Victoria slipped out of her shoes, then tugged off her dress and laid it out a few feet from the wide stream. Moist air prickled in cool waves along her exposed arms and legs, penetrating the thin fabric of her chemise. The water would be even colder, but two days on a horse had left a thin layer of dust and grime that she could smell.

She picked her way across the rocky ground to the water’s edge and paused. The piercing cry of a Red Kite overhead broke into the quiet of the waning day. The bird disappeared around a bend and Victoria slid her gaze upward to the stars emerging through the sun’s final rays. By the map forming in the sky, Montrose Abbey was two days journey southwest. Walking back should be as simple as the bird’s escape had been. But Iain MacPherson was no fool. The unassuming slope of forest surrounding the stream’s shore led straight up the foothills of the

Grampians. The only way out of the meadow was the way they had entered. A neat trap, indeed.

With a disgusted shake of her head, she lifted her chemise above her knees and stepped into the water. A shock of cold dug deep into her bones even as smooth pebbles soothed beneath her feet. An arm suddenly snaked around her waist. She gasped. A large hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her against a heavy body. Iain MacPherson?

Nay.

Victoria screamed through the calloused hand covering her mouth and clawed at the fingers. He yanked her off the ground. She thrashed. The slosh of footsteps through the quiet of the shallow water jerked her attention to the right. A stranger stepped into view. Canny brown eyes met her gaze, then dropped to the low, stitched bodice of her chemise. His expression darkened with lewd, male appreciation. He reached toward her and Victoria knocked his hand aside. He growled and backhanded her. Stinging pain lanced out in tiny tendrils through her cheek, and she slammed harder into the man holding her.

He thrust his arousal against her. Her stomach churned. She twisted, but he shoved her to the ground. A rock jammed into the vertebrae between her shoulder blades. She wheezed. Her attacker fell on her. She shoved at him, still gasping for air.

He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Do not be afraid. ’Tis just a bit of sport we want.”

His mouth came down on the sensitive flesh of her neck. The feel of coarse hair against her cheek startled her, but his hot breath, so intimately brushing her skin as he continued downward, triggered something primal. Victoria bit down on his hand with such force it took him two hard yanks to free himself. “Bitch.” He sucked on the spot where she had drawn blood.

Victoria drew breath for a bloodcurdling scream, but the second man dropped to his knees and stuffed a cloth into her mouth, cutting off the sound. She sputtered at the foul taste as she was yanked to her feet. He bound the gag with a long strip of cloth. She slashed at his face with her nails. He jerked back. The man behind her pinned her arms beneath the steel of his arm.

“She is a bloody wild cat,” the one in front muttered.

“Aye.” Her captor smiled against her hair. “I saw it in her eyes yesterday.”

Comprehension dulled as the warrior before her reached out. Her stomach lurched and the darkening sky spun. He massaged her breast, and his focus sharpened in unison with a malicious smile. A low, guttural sound emanated from the man holding her. The man kneading the tender flesh of her breast ceased and jerked his head toward the forest.

They started forward and Victoria stumbled, causing the arm around her to tighten painfully against her ribs. She gasped for air, barely aware her feet had left solid ground. The stream vanished from view as they entered the trees. The men made surprising progress, and she realized the safety of the camp would be a distant memory in minutes.

Tears welled in her eyes. She strained in an effort to wrench a hand free, but the man holding her only snickered. She kicked and her heel made solid contact with his knee. Harsh Gaelic words ground out against her ear. The hand clamping her mouth yanked her head back, twisting it against his shoulder.

“You will not enjoy the payment due for that,” he rasped. “Or mayhap you will. If you want it that way, just keep fighting, and obliging will be a pleasure.”

He released her mouth and slid his hand down the smooth linen of her chemise until his fingers grasped a nipple. His pace slowed as he rolled it between his fingers. He pinched the nipple. Victoria drew back in shock, but this time not in reaction to his touch. Instead, recollection of another cruel hand rushed forward. Her mind staggered and her resolve fragmented with the unexpected memory.

Rationale fought against the ghost, but it wasn’t a face she saw. Instead, like the man who held her now, it was the feel of his hot breath in her ear. Her husband’s whispered words on their wedding night had been as foreign as her captor’s Gaelic words. The same panic she experienced when Richard instructed her in his sexual preferences roared to life, and the inclination to comply as she had then, warred with the primal fight for survival.

Her attacker’s hand fell from her breast, breaking the morbid trance. A cool wind whistled through the trees as if to say all would be well. Yet, as relief filtered through her, his arm slid around her hips, grinding her against his erection. His hand dropped lower, and Victoria screamed through the gag, bucking wildly when he cupped the area between her legs. He groaned, sending the sound reverberating past her screams and deep into the part of her that pleaded with him to stop.

