Chapter Two
Stunned, Arabella gaped at the stranger who sprang from darkness. Dread sunk its claws deep beneath her skin and her heart skipped several beats. She sat frozen in Devlin’s saddle, ensnared in a brief stupor.
One side of the man’s face bore a grievous mark, which carved a jagged path from temple to neck, disappearing beneath his leine and tartan mantle. A jawline of midnight whiskers did little to soften the sharp planes of his visage. His cropped, raven hair gleamed a dark-blue luster in the torchlight. Powerless to stop herself, she swept her gaze over the length of his massive body, down to his buckskin boots. When she met his stare, she barely repressed a shudder. He stood unmoving, his tight, blue gaze fastened on her. Those icy eyes of his, joined by a baleful grin, seized her.
By the Saints, why was he smiling?
A frantic burst of laughter almost tumbled out of her. I’ve survived the mossy wall of doom only to face down the devil.
She glanced over the giant’s head to his twelve henchmen blocking the gate. Attired in the same cloth mantle as the man in front of her, each warrior sat astride his horse, proud and strong. Their dour features were harsh and unyielding. ’Twas evident who, or rather, what they were—Highlanders.
Barely a fortnight had passed since she’d dispatched David, a young messenger, to Scotland with an urgent missive for her uncle. She’d no notion whether the youth reached the safety of the Fraser keep, or if he’d even made it out of England alive. Eyeing the muted colors of their mantles, she frowned at the group.
Several Highland and Lowland clans donned the coarse, dyed fabric to announce which lands they hailed from. Her uncle’s clan was no different. But Frasers, these men were not.
Who then? And why the devil now of all times? Reivers or bandits? ’Twas not unheard of for bands of Scots to venture south and rob English holdings. She gave up searching her weary, frayed mind for a sound reason. Naught made sense any longer.
At the end of her wits, Arabella resisted the urge to toss up her hands in exasperation and curse the intruders for their ill-timed arrival. On the brink of grasping her freedom, she refused to retreat now. Not when she’d come this far and certainly not if she wished to survive. Grabbing on to her tottering faith, she squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to the man in front of her.
The tall Highlander had not budged one massive muscle. With his arms crossed over his bulky chest and his mouth set in a firm line, the stern man resembled a stone carving. Despite the weight of unease, she fought the impulse to roll her eyes at his posturing stance. Instead of provoking him, she attempted an appeal in his dialect.
“I beg of you to let me pass, sir.” The Gaelic rolled from her tongue with ease, but the shakiness in her voice surprised her. She cleared her throat and spoke in a steadier tone. “Attack the castle at your will once I’ve passed. I assure you, I shall sound no alarm.”
The big man snorted and she flinched. His humor or incredulity—she was unsure which her statement inspired—was not the reaction she sought. She swallowed hard and sucked in a deep breath to gather her patience. One dark eyebrow hitched upward and his blue eyes speared her in place.
“Nay, my lass. You’ll be coming with us,” he countered in Gaelic.
The deep, rich drawl sent a shiver through her, raising gooseflesh along the skin of her arms. Alarm flared inside her as bright as the sun on a midsummer’s day. She blinked her eyes shut in an attempt to blot out her imminent defeat. But ’twas still there, along with the last memory of her brother’s teasing smile.
Her wavering composure threatened to splinter apart into a dozen pieces. Arabella bit her bottom lip, embracing the twinge of pain, and snatched ahold of her temperance before she dissolved into a sobbing heap of despair. A flush of anger bled through her sorrow and her indignation chose to rear its stubborn head.
One covetous fiend sought to take everything from her, including her freedom. By the Saints, she refused to submit the only thing she had left to another. Assembling every scrap of her courage, she opened her eyes and met the Highlander’s unsettling, crystalline stare. With far more confidence than she possessed, she lifted her chin in defiance.
“I’m passing through this gate whether you allow it or not.” The man parted his lips as if to speak, but she rushed on, “’Tis a matter of life and death I leave, at once. Please stand aside, sir.”
