Chapter 1 #2
The clearing was quiet. Lush green grass was heavily dotted with purple heather. It smelled like moss and old secrets. Familiar and comforting.
Her slippers didn’t make a sound as she walked among the heather.
Why has me faither forsaken me?
What did I do to make him hate me so?
Maybe hate was a strong word, but that’s how it felt to Amara. He never looked at her with love or tenderness anymore. Whenever his eyes fell on her, they were either filled with disappointment, disgust, or anger.
Does he blame me for Maither’s death?
The memory of that fateful day rushed through, blinding her.
Her mother’s voice urging her to hurry. The men to her right and left being gutted by O’Donnell men.
And the man who twisted unnaturally, head lolling to one side, just as her mother’s shoulder brushed past him, and the blood from his neck squirting directly into her face.
Her hand wrenched away from her mother’s grip as bile sprung into her throat.
She frantically wiped clear her eyes as the molten hot liquid kept splattering her face.
She didn’t know it then, but it that was the last time she would ever hear her mother’s voice…
see her mother’s face… feel her mother’s touch.
The grip of the memory subsided, and her vision cleared, tears welling in her eyes.
If she hadn’t pulled away from her mother to wipe the blood out of her eyes, they wouldn’t have been separated. Maybe her mother would still be alive if Amara hadn’t been so weak. But her father hadn’t been there to see that transpire, or at least she thought he hadn’t been.
What if he saw that happen? Does he think I’m a coward?
Suddenly, a sinister laugh echoed across the small clearing, yanking Amara from her thoughts. She whirled at the sound, her mouth going dry as she spotted two men wearing the blue, green, and yellow colors of the O’Donnell Clan.
One of the men was tall and muscular with short dark brown hair.
He’d probably be handsome if he wasn’t scarring the wits out of her right now.
The other man, shorter and stockier with bright red hair drawn back from his eyes with a leather tie, wasn’t as handsome.
He kept his eyes on her as he took a drink from a flask.
Amara’s eyes darted to Bonnet, trying to gauge the distance and the likelihood of reaching her mare before the men could reach her.
From the look in their eyes, she had no doubt their intentions were less than honorable.
But she’d wandered too far into the field, and the men were between her and Bonnet.
They kept walking toward her, their steps unhurried as if they had all the time in the world.
As if they knew she could not escape, but Amara Hall was not just going to stand there and allow herself to be captured.
Amara whirled and started running, stumbling once when the hem of her skirt tangled around her ankles.
One of the men let out a surprised but chillingly gleeful laugh and then she heard their feet trampling through the heather after her. Amara raised her skirts and ran as if her very life depended on how fast she could run. And likely, it did.
She didn’t make it far before she was jerked to a halt, a large hand tangled in the back of her dress. She was pulled back into a pair of strong arms, her back pressed against a wide chest.
“Easy lass,” one of the men said as he wrapped his arms tighter around her.
“Unhand me, this instant!” she growled, and bucked her head backward, hopeful to connect with the man’s chin.
Then the red-haired O’Donnell man stepped in front of her, smiling in victory.
Amara scowled. One of these men could be responsible for her mother’s death.
She would not let them take her, too. Bending her head, she clamped her teeth down on the man’s arm around her chest hard enough for the metallic taste surge through her mouth.
“Ow!” he bellowed, instantly shoving her to the ground. “Devils from hell!”
The red-haired man spat his drink out on a shocked laugh.
A wicked grin peeled across her own blood-marked mouth, and she had hoped to hit the bone, but didn’t stick around long enough to tell.
Amara took off, and had sprinted half the distance to the trees by the time her captors collected themselves.
“Daenae just stand there like an idiot, Myles,” she heard the one who had been holding her bellow. “Catch the lass!”
Footsteps sounded behind her, and Amara’s breath hitched in her throat.
Her mother’s voice sounded across her senses, “Run Amara! Yer life depends on it, child!”
The man was getting closer. Any second he would be on her.
She caught sight of a sturdy branch lying on the ground. She didn’t have time to think about the wisdom of what she was going to do.
“I’m sorry, Maither,” Amara whispered as she swooped down, picked up the branch that ended up being a little heavier than she’d expected, then turned to face her approaching attacker.
He hadn’t expected her to stop, and the action took him by surprise. His light green eyes widened even as his arms started windmilling to try and stop his momentum. Amara raised the branch and whacked him over the head the instant he was close enough.
Myles, as the other man had called him, spun halfway around from the force, then fell to the ground with a loud thud. Amada dropped the branch and took off running again, knowing the other man would catch up to her if she didn’t.
“Bonnet!” she called out. “Bonnet!” Amara whistled loudly with two of her fingers, as her father had once taught her how to do, but the golden mare was nowhere to be found.
She changed her direction wildly, aiming now for the further tree line, hoping to find a hiding spot in the forest. She’d only made it a few steps inside the thick trees when she was stopped again, this time by a different pair of hands.
Amara opened her mouth to scream for all she was worth, but her captor chose that moment to step in front of her and the scream withered and died.
It was him. The man who haunted her dreams and drove her nightmares.
Rhys Adams.
Her heart sped up and her knees startled to wobble. He was older, his features harder, but it was unmistakably the laird. And, she noticed, he was even more handsome than he’d been six years ago.
He didn’t say anything, just stared down at her with hard, deep brown eyes.
His gaze dropped and landed on the blood that stained her mouth and chin, and an almost imperceptible grin lifted one side of his lips before his eyes met hers once more.
Rhys gripped her upper arm in a tight, but painless way.
A way that sent a jolt of terror through her.
“Ye— Ye shouldnae be here,” Amara found herself saying. What?
“Neither should ye, but here we are,” Rhys retorted.
“I really should be goin’,” she started to say, but Rhys tutted and frowned.
“Oh, lass, but I’ve been waitin’ so patiently for ye. Ye are the daughter of Murdoch, after all, which bodes well for me… but not so well for ye.”
“What do ye—”
The next instant she found herself torn from Rhys’s hold and with an O’Donnell holding each of her arms.
“I’m nae a boar from one of yer hunts! I’m a Lady! The daughter of the laird of these lands! Let me go this instant!” she tried to thrash, but it was to no avail.
His men chuckled, which elicited a stern glare from Rhys. “Do ye think ye can hold on to the lass this time?”
Their grip on her arm tightened as they both huffed a response.
Amara couldn’t help the wince as they did, and it wasn’t lost on her captor.
“There’s a good lass,” Rhys said smugly as he bent down to meet her eye. Her blood ran ice cold. “Now, ye’ll behave or else I’ll be forced to truly show ye how a boar might be treated after I’m done with it.”