She kicked and thrashed, but her struggles didn’t halt the rise of her chemise as the fingers bunched the fabric into his fist, inching it ever higher. Tears stung when the heat of his hand on her thigh slid upward. Another hard kick hit him below the knee, but instead of stopping his efforts, it only hastened his hand’s contact with the curls that hid the most private part of her. A deep sob escaped her and her strength ebbed.

Still, she crossed her legs and stiffened.

With a low growl, the Fraser warrior came to a halt. Victoria forced back bile. He had finally chosen a place to finish the deed. A sword seemed to magically appear before them. She blinked as another, then another appeared. MacPhersons. Tears filled her eyes.

Her assailant reached across her. She tensed upon realizing he was drawing his sword. The sight of his weapon gleaming against remaining shafts of sunlight that pierced the canopy was followed by the spectacle of his companion flying through the air in front of them, landing close to where the MacPherson swords stood in readiness. Her captor whirled.

Strong hands wrenched Victoria free and pushed her to the ground. Dull pain radiated through her shoulder. She winced and blinked in the direction of the Fraser clansman as he lunged recklessly with his claymore, only to have it deflected with the steel of another, more skilled, sword. The Fraser warrior stepped back, but Iain MacPheson advanced on him. “Is that the hand you touched her with?”

The man’s gaze flicked to his free hand.

Fool. Even past the haze, Victoria could see the word written on the MacPherson lord’s face. His sword shot out. The man shouted in pain as blood spurted and his hand dropped away from his wrist. In a blinding fury, he raised his weapon, but not quickly enough to avoid the claymore that impaled him in one swift movement. Her eyes refused to move from where Iain MacPherson stared at his opponent for a long moment.

“You will never touch another woman.” The soft words belied the hard twist Iain gave as he wrenched his sword deeper into the belly of his victim before yanking it from his body.

The man’s eyes bulged and a loud gurgling noise filled the silence, but Victoria kept her gaze fixed on him even after he crumbled to the ground.

Firm, but gentle hands clasped her shoulders, pulling her into reassuring warmth. The gag was loosened from her mouth, and she coughed as much out of reflex as the need to spew the rank memory from existence. She jumped when Iain shouted something to one of his men. A moment later, a MacPherson appeared, tartan in hand, and Iain surrounded her with the soft wool. His attempts to coax her back to where her dress lay were met with staunch refusal on the part of her legs to move.

“Come, love,” he said, his voice low and gentle.

“You will feel better after you dress.”

The tenderness in his voice sparked something undefinable and the dam broke, bringing with it trembling, followed by quiet weeping. Clutching his shirt, Victoria leaned into him. She shook her head over and over. Iain hugged her close, making soft, indistinguishable noises until she shifted to peer through her tears at the body of her attacker. Iain’s fingers caressed her cheek as he forced her face back to his chest. She convulsed and again sobbed against him. The cleansing tears finally slowed and shock gave way to anger.

“This is your fault,” she railed between hoarse hiccups.

“Aye,” he agreed all too quickly.

Victoria looked up at him. Fear shown on his face.

She pounded a fist against his chest.

“You think your penitence absolves you?” Her voice rose and cracked. She leaned away from him and pounded him harder. “Damn you, you bastard! Let—me—go.” She repeated the words over and over, until at last they drifted into nothing more than a whisper. Her knees gave way and Iain caught her to himself.

Strength surged through her and she pushed at him. “I would rather you left me than touch me.” But he held her close until her tears again subsided, though her whispered pleas to return home did not.

When she finally quieted, he placed shaking fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face upward. As though searching for some answer, he held her there for what seemed an eternity before lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to where her dress lay. He set her feet on the ground, his arm around her, and again lifted her tear-stained face up to his.

“Did they hurt you?”

She bowed her head. Iain hesitated as if he might press her, then picked up her dress. He loosened the tartan from her fingers. His jaw clenched and he reached in the direction of her bodice. Victoria flinched.

Iain halted. “What is this?”

Victoria looked down at a dark red mark that marred the swell of her breast. She yanked the dress from his grasp and held it to her. “You need ask?”

His gaze dropped to where the garment now covered the bruise, then returned to the unsteady lift of her chin. His eyes hardened, but he turned away, allowing her to dress.

Iain escorted her back to the camp and left her with two of his men, then disappeared into the forest again. When he returned, she was sitting on a pallet.

“You are sure he is dead?” Victoria cursed the tremble in her voice.

“Aye,” Iain answered.

“What of the other one?”

“I tied him to a tree.”

“What if I steal away and kill him?”

Iain shrugged. “It would be no more than he deserves.”

“I have the right. Men do not understand that women also need justice.”

All amusement died from his face. “I do know, lass, and you shall have it.”