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The men move closer and my heart pounds faster. They move further apart. They’re almost within arm’s reach. It’s obvious they intend to capture me. I can’t let that happen. If they get their hands on me, this is over. I need space. Room to move. A chance to think of something.
When their eyes dart towards each other, I turn and run. The grass is thick, too thick. Weeds catch at my legs, slowing me down, and I’m running uphill. I’ve barely gone ten steps before I’m panting heavily. Terror causes my stomach to flip-flop and I’m light-headed.
I glance back, praying they’ve given up. No such luck. They’re giving chase but I’ve got a slight lead. Their run is slowed by the swords and equipment they’re carrying.
“Oi, lass,” dark-haired yells.
“Ya got nowhere to run,” fair-haired calls.
Pulse pounding in my head, I try to force my legs to move faster. Ahead, over the crest of the hill, there is a clanging sound like something metal being hit hard. Is that my friends? It must be. I’m too scared to look back.
The crest is close. If I can just reach it… Tears blur my vision. I swipe my arm over my eyes. All I can think about is to run. The men yell crude comments that I barely understand as their accents get thicker. Bowing my head, I pump my arms and legs, running as fast as I can.
Beyond the crest, someone is yelling. There’s no time to process what they’re saying but it’s followed by a scream. I reach the top and look back. They’re closing. The thin veil of rationality I’m clinging to is tattered. My heart races and cold, flat-out fear batters my thoughts.
I can’t stop. Whipping my head back around, I take the next step but my foot doesn’t move forward. The world tilts. I throw my arms up, protecting my head as I hit the ground hard.
Air is forced out of my lungs. I tumble, head over heels. Blue sky, green grass, blue sky, green grass over and over. Behind me are the sounds of scrabbling and curses. I hit a rocky protrusion. I can’t get a breath. Can’t move. I’m bruised, bleeding, and in a daze, lungs seizing.
Air rushes in, burning so bad I want to cry, but there’s no time. I’ve already been here too long. I try to move but my body refuses. Panic rises, tearing at the vestiges of calm but behind the panic is anger.
“Get up,” I growl. “I’m not a victim.”
I force myself to roll over onto my hands and knees then climb to my feet.
As I rise, an arm slams across my chest. I’m thrown back, losing the air I’d only just gotten. I trip over the rock and fall to the ground. I fight, blindly raging, lashing out with nails, fists, biting trying to get free.
I’m not strong enough to fight off two grown men, but I don’t care. I’m not going to let them have what they want. Not without a fight. I’m going to do everything possible to protect myself.
“Ach,” a man cries.
I scream.
Tears blur my vision. I scratch, kick, claw. Anything to cause harm.
“Stop.” One of them gets a hold of one of my arms.
I kick for his blurry head and make contact. He curses and lets me go. I roll to the side and keep rolling, putting distance between my attackers and me.
“Colquhoun,” a new voice yells, then several voices roar in unison.
“Shite,” one of my attackers says.
“Kiss my arse, MacGregors,” the other yells.
I leap to my feet, head spinning. I stumble, barely able to keep myself upright, wiping tears from my eyes until I can see again. My attackers back away, looking past me. I whirl to see what is scaring them, certain I’ve gone from the frying pan to the fire.
A handsome young man is running at me with shoulder length hair flowing behind as he bounds down the hill. He’s wearing a red kilt with grin bars and light blue lines making squares, the MacGregor tartan. He has a heavy broad sword in his right hand, and he springs across the grass with the grace of a gazelle. Behind him are a dozen more men, all armed, approaching at a slower pace.
The moment he enters arm’s length, I slap him before he can grab me. My hand connects across his cheek with a loud crack that leaves my hand stinging. A perfect red imprint of my palm and fingers flares on his face. He turns his head with the force of my blow but stops approaching. He touches his face as he slowly looks back at me.
“Are ya alright?” he asks, rubbing his cheek, but not moving closer.
I pant, heart pounding, fear and adrenaline making every nerve sing. I’m stuck between fight and flight. I stare at him then past him at the group of men who stop a short distance off. None of them make any threatening moves. He only seems concerned, but I don’t know if I trust that look or not.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“Nae, m’lady,” he says, swinging the large sword and sliding it into a sheath on his back. “We’re here to help.”
