Highlander Most Wanted (22 page)

She fought back, kicking, hitting, twisting her body frantically as she tried to escape his hold. She attempted to bite the hand covering her mouth and he yanked it away long enough to strike her with his balled fist.

She went down hard, sprawled on the ground, stunned by the blow he’d administered.

“Stay down, whore,” he spat. “You’re naught good for anything but spreading your legs. You’ll give me ease or you’ll receive a sound beating.”

A strangled cry ripped from her throat, past already swollen lips. She tasted blood, her mouth split from his fist.

She tried to roll away and rise to her feet, prepared to run as she’d never run before. But he was on her, knocking her facedown to the ground, her breath torn from her chest.

His weight pressed her down, and she struggled to escape him to no avail. Not again.
Never
again. His was a face burned into her memory along with Ian’s. If only she’d seen him in battle the day she’d sent an arrow through Patrick McHugh’s neck. She would have surely killed him and not felt a moment’s remorse.

He’d held her down while Ian had slashed open her cheek. He’d held her down while Ian had raped her, her blood smearing them both. And then he’d taken his own turn, forcing himself upon her repeatedly.

She closed her eyes and tried again to scream, but Corwen flipped her over and smashed his mouth to hers in a brutal kiss. ’Twas not a kiss. A kiss was something wonderful. Romantic. Something exchanged by two lovers. Playful. Passionate. But not punishing. Nay, this was not a kiss. It was something horrible and evil.

She bit into his tongue and was rewarded with another fist to her face. Her vision blurred and she shook
her head, trying to clear the fuzz from her mind. Pain rocketed through her, and she was dimly aware of him tearing at the bodice of her dress.

Shock held her immobile. This couldn’t be happening.

Was she never to be safe from the unwanted advances of men? Was she forever consigned to rape, and to men taking from her what they pleased, damn the damage done to her in the process?

How much more could she take? Her face, her body, her very soul had been ripped from her. Nothing was her own any longer. She’d become someone else, Genevieve McInnis dying, and in her stead a woman Genevieve hardly knew anymore.

No.

No!

The word screamed through her mind. Stuttered hoarsely past swollen, cracked lips. It echoed over and over until it became a litany. A denial that this could be happening.

Rough hands underneath her skirts. Painful between her legs. He grunted in satisfaction when he managed to rip most of her dress from her body. But her cape remained intact, spread wide as he tore her dress, baring her body to his view.

Coldness swept over her. A frightening numbness took hold. Acceptance that this was happening and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Just like so many times before.

Something inside her turned off. Darkness crept in, a soothing balm to the fear and rage that blew through her. She could no longer feel his hands upon her. She couldn’t feel anything at all.

Hatred and bleak realization were all she knew.

An ungodly roar sounded. It was unlike anything Genevieve had ever heard before. A moment later, Corwen
was ripped from her body, and thrown a good distance.

With casual indifference, she watched him sail through the air and hit the ground with a thud that she felt as much as heard.

And then Bowen’s voice, anxious and worried.

“Genevieve! Are you all right?”

Bowen hovered anxiously over Genevieve, rage and worry blowing like a wildfire through his veins. She focused her stare on him, but it was a dead, lifeless stare, as if she had no awareness of her surroundings.

“Speak to me, Genevieve,” he urged.

He was afraid to touch her for fear of hurting her. Blood trickled from her mouth. ’Twas obvious the bastard had dealt her at least one blow, but who knew how many more or what the extent of her injuries were?

He had been in time to prevent her from being raped, but the lass was still deeply traumatized.

“I’m all right,” she said faintly.

It was enough to make him rise and turn his attention to the McHugh warrior, who lay on the ground a few feet away. Fresh anger smoldered within him. He was seething with fury that this man would dare to abuse Genevieve.

The warrior attempted to scramble to his feet, but Bowen leveled him, knocking him flat upon his back again. Bowen’s chest protested, his wound fiery with pain, but he paid it no heed. His sole intent was to remove this man as a threat to Genevieve forever.

The warrior threw a punch in an effort to dislodge Bowen, but he was solidly pinned to the ground. Bowen doubled his fist and rammed it into the other man’s face,
and then before the warrior could respond, Bowen grasped the McHugh man’s head and gave it a great yank, effectively breaking his neck in one swift motion.

’Twas the truth he’d rather make the bastard suffer, but his focus was on ending things quickly so he could attend to Genevieve.

Bowen dropped the warrior’s head and it lolled to the side, his eyes glassy in death. He stood to his feet, staring down in disgust, before turning his attention once more to Genevieve.

He knelt at her side and gathered her gently in his arms.

“Speak to me, lass. Did he hurt you?”

She stared at him in shock, eyes wide. “Y-y-you k-killed him.”

“Aye, I did,” he said grimly. “He well deserved it.”

Her gaze shifted sideways, toward the felled warrior, her mouth round. It was all too much for her to take in.

Bowen gently directed her gaze back to him.

“Do not look upon him, Genevieve. He is not worth your regard.”

Her head snapped back and there was a fierce light in her eyes. “Nay. He is not.”

