Seduced by the Laird (Conquered Brides Series Book 2) (22 page)

She started to run and then thought better of it. The horse. She’d get away, toward help, faster if she had a horse.

Kirstin untied the horse from the tree and mounted, the stirrups too long for her feet to reach, but she didn’t have time to fix them. She leaned forward, stroked the horse’s mane and clutching her thighs to his middle, she gave him a kick and begged him to, “Go.”

The animal listened with a slight and pleasant nicker, and then stepped slowly forward.

“Quicker, please,” she begged.

The horse seemed content to walk slower than she could crawl.

Owen had descended the ridge to the right, well she wasn’t going to go the same direction. With a mighty kick Kirstin got the mount moving. She descended to the left, going slow, and leaning low so as not to get caught on a branch she couldn’t see in the dark. She wished she had a weapon. Because if he found her—free and riding his horse—he’d likely kill her then and there.

Metal scraped against her knee. She reached down and touched the cool hilt of a sword that he’d tucked beneath the saddle.

“Thank ye, God!” She might be a sinner, but it appeared someone was on her side.

Chapter Twenty-Three

They were closer than ever before, Gregor could feel it. Like the air vibrated, pushing him toward Kirstin.

Cresting the ridge that overlooked Eilean Donan, majestic as it rose moonlit from the loch, Gregor was taken back to his more carefree days. How naïve he’d been back then.

“Look,” Fingall said.

Where the fir trees were not so tightly clustered together, the night sky shone down on the ground. A spot before a tree that looked like a scuffle, and—

“Looks like something was buried here,” Gregor said. He dismounted and bent to the ground, pushing dirt away from the odd mound on the ground until his fingers brushed fabric. He tugged it from the earth, his heart sinking.

A nun’s hood.

He jerked his hand away, terrified for a moment he was about to find Kirstin’s body. Fingall knelt opposite him, helping to dig, but all they found were her hood, her habit, with blood-stained arms (only her arms, nothing more!), and Owen’s clothes.

“Why would he make them change clothes?” Gregor wondered aloud, his mind still reeling to see that perhaps she was only injured on her arms. Thinking back to what they’d found on the trail that made sense. She’d been using her arms to block the branches as they whipped against her. Shaking his head, he said, “To blend in?”

“Aye,” John offered. “By now he must know we’re following and he doesn’t want to be recognized for his affiliation with the church.”

Gregor touched the disturbed spot on the ground, finding rope in what he at first thought was a stick.

“She was tied up.” He pulled the frayed ends toward his face. “Either she somehow escaped. Looks ragged, like she cut it with something. Mayhap she got hold of a dagger. Or, he’s already absconded with her.” Gregor stood straight, imagining Kirstin running through the woods in the dark, a madman chasing after her.

“They’ll not be far,” Collin said. “Horse dung is still fresh over here.”

“A man’s sized footprints lead this way.”

“Over here are hoof prints.”

In his gut, Gregor believed she’d escaped. He prayed it wasn’t wishful thinking. “Follow the hoof prints. We need to get to her before Owen does.”

“Mount up! We’re going to split into four groups going in each direction. If ye find her, go to the castle, tell them ye are with me and they will give ye sanctuary. I’m a friend of Torsten Mackenzie, brother to Laird Cathal Mackenzie. Beware of the laird, he’s not always as friendly. Their father was a good man. If ye find him—find and gag him. Dinna let him escape.”

The men split up, Fingall and Collin with Gregor, and they headed west down the ridge, taking it slow so they could listen for any unusual sounds. There was the caw of an occasional night bird of prey. Insects singing, and then every so often what sounded like an animal crashing through the trees.

“Think ye that’s her or him?” Fingall asked.

“I dinna know, but we’d do best to follow it,” Gregor said.

Over fallen trees, between boulders, down the ridge they went, following the sounds of the intermittent crashing. Whoever it was, was also headed down the ridge, which ruled out an animal that would likely stick to its territory.

