Then she saw it. At first it seemed they floated on inky air, sinking down toward winking stars.
They left the wooded hills behind, descending onto flat terrain. Far ahead, hundreds of tiny lights flickered like stars in the night.
“Cragmuir,” he announced at her back, the pride in his voice evident as the outline of a castle took shape against the dark veil of night.
“Cragmuir,” she repeated, marveling at the stone edifice looming larger than life before her. Like something out of Arthurian legend.
A great drawbridge lowered over a moat that smelled of rot and refuse, the chains creaking in the night wind. Two men stood high on the battlements, cheering down at them.
The men in their party called back, the laughter and triumph in their voices mingling with that of bleating sheep.
“Sheep not being the only prize caught,” Lachlan whispered in her ear, the tips of his fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts.
She drew a hissing breath through her teeth and forced his hand down.
He chuckled against her cheek. “You’ll grow accustomed to my touch. Come to like it, I vow. I’ve had no complaints before.”
Griffin’s furious eyes flashed through her mind again, a burst of fire in a dark night, and she shoved down her misery. She chose this fate, and she would find a way out of it.
They thundered into the yard to the welcome of barking dogs and a burgeoning crowd of Highlanders. Lachlan dismounted and swung her down beside him, a hand circling her wrist like a manacle, forcing her close to his side as he dragged her through the keep and into a cavernous hall that resembled something out of the middle ages.
Several massive tables littered the room in no apparent order. An old man sat at one, enshrined in a great wood-carved chair. His blue eyes watched their approach with keen interest.
“Uncle,” Lachlan greeted.
“Nephew,” the older man—Gallagher, she presumed—returned, “I see by your grin that your mission went well.”
His hand flexed on her wrist. “Very well.”
The volume in the hall intensified as the rest of the men spilled inside behind them. Serving girls poured into the room, carrying trays and trenchers, beaming smiles on their faces.
Her stomach clenched at the smell of fresh-baked bread and roasted pheasant.
“And what have you there? A present for me? Something else you stole from MacFadden.”
“Sorry, uncle. This prize is mine,” Lachlan declared. “A reward for successfully completing my task.”
“Oh?” the older man asked, his voice a scratchy growl on the air as he lifted bushy brows. “Since when do you decide your reward? You’re not yet lord and master here.”
She tugged anew on her wrist, deciding now the best time to plead her case, while the uncle appeared to be hovering between favor and disfavor with his nephew.
“I belong to no one! I was abducted! Taken against my will.” She fastened a beseeching gaze on the clan’s laird. “Please, sir. Surely you can see such an uncivilized act is a poor reflection on you and your people. I am an innocent traveler in your land. Your nephew viciously beat my traveling companion and—”
“Och, a Sassenach?” The old man shook his head in disapproval, the rest of her words lost on him. His gaze skimmed over Astrid in new estimation, as if his nephew had brought home a serpent. “Why would you want such a creature?”
“She’s different—”
“Aye, she is that. Trouble, she is. Not a sweet Scottish lass that can keep her tongue behind her teeth and show her man proper deference, to be sure.”
“Uncle,” Lachlan chided, his voice knowing, “I don’t recall my aunt being a reticent woman—”
The old man’s eyes softened at the mention of—presumably—his wife. “Nay, she was not.”
“Well, perhaps I want the same thing for myself.”
“And you would compare her to your dear aunt?” He flicked a large, gnarled hand Astrid’s way.
“Pardon me,” Astrid interjected. “So that there is no mistake here, let me clarify that I’m a hostage.”
“A hostage, eh?” Gallagher mused. “In that case, what sort of recompense shall I demand for your release?”
“Uncle,” Lachlan broke in, his voice a whine.
His uncle waved a hand to silence him, eyes still trained on her. “And,” he added, “to whom shall I make these demands? Family? Friends that might miss a fine Sassenach lass such as yourself?”
Astrid considered what he was asking of her. Should she give up the names of her friends? Certainly Jane or Lucy would pay whatever ransom request these Highlanders made. She had resisted prevailing upon them before. But had the time come to put her pride aside and take their help?
