Ensnared by the Laird (Four Horsemen of the Highlands, Book 1)

by Emma Prince

  “Come now, lassie. Let’s get ye inside where it’s warm.” He beckoned her to follow him as he made his way back to the cottage door.

  Inside, a small fire burned in a sooty hearth, casting an orange glow over the rudimentary furnishings. A narrow cot was pushed against the back wall. A table with an assortment of dirty bowls and cups took up much of the rest of the space.

  The door clicked closed loudly behind her, and she turned to watch the man shuffle in. Now in the stronger light of the fire, she noticed that faintly darker stains ringed his tunic’s collar and under his arms. As he drew nearer, the smell of unwashed flesh grew stronger.

  She hastily backed into a corner as he trudged by, blowing out his candle and setting it on the rough-hewn mantel. He turned to her, flashing another slow, gap-toothed grin.

  “I dinnae get many visitors out here. Excuse the mess.”

  Unable to think of a polite response, Ailsa only nodded.

  “Now, what is a wee morsel like ye doing wandering about in the dead of night, this deep into the forest?”

  The ripples of apprehension were back again. Nay, she would not be staying long. And she would skip a detailed explanation of her situation, as well. She only needed to know where she was, and then she could set out once more, this time being sure to point herself toward Stalcaire Tower.

  “I got lost,” she said again. “Could you tell me whe—”

  “I’m Harod Dunbar. What is yer name, lassie?”

  “Ailsa,” she replied automatically.

  Stupid girl. There was no need to provide this man with aught. She should simply ask her question and be on her way.

  Yet she’d been raised as a lady—which was to say she’d been taught to be compliant, ever sweet and biddable. Not for the first time since she’d been kidnapped from her bed, she wished she’d learned instead to be stubborn, steely. And less trusting.

  “Ailsa,” he said, low and soft. “A bonny name for a bonny lass.”

  Aye, it was time to go. As casually as she could, she angled herself out of the corner and sidled a few steps toward the door.

  “I appreciate your hospitality,” she said, forcing a smile. “But I really must be on my way. I only wanted to know my whereabouts, and if you could point me westward.”

  “Och, no’ so fast, sweeting.” He motioned toward the fire. “Sit down. Get yerself warm. Have a wee sip or two of ale.”

  “Nay, thank you. If you could please just point me west—”

  His oily grin began to slip into a frown. Ailsa’s gut clenched. Instinct told her things were about to go downhill, quickly.

  She was a naïve fool, just as Andrew had said. She expected the world to be safe, fair, and kind. Because of that, she continued to be caught off-guard every time she found it wasn’t.

  For a fleeting moment, regret at running from MacAyre and casting herself into this man’s path swamped her. Of course, the Highlander was no ally. He was intimidating, threatening, and hell-bent on destruction. Yet something about Harod made her feel as though she were in far greater, more immediate peril than she’d been with Domnall.

  She shoved the impression away roughly, along with her regret. She was no more safe with MacAyre than she was with Harod, and to imagine otherwise was plain foolhardy. Both men intended to use her, though at least MacAyre meant for her brother to bear the brunt of the suffering.

  She was certain of one thing—she was better off wandering the woods without a clue of her bearings than spending another moment alone in this cottage with Harod.

  “I can see I’ve interrupted your night,” she said carefully. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you again.”

  She moved for the door, but Harod shifted faster, positioning his larger body in front of it.

  “I offered ye warmth. I offered ye ale. The least ye could do is stay awhile, keep a lonely man company.”

  Warning bells clanged in her head. It was time to flatter, lie, whatever it took to get away.

  “I would, but my husband is looking for me, and he’ll be worried sick. You have been very generous. Mayhap I could return on the morrow with a whole cask of ale as thanks.”

  Harod’s scowl darkened, and she could see the wheels turning behind his flat eyes. “Ye said ye were lost. How would yer husband ken where to find ye?”

  “Excuse me,” she said, attempting to step around him to get to the door. There was no point in trying to explain her lies now.

  She wedged herself past him and reached for the door handle, but he snaked a hand around her wrist, pulling her back.

  “Ye are a brash one, arenae ye?” He tightened his grip on her wrist until she yelped in pain. “Aye, that’s more—”

  With one swift motion, she brought her knee up between his legs. He howled and bent over double, releasing her wrist.

  Ailsa dove for the door, yanking it open with all her might. She dashed out into the night, scrambling to make the turn to the back side of the cottage on the dew-damp grass.

  “Ye bitch!” Harod bellowed behind her.

  She pushed her legs faster, but just as she was gaining speed, her foot hit a dip in the soft ground. Her ankle buckled and she went sprawling onto her stomach. The air left her lungs in a hard whoosh. Heat rushed to her ankle. It pulsed with her hammering heartbeat, a telltale sign that pain was soon to follow.

  Ailsa scrambled to her feet, desperate to reach the horse before the agony descended. But when she put weight on her ankle, a cry tore from her throat and she nearly crumpled to the ground once more.

  She began hobbling as fast as she could, barely tapping the toes of her left foot to the ground as she went. When she rounded the corner of the cottage, the horse’s head whipped toward her. He pulled anxiously at the reins tethering him to the tree.

