The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(18)

“I believe the lass is not interested,” he said coolly.

His voice was deep and razor sharp, holding the unmistakable edge of authority. Something about it made her skin prickle.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” her attacker spat. “The lass is willing enough. An’ even if she weren’t, it’s none of your bloody business.” The guardsman who’d seemed as strong as an ox to her struggled to break free of the man’s hold, but he only tightened his grip, cutting off the guardsman’s breath.

Her rescuer twisted the gasping man around to face him. “I just made it my business.” He threw her attacker up against the keep, much as the other man had done to her. His head collided with a sickening thud, followed by the sound of teeth rattling. Pinned by the neck, her attacker uttered an oath, his eyes widening with fear.

“You’re one of MacRuairi’s men?” her rescuer said.

Her attacker tried to nod, but he couldn’t move his head enough.

“I know your face. And if I so much as hear of you touching an unwilling woman again, mine will be the last you ever see.” He sniffed as if he’d just gotten a scent of something vile. “I don’t care how drunk you are. Do you understand?”

The attacker nodded mutely, obviously too scared to speak. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost—or the grim reaper himself.

“Then go,” her rescuer said, releasing him. “Before I change my mind.”

The guardsman, who’d seemed so overpowering to her, scampered away like a frightened mouse. When her rescuer turned his face out of the shadow to face her, Christina smothered a startled gasp with her hand, knowing why her attacker had fled in terror.

With still no sign of Nicolson, Tor had decided to seek out MacDonald and was making his way back to the keep when he heard grunting and caught sight of the shadowed figures against the wall. Though he preferred less public displays himself, privacy was a privilege afforded very few, and it wasn’t uncommon to see a guardsman take his pleasure with a lass anywhere that would accommodate.

He ignored them as he usually did, until he heard a cry. His gaze sharpened, this time seeing the signs of struggle that hadn’t been apparent with a glance.

The flash of anger struck him hard. Mistreatment of women did not sit well with him, but rape held a particular abhorrence since he’d learned of his mother’s fate. Men under his command knew he had no tolerance for abusing women in such a foul manner. Punishment would be swift and severe.

The lass was putting up an impressive fight, but it was no contest—a fact that added to his irritation. Grabbing the man by the neck, he pulled him off her, threw him against the hard stone, and pinned him to the wall by his throat. He saw the moment of recognition and knew the man would not put up a fight. Too bad. He would have welcomed the excuse.

His already dark mood had turned black.

Once the guardsman had vanished into the night, Tor turned to the lass. She’d backed away during his exchange with the guardsman and stood just beyond the reach of the torchlight, huddled in the darkness. She was a tiny thing and he felt a fresh rush of anger, thinking of the size of the man who’d attacked her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m f-fine,” she said haltingly. She seemed to be fighting to control her shaking. Shock. He’d seen enough men experience such a reaction after battle. “Thank you,” she said, gathering herself together. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

He frowned. Something wasn’t right. Her voice. Soft and sweet, the gently modulated tones were not of the area and were unmistakably refined. A well-spoken serving girl? He stared hard at the trembling figure in the shadows, able to make out just enough to send a prickle of disquiet running along the back of his neck. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I won’t hurt you.”

She hesitated, then slid her hand into his. He felt a shock, an odd jarring sensation. Her fingers were icy cold, but soft. Too soft, he thought with a spur of irrational anger.

By Thor’s hammer, it couldn’t be.

But even before he pulled her forward into the pool of light, he knew.

She lifted the smooth oval of her face to his, the shadows caressing her lovely features, and recognition struck with another fierce jolt. Those eyes were unforgettable—dark and slanted, framed by the black slash of perfectly arched brows and long, thick lashes.

Fraser’s daughter.

He dropped her hand.

With one glance he took in the rest of her appearance. The mussed hair, the sinful mouth swollen and bruised, the smooth ivory skin marred by the scratch of the other man’s beard.

He saw red, the rush of anger nearly uncontrollable. I should have killed him.

Then his gaze dropped further, and he went stone still. Her cloak had slid back around her shoulders, revealing the torn gown underneath.

His mouth clamped down tight enough to make the muscle in his jaw jump. That wasn’t all that jumped as his body reacted with a primal force. His gaze burned hot on one very large, very beautiful, and very naked breast. Full and round, the creamy ivory flesh tipped with a rosy pink nipple tight with cold.

His gaze lingered only an instant, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed. She gasped and wrapped the cloak around her chest to cover herself.

His mind closed like a trap and his gaze shifted back to her face. Even in the darkness he could see her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Or perhaps it was the heat radiating from him as the simmering anger whipped into a maelstrom.