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No! No!
Anna spurred the mare on, but it had nowhere to go, and it neighed, confused, as desperate as she. Then the man reached for her hand that held the knife.
She couldn’t let her father down now that he finally needed her. Now that she finally had a chance to have the life she’d always wanted, the one where an illegitimate lass had a father who loved her.
Her back hurting, she reached out and stabbed the bastard in the thigh. His braies opened in a long, bloody gash. The man growled in pain but didn’t stop. She drew her arm back for another stab, but he hit her hand with his shield.
The blow cracked something in her hand, pain kicking the air out of her lungs, and the knife flew. Then he grabbed her and hauled her from her horse. The pommel of his saddle dug into her stomach as she lay in front of him, thrown over his horse.
“Nae!” she screamed. “Let me go.”
“Shut up, ye bitch,” the man said. “Ye’re mine now.”
Anna roared, fury overtaking her in a fiery wave, and bit into the man’s thigh. He screamed in pain, the horse neighed and shied, and then a hard blow burst against her head.
As she sank into a painful, rocking darkness, there was one thought left.
She still had time.
Wherever he was taking her, she would find a way to escape.
She’d save Scotland and make her father proud.
CHAPTER 3
Woods near Carlisle, Borderlands
Ten days later…
Someone’s clothes flashed between the trees. Friend or foe? David stopped and waited, Daisy’s reins in his hands.
He couldn’t see the clothes anymore between the branches and the tree trunks. He listened. Birds chirped and wind rustled leaves above him in the crowns of trees. Daisy breathed softly behind him.
His horse heard the man before David did. She snorted and pulled back, and before David could react, a dark figure appeared next to him and something sharp and cold was pressed to his throat.
“Dinna move,” said a cool, male voice.
Right. Friend or foe my ass. There were no friends here, in the middle of the woods. Everyone was an enemy unless proven otherwise. Especially in the Borderlands, where England and Scotland had raided each other for generations.
David raised his hands in a placating gesture and looked to the left without moving his neck, trying to see who his attacker was. “I don’t mean any harm.”
He was a warrior, David saw, a Highlander likely, based on his accent and his clothes. At least he wasn’t English, small mercy. David had fought for the Mackenzies and for his sister, and he fully supported Bruce’s cause for independence. Most Highlanders did, too. That made the English David’s enemy, at least in this time.
“Are ye a local?” the man asked.
“No. I’m on my way to Carlisle.”
The man cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, assessing David.
“To Carlisle? Why?”
“I have business in the castle.”
“What business?”
Slowly, being aware of the cool, sharp edge about to break his skin, David turned to look at the man. He was tall and muscular. Sharp bone structure, high cheekbones, dark shoulder-length hair framed his bearded face. Dark eyes under long and full eyebrows were narrowed at him, watching his every movement. A recent cut crossed his temple.
He was dressed in a tunic, and boiled leather armor—a cuirass—covered his chest. The armor was expensive for a Highlander, and the sword that threatened to kill David was a claymore.