  Almost free. She reached a hand toward the horse to calm him before she could release the reins.

  Just then, something slammed into her back, sending her careening to the ground once more.

  “Conniving, ungrateful…”

  Harod’s weight pressed her into the wet grass. Rough hands closed on her cloak and flipped her over so that she was staring up into his twisted face. He began fumbling with her skirts, tugging on the heavy material.

  Ailsa lashed out with her fingers curled, dragging her nails across his face. He roared in rage and agony, his hands flying to her wrists to restrain her. Clamping both her wrists into one hand, he yanked at the front of his trews, trying to free himself.

  “Nay!” she screamed, thrashing wildly beneath him.

  Distantly, she registered the high, anxious whinny of the horse behind her. He stamped the ground and tugged hard enough against his lead to make the sapling rustle as if from a stiff breeze. If he managed to break free, mayhap Harod would become distracted and she could—

  Cold air hit her knees as Harod returned to tugging up her skirts. Panic spiked hard through her body. Her time had run out. She had no more options or defenses. Harod had her immobilized. The horse was still restrained and could provide no aid or distraction.

  She could scream again, making it crystal clear to Harod that she didn’t want this, but it wouldn’t stop him.

  As if the night had coalesced into solid form, an enormous shadow loomed over Harod’s shoulder.

  The shadow moved like lightning. Suddenly Harod was flying backward. He landed with a hard thud at least a dozen feet away.

  Ailsa drew in another breath to scream, but then cold blue eyes met hers. Despite the fact that the dark demon still stood over her, a nightmare come to life, relief slammed into her.

  Domnall.

  Chapter Eight

  He’d been tracking her all damn night. The overcast sky had made the entire forest nigh black, but she’d been none too subtle about the path she’d cut through the underbrush, nor had she been careful about covering her tracks.

  At first, he’d been fuming mad, using his anger to fuel him onward. He cursed himself for a fool for turning his back on
her, and directed a few muttered oaths at that damned hell-beast who’d helped her escape, too.

  But as the hours stretched, his rage had turned to fear. The lass had ridden south, then had begun to veer slightly east—away from Stalcaire Tower, which he presumed was her intended destination. Unless he’d completely misjudged her actions, she was lost.

  Any manner of misfortune could befall a young woman riding an unpredictable horse through a dense wood in the dead of night. He’d hastened after the trail, his imagination toying cruelly with him as he went.

  He knew he was close by the fresh tracks in the soft forest floor.

  Then he heard her scream.

  The fear, the anger, the tangled thoughts and emotions all evaporated. A searing clarity swept over him. He needed to get to her.

  Now.

  The trail forgotten in an instant, he barreled straight toward her cry. He crashed through the underbrush like a charging bull.

  He burst into a clearing with a small hut in its center. Movement off to the right snagged his eye. Two figures wrestled on the ground, one in a dark tunic and trews, the other—

  Domnall broke into a sprint, closing the distance in three pounding heartbeats.

  It took all he had not to rip the man’s head clean from his body. Leashing as much of his rage as he could, he grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s tunic and flung him away instead. He could dole out the man’s just deserts soon enough, but he needed to know Ailsa was well.

  She looked like a crumpled bloom that had been carelessly discarded on the ground. In the low light, her gown was a deep shade of crimson, almost purple. Her skirts were wrinkled and twisted around her legs, but the bastard hadn’t managed to draw them past her knees.

  Her skin glowed like the face of the moon. Her dark eyes rounded as she recognized him. When she breathed his name, relief cracking her voice, it felt as though a knife had been driven into his gut, twisting deep.

  He scooped her up with great care and strode a few paces away to where his damned horse was tethered. Reluctantly, he eased her out of his arms.

  “Did he hurt ye?” The question came out a feral growl.

  She began to shake her head, but when her weight came onto her feet, she sucked in a breath and clutched his arms for support.

  “I tripped,” she mumbled, her voice thick with distress. “Twisted my ankle. He came after me and tried…t-tried to…”

  A tide of heat crashed over Domnall’s whole body, washing away all logic and reason. His rage was so forceful that his hands shook with the urge to pummel the bastard until he was naught more than a bloody puddle.

  What was left of his rational mind whispered to him. The feral possessiveness he felt toward her could not be explained away by the fact that he needed her in this scheme to lure Murray.

  Nay, the ferocious drive to protect her that had swept him away with the force of a landslide seemed entirely inexplicable. Something had changed between the moment she’d escaped and when her scream had ripped him in two.

  Or mayhap he had started down this dangerous path even before then.

  With all the gentleness he could muster, he pried Ailsa’s hands from his arms and placed them on the horse’s neck so that she could stand with support. Strangely, the horse was still and calm despite the fact that Domnall was in biting range.

  “Stay here,” he said, attempting a stern look that he suspected came across more savage.

  At her trembling nod, he turned to the piece of shite who had dared touch her. He found the man just picking himself up from where Domnall had tossed him.

  As he staggered to his feet, he fixed Domnall with a furious glower. “Who the hell are y—”

  Before he could finish, Domnall lifted him by the front of his tunic and slammed him into the wooden side of the cottage.

