Chapter Three

Janet ran as fast as her feet would carry her. She sprinted at top speed toward…anywhere. She had no clue as to where she was going. She could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing that wasn't associated with acute fear.

The cold didn't matter. The fact that she'd tripped at least twice already and had skinned up both of her knees didn't matter. The only sight she could conjure up was the mental image of Morag's scream. The only sounds she could hear were the beating of her own heart and the gasps of air her lungs sucked in as she heaved for each breath of air.

She'd been running for what felt like hours but had only been minutes. She dashed through the fog, refusing to slow down no matter how weary and pummeled her body felt. She might never make it to help before she was murdered on the streets of Nairn, but she'd be damned if she wouldn't go down trying.

Pumping her arms back and forth as her body treaded through the boggy mist, she let out a small whimper of relief when she noticed a break in the fog just ahead. Dashing toward it with everything she had left in her, she came to an abrupt halt once she reached her destination.

"Oh my God," she muttered in between pants. Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the bizarre scene around her as she doubled over to catch her breath. "Where in the hell am I?" she rasped out.

Janet's mouth dropped open in morbid fascination as her eyes flicked about the row of crude mud and thatch huts that she'd wandered into the midst of. She'd never seen anything like them. Well, she'd never seen anything like them outside of lands that had been preserved for their historic value, she mentally amended.

Snapping out of the reverie that had swamped her, she took a deep breath and reminded herself that she needed to find some sort of help. Morag was in danger. God in heaven, she thought hysterically, her best friend had literally been kidnapped off the streets! She could only hope Morag's captor didn't force himself on her before she could be rescued.

Steeling her nerves and forcing herself to behave with a calm she was far from feeling, Janet took a tentative step out of the mist and toward the row of thatched huts just ahead. She would get help. For Morag she would find a way.

Janet tried with every fiber of her being to make that mental vow a reality, but before she could take another step from the fog a heavily muscled arm whipped out and snatched her back into the eerie cloud formation. She opened her mouth to scream, but was forestalled from carrying it out by a large, callused hand clamping roughly over her lips and grinding into her mouth.

Frightened and quite certain he meant to kill her, she bit down as hard as she could on whatever skin she could find, bearing down until the metallic taste of blood trickled onto her tongue. It wasn't enough. The small nick she'd given him hadn't even caused him to flinch.

Flailing madly about, she gave him her full weight then, hoping it would induce him to drop her long enough to allow her precious moments to make good on another escape. Anything—even a single moment's hesitation on his part—and she'd try to flee into the mist again.

But that wasn't to be. When Janet's feet purposely shot out from beneath her and she tried to fall buttocks-first toward the ground, the same heavily muscled arms that had caught her in the first place merely swept her back up as though she were a rag doll. He whirled her around to face him, his large hand still clamped over her mouth.

"Seall dè fhuair mi," he said in a chillingly controlled tone. "Nach e tha mear."

Janet's green eyes rounded uncomprehendingly as her head shot up. She'd never heard such a language. It sounded vaguely similar to the Gaelic she'd heard some of the Highlanders in these parts speak and yet so different at the same time.

Breathing rapidly, Janet determined to look up—way up in fact—and meet her captor's eyes. He might kill her, and was no doubt preparing to do so, but she'd be damned if she'd act the coward while taking her last breath.

She was afraid to look at him, terrified in fact. She'd never encountered a man so huge, so powerfully built. The arm he had wrapped about her felt as heavy as a tree trunk so roped with muscle it was. He was shirtless, making it easy to ascertain the fact that his equally massive torso was riddled with…battle scars?

Janet sucked in a deep breath from behind the giant's hand and, casting her fears behind her, shot her gaze up to meet her captor's dead-on. And then she wished she hadn't.

His black eyes drilled into her, piercing her with a possessiveness she'd never before witnessed, never experienced. The look he was bestowing upon her was so primal that it terrified her.

He didn't mean to simply kill her, she now knew. No. Escaping him would never be that easy. He meant to have her, to rape her.

Janet's last coherent thought before falling into the first faint of her life revolved around whether the barbarian would choose to kill her before, after, or…during?

And then the blackness overtook her and she thankfully knew no more.

* * * * *

Euan held onto the wench's middle as her limp body sagged against him atop the destrier. 'Twas just a wee bit further they'd go before making camp for the night, getting their party as far from the scene of the reivin' they'd just done as was possible in a night's journey. The Hay would definitely retaliate. He planned to be on his own lands when they did so.

Graeme had been right after all, the Donald thought in a rare flash of humor. The reivin' had been a spot of good fun.

As he ran his hand over his future bride's plump breast and felt a nipple pop up through the fabric of her finely made outer tunic, he conceded that he'd especially enjoy reaping the benefits of tonight's coup. He could scarcely wait to rut between his wench's legs. His manhood was painfully erect just thinking about it.

Euan absently toyed with the nipple, plumping it up between his forefinger and thumb as he considered where the closest village with a priest might be located.

He wouldn't fuck her wee body until he owned it by law, so he'd have to make certain she was his in posthaste.

The Lord of the Isles would be made to wait but so long.