An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(33)

“These wicked thorns have captured my clothes, and I can't—ouch!—can't get myself loose.”

He heard shuffling in the midst of the tangled growth.

“Just hold still,” he muttered, his irritation with her now growing.

She was alive.

Now he could be angry.

He began to hack at a few of the branches with his ax and soon managed to create a small hole down near the ground. He saw a foot. A bare, white, foot with a wicked looking scratch along its outer edge. He cursed. What had prompted her to go running off with his horses like this? He should punish within an inch of her life. He should—

“I didn't run away, Hugh.”

He grabbed her ankle, and she muttered a soft yelp as his hand easily encompassed the joint.

“Cover your face,” he ordered.

He heard nothing for several moments.

“Is it covered?”

A muffled response.

“Hold your arms as close to your body as you can. The only way I'm going to get you out is to pull you out. You're going to get scratched. Keep your face covered.”

Another sound, again muffled.

He found and grasped her other ankle, then positioned himself to pull.

“One… two… three!”

He pulled, as hard and as quickly as he could.

At first, the shrub didn't want to release its grip upon her, but then, with the sound of rending cloth and a squeal from her, it did. His first tug exposed her breeches as far as her knees.

The thorns had torn the leg, and he caught sight of a shapely calf. He shook his head and pulled again. The second tug pulled her out far enough that he saw her hips. Unfortunately, he could also see several tears in the breeches now, slowly oozing blood.

Once again, he cursed under his breath. He leaned down, saw that she was doing as he told her, elbows clasped close to her body, arms and hands covering her face.

“One more pull, and you should be out. Keep your face covered!”

He barely heard a muffled yes beneath her hands.

He repositioned his feet, wrapped his hands around her knees, and with one, mighty pull, extracted her from the bushes.

The sight that met his eyes was not what he expected. The tunic, torn and dirty, her arms scratched and oozing blood, her hair a tangled mess, her hands still covering her face, dirty, scratched, one of them showing a bruise on the outside of her palm.

He crouched down, quickly scanning her body for more serious injuries. She didn't remove her hands from her face.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She refused, but sat up, shoulders hunched forward, head still buried in her hands.

She trembled.

“Dalla, look at me.” Fighting back his frustration and impatience, he reached for her hands.

Though she tried to prevent him from doing so, it didn't take much for him to pull those petite, finely boned, yet surprisingly strong hands from her face.

Her expression startled him.

Dried tears had made paths down dusty cheeks, streaking their trails down her cheeks. A reddened nose and wide eyes swimming with tears.

He frowned. “Are you hurt?”

She didn't answer, but then, wordlessly pointed to her right knee. He looked down at it.

It wasn't twisted at an awkward angle, and he didn't see any blood, but when he touched it, she winced. He carefully palpated the joint with his hand, much as he would be tending to his horse’s fetlocks.

When he gently squeezed the outside of the knee, she winced.

He shook his head. She either had a very bad sprain, or she had managed to pull a muscle or ligament. It was at that moment that his anger once again began to burgeon.

“What were you thinking? Did you think you could run from me, survive in these highlands all by yourself?” He took a breath, trying to tamp down his rising anger. A pulse pounded in his neck, and his head throbbed with emotion. “And take my horses? Both of them?”

Her eyes widened even more, staring up at him now, in not only fear, but dismay. “But I didn't!”

He frowned, not understanding as he gestured around them. “What are you doing out here?”

She swallowed, took a breath, and replied. “I was in the woods, behind the hut and near the stream. I was gathering some nuts for one of the squirrels… you saw the one that—”

He slashed the air with his hand. “Tell me what happened.”

“I saw some men—“

“Men?” He frowned. “By the hut?”

She gingerly shook her head, a clump of hair that had loosened from its braid hanging alongside her cheek. He barely resisted the urge to brush it away and tuck it behind her ear.

“I saw them a little bit down the hill. Three or four of them. Two of them looked like—they looked like you. Dressed like you. Scotsmen,” she mumbled. “Long hair, beards, wearing leathers and tunics.”

Hugh didn't have a beard, but he gave that some thought. Since he had arrived at the hut he'd shared with his brother so long ago, he'd seen no sign of inhabitants in the area. He wasn't aware of any clans claiming this land, but it had been a long time since he'd been here. He could understand why she had run. She continued.

“One of them was dressed in finer clothes, as he came from a town—”

They both heard the noise at the same time.