My Fierce Highlander by Vonda Sinclair Page B

be discovered in the daylight. If only the mist was lower it
might conceal them.
    “Shh,” she whispered to Rory. “We must move
quickly but quietly.”
    Rory blinked sleepy eyes at her, seemingly
half aware of where they were.
    “Are you awake?”
    He nodded. Her poor, sweet child. She hated
that he had to go through this.
    She rose and tugged him along with her. They
slipped toward a distant hill, her skirts snagging on heather and
gorse. Cold water from the peaty soil seeped through her rawhide
slippers. The cool, damp air around them vibrated with tension. She
tried to ignore the knotting pain in her stomach and the weakness
of her whole body from lack of food.
    She had no notion where the border to
MacGrath holdings was, but surely they would reach it soon.
    The birdcall echoed from the tree behind
them. But this time the sound was different—an alarm.
“ Jesu! ”
    A horse galloped forth, a menacing black
silhouette advancing from the white mist in the distance.
    “Run, Rory!” She tugged her skirts off her
shoes and broke into a sprint.
    He dashed several paces ahead of her.
    “Faster!”
    She glanced back. Two horsemen thundered
close behind, one chasing on her heels. Oh, dear God, protect
us! She switched directions, gasping, lungs burning, desperate
for more air.
    Where is Rory? Her legs wouldn’t move
fast enough. The air around her thickened like water, and she
couldn’t get through it.
    Spotting Rory, she chased after him. “Run!”
She slipped in a puddle but righted herself before she fell.
    They will kill us. They will kill my precious
Rory.
    More horses joined in the chase. They
surrounded her, their demon riders yelling in Gaelic. Two hemmed
her in. Trapped, she dashed headlong between them. Something caught
her by the belt and yanked her into the air. Her legs flailed on
nothingness. She landed hard on her stomach across the front of a
saddle. The breath whooshed from her constricted lungs.
    “Ma!” Rory yelled.
     
     

Chapter Four
     
    “Rory!” God, help me, I must get to
him.
    Gwyneth’s vision grew fuzzy. How could she
free herself from this rider without getting herself killed? She
gasped for air that refused to enter her lungs.
    The ground beneath the horse hurtled past at
dizzying speed. She fought to escape, tried to grab her captor’s
sword or dagger.
    The kilted Scot—probably one of her own
clansmen—shoved a strong hand against the back of her neck,
restricting her movements. She couldn’t reach her own dirk either.
Her throat tightened and tears streamed from her eyes.
    Where was Rory? He still screeched nearby,
though she couldn’t tell where with all the jostling. If one of
these brutes hurt him, she’d take her dirk to the blackguard and
damn the consequences.
    The bare, hairy leg of the Scot flexed in
front of her face. She could bite him. But this would only anger
him, and he might toss her from the galloping horse.
    More hooves pounded close-by, and eerie war
cries resounded. Her captor yelled in Gaelic. The ding of clashing
metal rang out.
    What’s going on? The MacIrwin men
wouldn’t fight amongst themselves. Were the MacGraths challenging
them? Had she and Rory made it to MacGrath land? A ray of hope lit
the thick blackness that had near smothered her.
    Gwyneth turned her head and, upside down,
watched the men slashing at each other in the misty dawn light. The
pop of a pistol shot echoed. Her captor jerked and growled a
curse.
    He slowed the horse and unsheathed his sword.
Steel blades clanged over and behind her. The man’s body tensed.
The muscles of his legs under her bunched and flexed hard as iron
as he engaged in swordplay with someone she couldn’t see.
    The horse beneath them danced about, reared.
Gwyneth’s head spun in the turmoil of movement.
    Her captor shrieked. His body convulsed. The
horse reared again. She slid with the man, but tried to grab onto
the saddle. Her hands clasped air. With a scream, she tumbled over
the animal’s