Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(9)
She knew what was going to happen, but she couldn't tear her gaze away. When the MacGregor finally connected with flesh, slicing Donnan across the belly, she choked back a sob in her throat.
Though she knew it was impossible, it was as if the MacGregor heard her. His gaze locked on hers, and everything inside her froze as she stared into blackness. Into the eyes of a man without a soul.
His mouth curved in a menacing smile, and he started moving purposefully toward the carriage.
She dared to breathe only when one of her cousin's guardsmen stepped in his way.
“What is it?” Alys said from behind her.
“Nothing,” Lizzie said, trying to keep her voice steady, though inside every inch of her was shaking. “We need to go. Now.”
Taking hold of Alys's hand, Lizzie stepped carefully out of the carriage. Anticipating Alys's instinct, Lizzie looked back at her and reminded her, “Don't look.”
The ground was spongy under her feet with dirt and moss still damp from the earlier rain. The thin leather slippers she wore had little traction, so she had to move cautiously. They stepped around the disabled carriage, heading toward the woods.
All of a sudden, Alys cried out as her hand was ripped from Lizzie's hold.
She spun around, gazing right into the obsidian eyes of the man who'd slain Donnan. Despite the chill in the air, her skin dampened with fear. He was even bigger and more fearsome-looking up close. And dirt seemed to fill every line and crevice of skin that wasn't covered with hair.
“Going somewhere?” He spoke in the Highland tongue, his voice thick with a heavy brogue.
Alys struggled against the massive circle of his arms, but it only made him squeeze her harder, until the older woman winced in pain.
“Let go of her,” Lizzie demanded, taking a step toward him, finding courage she didn't know she possessed.
“Or what?” He sneered, lifting the dirk he was holding to Alys's throat. “I don't think you are in any position to be issuing orders, Mistress Campbell.”
Lizzie sucked in her breath, never taking her eyes from the blade at Alys's throat. He knew who she was. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her clansmen still fighting, trying to get to her, but they were overwhelmed. “Let us go. You don't want to do this. You'll die if you hurt us.”
“I'll die anyway,” he said flatly. “But I shall have some fun before the devil bids me welcome.” He took a step toward her, loosening his hold on Alys.
Lizzie saw her opening and didn't think but simply reacted. In one smooth motion, she grabbed the dirk at her side and threw it as hard as she could. His eyes flew open in surprise. He let out a strangled gasp when the blade sank into his belly with a satisfying thud.
She was out of practice. She'd aimed for his black heart.
He sank to his knees, clutching his stomach in pain. “To hell with it—I'll kill you for this, you little bitch.” He yelled to one of his men nearby, “Get her!”
She was about to grab Alys's hand and tell her to run when she heard the sudden thunder of hooves coming toward them.
The MacGregor scourge heard it, too.
Neither of them had time to react before the riders were upon them. Warriors. Perhaps a half dozen strong. But who were they? Friend or foe?
Her pulse raced as she waited to find out, horribly aware that their fate likely hung in the balance.
She could just make out their faces….
She sucked in her breath, her gaze locked on the man a few lengths in front of the others, tearing through the trees at a breakneck pace toward them. Every nerve ending prickled as she beheld the fearsome warrior. She prayed he was a friend. One look was all it took to know that she would not want him as her enemy. The man had the look of a dark angel—sinfully handsome but dangerous. Very dangerous.
The shiver that swept through her was not from fear but from awareness. Awareness that made her skin tingle just to look at him. Enormous warriors armed to the teeth and clad in heavy steel mail did not usually provoke such a distinctly feminine reaction—except that he wasn't wearing mail. The hard lines of his formidable physique were all him. She sucked in an admiring breath, noticing the way the black leather of his cotun pulled tight across a broad chest and snugly around heavily muscled arms, tapering neatly over a flat stomach.
He was built for destruction, his body forged into a steely weapon of war.
But it wasn't just his physical dominance that set him apart from the others. It was the ruthlessness in his gaze, the hard, uncompromising bent of his square jaw, and the strength of his bearing. He wore a steel knapscall, his jet black hair just long enough to show below the rim. Thick and wavy, it framed his chiseled features to perfection. A strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a wide, sculpted mouth were set off by deeply tanned skin. Only a nose that had been broken more than once and a few thin, silvery scars gave proof to his profession. He was a Greek god carved not from marble, but from hard Highland granite.
He met her gaze for an instant, and a charge shot through her with all the subtlety of Zeus's thunderbolt. It rippled through her like a warm current from her head, down her spine, extending to the tips of her fingers and toes, shocking her with its intensity.
Green, she thought inanely. In the midst of the most terrifying experience of her life, she noticed the striking color of his eyes. Not the obvious skill with which he wielded his sword or the way he ordered his men with the barest gesture into formation or even—God forbid—whether he intended to finish the job that the MacGregors had started, but that his eyes blazed like the rarest emeralds sparkling in the sun.