“Yes,” she admitted. “I have friends. Extremely wealthy, important friends that would care a great deal to have me safely returned.”
“Interesting.” The laird combed fingers through his scraggly beard.
“Uncle, she is mine,” Lachlan insisted.
“Ah, hell, man. Would you cease thinking with that twig between your legs. If you’re to take my place someday, then you better start thinking like a laird and put your people before your own needs.”
A sudden commotion erupted at the front of the hall, drawing the attention of the laird and his nephew.
Astrid turned to watch as a small crowd of Highlanders advanced on them, nearing the head table. Grumbling and foul curses filled the air, gaining volume as the men reached them.
A sudden hush fell over the ragtag group. They parted, revealing an imposing, tartan-free figure in their midst. Even battered and bruised, he stood heads taller than most of the men, his carriage erect, proud, eyes a deep, glittering blue.
Astrid’s heart seized in her chest. A sob rose in her throat that she barely caught from spilling into the suddenly charged air. He had come. Unbelievable. She took one step forward.
Lachlan growled at her side, his hand clamping down on her arm. “What are you doing here?”
Griffin trained his gaze on her, his eyes blistering with hot accusation. Not once did he glance at the man who addressed him. After a long moment, his drawl rose strong and defiant over the hall. “I’ve come to claim what is mine.”
A breath shuddered through her.
“Lachlan,” his uncle demanded, “who is this?”
“My name is Griffin Shaw.”
Astrid looked nervously to the clan’s laird, knowing he held their fate in his hands. The old man’s eyes flitted over Griffin in hard-eyed scrutiny. “The lass belongs to you?”
Griffin and Lachlan answered simultaneously.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Lachlan sneered. “A man who cannot hold on to his woman, does not keep her long in these parts. You lost your right to her.”
“I’m here now,” Griffin stated, his hand moving toward the knife at his side. “And I’ll cut down any man that tries to stop me from leaving with her.”
Astrid closed her eyes in one tight blink. What on earth was he doing here? Bloody fool. Did he have a death wish? He should never have come. She could not even fathom how he managed to show up only moments after them. In his condition, he should have barely been able to stay mounted.
“You’re welcome to try,” Lachlan bit out, his own hand moving for the blade strapped to his side.
“Enough,” the laird growled, his bushy beard moving about his lips as he spoke. The older man’s keen blue eyes assessed Astrid. “Can’t see what’s worth getting so excited over.” His gaze roamed her and Astrid stiffened her spine, meeting his stare with her frostiest expression. “No meat on her at all. And that dark-eyed gaze of hers could chill a man to the core.”
Astrid did not to flinch, accustomed to reaping such judgment. Especially from men. It was what she had come to expect…what she in fact had cultivated over the years. “She’ll fill out nicely with proper feeding,” Lachlan assured.
Proper feeding? As if she was
some kind of pet?
Emotion burned darkly in her chest and she struggled to control it, shove it back to that place deep inside where feelings hid, where she kept them bottled and suppressed so she could go about the world with stoic resolve.
Lachlan’s gaze cut to Griffin as he added, “I know how to nourish my women. In and out of bed. Something the lass here will soon learn for herself.”
Griffin bared his teeth in a snarl and lunged forward.
Several men stepped in his path to restrain him.
The old man laughed a rusty sound. Leaning back, his massive wood chair creaked from the pressure of his girth. “Appears he takes exception to that, Lachlan.” He cocked a reddish-gray brow at his nephew, his blue eyes intent and serious. “I see only one solution.”
Lachlan turned to assess her, his dark gaze moving over her slowly, thoroughly, before swinging to Griffin, spending little time considering his bruised and ravaged face before saying, “You want her? Then take her back, my friend. If you think you can.”
Griffin nodded resolutely. “If I win, she’s mine. We walk out of here unharmed.” He swiped a hand through the air. “No one gets in our way.”
“Aye. On my honor.”
Griffin’s mouth twisted, the crimson tear in his bottom lip deepening. “I’ll have to trust that counts for something.”