Without making a sound, Gregor signaled his men to speed up as stealthily as they could. He wanted to catch whomever it was making all that racket before they hit the bottom of the ridge and rode over the moor toward the castle or escaped over the loch, or to the village, even. They couldn’t lose them.
Her.

Gregor caught sight of a blurred shadow riding on horseback through the woods. Ducking in and out. Weaving around trees. Completely wild. Out of control even.

The Saint would not be so reckless would he? The man had worked hard to hide any traces of them, though not hard enough at times, but this rider was erratic.

The figure was small, too small to be Owen. Was it Kirstin? Looked to be a female.

He watched her list to the left and then the right of the horse. If she kept up at that pace, she’d get themselves killed.

“Kirstin!” Gregor called out, in hopes that he had the right of it, and kicked his horse into a faster pace. “Kay! Stop! Slow down!”

It was too hard to see much beyond the shadow of her form, but it looked like she turned around—and then went faster!

The sight of three warriors chasing after her was probably terrifying given what she’d been through in the last week.

“Kay! Its Gregor!”

“And Fingall!”

“And Collin!”

All of them were riding frantically toward her, Gregor cursing under his breath. Why wouldn’t she stop? She’d break her neck at this pace.

“Stop!” Gregor shouted again.

He heard a female cry, saw her body wobbling on top of the horse, like she was grappling with the reins, but couldn’t quite get ahold of them.

“Dammit! The horse is out of control,” Gregor growled. He had to save her.

Leaning over his mount’s withers, he coaxed him to go faster, leaping over fallen branches and roots jutting from the ground.

He was nearly upon her, just a few more feet and he could grab hold of the reins.

“Slow down,” he shouted.

But she ignored him, and then something whizzed past his head, slicing against his ear and slamming into a tree. An arrow?

Kirstin turned around to see him, fear all over her shadowed features. “He’s going to kill us. Keep running!”

The Saint
. He’d found her crashing through the forest, just as Gregor had. His relief at finding her alive, blended with his fury at her plight and his need to murder Owen.

And the bloody bastard had arrows.

“Nay, love, he will not.” Gregor reached forward and grabbed hold of her horse’s reins, pulling both their mounts to a jerking stop.

Fingall and Collin joined him as another arrow whizzed past, slamming into the trunk of yet another tree.

“He’s not got verra good aim,” Fingall muttered.

“’Tis dark and we were moving targets,” Gregor said.

“And now we’re sitting ducks,” Kirstin said, her entire body trembling and making her horse skitter on his feet.

“Nay, we’re not.” Gregor passed her reins to Fingall. “Protect her with your life. Collin, come with me.”

Kirstin protested, but Gregor silenced her with a brush of his lips on hers. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

They charged through the woods, shouting out for Owen to show his face and fight like a man. But no matter where they went, they couldn’t seem to locate him, and the arrows had stopped. Which made him fearful for Kirstin all over again. Gregor doubled back and found her and Fingall safely where he’d left them.

“Where is Owen?” Kirstin asked.

“He’s disappeared.”

She started to sob. “He will come for me again. He’s after a treasure ten times a king’s ransom.”

“I won’t let him harm ye,” Gregor said. Tugging her against his chest, letting her tears wet his shirt. He stroked her back, hoping to comfort her. “I promise.”

Just then another arrow whipped past, lodging in Fingall’s right shoulder. He cried out, at the same time as Kirstin. The momentum of the arrow, shoved Fingall backward, and he started to lose his seat, but righted himself before he fell from his mount.

Gregor yanked out his sword, turning his horse in a circle. “Blast it, Owen! Show your face ye coward!”

The bloody bastard’s laughter sounded from somewhere in the trees and Gregor had a fleeting moment where he believed the man was truly possessed by the devil.

“Shields!” Gregor shouted, and his two men, even the bleeding Fingall raised their shields, protecting Kirstin from any incoming arrows.

“Come out and fight me like a man!” Gregor demanded. “Let us settle this here and now!”

