Highlander Enchanted(40)

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do not forget your dagger,” he added almost too quietly for her to hear as he passed her.

She frowned, not understanding his concern when her surroundings were so quiet. The men returned to the trail and soon disappeared into the forest.

Richard swung his leg over the rear of the horse and dismounted. “Come. We can rest,” he ordered her. “Niall sent us with fresh bread.” He moved with his horse beneath a tree for shelter from the rain.

Isabel obeyed and joined him. She kept her eyes on the ground and accepted the bread when he handed her a chunk. She breathed in its fresh scent and bit into it. It was plain but satisfying. After her late nights and long days attempting to organize Cade’s disorderly keep, she was hungrier than she realized and finished off the food fast.

“Your father did not approve of our wedding,” Richard said.

She paused mid-chew, startled.

He glanced at her. “I am uncertain what he wanted for you, if the son of an earl was not good enough.” Resentment was in his tone.

Isabel swallowed her final mouthful of bread. “I did not know this,” she replied. “Father never spoke his mind to me, especially not on a matter of this nature.” Mixed with her shock was a measure of hope – an acknowledgment maybe she had not dishonored his memory by refusing his wishes.

“It is not your place to know,” Richard agreed.

“If my father did not agree, how did his brother?” she asked. “My uncle was charged with managing my father’s affairs once the madness claimed him.”

“You convinced him when you left,” Richard said with cold amusement. “I swore to bring you back and once I do, he will agree to the alliance.”

Her heart plummeted. She had unknowingly sealed her own fate. Though, in her mind, there was no question Richard would pursue her. He had been open about staking his claim on her father’s lands since his death and pursued her hand with persistence that often frightened her.

Branches snapped from the forest nearby. She turned to squint into the shadowy greens and browns surrounding them. “Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Probably an animal,” he said, unconcerned. He drew a dagger.

Isabel reached into her pocket for hers as well, recalling what the master-at-arms had said about the restless forest. Another crack of branches, this one closer, was accompanied by the sucking-clop combination of a horse’s hooves on the muddy trail.

“’Tis not coming from the direction your vassals went,” she said, frowning. “Can we not recall them?”

Richard took her arm and turned her to face him. She flinched, instinctively waiting for his strike. It was not his fists he lifted but the dagger.

She instinctively took a step back. “What are you doing, Richard?” she asked, eyes going from the blade to his face.

“I have it on good authority your uncle will support my claim to Saxony whether you return alive or shall we say … mortally wounded, so long as we are deemed wed.”

She stared at him. “You cannot wish me harm in earnest!”

“There will be no one to claim we did not wed and my vassals to affirm we did.” He reached for her. “After you humiliated me afore Laird Cade, I came to this decision. It is the best way to protect Saxony from your madness.”

She stumbled back.

The whinny of a horse from the forest failed to dissuade Richard. She avoided another attempt by Richard to grab her. “Someone is coming, Richard!”

“My men will ensure no one finds us.”

“I need only scream!” she cried, fury replacing her fear. “They will not allow you to hurt the sole heir to a noble family favored by the king.”

He laughed.

Coldness streaked through her. “They know you do this?” she demanded, horrified.

“They are my men are they not?” He paused long enough for her to put some distance between them. She yanked out the knife his master-at-arms had given her, vaguely recalling his warning and look. He had not been cautioning her against the MacDonald’s but against her own betrothed.

“You will go mad anyway,” Richard reasoned. He strode forward and grabbed her arm. She slammed her fists against his chest.

“Do not do this, Richard!” she cried, trying to wrench free once more. He shifted the knife in his hand.

She yanked hers away from her dress and held it to his chest. She had never stopped to consider where to stab a man.

“You’re mad already,” he said with a laugh. Capturing her wrist, he twisted her arm away from his chest painfully before releasing her with his other hand and backhanding her.

Isabel reeled, the forest and sky swirling around her, and landed on her stomach. She saw the legs of horses amidst brush lining the trail but had no time to identify the riders when Richard grabbed her and wrenched her up.

“Be still,” he ordered. “And you will survive long enough to reach England. If my aim is off by the width of a hair, you will not!”

“No!” She shoved him and tried to pull away once more. This time, she tripped over the hem of her gown and toppled backwards, dragging him with her.

She felt her knife pierce flesh, and Richard went still, landing beside her.

Isabel scrambled to her feet and gazed from the bloodied knife to Richard. She had sliced his head, and blood poured down his face. With some knowledge of wounds, she understood her blow to be glancing despite the blood. Why, then, was he not moving?