Chapter Five

The dark-haired stranger's words surprised and disappointed her, and until that disappointment squeezed her chest, she had not even realized he had made an impression upon her. She snorted at her foolishness, thinking perhaps there was a man in this world who treated women with a modicum of respect and caring.

Anger shot through her body, and she balled her left hand into a fist and shook it at his back as he turned away from her. "I dunnae care how much coin ye give my da, I'm nae lying with ye!" she bellowed as he strode up the stairs and threw open the door to the inn with so much force that it slammed against the stone with a rattle before banging shut once more.

When it was obvious he had no intention of acknowledging what she said, she lifted her skirts to race after him, but his companion grabbed her by the arm in a viselike grip. "Ye have to stay here, lass."

She glanced to the brown-haired, green-eyed devil beside her. "I dunnae have to do anything ye say," she bit out and tried to twist out of his grip, but he tightened his hold.

"I'm sorry, lass, but Alasdair told me to keep ye here."

"Do ye always take commands from other men?" she asked, trying to goad him into releasing her.

He smiled with an annoyingly patient look. "From my laird, I do," he replied evenly.

Ah, that was right. She recalled now that the black-haired warrior had been called Laird MacLachlan. "Just because yer friend is a laird, it does nae give him the right to buy my body," she said, knowing full well all men thought they had such a right to buy or take what they wanted.

"He does nae want yer body," the man replied.

"Well, I'm nae going to wed him, either!" she declared hotly.

The man full on laughed at that. "He does nae wish to wed ye, either, lass."

She frowned at that, now utterly confused. "But he said he was here for me."

"Aye," the man replied with a confirming nod. "He's here to return ye to yer home."

"Return me to my home?" she asked, sure she had not heard correctly.

Green eyes met hers. The man frowned. "Well, aye," he said hesitantly. "To yer real family."

She froze, her mother's deathbed confession coming back to her.

Someday, Sorcha, her mother had whispered as she lay dying, someone may come for ye.

Why would someone come for me, mama?

Ye are mine. The gods brought ye to me when I had no hope of a bairn, and they gave ye to me. They gave me hope, and they gave ye safety. Dunnae go with them. Dunnae let them take ye. They were bad, bad people. They did this to ye , her mother had said, whispering frantically with a spurt of sudden strength as she traced a finger over Sorcha's brand she'd had as long as she could remember. They hurt ye. Yer birth family hurt ye. Ye must stay here. Ye must stay with Ada.

These men were here from her birth family. They had somehow found her. Real fear flooded her at the thought of being torn from her sister, the only person in this world she loved. Her father may be the devil, but he was the devil she knew. She ripped her arm from the man and raced up the stairs toward the very home she'd been desperately scheming to flee, but just as she got to the door, it swung toward her, hit her in the forehead, and the world around her went black.

She awoke to a horrid throbbing pain in her head as her body was jostled at a jarring pace. She struggled to open her eyes. They felt stuck closed, as if someone had put honey on the inside of her eyelids so they'd not properly open. When she did manage to lift her heavy lids, her vision was fuzzy and all she saw for a long moment were shadows and hazy scenery. When her vision cleared, she frowned at the darkening forest around her. It had been sunny when she was last awake.

Trees blurred by her at an alarmingly fast pace. Her heartbeat raced and fear sprung up inside her. Where was she? She tried to recall what had happened, but the pounding in her head made it near impossible to order her thoughts. As she scanned the passing landscape, she frantically looked for a landmark she recognized, and when she could not locate one, her pulse became so fast she felt faint and the world tilted for one moment before it righted, and she released a scream.

"Ye're awake, I see," came a voice from behind her and then an arm she had not even registered was lying across her abdomen, and heavily muscled thighs sat on either side of her own. God's blood! She was trapped! She screamed again and tried to twist out of the arm around her, but it tightened across her midriff.

"Stop screaming please," came the deep voice again, but now it was louder, near her ear, and the press of an unyielding chest against her back ratcheted up her fear even more, but then she recognized the voice to be that of Laird MacLachlan—Alasdair, as his friend had called him.

"Ye took me!" She gasped, squirming more, but all it did was cause her breasts to rub against his arm. She stilled, and a blush heated her from head to foot. "Ye stole me from my home!" She tried as discreetly as possible to inch upward so her breasts were no longer resting against his warm arm.

"I would think ye'd be grateful," he replied, not even bothering to deny that he'd taken her.

