Page 6 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER THREE

"Let me go, ye bloody savages! Ye dare tae take the daughter of Laird Alistair MacDuff, bride to Laird Colin Armstrong! I demand ye put me down this instant!"

The furious voice cut through the Highland air like a blade through silk—sharp, defiant, and speaking words that made Colin Armstrong's blood run cold. He pulled his destrier to a halt, his hand instinctively moving to his sword hilt as the meaning of those words hit him.

Bloody hell. Morag MacDuff. Me betrothed who should be on her way tae me castle right now. Someone was carrying her off.

Choosing solitude to clear his mind, Colin Armstrong had been riding the border patrol alone, checking the outer reaches of his lands for signs of Fraser incursions when that voice reached him through the trees. The very lass he was meant to marry on the morrow was being kidnapped on the border of Armstrong lands in the small stretch of land owned by Fraser.

Colin's jaw tightened as fury swept through him like wildfire. He knew Fraser had been planning raids on Armstrong cattle, but to think that the bastard was also planning to steal his bride as well was unspeakable.

He urged his horse forward through the trees, moving as silently as his destrier's training would allow. Through the undergrowth, he could see them now. Three men in rough leathers, and between them, a slight figure with dark blonde hair that had come loose from its pins. Her hands and feet were bound, but even trussed like a prisoner, she fought them every step.

"Put. Her. Down." Colin's voice rang through the clearing like the toll of a funeral bell.

The three men spun toward him, hands flying to their weapons, but they moved too slowly. Colin was already among them, his destrier's hooves striking sparks from stone as the great horse wheeled and turned. His sword took the first man across the chest before he could clear his blade from its sheath.

The second lunged with a dirk, but Colin's longer reach served him well. Steel met steel with a ringing clash that echoed through the trees, and then the man was falling backward with a look of surprise frozen on his face.

The third one, who'd been reaching for the lass, managed to draw his sword but never got the chance to use it. Colin's blade found the gap in his leather jerkin, sliding between ribs with the practiced ease of a man who'd been killing for a long time.

Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the sound of his horse's breathing. Colin wiped his blade clean and sheathed it before turning to the woman on the ground. She was staring at him with wide blue eyes, her face pale beneath a streak of dried blood on her forehead.

"Saints preserve us," came Morag's breathless whisper. "Who are ye?"

He chose to ignore the question, and instead knelt beside her, his dirk making quick work of the ropes binding her wrists and ankles. The hemp fell away to reveal angry red marks where the bonds had bitten into her skin.

"Are ye hurt, lass?"

"I'm... I'll be fine," she managed, her voice steadier than he'd expected. She rubbed at her wrists, wincing slightly. "Thank ye."

But under her breathe, Colin caught the whispered words. "Cursed lands... Ma was right about this place being made of steel and sorrow..."

Colin kept his expression neutral. Clearly, his bride-to-be had already formed opinions about Armstrong territory. He extended his arm toward her, firming his grip when she swayed slightly on her feet.

"Here, lass. Take me arm—ye've had a shock."

But instead of accepting his offer, Morag took a sharp step backward, her eyes darting between him and the bodies of her captors.

"I... I thank ye fer yer help, sir, but I can manage on me own." Her voice was carefully controlled, but he caught the tremor beneath the words. "I need tae find me escorts and poor Isla."

Without warning, she bolted.

Colin watched her run with growing irritation. The lass sprinted through the trees like a deer fleeing wolves, her torn skirts hampering her stride but not slowing her determination.

So this was the biddable daughter Alistair MacDuff had praised so highly? The sweet, gentle lass who would make an ideal wife for securing their alliance? Her father had spoken of Morag's intelligence, her loyalty, her numerous skills which he would not speak about in details, and her potential for household management. He'd failed to mention she was as stubborn as a Highland bull and twice as likely to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

Colin's jaw tightened as he watched her weave between the trees, clearly trying to find the road. Did the foolish chit think she could simply cover the distance between here and MacDuff lands on foot? With night falling and Fraser lurking at every territory border?

"Bloody hell, MacDuff, what manner of wife did ye send me?" he muttered, swinging up onto his destrier. The last thing he needed was to spend his evening chasing his own bride through the forest like some lovesick fool.

He caught up to her easily, the great horse's stride covering ground far faster than her desperate flight. When she finally burst through the tree line onto the road, she stopped so abruptly she nearly fell.

The carnage spread before them told its story in blood and splintered wood. Where her fine MacDuff carriage had stood, only broken wheels and scattered belongings remained. Dark stains painted the ground in patterns that spoke of violence and death.

"Me guards," she whispered, swaying on her feet, one hand pressed to her mouth.

"They're dead," Colin said from horseback, his voice cold as steel. "All of them."