Kristina's hands trembled and her stomach knotted as she pulled on her leather boots, then her thick woolen cloak. She found her cane where she'd propped it by the bed. 'Twas long, lightweight and made of pine, not nearly strong enough to use as a weapon. She was wise enough to know she couldn't defeat Blackburn with a stick, but she did need it to get around wherever she went.
"Where is she?" the male voice growled outside her door. "Out of my way, you hag!"
Panic quickened Kristina's breathing and her heart rate. She felt as if she were headed to her own execution… and she might be. The barbaric murderer who had forced Anna to marry him two years ago could easily kill Kristina… but he might suffer a couple of stab wounds in the process.
Though she had not wanted to ever prepare for this day, she had, for she knew Blackburn would never stop searching for Anna… unless he was dead. Unfortunately, no one had killed him yet.
He was obsessed with Anna, wanting to possess her and abuse her in equal measure. But Kristina—he would not give one rotten fig for her. He had merely used her to bend Anna to his will.
Had he not done enough damage to Kristina already? Blindness. A horrid scar down her face. What had she done to him? Naught but try to protect her beloved sister.
A heavy fist pummeled her door. She jumped, then stood firm, facing it. "Dear God, give me strength," she whispered, releasing a breath.
The latch clattered, but the bar held the door securely closed. "Lady Kristina, if you wish to see your sister alive, you will open this door now," Blackburn roared.
She frowned. His words made no logical sense. If he had Anna, he wouldn't be here. Did he take her for a fool?
"I will kill your aunt! Do you hear me, you little witch?"
Aunt Matilda screamed, turning Kristina's blood to ice. Had he grabbed her?
Kristina hastened toward the door. "Leave my aunt be… and everyone else here! Then I'll open the door. Do you promise?"
"Aye."
As if his promise meant anything. She well knew she could not bargain with the devil.
Kristina drew in a deep, calming breath. She would need all the fortitude and courage she possessed to face this brute. "Are you well, aunt?"
"Aye, but don't you dare open that door, Kristina!"
She didn't listen. She unbarred the door, for she wouldn't stand by while this madman killed her aunt, perhaps her ailing uncle, and everyone else in this house.
Kristina pulled the door open by slow degrees, feeling as if she stood before a gaping abyss, vulnerable, only blackness before her. Her heart thundered in her ears so loudly she could hardly hear. But she smelled him. Blackburn MacCromar stank of sweat, horses, and whisky.
"What do you want? Where is my sister?"
He yanked the cane from her hand, and it clattered away. Roughly, he grabbed Kristina, picked her up and tossed her over his bulky shoulder. Pain slammed into her stomach, near knocking the breath from her, even as fear spiked inside her. "Bastard," she gasped.
Her aunt screamed. Then Kristina felt her aunt's weak, arthritic grip on her arm as she tried to pull her from the monster.
"Get back, you old crone!" Blackburn turned about, shook her aunt off, then strode down the corridor.
"I'll be fine, aunt! Don't worry over me," Kristina called, trying to keep her voice steady, though she wanted to sob, her head dangling upside down. She imagined the horror on her aunt's face. "I'll send word when I can."
She heard sobs coming from her aunt and some of the female servants. Blackburn's boots clomped down the steps and along the wood floors, his men's footsteps following, as they exited the front door into the cool night air. The acrid smoke from burning pitch invaded her nostrils, making her cough. The sounds of hissing and popping torch flames reached her next. Horses neighed and snorted as he carried her among them. The scents of horses and sweaty men increased. How many men were here?
Chill wind blasted them, carrying away some of the odors and freshening the air.
"She can ride with me," a man said. She remembered that callous voice—Blackburn's second-in-command and war leader, the soulless man who'd held a knife to her throat: Red Holme.
Revulsion gave her a tremor as she recalled the nasty, lust-filled looks he'd given her before she'd lost her sight. He had tried every ploy to lure her to his bed. Disgusted by him and his malevolent aura, she'd spurned his advances.
"I brought a horse for her," Blackburn called to Holme. "Can you stay in the saddle, wench?" He dumped her onto her feet, then his voice became mocking. "Or would you feel safer riding with Holme?"
Toppling sideways against the horse, she grabbed onto the saddle. "I can ride alone." She had not been on a horse since losing her sight, but before that, she'd ridden plenty. Surely she hadn't forgotten how. And she wanted to be as far away from Holme as possible.
"Where is my sister?" she asked, keeping her voice steady and neutral.
