The man standing looking at her was not Malcolm. She had never seen him before. A small scream of shock flew from her lips.
“Och, ’tis her all right. All that red hair. Aye, the laird will be very satisfied tae finally have her,” he muttered as if talking to himself.”
Catriona stared at him aghast, taking in his rough clothing and unkempt appearance. He was caked with dust, as if he had been riding for a long time. The lower half of his face was covered by a matted beard of dull brown. His nose resembled a squashed mushroom, and greasy curls stuck out from beneath a grubby tartan cap.
“Och aye, the laird will be very happy with me fer certain sure,” the man muttered, his glittering pale-blue eyes fixed fervently upon her.
A sword and dirk hung at his belt, yet it was the tartan ribbon tied about his sleeve that frightened Catriona the most. Cold dread settled in her stomach like a lead weight at the sight of it. For she recognized the colors at once.
Sinclair. He’s one of Sinclair’s men.
Knowing she had to get away from him, else she might as well be dead, Catriona forced her frozen mind to work. How could she escape? She had left Matilda under the willows, several yards away. To reach the mare, she would have to get past him. The same went for his horse.
So, she had only two choices. Plunge into the loch fully clothed and try to swim away. She quickly ruled that possibility out because although she was quite a strong swimmer, her skirts andboots would weigh her down. Even if he could swim, she would most likely drown before he could catch her.
There was no other option but to run.
The man came closer, his hands out as if gentling a horse, continuing to mutter. “What a stroke of luck tae run intae ye like this, lassie. But dinnae fash yersel’, there’s nay hurry. We dinnae havetae rush tae get ye tae Laird Sinclair if ye need a bit of time.”
He advanced towards her, mumbling soothing words, and for each step he took, Catriona stepped back. Afraid to look away from him lest he try to pounce on her, she edged her feet along the shore of the loch, terrified of losing her footing. If she did, he would be on her.
Then, she heard more hooves thundering towards them, coming closer and closer.
Hope flickered in Catriona’s breast.
Please, Lord, let it be Malcolm.
The man heard it to. Suddenly, moving faster than she would have thought him capable of, the man lunged at her. She shrieked and tried to jump backwards out of reach of his grasping hands. But in her panic, her feet slipped.
He was on her, grabbing her arm and shoving her down on the gravel so hard, the air was driven from her lungs.
“Seems like we have some company, eh? But they’ll nae bother us fer long.” Whipping out his dirk, he waved it in her face. With a gasp, she jerked away, but he grabbed her by the hair. Leaning down, putting his face inches from hers, he hissed through broken teeth, “Stay there, lass,” he hissed. “I’ll be back fer ye directly.”
He positioned himself a few feet in front of her, dirk in one fist, sword in the other, clearly waiting to ambush whoever was coming.
At that moment, the willows parted and Warrior plunged from the trees onto the shore, with a thunderous looking Malcolm riding almost flat in the saddle.
Och, thank ye, Lord.
Catriona thought, tears of relief filling her eyes. He had gone from the last person she wanted to see to theonlyperson she wanted to see.
He yanked sharply on the reins and drew Warrior to a screeching halt, then threw himself from the saddle, landing surefooted on the shore with a sharp crunch.
Catriona watched as his eyes rapidly swept the scene, taking in her assailant only briefly before they settled on her. When he saw her lying in the sand, his face darkened like a storm. His sword sang as he pulled it from its scabbard and advanced on her captor, his face a cold mask.
“Malcolm, be careful, he’s armed!” Catriona called out to him in warning, suddenly terrified of him being hurt.
Catriona was afraid to watch, yet she could not look away as Malcolm bore down on Sinclair’s man, raining blows upon him, his sword flashing as it arced and sliced through the air, wielded with deadly precision.
The sound of clashing steel ripped through the tranquil afternoon as Sinclair’s man frantically parried the lightening-fast blows coming at him from above, the front, to the side.
Malcolm’s relentless onslaught seemed almost effortless as he pushed his assailant steadily backwards towards the water, giving no quarter. However, the man managed almost by accident to wound him on his arm, slicing through the sleeve of Malcolm’s coat just above the elbow. Catriona’s hand flew to her mouth in alarm as she saw blood seeping from beneath the ripped material.
But Malcolm did not appear to notice the injury and pressed forward unceasingly, his greater height and reach giving him a natural advantage over his smaller opponent, which he ruthlessly exploited. Driven back, the man splashed into the loch, frantically trying to deflect Malcolm’s unerring, unrelenting attack.
He staggered suddenly, letting out a sharp cry. The next moment, with a deft twist of Malcolm’s wrist, his blade was flipped out of his hand and sank into the dark waters.
With a fluid movement, Malcolm lunged forward and pierced the man’s throat with his sword then pulled it back. His victim clutched at his neck, gurgling for air, then fell to his knees with a splash, before finally crashing face first into the lapping waves. Blood billowed out, a crimson stain on the dark surface.