"Grateful? Grateful! " she sputtered, astonished at his audacity. "Ye knocked me out and stole me from my home!" she bellowed over the pounding of hooves.

"I did nae knock ye out," he said, his warm breath tickling her ear and neck as he spoke. "Ye ran into the door as I was coming out of it."

She opened her mouth to protest but clamped her jaw shut as the memory flooded her brain. He was right. She had run into the door, but still... "Ye snatched me!" she accused again. He had taken her against her will, no matter how it had come to pass. He wasn't squirming out of his no-good rotten deeds with slippery explanations.

"I took ye from a man who abused ye."

"Ye must take me back!" she insisted, worry for her sister and what could happen to her in Sorcha's absence filling her. "I've a younger sister. I told ye. 'Tis my job to protect her."

"I hate to tell ye so bluntly, but she's nae yer sister," Alasdair fairly shouted over the noise of the pounding horse hooves.

She jerked at his words. According to her mother's deathbed confession, her birth father was dead and so was her birth mother, so she couldn't fathom how he could possibly know that she was not a MacGregor by blood. "I dunnae ken how ye come by the knowledge of my nae being a true MacGregor—"

"Ye ken who ye are?" he said, his voice full of incredulity.

"I ken I'm nae a MacGregor, but I dunnae ken who I belonged to by birth. I ken they were bad. Verra bad. They branded me to sell me," she said, a shiver passing through her as she repeated what her mother had told her.

"Nay, lass," he said, his right arm tightening around her and his left hand pulling up on the reins of the horse to slow it to a stop. "Yer family did nae brand ye to sell ye. Yer da was Laird Gilbert Stewart, and he ordered ye branded so they could find ye. Ye are Margaret Stewart."

"Nay," she said, shaking her head. "Nay," she repeated, because if that were true, the dying words of the woman she'd thought of as her mother her whole life were a lie. "My name is Sorcha, and my birth family was evil."

"Nay, yer name is Margaret, and yer family was nae evil," Alasdair said firmly, sliding off the horse and taking her with him.

Margaret? Margaret? The word pounded continuously through her brain, but she shoved it aside for the moment and all the questions that went with it. "What are ye doing?" she demanded.

"I should think it obvious," he replied, turning to face her. Her breath lodged in her chest, and heat swept through her. His powerful, well-muscled body towered over her. The rich outline of his broad shoulders strained against the thick material of his plaid. He stood with the air of a man full of self-confidence. His long legs were spread the width of his shoulders, and he crossed his arms slowly over his chest as he glanced down at her.

"I mean," she tried again, "why have ye dismounted? I told ye, I have to return to my sister, and I also told ye that the family of my blood is a bad family. Ye have false information. I dunnae ken why after all these years they have sent ye for me, but I dunnae want to go to them."

"I told ye," Alasdair's travel companion said as he brought his destrier to a halt beside her.

She glared up at the man who looked as happy as a cat who'd just caught a rat. "Ye told him what?" she demanded, because she suspected the cocksure man's statement had something to do with her.

"I told him," the man said, dismounting, "that ye'd nae be reasonable."

"Ye dunnae even ken me," she snapped. "So ye kinnae ken whether I'd be reasonable or nae, ye, ye—"

"Calan," he said, tipping his head to her. "And I dunnae need to ken ye. Ye're a woman, and women are unreasonable creatures who are driven by emotion and nae logic."

"That's nae true!" She glared at the man as he dismounted as well.

"It's nae?" He motioned to Alasdair. "I'd wager ye turned down all yer marriage offers because ye think all men are horrid."

She darted her gaze between Alasdair and his friend Calan. "How do ye ken I turned down marriage offers?"

"Benedict likes to gossip," Alasdair supplied with an apologetic look.

She nodded, knowing that was true enough. "'Tis nae any of yer concern, sir," she said looking to Calan, "why I turned down the offers."

He smirked. "And do ye think all men are horrid?"

She had to get away from these men and back to her sister. She could not be dragged across the country to a family that had branded her. She couldn't let a handsome face and a good deed that, on further contemplation, had probably been calculated by Alasdair to sway her into trusting him. But simply demanding to be returned was not going to get her what she wanted. She'd have to escape. And to do that, she'd have to make them think she was going to cooperate so they would lower their guard. But she couldn't appear overly cooperative right away. Alasdair did not look like the sort of man to be easily duped. He had a sharp, probing stare, as if he could read her inner thoughts with a look.