Page 25 of Deception of a Highlander

“I’m no common street whore,” she said, keeping her voice low, husky. “I was trained for royalty. Have you ever been loved by a woman who has brought a king to his knees?”

Slowly, she started to walk back to where the body was behind her, to where her dagger lay thrust in the neck of the man who had carried her.

“I canna say that I have.” The remaining Highlander advanced toward her, his piggish eyes bright with desire.

Her calf bumped something solid. The body. Mariel widened her eyes in mock surprise and allowed herself to fall over the corpse as if she had tripped. Her voluminous skirts concealed her hands as she jerked the dagger from the man’s throat. A heavy metallic odor filled the air and stuck in her nostrils.

She hid the blade within the folds of her gown before a strong hand grasped her arm and lifted her off the body. Her ardent attacker wasted no time pressing his rubbery lips against hers, his tongue slimy where it parted her lips with aggressive determination.

Mariel locked the hilt of the dagger in both hands and thrust it up into his body. The blade slid easily into his fleshy folds, stopping only when the sides of her fists pressed his soiled leine.

He howled in surprise and shoved her back. She took an instinctive step away from him and surveyed the dagger jutting from his side. The stab had been sightless and ineffective. His ruddy face twisted into a primitive rage that stilled her heart with fear.

“Ye’ll pay for that, whore.” Spittle glistened on his lips, and he raised his claymore. The muted sunlight shone along the blade’s edge.

A sense of danger prickled the hair on her arms. He ran at her with a savage roar.

Her surrender to fear caused a slight hesitation—one that might have very well been her demise. Skill was sacrificed in her haste to escape the blow, and her feet slid in the slick mud. Though she narrowly missed the direct path of the blade, she felt the force of it collide against her hip and fell beneath the weight of its impact. She could only hope the layers of her gown had been thick enough to protect her flesh.

The man leaned so close to her that the stink of his sweat stuck in her throat and permeated her nostrils. If she lived through this, she doubted she would ever be free of his odor. His large, grimy hand curled into a brutal grasp around her neck.

“I’m going to enjoy this.” His breath was sickly sweet with rotting teeth and alcohol where it fanned across her cheeks.

His grip tightened against her throat, and he lifted her from the ground. The rasp of her own choked breathing echoed in her ears, and her feet kicked against air for a split second before he threw her into the mud. She gasped mouthfuls of air despite the burn of her raw throat. Her hands and feet slipped and sloshed across the soggy grass as she floundered in an attempt to get to her feet.

He stood over her with a sadistic smile on his face and slid his claymore into its scabbard. His weight crashed down on top of her, pinning her. He pulled a dirk from somewhere she had overlooked and raised it over his head. Mariel struggled helplessly beneath him with one resounding thought racing through her mind: Forgive me, Jack. I have failed you.

* * *

Kieran raced across the sodden earth, heedless of its pull against his boots. His eyes scoured the dense trees for a flash of lavender velvet, and he strained to hear the sounds of the forest around him. She hadn’t screamed. What woman didn’t scream?

The last he saw was the MacLeod bastard ripping her from her horse and dragging her out of sight. Kieran had tried to fight quicker, desperate to be free of the troublesome lot so he could find where they’d taken Mariel before…

He gritted his teeth. He refused to allow himself to finish the thought.

Damn it, he should have protected her, kept her from being abducted. His gut clenched.

He stopped and held his breath, listening to the natural sounds of the forest. The man was on foot; he could not have traveled far. Kieran took a cautious step forward when a rustle of leaves sounded to his right. He held the position and waited to see if the rustle sounded again. Nothing. And then…

A man’s grunt.

Kieran’s fist tightened on the hilt of his sword until the worn leather burned against his palm. By God, the whoreson would pay for what he did to her.

Kieran crashed through the brush, sending twigs and branches snapping against his thighs. And then he saw them. His heart seized against his ribs.

The MacLeod was sprawled on top of a crushed pile of velvet. Mariel flailed beneath him, her legs bare and smeared with mud.

Rage exploded into insanity. With a savage roar, Kieran charged forward and used his body as a battering ram to knock the dirty MacLeod from Mariel. The man stared up at him in surprise from the flat of his back and opened his mouth. Kieran didn’t wait to hear what the man intended to say. His blade swung with a powerful vengeance and connected with the MacLeod’s neck, severing the head from the body.

He turned with disgust from his fallen foe and sank to his knees at Mariel’s side. She had smoothed her skirts down and now looked up at him, her eyes wide with horror. Blood speckled her skin and soaked her dirt-smeared gown.

He cradled her sweet face between his hands. The grit of filth across her flesh could not mask its silken warmth, nor could the stench of death outweigh the gentle scent of her rose perfume.

He gathered her in his arms and got to his feet. She weighed almost nothing. How easy it must have been for the MacLeod bastard to carry her away. Rage simmered once more, but Mariel’s head nuzzled Kieran’s chest and called him back to the present.

He reveled in the heat of her body against his and in the soft, feminine sigh she gave as she nestled closer against him. Holding her was a heaven he’d almost feared he’d lost. Relief crushed his chest.

She was alive.