Lachlan’s eye twitched, the only indication that he took offense. He set her from him, handing her off to one of his men hovering nearby. He pulled back his rangy shoulders in a stretch.
Angry breath escaped Astrid in a hiss. She yanked her arm free of her new captor and leveled her coldest stare on him when he looked ready to snatch hold of her again.
“This has gone far enough,” she declared at Lachlan’s back as he moved toward Griffin. Ignoring her, they moved to the center of the great hall. Everyone cleared out of the way. She shot a frustrated, desperate look at Griffin. “I’m not a bone to be fought over. I’m done with being treated like property!”
The two men continued to ignore her.
The uncle laughed and addressed Griffin. “You’ve been challenged, Shaw. Are you man enough to accept?”
Astrid fiercely shook her head. Lifting her skirts, she stumbled forward gracelessly, gritting her teeth when a wall of men merged to block her. “No,” she cried, trying to shove past. “He cannot! He’s injured. Your men beat him only this day! How can this be a fair contest?”
“Enough, Astrid,” Griffin growled, his eyes glinting furiously at her. “I will fight.”
She stomped a foot. “No, you—”
“Silence!” the old man roared. “Hold your tongue, woman, and learn your place.” He wagged a gnarled finger in her face. “This is men’s business. They’ll fight. Hand to hand. No weapons. And the winner shall claim you. Now sit beside me like a good lass.” He motioned to the chair beside him.
She closed her mouth with a snap, heat flooding her face as long-suppressed emotions bubbled to the surface, dangerously near spilling forth. A set of hands forced her into a chair beside the laird.
Helpless, she watched as tables were pushed aside. Griffin and Lachlan shrugged free of their coats. She studied the strong lines of Griffin’s face, the bruises only heightening his good looks, and feared she would be sick.
Lachlan stretched his arms over his head, the picture of health and vigor. She pressed a hand to her rolling stomach and tried to believe that Griffin knew what he was doing. He had already proven himself strong, following them through mountains and bitter cold, arriving only moments behind them—an occurrence she had not considered even remotely possible.
The old man beside her rubbed his hands together, clearly relishing the upcoming fight.
“What happens if he loses?” she demanded, a desperate fire burning in her chest as her eyes devoured the sight of Griffin. God, keep him safe. Let him win.
“If?” he snorted. “Hate to tell you, lass, but your lad there doesn’t look too—”
“What happens?” she spit out.
“Och, well, that depends on Lachlan.”
Astrid shook her head, not feeling at all heartened. “Yes, but, in these instances, what’s usual?”
He slid her a bemused glance. “Usual? You’re a strange lass.” He shrugged one beefy shoulder. “His life is forfeit. His fate would be in Lachlan’s hands.”
Bile rose high in her throat. “That’s barbaric!”
If Griffin lost…
Shaking her head, she braced herself for the violence to come, telling herself she had done all she could to stop it. Still, the thought was cold comfort as she watched Griffin prepare to wage his life. For her.
Chapter 12
Griffin stripped down to his vest, deliberately unbuttoning his cuffs so that his sleeves would billow and flutter with his movements—a measure he knew would help distract his opponent. He smiled grimly as the Scot stripped to his trousers, grinning and flexing his bare arms for the crowd.
He deliberately avoided looking at Astrid—sitting so silent and pale beside the clan’s laird—lest his rage return and cloud his focus. He needn’t look her way to remember her lovely face, so calm, so cool, dark eyes infuriatingly detached as she rode off with the Highlander and left him.
Her utter lack of faith in him galled him still. He might be a stranger in these parts, but he knew a damn sight more about survival than some haughty Brit better suited to the pomp of London drawing rooms.
She had made her choice, going with the Highlanders rather than letting him protect her as any man worth his salt would have done. He should have left her to her fate. Faithless female.
Shrugging past his stinging pride, he reminded himself of what losing would mean to Astrid. Not even a stubborn female lacking the sense to follow his lead deserved to be left to the mercy of these men.
