An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(19)

“Stop!” he ordered. “Slowly, Dalla. Slowly.”

She was weeping softly as she slowed her movements, wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the rope, then in small increments, repeated the process with her right.

He nodded with satisfaction. “You holding on tight?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“I'm going to start pulling you out. Don't fight me, don't try to help me. Just let your body relax. You understand?”

Another gasped reply in the affirmative.

He took a deep breath and gently tugged on the rope with his right hand, the left still braced on the ground. She couldn't see his face, couldn't see his frown. She was stuck but good.

His head pounded, and his muscles strained as he tugged harder, trying not to jerk her body, but slowly eased her backward over the surface of the bog.

“Let your body relax, like you're floating on the surface of the water,” he said.

Despite what must have been intense fear, for once, she listened to him. She hung desperately to the rope, letting him do all the work. After what seemed like endless minutes, he felt the mud release its grip on her lower torso with a muffled, popping sound.

Hugh straightened, and grasped the rope with both hands now, leaning backward, careful to keep his own movements steady, maintaining tension on the rope as he ever so slowly eased her backward. Her head nearly rested on the surface of the bog now. Every muscle in his arms and shoulders strained and tensed as he leaned further backward, twisting the rope around his hands as he gained the slack.

Finally, with a last gurgling slurp, the bog released her and most of her torso now floated on the surface. Moving faster, keeping the tension on the rope, he stood and continued to pull her closer to the lip of the bog, hand over hand.

Finally, she was close enough to reach down and grab her.

He wrapped his hand around her small wrist.

The moment his hand touched her arm, she began to sob.

Seconds later, he pulled her out, dragging her onto the clumps of grass at the lip of the bog, her chest heaving as soft, mewling sounds escaped her throat.





10





Exhausted and gasping, Dalla heaved a groan of relief as she emerged from the muddy bog. She felt two firm hands grip her upper arms and lift her upward.

Relieved, glad to be alive, surprised that she hadn't sunk below the surface, thinking that she was doomed to die, lucky that he had even found her, she flung herself at Hugh and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

Though chagrined, humiliated, no—mortified—she couldn't help it. He had saved her life. He could've just let her flounder, watched calmly from a distance as she sank ever slower beneath the surface.

He stiffened.

It was then that she realized to the fullest what she had just done. She stepped back with a gasp, face upturned.

He stared down at her without any expression whatsoever. Then, without warning, he stooped slightly, clasped his hands around her waist and lifted her upward.

She found herself hanging upside down over his shoulder, his muscular arms clasping her legs to his chest, just behind her knees, her upper torso dangling down over his back.

She pounded her fists against his rock-hard buttocks. Her gratitude forgotten, she felt only a surge of humiliation.

“Put me down! Put me down, I say!”

She felt a harsh slap, heard the smacking sound, and gasped in dismay. He had just spanked her!

“You insufferable oaf!” she cursed in her native language. “You—”

“You will hold still, or you'll find yourself back on your arse,” he threatened.

Her momentary appreciation for his saving her life had rapidly ebbed, and along with it so too did her hopes of escape. Her heart thudding with the remnants of panic and her near escape from sure death, and the reality that she was once again a captive, and that her chances of escaping again were slim, tore through her, leaving her shocked and uncertain.

“You're a fool, racing headlong into the night like that,” he said, his English accented heavily with his Scottish brogue. “You were less than ten minutes from dying, from drowning in that bog, do you understand that?”

Again, she said nothing, bouncing harshly against his broad shoulder, every step he took prompted a gasp of air to escape her chest. She grit her teeth and tried to lift herself up by bracing her hand against his lower back. Again, she felt the smack of his hand against her bottom.

“You hold still,” he said again, his tone now filled with more anger than before. “I'm not going to warn you again.”

“I was just trying to balance myself—”

“I told you to stop moving, and I told you for a reason. Do you want to send us both toppling into another bog?”

She said nothing, but reluctantly allowed herself to sag, arms hanging down, her now tear-streaked face turned to the side as she watched the ground pass beneath his feet.

The rain had stopped, the night darkened still more, broken only occasionally by a quick glimpse of a half-moon, a cool breeze wafting over the grasslands. The chill tore through the now mud-caked clothes she wore, sending ripples over her skin. Maybe she had been foolish, but certainly, he couldn't blame her for trying, could he?

And she did realize how close she had come to dying. The moment the ground had given way beneath her, that moment when she cringed, expecting to bounce harshly against the ground only to feel herself sinking, had filled her with despair. Her hopes of escape dashed, she had struggled mightily to right herself, to try and make her way to the edges of that bog, because she desperately wanted to live. Despite her situation, despite her captivity, and despite the knowledge of the betrayal that had carried her to this land in the first place, she wanted to live. Fiercely wanted to live.