A thud behind him, and a shuffling in the leaves upon the ground. Gregor whirled to see Sir Owen’s shadow present itself.

“Quite entertaining watching ye all run around like a bunch of naked ninnies searching for their underclothes.” Owen laughed.

“Lay down your weapons,” Gregor demanded.

“Och, now that doesn’t seem fair, does it? Ye promised me a fight, and a fight is what I’ve come for.”

“Ye’ll not be winning this fight.”

Owen shrugged. “We shall see.”

Gregor jumped from his horse and Collin scooted his mount forward to take Gregor’s place beside Kirstin, keeping her safe.

“Gregor, please! Dinna do this,” Kirstin begged.

As much as he wanted to give her what she asked, he simply couldn’t. Not this time. Owen had gone too far and was too much of a threat to all of them, including their rightful king.

“Swords,” Gregor said.

“Works for me.” Owen tossed his bow and arrow to the side, his sword glinting in the moonlight.

Gregor was not going to let him leave this land alive.

They circled one another a moment, each assessing the other’s stance, build, energy level. The rush of battle flowed vigorously through Gregor’s veins. He was ready to pounce. To pummel the jackhole to the ground.

Gregor bared his teeth, daring Owen to make the first move. He might be an assassin, accustomed to slinking into the shadows and killing people when they were not expecting it, but Gregor was a tried warrior. A man of action. A leader. A trainer. And while Owen might match him in size, this bastard had no chance.

Owen lunged, predictably, forward, his sword thrust out as though he expected Gregor to open his arms wide and allow the blade to sink home.

Gregor dodged left, catching his blade against Owen’s, he swirled his edge around Owen’s enough to throw the man slightly off his balance.

“Ye’ll have to do better than that if ye expect to best me,” Gregor said.

Owen growled, twisted in the air with a little leap and brought his sword down. Again Gregor simply deflected the blow and then shot out his own sword slicing into the back of Owen’s opposite hand. He didn’t want to cut his sword hand yet, that would only end the fight too early and Gregor wanted the man to suffer. A lot.

Owen was starting to sweat. All that slinking around, and possibly a few fights with his victims hadn’t trained him enough to fight a war-laird. Gregor had fought beside William Wallace himself, and had learned much about fighting the English way from Samuel. He was well prepared. Sir John was probably disgusted at Sir Owen’s display, having accepted him onto his squadron of warriors.

“Ye bloody bastard! I’m going to shred ye and then sew ye up until ye resemble the fox that ye are,” Owen growled parrying again. He was coming forward quickly, swinging to the left, to the right. Reckless and angry.

“A fox, eh?” Gregor chuckled, blocking each blow easily. “I’m a might bit bigger than a fox.”

“Not by the time I’m done hacking ye to bits,” Owen threatened, running at him again.

Gregor ducked slicing across both of Owen’s shins before rolling backward and leaping to his feet as his opponent dropped to his knees. It wasn’t a blow that would cripple him, but it would hurt like bloody fire. Owen quickly figured out he wasn’t lame and leapt back up to his feet, angrier than a cornered boar.

“If ye’ve had quite enough, I’d like my turn,” Sir John called out.

“Aye, and then me,” Fingall said.

Gregor laughed. Owen faltered in his steps, and Gregor flipped his sword to his left hand, reached back and punched Owen in the jaw with his right.

The man faltered, stepping backward, shouting obscenities. As much as Gregor wanted to finish him off, ’haps he did owe it to John to fight a man who betrayed him and threatened his own reputation in Scotland.

Regrettably, Gregor backed away. But then he heard Kirstin’s whimper, and he knew he’d done the right thing, he needed to comfort her.

“He’s all yours, John.”

John leapt from his horse, the clanging of swords echoing in the night.

Gregor lifted Kirstin from her horse, holding her in his arms, tight. He whispered into her hair, kissing her face, telling her how much he’d worried over her, how much he loved her. She trembled in his arms, clutched to him.

“My laird,” Collin called.