Determination sealing his heart, he ducked Lachlan’s first swing and quickly countered with one of his own, his right fist connecting with his opponent’s jaw in a satisfying crack of bone on bone.
Keeping his left arm close to his side, he pulled back to deliver another jab…only to be swept off his feet from a swift kick to the knee.
He fell to the ground. Lying on his side, he rolled hard and watched as a boot slammed down inches from his nose. He grabbed at the ankle and twisted it savagely, bringing Lachlan down with a howling curse. Before he could rise, Griffin pounced, flinging himself on the other man’s back. Grabbing a hank of his hair, he brought Lachlan’s face crashing into the ground. Again and again.
The cries and jeers of the crowd registered dimly, but adrenaline pumped hotly through him. He didn’t look up, didn’t seek out her face through the red haze clouding his eyes even though he knew she was there, watching, her dark eyes no doubt fathomless and unmoved as ever…even as he fought for his life…and hers.
The thought only heightened his rage, sent a burn of aggression rushing through him, firing a path through his veins, fierce and swift as the wind howling outside.
A sharp elbow to the ribs propelled him backward. He grunted from the force. The Highlander broke free and spun around. Rage glowed in his eyes and a wet trickle of crimson streamed from his nose into his mouth. “Bastard,” he hissed, blood spraying from his teeth.
They squared off again, circling each other like two great jungle cats, wary, tense, waiting for the moment to spring at the other.
Griffin’s fingers flexed at his sides. His senses sharpened, twisting, swinging into razor-sharp pinpricks that gathered along his nerve endings. He honed in on his opponent with the alertness of a stalking wolf, the pain in his body disappearing in a heated rush of warrior instinct.
Lachlan moved first, charging Griffin with a roar.
They came together like two angry rams, careening across the room and crashing into a table. Griffin’s head slammed into the hard surface. His vision blurred for a moment, spots dancing before his eyes at the grinding scald of agony where he’d been struck by the rock days ago.
Reaching
out, he fumbled along the top of the table, knocking over dishes until his fingers closed around a goblet. He brought it crashing over the Highlander’s head.
Lachlan released him and staggered sideways, clutching a hand over a bloodied face embedded with glinting glass.
Griffin snatched a pewter platter off the table, sending a leg of lamb flying. With a grunt, he smashed the serving dish against the side of Lachlan’s head, throwing him back onto the table.
Griffin raised his leg and positioned his boot dead center in his chest. With a great shove, he launched the other man off the table and across the room.
A hush fell over the hall as Lachlan swayed drunkenly, arms flailing at his sides before dropping with a heavy thud to the floor.
Blood pumped through him, liquid heat in his veins that numbed him to any pain that his body might be feeling. Griffin brushed pieces of shattered crockery from his clothing. His gaze immediately shot to Astrid. She stared at him with wide eyes, coal dark and unreadable in her ashen face.
Chest rising and falling with great drags of breath, he faced the old man, a despot overlooking his domain. At the moment, his expression looked almost comical with shock.
“I would like food and a bed,” he announced.
The old man snapped his gaping mouth shut and looked from the unmoving Lachlan to him. Clearing his throat, he replied, “Of course.”
Griffin’s gaze moved back to Astrid, her lovely face etched in stone. “And my woman,” he added, hoping to provoke her, to see some change in her calm demeanor.
She stiffened where she sat and that chin of hers went up.
He quirked a brow at her, daring her to object. With the hum of battle still whistling through him like a hot wind, his patience had reached its end.
The need to possess, to dominate, thrummed through him, as blistering and swift as the blood quickening in his veins. He stared at her, ready to claim her in the truest sense.
He watched her mouth open, saw her lips move, her head begin to shake side to side.
Unbelievably, she intended to speak, to refute him. After he had just fought to save her from becoming some Highlander’s plaything. She still could not look at him with gratitude. Could not hold her tongue. The woman possessed the sense of a pea. Instead of biting her tongue and simply feigning submission until they managed to escape their audience, she had to show her shrewish nature and force his hand.
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