Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

A gentle but inexorable grip caught Emma’s chin and forced her gaze up. Her breath caught in her throat, and a tingle spread across her cheeks. A bolt of something sensual shot through her, and her lips parted.

Laird Ronson had leaned down, and she could only wonder.

Does he mean to kiss me? Her eyes widened. Is this what he wants?

But then, he let her go.

Emma missed his touch, feeling cast out and cold. So dazed that when he gently pushed her back into her chair, she let him.

The Laird then tapped a finger on the table and gave her one of his meaningful looks. Emma pretended to shake her head, and he leaned over, making her swallow hard. Heat rose up her neck as he held her gaze, then gave a single shake of his head.

Stay put, he meant, in no uncertain terms. Then, he winked, and Emma could not be certain, but she thought it meant, And then ye shall have yer answer.

With that, he walked away.

Emma drew in desperate gulps of air. Again, she wondered how a man who did not speak dared to order her about so brutally yet so eloquently. She felt a strange desire to either laugh or tip the table over. Instead, she forced herself to down a few mouthfuls of the bitter coffee.

“Aye, ye drink it black like ‘im? Nay wonder why he likes ye,” said a warm voice by her elbow. Morgana had returned. “Need anything else?”

A dozen questions raced through Emma’s mind, but she blurted out, “How far are we from Fallenworth?”

Morgana’s eyebrows rose. “About an hour’s walk south, less on horseback. Why? Are ye nae headin’ north?”

“ No ,” Emma said, even as her heart misgave her and fear rose in waves across her skin. “I—how far are we from the border?”

Morgana barked out a laugh. “Nae that close, lass—still quite a ride, at least a day or so.”

“Thank you,” Emma murmured and rubbed at her forehead.

Morgana gave her a pitying look.

Clasping her hands together, Emma tried to smile, knowing she needed an excuse to get away from this table, and perhaps inspire the woman to her side. “I don’t suppose you need another set of hands—a barmaid or a seamstress? I can cook, too.”

“Oh, sweet,” Morgana said and shook her red head. “Nay. And I dinnae think ye’ll find anyone willin’ to hire an Englishwoman who hasnae worked a day in her life.” Her lips turned downward. “Lest it be for somethin’ nefarious. Ye be careful now and stick to the Laird.”

Emma only heard the woman’s emphatic no , and her entire body seized with panic.

The enormity of what was happening crashed down on her. She had to get to Fallenworth before nightfall, or Helena would leave. Not that Emma blamed her when her friend had booked passage to the south already.

Helena, especially, could not risk tarrying, especially since her older brother wanted to marry her off immediately, to curry favor with the Queen.

Moreover, so close to the border, the Scotsman could take her to another laird—he could even be a friend of the groom she fled from.

Pulling in a deep breath, she suddenly realized she was still alone. Laird Ronson had not returned. Rising from the table, her eyes darted around, sure that some barmaid or tavern worker was watching her. But there was no one.

Emma ran for the door, her heart bounding with triumph when she got outside. As she hurried along the building and then ran for the woods, she heard the whicker of horses and slowed down.

For a moment, true madness overtook her, and she considered stealing a horse. But then, she shuddered. No, she was a very poor rider. Better to run for it. And hopefully, Laird Ronson would think that she took off down the road, rather than going to the woods again.

Her mind flashed back to the terror in those tavern folks’ eyes, save for Morgana’s. Perhaps she was truly pushing her luck—but this was her last chance, her last hope of freedom.

Emma reached the woods and took a deep breath. A path wound through it, and she decided to stick to it, then she’d find a place to clamber down to the shore and hurry along it. Perhaps she could wade in the water so she wouldn’t leave any footprints.

A man appeared on the road, and she drew to a halt, her heart pounding. A sudden sense of awareness crept over her, and her hands grew cold as she clenched them. The man did not hurry, simply kept up a leisurely pace, and she tried to start walking again.

But she could not. Not when every instinct screamed at her to go back to the tavern, to find Laird Ronson and beg for his protection.

No, I don’t need him.

She kept walking, even as Morgana’s voice echoed in her mind.

“Ye be careful now and stick to the Laird.”

Had Morgana recognized her from those dratted sketches? Had they made it this far north in such a short time? Worse, would this man hurt her?

Swallowing, Emma lowered her gaze and tried not to walk too fast or too slow. When the man simply nodded at her, she felt a surge of relief and began walking faster, until he spoke.

“Do I ken ye?”

Emma turned, but he was already there, shoving her against a tree and grinning, a blade at her throat. His cruel face and dark, empty eyes rooted her to the spot. And when he smiled, she wished she had listened to Morgana.

I’m going to die.

“Please—” Emma managed to whisper, even though she knew it was of no use.

This was the bandit from before, who had managed to run away from the Highlander.

And this time, she knew the bandit would ensure she did not escape.

The man did not even blink, simply pulled out a blade in an almost perfunctory manner and tilted his head to the side. “Ye thought ye could get away?” He shook his head. “Stupid wench—spreadin’ yer legs for a fool Queen.”

He would kill her and never think of her again. Her parents, the Highlander… they would never know?—

“Easy,” the bandit crooned. “I willnae hurt ye—much. Nae when me master needs ye to set things right in England.” He wrenched her forward and then shoved her toward a narrower path that seemed to snake down to the shore. “Walk. And dinnae ye dare think of tryin’ to lead me on another merry chase, Emma Wells.”

“I’m not?—”

“Oh, but ye are. I kenned to stick close to that rat bastard Ronson, kenned he’d meant to track ye down. And there’s nay greater hunter in all of Scotland. So, of course, we cannae let him ken that I’m here. Go. ”

Emma began to walk, a sob bubbling up her throat. She did not look south, even though something tugged her heart in that direction, and she trembled. Whoever this man worked for, this fate seemed more ominous than whatever Ronson wanted.