His inflexible countenance conveyed not a flicker of emotion. His gaze roved over her face, as if taking her measure. Bearing the scrutiny, she strove for a calm outer appearance despite the pitch and roll of her stomach.
The howling wind, clamor from the great hall, and the drum of her own heart filled her ears. The man had not removed his eyes from her since the shadows spat him out. The weight of his firm stare bore through her, heightening her discomfort. Fiddling with Devlin’s reins, she shifted in the saddle, unable to sit idle another godforsaken moment.
With a quick glimpse of the men blocking the gate, she constricted her grip on Devlin’s reins and gave a faint tug to his bridle. The beast let loose a loud, warning whiny and clomped his feet in agitation. She braced her legs tight to his flanks in anticipation.
Devlin tossed his mane and Arabella held on for dear life. The massive gelding reared up, kicking out at the man in front of him. Surprise flashed across the Highlander’s features and he jumped aside to avoid being trampled. As soon as Devlin’s hooves hit the hard-packed earth, she clucked her tongue, urging the horse to a full gallop.
The horse had only gained a few yards before a heavy weight vaulted in the saddle behind her, and the Highlander pried the reins from her cold, shaking hands. With a sharp tug to the bridle, he brought the gelding to a prompt halt. Devlin snorted his displeasure and the man wrapped a thick arm around her middle as the beast reared up again.
Heart banging in her chest, Arabella was on the verge of tears.
“Christ, woman,” he growled in her ear. “Calm yourself. Fraser sent us. I’ll explain later, but we need to move. We’ve tarried here long enough.”
The breath she held hissed out of her in a steady stream. Why had the blasted arse not said so sooner?
She might’ve stated the question aloud had she not almost slid from her saddle in relief. The grip of fear squeezing her chest slackened and her limbs relaxed. Too distraught and weary to care, she took him at his word and sent up a quick prayer for the boon.
Slipping from the saddle behind her, the big man strode to a mount held by one of his men. After rifling through his saddlebag, he stalked to her side and shoved a bundle of cloth into her folded hands. Perplexed, she blinked at the tartan material then glanced at him.
He answered her unspoken question with a harsh bite. “Put it on.”
Arabella’s mouth dropped open at the ridiculous command. He was there to rescue her, not order her about.
“I’m warm enough,” she snapped.
He grunted. “Even so. Put it on.”
A scalding reply dangled on the tip of her tongue, but the sternness of his narrow-eyed gaze warned against an objection. She sneered at the woolen cloth and handled the coarse fabric as though it were an adder ready to strike. He remained at her side with his strange, yet oddly beguiling stare fixed on her until she donned the mantle.
As if nature agreed with the man’s demand, a miserable burst of wintry air slapped her in the face and chilled her to the bone. Her teeth chattered while her temper walked a frayed line. Once wrapped in the warm cloth, she aimed her fiercest glare at the big-headed man. She could’ve sworn his lips twitched, but he simply nodded and marched to his horse without another word. Tugging the fabric closer around her head and shoulders, she gave in to the urge and rolled her eyes at his arrogant, retreating form. He mounted his stallion in one swift move and signaled his men to move out.
Just as suddenly, the vastness of her loss hit Arabella as though she’d taken a blow to the chest. She twisted in the saddle for one final glimpse. As soon as she passed through the front gates—her home, memories of her mother and father, her brother, Maggie and Dougal—everyone and everything she’d ever cared for would be lost to her forever. Tears slipped from her eyes, obscuring the once welcoming sight from view. A whimper slipped past her lips before she could recall the sound. Forcing herself to look away, she straightened in the saddle and wiped her eyes with the course mantle she’d scorned only moments before.
Arabella lifted her head to find each warrior regarded her with varying degrees of sympathy and understanding. Left with little choice, she heaved a defeated sigh and nudged Devlin toward the men and the frightening, unknown path her life had suddenly taken.