  The man made a wheezing noise as his back collided with the hut. Domnall held him like that, his feet dangling more than a hand-span above the ground and his chest crushed between the hut and Domnall’s balled fists.

  “I should take yer bollocks,” Domnall snarled.

  “I-it was a misunderstanding!” the man panted.

  For the lie, Domnall pulled the man back and slammed him into the hut’s side once more.

  “Dinnae waste what little breath ye have left on falsehoods.”

  “Please, dinnae kill me,” he blubbered.

  Domnall drew in several breaths, trying to clear the fog of wrath that clouded his mind and coursed through his blood. He had Ailsa back, and this bastard hadn’t managed to force himself on her.

  He needed to get her away from here, somewhere safe where he could check her ankle and she could rest and recover. And then he had to carry on toward Tullibardine. Aye, he had to stay focused on his mission.

  Slowly, reluctantly, he eased the man down until his boots touched earth once more. He was about to release him when the image of him on top of Ailsa’s slight, struggling form flickered back across his mind.

  Without thinking, Domnall balled his fist and drove it into the man’s face.

  A satisfying crack told him he’d broken the bastard’s nose. He drove his other fist into the man’s jaw, sending him staggering back into the hut’s side once more. With a wet moan, the man sank down to the ground, his face darkened with blood and his eyes rolling back in unconsciousness.

  Not sparing the arse another glance, Domnall strode back to Ailsa and the horse. She sagged against the animal’s neck, clearly exhausted and in pain.

  Without speaking, he swung into the saddle and pulled her up after him, settling her across his thighs. She sank into his chest, no longer fighting to remain rigid and separate from him.

  It was only because she was too spent to muster the energy, he told himself. Still, a disconcerting warmth took hold in a tucked-away corner of his chest. He tried to extinguish it with the cold rage that had fueled him these last several sennights, but the insidious tenderness continued to flicker deep in his heart.

  As he urged the horse into motion, guiding them away from the clearing, he felt a dampness on the front of his tunic. He looked down to find that her cheeks glistened with tears.

  Domnall didn’t know if they were tears of relief to have escaped the man at the cottage, desolation to be back in his clutches, or some combination of the two. And she could not explain them, for she was fast asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Thanks to years of practice, Domnall woke at dawn. Though he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, he was grateful for the habit, for it meant he could keep an eye on the still-sleeping lass in case she made another escape attempt.

  It also granted him time to sort through all that had happened last night.

  He’d guided his horse back to the loch where Ailsa had first run away. This time, he’d secured the animal with an elaborate knot he doubted she’d be able to undo. But he hadn’t had to worry about that, for she remained asleep even when he lifted her down and laid her on the ground.

  He didn’t even bother building a fire. Instead, he’d made sure her cloak was tucked in snug around her, then he’d collapsed on the forest floor next to her.

  She must have been truly exhausted, for she didn’t stir even as the sun broke in a pale blue sky. Domnall had risen, splashed himself with icy loch water, then taken up watch on a nearby rock.

  As the morning stretched toward midday, Ailsa slept on. It gave him time to think—too much time.

  He’d found her safe, and soon enough to prevent the worst of what that man had intended for her, he told himself repeatedly. Yet the slim margin by which he’d managed that had his gut in knots. If he’d been just a few moments later, or if he hadn’t heard her scream…

  The possibilities were like a spear to his chest. Yet far more disturbing was the possessive rage that had washed over him at the thought of another touching her.

  Bloody hell. She wasn’t his to want. She was his captive, a tool to get him what he truly longed for—revenge.

  As it had a th
ousand times already that morn, his gaze settled on her slumbering form. Her features were angelic in the peace of sleep. Two pink blooms sat on her cheeks, and her full lips slightly parted on her sighing exhales. Her hair had come free of its plait, making it appear as though she slept on a pillow of spun gold.

  He could lie to himself and say that the only reason he’d wanted her back was to execute his plan for vengeance against her brother. But the truth lurked, nigh imperceptible yet persistent, in the back of his mind.

  He wanted her for his own.

  When the sun reached its zenith, she finally stirred, saving him from stewing in his own frustration any longer.

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. He watched as the events of the night before came back to her, her features flickering with confusion, then fear, then resignation.

  He cleared his throat, and her velvet brown gaze swung to him. She squinted against the flashing of the sun dancing on the loch behind him, her eyes adjusting to the brightness of the day. He was grateful she wouldn’t be able to notice the way he stared back at her before he checked himself.

  To save them both from having to address their thorny situation, he slid from his rock perch and approached.

  “May I check that ankle?”

  She hesitated a moment, but then nodded in acquiescence.

  He crouched before her, cupping her proffered foot in his hands. It took considerable effort not to marvel at how small and delicate it was, even covered in a thick leather boot.

  Her ankle, on the other hand, was badly swollen—enough that it strained against the leather.

  “Best no’ remove yer boot,” he murmured, frowning. “Else ye willnae be able to get it on again until this swelling subsides.”

  He prodded her ankle as gently as he could through the leather. She sucked in a breath a few times, but he was able to roll her foot in a slow, stiff circle.