When they reached the bottom of the slope, the woods began to thin, and a sandy cove stretched ahead.

“Here.” The bandit yanked her around and then tied a strip of grimy yellow and brown plaid around her wrist. “Dinnae lose that on the pain of death, girl.”

A clatter of rocks sounded from behind them, and the man whirled around, then cursed. His eyes darted around, and he switched the sword back and forth.

“Shite,” he hissed. “Well, Darrow said if I couldnae get her away, the body would do.”

Emma did not understand his meaning until he turned to her and lifted his blade. She could not think or move, only heard the whistle of air, of certain death?—

A high-pitched, garbled scream cut through the morning air, and a flock of startled birds flew into the sky. Or maybe that was Emma’s thoughts, scattered like her heartbeats all over the forest.

For a moment, the man had been about to cut her down, and now his blade had clattered to the ground as he clutched at the stump of what was left of his sword arm.

He wailed in pain, blood spurting everywhere, and Emma blinked, swaying. Then, he looked up at her and pure terror twisted his face.

“Ye,” the bandit croaked. “Ye bastard, devil-spawn. Me master will see ye hanged?—”

Emma sensed someone at her back then, and the bandit’s terror became her own. Or perhaps the sight of all that blood was too much. Either way, her mind simply gave up, and darkness blotted out her vision.

She tried to fight it to no avail. Yet, in the brief seconds before she lost consciousness, she thought someone caught her—someone familiar. And then, she knew no more.

Emma Wells.

Grant took a moment to gaze at the dark-haired lass sprawled against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her long lashes brushing against her cheeks. He’d suspected it was her name ever since he’d left the woods and began tracking her down, only to learn that others were also on the hunt.

After all, how many runaway brides could there be in England?

And now, this bastard of a bandit had confirmed it. His blood boiled to think of the man saying her name—or threatening her.

She was too lovely for her own good, even like this. He held her easily with one arm, his grip tightening when heard the shuffling of footsteps. Without even looking up, he threw his sword and heard the soft, pained grunt of the bandit—followed by the loud thud of the Shillmoor bandit’s corpse hitting the ground.

So much for killin’ us all, eh?

Though Grant wished that he had been more mindful of the big brute’s threats. That bastard had posed a bit of a challenge, after all—nearly kidnapping the lass and then trying to kill her.

A shudder ran down his spine.

Lifting the errant Englishwoman into his arms, he studied her, brushing the hair from her face. She was still the loveliest woman he’d ever seen—and the most foolish. How had she thought that he’d let her get away again?

Tucking her closer, he tried not to notice how well she fit into his arms, how thick and delicious her form was. He’d always scoffed at the men who rattled off their preferences in women as though they were horses.

But he had to admit now that from the moment he’d seen this curvy Sassenach , he felt a deep craving burning in his gut. One that he’d never experienced before. If he were to marry, he’d want a bride as full-figured as this strange runaway.

First, though, he had to take care of this nonsense. Eyeing the distant shore, he gently set the Englishwoman down and then went to retrieve his sword, before he lifted the corpse by the back of the shirt.

With ease, he crossed the sand and threw what was left of the Shillmoor man into the water. He sank immediately, and Grant knew that there were enough creatures lurking here that they’d make short work of him. As he walked back, he spotted a bed of seagrass. Thus, he stopped there to clean his sword, sheathed it, and then hurried back to the lass.

His heart skipped a beat, faint surprise that she was still unconscious. Was she ill? Or had she not been eating enough? Either way, he wanted Kyla to examine her as soon as they got back to Banrose.

Squinting at the horizon, Grant knew that if they left now, they could catch up to his ship within a day and then be home at Banrose in another. Staying here any longer meant asking for trouble.

Squatting down, he brushed her dark hair from her face and eyed her. When they’d met in those woods and she had managed to snare him there, she’d twined their fates.

Her blue eyes opened at that moment, and she started up at him, almost causing him to fall back on his behind. Her gaze darted around—searching for her assailant, no doubt—and then went back to him.

“You saved me.” Her ample chest rose and fell. “Again.”

Aye, seems I’ve picked up a bad habit of it, lass. Now, ye owe me doubly.

“Thank you,” Emma said. Her eyes clouded over, and she stared out at the sea, then looked back at him. “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”

Grant felt a stir of surprise and gazed at her for a moment, then he slowly shook his head and stood up, offering her a hand. Emma took it and pulled herself up, shaking out her skirt and hair. Shoulders squared, she gave him a sharp nod.

“Fine. You’ve won this round. But I will not marry a Scottish beast, Sir. Mark my words.” She bared her teeth at him. “I will find a way to escape.”

A flash of heat shot straight to Grant’s loins, and he felt the urge to pin her back down to the ground, watch her squirm, trail kisses across her collarbone and up her neck—to drive her so mad that she was forced to take back those words and beg him to never let her go?—

Stop. That way lies madness. The Queen will pick a good laird for her, nae the devil.

That was why the Queen had wanted Emma to marry Laird MacLarsen in the first place, for she knew that even the Beast was preferable to the Devil of Banrose.

Grant gestured ahead of them, and Emma sighed but started walking, her arms folded across her chest. He tried not to notice how that pushed up her ample bosom more or how her hips swayed, even under that ugly frock.

They walked in silence, a muscle occasionally jumping in Emma’s cheek, and Grant suppressed a chuckle.

But when the tavern came into view once, Emma stumbled and then, suddenly, fainted again.