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The sudden blast of freezing wind hit Mabel.

“Out,” the man ordered, shoving her through the opening.

Mabel stumbled out into the muddy, frozen grass, her bare feet sinking deep into the freezing dirt. She was exposed, standing just beyond the outer perimeter of the massive stone walls. The dense, sprawling forest loomed less than fifty yards ahead of them, swallowed by the darkness.

“Keep yer mouth shut and walk toward the trees,” the man ordered, grabbing her by the hair to forcefully steer her forward.

Mabel gritted her teeth against the sharp pain in her scalp. She looked wildly around the perimeter. If he dragged her into the dense cover of those trees, Caelan would never find her in time. She would vanish into the Highlands. She had to act now, or she was dead.

She snapped her gaze up to the high battlements of the fortress wall.

A lone MacCarron guard was slowly walking the perimeter walk, holding a blazing pitch torch. His back was currently turned to them, but he was less than thirty yards away.

It was her only chance.

Mabel deliberately allowed her knees to buckle. She collapsed heavily into the freezing mud, dragging the intruder down with her for a split second. The man cursed, his grip on her hair slipping.

Mabel filled her lungs with the freezing night air and screamed with absolutely every ounce of strength she possessed.

“Help! Guards! We are under the walls! Help me!”

“Shut yer mouth!” the intruder roared, lunging forward and striking her hard across the side of the head with the iron pommel of his dirk.

The blow sent a blinding flash of white light across Mabel’s vision, but the damage was already done.

“Halt!” a booming voice echoed from the battlements above them.

Mabel looked up through her blurred, ringing vision. The guard had spun around, his torch illuminating the desperate struggle in the mud below. He recognized her blonde hair and the white of her shift.

“It’s Miss Mabel!” the guard shouted, his voice cracking with sheer panic. He reached for the iron horn strapped to his belt and blew three long, frantic blasts. The deep, vibrating sound tore through the quiet night, echoing across the entire glen.

The keep erupted into chaos. Shouts echoed from the courtyard. Torches flared to life along the walls.

“Let her go!” the guard roared, dropping the horn and drawing his heavy longbow.

The intruder snarled, dragging Mabel roughly to her feet by the neck of her shift. “Run, ye bitch!”

Before he could take a single step, the sharp, violent hiss of an arrow cut through the air.

The thick, iron-tipped shaft slammed directly into the back of the intruder’s thigh. The man let out an agonizing, guttural roar of pain, his knee buckling instantly. He dropped the dirk into the mud, his hand flying to the thick shaft protruding from his leg.

“Run!” Mabel told herself, trying to wrench free from his grip.

But the man was running purely on adrenaline and blind panic. Despite the arrow buried in his flesh, he clamped his massive, bloodied hand around her throat and hauled her forward. He practically threw her into the dense cover of the treeline, using his own momentum to crash through the thick brush, disappearing into the darkness just as the gates of Blackthorn Keep began to grind open behind them.

He dragged her deep into the suffocating darkness of the forest, branches whipping against her face and tearing at her shift. She fought him, kicking at his uninjured leg, dragging her heels into the dirt, clawing at the thick leather gloves choking her throat.

They burst into a small, moonlit clearing about a mile into the woods.

The man finally threw her down. Mabel slammed hard against the roots of a massive oak tree, the breath knocked out of her lungs.

Before she could even try to sit up, the intruder spun around. His face was twisted into a mask of absolute, murderous fury. He reached down, grabbed her by the shoulder, and struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand.

The brutal force of the blow snapped Mabel’s head to the side. The metallic, bitter taste of blood flooded her mouth. She collapsed onto her side in the dirt, her ear ringing, her jaw throbbing with a sickening, localized heat.

“Ye stupid, screaming bitch!” the man spat, gripping the shaft of the arrow in his thigh and snapping the wood with a loud, sickening crack. “Ye nearly ruined the entire plan! I should slit yer throat right here and leave ye for the wolves!”

“Then do it,” Mabel gasped out, spitting a mouthful of blood into the dirt. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, glaring up at him with pure, unadulterated MacAllister fury. “Because if ye daenae kill me, me husband is going to skin ye alive.”