Page 123 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Alec plunged down the aisle of the prison toward the main area where it glowed with the golden light of the single torch placed in a sconce. Several women cowered on the ground.

A guard stood in the middle of them, massive compared to their emaciated frames.

His arm drew back and he knocked one of the women in the face. She fell to the ground like a sagging rag doll.

A low, guttural growl came from Alec and he hurtled his body toward the man, but before he could reach him, the guard grabbed one of the women and held a blade to her throat.

The woman’s gown fell open and Alec realized she was the one he’d saved when he first came down the stairs. The one who had stayed to save the others rather than flee and save herself.

“Dinna come any closer,” the man said. “I’ve no qualms about killing a witch.”

The odor of whisky, hot and stale, fogged thick in the air.

He was missing two front teeth and torchlight gleamed off his bald head.

Recognition smacked into Alec with such force it left him momentarily stunned.

He remembered a man with two missing teeth and a balding head.

In the village.

During the massacre.

“Ye were one of the outlaws who attacked the village.” Alec stared at the man’s clothes, at the tartan worn by most of MacDougall’s men.

“Aye, I was.” The man gave a hard bark of laughter. Then his laugh choked off and blood spilled from between his lips.

The woman he held turned toward him and pulled Alec’s dagger from his chest with a wet sucking sound. The guard fell backward and the women surged over him like vultures, their hands clawed to strike.

Alec turned his back to the man and let the women have their vengeance. No doubt their retribution was far more than Alec was capable of.

Celia had come closer, watching with such a quiet glow in her eyes he wondered if she wished to join them. Alec grasped Celia’s hand and pulled her toward the front of the dungeon, toward the exit.

“We must go,” Celia hissed to the women.

They neared the staircase and Alec’s heart pounded in great, hearty thuds.

It was one thing to go into battle with a band of armed men behind you, capable and lethal. It was entirely another to be centered in the enemy’s castle with a band of starving, abused women who looked to him for protection.

He felt more than saw their presence mass behind him—a wall of thirty or so slender, dirty bodies pressing toward the sweet breath of fresh air sweeping down the stairwell, leaning toward freedom.

He signaled for them to keep quiet, but their large eyes and drawn faces indicated they hadn’t needed the warning.

They climbed up the stairs in a slow-moving wave of carefully placed footsteps and held breath. Torchlight flickered in the darkness above.

He motioned for them to stop and went up alone, his sword drawn and ready.

For nothing.

No guards stood outside the entrance to the dungeon. Most were probably celebrating with Laird MacDougall, but Alec knew better than to relax.

Some men always stayed sober.

Some men were always ready to fight.

The night was cold enough to freeze his breath and it was so quiet he could hear the shushing roar of waves breaking against the cliffs just outside the castle walls.

He scanned the courtyard and saw no one. Uneven cobblestones jutted up like twisted teeth in the pale glow of the moon. Too far away stood the open gate, the only way to enter Aros, and the only way to leave.