Damn him!

And damn her for wanting him!

Moira stormed through the woods, ignoring the rain which dripped down the back of her neck while she sought to put as much ground between herself and Fergus as possible.

Her face still burned, her lips still tingled as though he kissed her still.

Would that he were…

No! No, she did not want that. She would not allow him to use her that way, to make a fool of her. She was no man’s fool.

None of it made sense. Her head spun so, she could hardly think.

Why had she not left the mare behind?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, patting the horse’s neck. It nuzzled her hand.

Little comfort, but the only comfort afforded to her at the moment.

What was it about him that made it so difficult for her to resist? She could not resist fighting with him any better than she could resist melting into his arms. It seemed she always wanted to do either one or the other.

Now that she had kissed him, or been kissed by him, she would want one much more than the other. She would never get the taste of him out of her mouth or her mind. Or her heart.

She leaned against the trunk of the nearest pine, tilting her head back that the few drops of water which made their way through the branches dripped onto her upturned face.

What was she going to do with him? With herself?

The mare snorted, causing her to look around. Had she heard a noise? “Fergus? I want you to leave me alone.”

Another noise, something like a footstep. A broken twig.

The mare fought against the reins, wanting to break loose.

“Fergus?” She reached into her belt for her dirk.

There was no time to reach it before a pair of rough hands grabbed her from behind, spinning her in place, slamming her against the tree. Stars burst behind her eyelids as the side of her face made contact with the unforgiving trunk.

She drew in a breath with the intent of screaming, but a hand covered her mouth before she could manage.

“Take the horse.” A harsh whisper in her ear.

A shadowy figure took the mare’s reins, motioned as though they were calming it.

Meanwhile, the man who pinned her to the tree chuckled. “What’s a lass doing, wandering the woods by herself? Why would ye take such chances when there are thieves and cutthroats everywhere?”

She fought against his arms, his hands, his heavy body weighing on hers. It was no use. He was unmoving as the pine against which she writhed in protest.

“I enjoy spirited lasses such as yourself,” the man chuckled, his breath hot and sour in her face. “I believe you’ll make life more interesting until we tire of ye. Or wear ye out.”

Her mind reeled in horror at the prospect, and somehow gave her the strength to bite his hand and push him from her when he recoiled.

“Fergus!” she screamed, but that was all she managed before those strong hands slammed her against the tree again, and all went black.

Her last clear thought was of Fergus, and how she had at least kissed him before she died.

But she did not die.

When Moira came to, she was hanging over the saddle, bouncing with each step the mare took. Her wrists and ankles were bound tight enough to leave hands and feet numb. Useless.

Her captors—cutthroats, the word was—muttered to each other as they walked through the rain. It did not seem to matter to them that the heavens had opened as they had.

She remembered the sour stench of the man who’d attacked her. The rain was likely a good thing. He might come clean.

They thought she was still unconscious. Good. She listened hard, willing herself to ignore the pain in her face. It felt as though the entire side was bruised, scraped. But not broken. She could still move her jaw, though it pained her to do so.

“Now we’ll get nothing for her,” one of them muttered.

“We didna take ‘er to get anything for ‘er. From ‘er, aye, but not for ‘er.”

Their laughter—filthy, nasty—told her what she needed to know. He had already told her as much, of course. They planned to use her until they were through with her, then either kill her or leave her to die.

But why would they get nothing for her if they tried?

Fergus. Where was Fergus?

“Ye left him there, then?”

A third voice. “Aye, he’ll not be tellin’ anyone of us. He’ll not be tellin’ anyone anythin’ now.”

They laughed again, as screams rang through her head.

They’d killed him. They left him to die after attacking her. He was back in the woods somewhere, and he would never know she’d loved him. Stupid, foolish, damnable pride.

There was no holding back her grief, no matter how she tried. Her sniffling got the attention of the men, and they stopped the mare.

“What have we here?” Before she knew what was happening, one of them took her by the back of the head, pulling her hair as he yanked her head up so he might look her in the eye.

She blinked against the rain and glared at him. “Take your hands off me, you filthy, rabid dog.”

