Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(50)

Her eyes flew open and her head whipped up to see that there was an intruder on her solitude.

Fear and dismay gripped her throat and squeezed her stomach when she saw that Corwen McHugh stood only a short distance away, a belligerent look on his arrogant features.

Ice spread through her veins until she was numb. What was he doing here? His presence could mean nothing good. Not for her.

Instinctively, she scrambled to her feet, turning in the direction of the keep, looking for something … anything.

“Are you happy now that you’ve brought destruction on the whole of the McHugh clan?” Corwen barked, his voice angry and petulant, like a child deprived of having his way.

But he was no child. A chill snaked up her spine, and she shut her mind to the awful images that her memories conjured.

He had long been her tormentor, and she hated him for that.

“I’ve done naught that was undeserved,” she gritted out.

Corwen’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You’re naught but a whore, and you were treated as such. ’Tis thanks to you that Ian and Patrick both are dead. Cursed female. You bring nothing but death and ill fortune.”

Hatred took hold and she glared fiercely at him. “Aye, ’tis true enough. I am cursed. You’d do well to avoid me lest you suffer the same curse.”

For a moment, she saw a spark of fear in his eyes, and she thought he might well simply turn from her and hasten away. But then his eyes darkened and his face twisted into something dark and evil. Menacing.

He advanced, too quickly for her to escape. She tried to back away but stumbled, and her arms flew out in an attempt to steady herself.

He caught both her wrists and yanked her up against his body. She opened her mouth to scream, but he tossed her around so that her back was pressed to his chest and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

She fought back, kicking, hitting, twisting her body frantically as she tried to escape his hold. She attempted to bite the hand covering her mouth and he yanked it away long enough to strike her with his balled fist.

She went down hard, sprawled on the ground, stunned by the blow he’d administered.

“Stay down, whore,” he spat. “You’re naught good for anything but spreading your legs. You’ll give me ease or you’ll receive a sound beating.”

A strangled cry ripped from her throat, past already swollen lips. She tasted blood, her mouth split from his fist.

She tried to roll away and rise to her feet, prepared to run as she’d never run before. But he was on her, knocking her facedown to the ground, her breath torn from her chest.

His weight pressed her down, and she struggled to escape him to no avail. Not again. Never again. His was a face burned into her memory along with Ian’s. If only she’d seen him in battle the day she’d sent an arrow through Patrick McHugh’s neck. She would have surely killed him and not felt a moment’s remorse.

He’d held her down while Ian had slashed open her cheek. He’d held her down while Ian had raped her, her blood smearing them both. And then he’d taken his own turn, forcing himself upon her repeatedly.

She closed her eyes and tried again to scream, but Corwen flipped her over and smashed his mouth to hers in a brutal kiss. ’Twas not a kiss. A kiss was something wonderful. Romantic. Something exchanged by two lovers. Playful. Passionate. But not punishing. Nay, this was not a kiss. It was something horrible and evil.

She bit into his tongue and was rewarded with another fist to her face. Her vision blurred and she shook her head, trying to clear the fuzz from her mind. Pain rocketed through her, and she was dimly aware of him tearing at the bodice of her dress.

Shock held her immobile. This couldn’t be happening.

Was she never to be safe from the unwanted advances of men? Was she forever consigned to rape, and to men taking from her what they pleased, damn the damage done to her in the process?

How much more could she take? Her face, her body, her very soul had been ripped from her. Nothing was her own any longer. She’d become someone else, Genevieve McInnis dying, and in her stead a woman Genevieve hardly knew anymore.

No.

No!

The word screamed through her mind. Stuttered hoarsely past swollen, cracked lips. It echoed over and over until it became a litany. A denial that this could be happening.

Rough hands underneath her skirts. Painful between her legs. He grunted in satisfaction when he managed to rip most of her dress from her body. But her cape remained intact, spread wide as he tore her dress, baring her body to his view.

Coldness swept over her. A frightening numbness took hold. Acceptance that this was happening and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Just like so many times before.

Something inside her turned off. Darkness crept in, a soothing balm to the fear and rage that blew through her. She could no longer feel his hands upon her. She couldn’t feel anything at all.

Hatred and bleak realization were all she knew.

An ungodly roar sounded. It was unlike anything Genevieve had ever heard before. A moment later, Corwen was ripped from her body, and thrown a good distance.

With casual indifference, she watched him sail through the air and hit the ground with a thud that she felt as much as heard.

And then Bowen’s voice, anxious and worried.

“Genevieve! Are you all right?”

Chapter 24

Bowen hovered anxiously over Genevieve, rage and worry blowing like a wildfire through his veins. She focused her stare on him, but it was a dead, lifeless stare, as if she had no awareness of her surroundings.