, but he waved the wool threateningly at her. “I’ll let ye choke on it this time.”
Gillian’s mouth snapped shut.
“She’ll not be much use to you dead,” a disembodied voice rumbled from the haze of fog.
Her captor seized her, hauling her hard against his chest. He produced a dirk and pressed it to her ribs. “Who’s there?” he called, his head whipping about wildly.
Gillian searched the mist, desperately trying to locate the source of the voice. A dark shape appeared, moving toward them, materializing out of the murk. It stopped just far enough away so only the great height and breadth were clear, the features obscured. But Gillian knew exactly who it was, and her heart did a painful leap of joy.Nicholas.
She bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood, wondering what she could do to aid him. Her bodice, arisaid, and stays were thick enough that the dirk’s blade was only a threatening pressure. He’d have to exert great force to penetrate the stiffened leather of her stays—at the angle he held her, it would be a mean feat even for a man of his obvious strength.
“Kincreag!” the man said. “Come no closer or I’ll kill her.”
“You won’t do that, Scott,” Kincreag drawled. “You want something from me, and ye’ll never get it if you kill her. You’ll only share her fate. So tell me now and let’s end this, aye.” While talking he’d moved closer, circling them.
The man’s breathing quickened. He shifted, turning with jerky movements to keep his eyes on Kincreag. The pressure at her side increased.
“You dinna ken what I want. I swear I’ll kill her!”
With a surge of pure terror Gillian believed he meant to do it. It was unusual for a hostage to be killed outright—they had more important uses, such as ransom—but perhaps it was different in the Highlands.
Kincreag was close enough now that his face was visible. His expression was hard, uncompromising, black eyes burning in a composed and determined face. Her captor’s muscles tensed as he stepped back. Gillian’s blood rushed, gripped with a sudden fearful excitement. She took advantage of Scott’s uneasiness and jerked away from him. He cursed, grappling with her. The dirk came at her, jabbing hard beneath her breast while she twisted violently from his hold.
Kincreag was there, forcing himself between them. He had her kidnapper’s knife arm, and he turned it hard. Gillian heard a sickening crack. Kincreag backhanded him, and there was another moist, splintering sound. The blond man stumbled away and fell to his knees, his mouth open on a silent cry of agony, blood streaming from his nose.
“Evan!” Kincreag barked, shoving the man onto the ground with a boot and pinning him there. Scott lay still, clutching his useless arm and panting. The dark-haired knight appeared. He looked from Scott to Gillian with furrowed brow, baffled—and afraid, too, his skin paling. But Nicholas made no mention of hismistake. Gillian was certain he’d take it up with the knight in private, later.
“Make our guest comfortable,” Nicholas said, smiling darkly at his prisoner. “We’ll visit soon, Scott.” To Sir Evan he said, “Bind his arm. Keep a guard on him.”
Sir Evan helped the Highlander to his feet and led him away.
Gillian rubbed at her ribs, trying to catch her breath. It had all happened so fast. Her hands encountered torn fabric. Relief swamped her, weakening her. One of her fingers poked through a hole in her arisaid. Her hands were pushed aside.
She raised her head and looked into Nicholas’s eyes, intent on her ribs as he moved her arisaid, folding it over her shoulder. His warm fingers slid through a hole in her bodice to her stays, probing beneath. Gillian winced. He pulled his fingers away and looked at them, but there was no blood.
“It’s just a bruise, my lord. Leather stays are as good as armor, methinks.” Even as she said it, her body quivered with delayed fear. Had she really actively aided in her own rescue?
He still stared at his fingers. He dropped his hand slowly and raised his gaze to hers. He said nothing for a long moment. Her belly fluttered sickeningly from vomiting and fear, and she swayed, overcome.
He reached for her, steadying hands grasping her elbows. She leaned into him, her hands curling into his plaid. He remained still and silent, allowing her to regain her composure. He was so strong and steady; shedidn’t want to move away from him, but his grip on her elbows slowly tightened.
She tilted her head back to see his face. He gazed down at her, black lashes partially obscuring obsidian eyes, their expression inscrutable. What was he thinking? Was he angry with her for causing so much trouble? She wished he’d say something. His heavy silence made her anxious.
He set her away from him. “That was thoughtless. A countess cannot be so thoughtless with her life.”
“It was not thoughtless. I considered my chances of coming out of the encounter unstabbed. I calculated correctly.” The high-pitched break in her voice belied her flippant words.
He closed his eyes and his jaw shifted slightly, as if he searched for patience.
Was he truly upset? Or had he actually feared for her? Pleasure shivered through her. She lifted her hand to touch his sleeve, but when he opened his eyes and fixed them almost angrily on her hand, she only fluttered it about near him.
“I did not mean to vex you, my lord. Only to aid you. He had the dirk, after all.”
He looked into her face, his gaze no longer harsh or cold—though not exactly warm either. It was as if he considered her for the first time. “We are alone, Gillian. I pray you, address me familiar. We are married.”