The man’s one eye—the other covered with a patch, telling her he’d likely lost it—narrowed as he studied her.

Then, he laughed.

Before tightening his grip on her hair, making her squeal in pain.

He laughed harder.

“I told ye she was a fighter, did I not?” He leaned in closer as his friends chuckled. “Ye want to be kind to me, lass, for I can make what’s left of yer life easy, or I can make it terrible hard. ‘Tis up to ye.”

He dropped her head then, spitting on the ground near her. “Let us move.”

“We haven’t eaten all day,” one of the other two complained.

“Aye, and the rain isn’t lettin’ up,” the other muttered.

“We haven’t put enough ground between us and him,” the one-eyed man snarled.

“Ain’t nobody gonna find him, lyin’ dead in the woods. We have plenty of time.”

“You animals!” she screamed, fighting to throw herself from over the back of the horse. It was no use, bound as she was.

“You’ll be shuttin’ your mouth!” one of them snarled.

The one-eyed man chuckled. “Full of fire. We’ll see how long it takes that fire to burn out.”

The horse came to a stop. “Aye, might as well camp here, then, if the pair of ye willna stop cryin’ like bairns about how hungry ye are.”

Minutes later, Moira hit the ground with a thud.

“Build a fire,” the one-eyed man growled, “and one of ye catch us somethin’ to eat, as ye already complained how hungry ye are.”

Meanwhile, he sat across from her, his back to a tree as hers was. He wore a filthy tunic, trousers torn and patched many times over. His shoes were worn nearly all the way through at the heels. His long hair was thin, dirty.

“Why do you do this?” she asked, her nose wrinkling at the smell of him. “It does not bring you wealth, that much is clear.”

“I wouldna be insulting me if I were ye,” he muttered.

“You murder innocent people. No insult is strong enough for you.”

He chuckled, looking away, turning his eyepatch to her. “Maybe I like it,” he snarled. “I enjoy the killin’, the endin’ of a man’s life. Just as I’ll enjoy killin’ ye, when the time times. Oh, aye. I’ll enjoy it much more now that I’ve heard the things comin’ from yer wicked tongue.”

“I’ll say a lot more than that,” she warned.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt, unless I break every one of yer teeth before gaggin’ ye.”

She swallowed hard, unwilling to reveal the horror he inspired. Even so, the thought of the violence he promised made her quake inside. Made her close her mouth.

It hurt to speak, anyway. Everything hurt.

Why had she not told Fergus how she felt when she might? She would never see him again, and he had died without knowing.

He cannot be dead. He must not be dead. There is no world without him in it.

And yet she could not bring herself to believe it. She refused to. He needed to believe he was still alive, or else what was there to fight for?

He was a strong man, was he not? It would take quite a bit to kill one such as him. He’d survived war and had learned to live in the woods for long stretches of time while riding out on one task or another.

He could survive an attack from this lot. She was certain of it.

She had to be.

The rain slowed to nothing more than a drizzle, and the other two cutthroats returned with arms full of dry wood. They were younger than their leader, and neither seemed very clever. They moved slowly. She supposed they made up for their lack of speed with strength, which they must have possessed if they were to overtake Fergus.

“Snared us a few hares,” one of them muttered as they worked to build the fire.

“Hares,” the one-eyed man sneered before spitting on the ground to show his feelings for it. “I’m sick of the taste.”

“I could fell a deer for us,” Moira offered.

The three of them laughed. “Aye, we’ll allow ye to wield a bow,” the one-eyed man sneered. “That would be a grand idea.”

“If you are tired of eating hare, I would expect it would be a grand change for you,” she pointed out, shrugging as best she could with her hands bound before her.

“Keep yer mouth shut, as I warned ye,” he snarled. “Before I make it so ye canna speak at all. I’ve always wondered how it would be to cut a woman’s tongue out—all the pleasure of her company, none of the backtalk.”

The men laughed, long and hard.

Moira shuddered and asked herself what was taking Fergus so long to find her.

For she had finally come up against something she could not defeat on her own.