Just as quickly, she seemed to realize that she was all but naked to Bowen’s gaze. Shame filled her eyes and she made a grab for her cape, trying to shield her nudity.

Bowen carefully helped her arrange the cape to cover her as best he could, all the while holding her firmly in his embrace.

He could feel her heart beating frantically against his own chest.

But what nearly killed him was when he found her gaze again, her eyes were shiny with tears.

“Ah lass, do not cry,” he said hoarsely. “He is not worth your tears.”

She buried her face in his shoulder, and Bowen went
to his feet, bearing her slight weight with him. Mindful that she was properly covered, he began the walk back to the keep.

Fury beat at him. He was livid that she’d been attacked under his watch and care. That she would continue to suffer at the hands of the McHughs filled him with rage all over again.

The lass had endured enough. When would it end?

Her muffled sobs tore at him. He wanted nothing more than to bear her safely back to his own chamber, where he could be certain no one else would hurt her.

He ignored the looks and questions of others as he made his way through the hall to the stairs. He warded off his own men, determined not to stop until Genevieve was well out of the sight of others.

When Taliesan met him at his chamber door, her face stricken with worry, he gruffly told her to be off and to ensure no one came to his chamber door.

He knew the lass was only concerned about Genevieve, but he also knew that Genevieve would want to be away from the prying eyes of others, and he would fulfill that wish above all else.

As soon as he shouldered his chamber door closed, he placed Genevieve on his bed and seated himself at her side. He touched her swollen bottom lip and thumbed away a smear of blood.

“What did he do to you?” he demanded.

The fresh wave of tears nearly slayed him. ’Twas true enough he was a disaster around female tears. They made him feel helpless to fix whatever was the matter, and God only knew he’d do anything to remedy a lass in distress.

Her lips trembled and her voice was a near-whisper, so that he had to strain to hear her. “Naught that has not been done before.”

As if it didn’t matter. As if she were resigned to her fate.

It only infuriated him all the more. He wanted to go kill the bastard all over again. His death had not been long or painful enough.

His fingers curled into tight fists as he sought to control the rage working within him.

“You’ll not suffer such again,” he said fiercely. “I vow it, Genevieve. You will never be made to give anything but what you choose to give freely.”

She turned her face away, but not before he saw a silver trail of tears leak from her eyes.

He lowered his head and pressed his lips to her temple. “I am sorry I was not there sooner.”

She turned, her eyes a wash of vibrant green, shiny with moisture and a silent plea.

“Will you …”

She bit her lip and stifled whatever it was she was going to ask. He touched a finger to her unmarred cheek and let it trail downward in a comforting caress.

“What is it you ask, lass? You have to know if ’tis within my power I’ll do it for you.”

Faint color suffused her cheeks, and she looked suddenly nervous.

“Will you hold me?” she asked softly.

Instead of answering, he leaned forward, rolling onto his side next to her. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her in tight to his chest. He stroked her hair and pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

“ ’Tis the truth I’d like nothing more.”

She burrowed further into his chest as if seeking the warmth and comfort he offered. She clung tightly to him, and he was just as content to hold her just as tightly in return.

For the longest time, he lay there with her in his arms, her head tucked underneath his chin. Her breathing
slowed and she seemed to relax, the tension and fear leaving tightly coiled muscles.

He knew there was still the matter of her injuries to attend to, but he was loath to break the intimacy that had bloomed between them.

No matter what the lass may have done in the past, he could not bring himself to hold any of it against her. She had done what was available to her in an effort to free herself from the reality of rape and abuse.

He’d consign no lass in such a situation to punishment or retribution. It pained him to imagine his own sister, Rorie, in such a predicament. He’d hope that any woman in Genevieve’s position would be resourceful enough to think of a way out, just as she’d done. Even if the result had been Eveline’s being abducted and terrorized.

It was still an issue. Mayhap not for him, as his mind was already made up where the lass was concerned. But there was the problem of Graeme and the Armstrongs, neither of whom would have any love for Genevieve when it was revealed what she’d done.

But he’d not leave her to fight this battle alone. It may cause him a great deal of trouble with his kin and the newly forged alliance with the Armstrongs, but he’d not leave Genevieve to suffer alone.

She deserved a champion when one had long been denied. There was no one to stand up for the lass. Except him.

He stroked the soft tresses of her hair as tenderness overcame him. It pained him to imagine what her existence had been for the last year, but if he had any say in the matter, she’d never suffer such again. Regardless of the consequences for him.

Bowen’s head came up as a loud knock sounded at his door. Genevieve stiffened and pulled away, her eyes wary.

In an effort to ease her nervousness, he put a gentle finger on her lips.

“ ’Tis naught for you to worry over,” Bowen said. “I’ll return in a moment.”

He slipped from the bed, and she hastily pulled the cover to her chin. He needed to have proper clothing fetched from her chamber so that she wouldn’t feel vulnerable in her torn dress and the cape that barely covered her nudity.

He unbarred the door and opened it a crack to see who was there. Teague and Brodie stood shoulder to shoulder, their expressions dark.

“We have a situation,” Teague said bluntly. “Upon returning from our patrol, we found a man dead. His neck was broken. It could be a precursor to an attack.”