Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(73)
They were going too fast. Instead of the steady trot they'd started out with, William had gradually increased the pace until they were almost galloping through the dense trees. Such speed was dangerous in the best of conditions, but with the blanket of slippery, concealing snow on the ground, was foolhardy.
She caught William exchanging a worried glance with the other guardsman behind her and reined in her mount to a sudden halt. The men followed suit. “What is it?” she asked.
“I think we're being followed.” William motioned to the other man. “Take the lady and head out of the trees for the river, I'll hold them off for as long as I can.”
They couldn't leave him. Jeannie tried to argue. “But—”
“Go,” William cut her off, slapping her horse on the rear.
The mare jumped forward and shot off like an arrow through the trees. The remaining guardsman followed her, putting himself between her and their pursuers—brigands were always a fear in the countryside. They were moving at a dangerous breakneck pace, narrowly avoiding overhanging branches and brushes that lined the narrow pathway. She prayed the snow was not hiding any treacherous holes or dips.
No more than a minute later she heard shouting that sent a chill shooting down her spine. They were so close. How many were there? The number of voices was lost in the wind.
She prayed for William's safety as she catapulted through the trees, fighting for her own. Surely they must be nearing the edge of the forest by now?
Her heart was beating like a frightened hare's. Her fear wasn't just from the men chasing them, but from the terrifying speed at which she was—
A scream tore from her throat as the mare pitched forward, having landed on a piece of uneven terrain. Jerked from the saddle, Jeannie flew over the horse's neck. The hard slam of the ground was the last thing she remembered.
Duncan would never forget the sound of her scream. In that moment, he realized just how much of a fool he'd been. Indifferent? Hardly. The white-hot terror cutting through him was anything but indifferent.
He didn't know whether there was anything left to salvage between them, but he swore if Jeannie came out of this unharmed he would find out.
Closing in on them, he motioned to his men to fan out and surround them. With his men in position, Duncan ordered them to wait for his command and dismounted. Pulling an arrow over his shoulder from the quiver at his back, he threaded it through the bowstring and trod softly through the snow and trees. With Jeannie likely captured, stealth was their best option.
She hadn't screamed again. He didn't know whether to be thankful or panicked.
He listened for her voice, praying for the sweet sound, but only heard the low voices of men.
He steeled himself for what he might see and peered around the tree. Perhaps a dozen warriors were gathered in a circle standing in a patch of snow-covered heather and bracken.
He stared harder, looking through the tangle of steel and leather clad limbs …
Oh, God. His heart sank and for a moment he couldn't breath as anguish laced around his chest. He could just make out the spill of bright blue velvet on the snow and the heel of one tiny slipper.
It was Jeannie they were gathered around. And she wasn't moving. Rage, fear, and helplessness combusted inside him, the flames licking like a whip.
“Get away from her,” he commanded, moving out from behind the tree. Not far away from her he saw the body of one of the guardsmen who'd accompanied her lying face first in the snow, an arrow protruding from his back.
The men startled at the sound of his voice. The metallic buzz of swords pulled from their scabbards reverberated through the air as they spun around, weapons brandished. Bloodlust surged through him. If they'd hurt her, a thousand swords wouldn't be enough.
“Move away,” Duncan ordered. “Now.”
One man stepped forward. Tall, broad shouldered, and wearing higher quality mail than the others, with two pistols tucked into his belt, Duncan took him for their leader. His long black hair and thick beard couldn't hide the fact that he was young—no older than five and twenty.
“Who are you,” he sneered. “One man to order us? We found her first. She's ours.”
Duncan's nostrils flared as he fought for control. “If she is harmed I'm the last face you'll ever see.”
The stone-cold promise in his voice gave the warrior a moment's pause, but he recovered quickly. “Bold words when you are outnumbered a dozen to one.”
“One is enough,” Duncan said meaningfully, aiming the arrow straight between his eyes. Their gazes met in silent battle. “I assure you,” he added. “I won't miss.”
The man's eyes narrowed. Duncan had encountered dozens of his type over the years. Young men eager to the point of recklessness to prove their mettle, young men who's every decision was based on pride. They didn't like to back down—ever. And this one with his bold arrogant swagger reeked of trouble.
He was taking too long and Duncan was of no mind to wait for him to see the light. Jeannie still hadn't moved.
His mouth fell in a cold, flat line as he drew back his hand. He did not make empty threats.
“Wait.” An older ruddy-faced man stepped between them. “He means it, captain. Do as he says.” He motioned to the trees. “He's not alone.”
The young leader opened his mouth to argue, but a movement in the trees stopped him. He shot Duncan a venomous look, but did as the older man cautioned and stepped away from Jeannie. There was something in the way he looked at her—possessive almost—that set Duncan's teeth on edge. He thought about letting the arrow fly anyway.