Chapter 23
The branches of the trees caught on Ryan’s kilt as he moved further into the forest. It didn’t slow him down; his mind was too focused on finding Margaret.
With each step he took, the sunlight became dimmer and dimmer, and he was sure that even if his wife did see a deer, she wouldn’t have gone this far alone.
Aaron kept several paces behind him, poised to assist if they came upon any danger.
Despite wanting to barrel through the area, Ryan stopped when he spotted broken saplings. He knew he’d save himself time if he properly tracked Margaret. Slowing down now would buy them precious time later.
Ryan squatted in front of the plants, taking in their appearance. The dirt around the saplings was trampled, and when he kneeled closer, he was able to make out a footprint. It was a man’s, much larger than Margaret’s, and it was pointing to the south.
“We’re going in the right direction,” he said under his breath, taking in the landscape and determining the most likely path they’d taken. “This way.”
In Ryan’s time as Aaron’s right-hand man, he had become one of the most reliable trackers in the clan.
Noticing the way the leaves bent was second nature to him.
He was able to tell which parts of the earth had been recently disturbed and never second-guessed himself.
It was well known that he’d never been wrong about something like this.
So, as he proceeded in the direction he was sure that Margaret had been taken, Aaron followed without question.
After a few moments of trekking through the woods and following the broken branches, the distinct sounds of struggle reached Ryan’s ears. His body went rigid, and he grasped the hilt of his dagger, readying himself for the confrontation that was approaching. Behind him, Aaron did the same.
They approached slowly, careful not to give away their position. The last thing Ryan needed was for whoever had Margaret to act rashly. One wrong move, and he could lose the woman who made him feel worthy of love.
“Get on!”
A sharp, angry English accent pierced the relative quiet of the surrounding area, and beneath it were distressed feminine shouts. It had to be Margaret, and, if he was correct in his assumption, the bastard that had her was Duke Cunningham.
But how did that dobber find her? Was it the letters? Did he truly intercept them as Margaret had feared?
When the pair finally came into view, rage consumed every bit of Ryan’s being. An ugly man, red-faced and sickly thin, was attempting to force Margaret onto a nervous horse. She was attempting to get away, and the horse was stomping as though trying to discourage the attempted abduction.
The man touched her as though she were familiar to him, or perhaps it would be more apt to say that he touched her as if she belonged to him. His hands grabbed tightly onto her hips, pushing her upward. He growled, fighting to get her to behave, but she seemed to be holding her own.
A knife was thrown to the side, about a meter away from where the struggle was taking place. Margaret fought against the man, letting out grunts with each kick of her legs and swing of her arms. While she seemed unable to get away from him, she was keeping the man from abducting her.
“If ye value yer life, ye’ll let her go,” Ryan growled.
He rushed forward, and at the same time, Margaret landed a blow against the man’s head with her elbow. If he didn’t know any better, Ryan would have thought that she had trained for situations like this. Her instincts were sharp, and she created an opening for herself.
The man released her, stumbling to the side and clutching the injury. He cursed under his breath as he attempted to right himself. Margaret, sensing her opportunity to escape, turned to run.
Her eyes locked with Ryan, and the entire scene seemed to stop. Then, relief flooded her delicate features. She looked at him as though he were the answer to her prayers.
Given the circumstances, Ryan was fairly certain that he was.
Margaret took off after a beat, her feet kicking up fallen leaves as she ran to the safety of his arms. Ryan caught her easily, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head as the other wrapped around her waist, keeping his dagger carefully pointed away from her.
She took long, gasping breaths, seeking comfort from his solidness.
“Ryan!” she exclaimed, her voice worn from the screaming she’d no doubt been doing. “Ryan, that’s—”
“Ye’re nae hurt, aye?” Ryan asked, keeping his eyes on the man who was slowly straightening out. His only concern at the moment was her safety.
“No, no. I… He tried—”
“Go hide, Margaret. I’ll take care of this bastard, but ye need to get yerself out of harm’s way.”
She nodded once against his chest before he released her. As she scurried out of sight, she yelled, “Be careful, Ryan. That’s the man I was running from.”
Ach, so I was right. That’s Duke Cunningham.
“Aaron, I need ye to make sure he doesnae have any other men stationed in the forest,” Ryan ordered, taking a step toward the Duke. The man was finally getting his bearings and setting his sights on Ryan. “I wouldnae put it past this bampot to have brought reinforcements.”
“Aye,” Aaron responded before taking off, using the cover of the trees to keep himself from being spotted.
The Duke slowly reoriented himself to the area. He put one hand on his horse, his eyes finding Ryan easily. A sneer spread across his face, showing off a row of crooked, yellow teeth.
“How dare ye touch me wife?” Ryan growled, lifting his dagger. “Ye came to me land and tried to abduct me wife? Did ye think this would end well for ye?”
“She was mine first, you damn savage,” Cunningham replied, rushing forward. “You abducted her from me.”
Ryan took a defensive stance, preparing to counter the blow that was about to be delivered. He had to drop his dagger to grab onto the Duke’s wrist. With a hard twist, Ryan pulled a bellowing roar from Cunningham’s lips.
“What are ye tryin’ to accomplish?” Ryan spat as his free fist connected with the Duke’s jaw. “Ye daenae even ken how to fight, ye useless fool.”
In what seemed like an act of desperation, the Duke slammed his forehead against Ryan’s chin. The shock of the contact loosened Ryan’s grip enough that Cunningham was able to pull away. He ducked down, grabbing Ryan’s blade from the ground.
Brandishing it and swiping the air in front of Ryan, Cunningham said, “I’m trying to take back what’s mine. You’re the one who stole her. If you just hand her over, I’ll let you walk away with your life.”
Ryan scoffed, ducking as Cunningham tried to swipe at him again. Keeping his opponent distracted with swings of his own, Ryan hooked his foot around the Duke’s ankle. All it took was one mighty pull, and Cunningham went down, still holding the dagger.
“Should I really be the one who is worried about me life?” Ryan sneered, kicking the Duke’s side and knocking the wind from his lungs. “Ye seem to be the one on yer back.”
For all his political prowess, he seems to lack any real fightin’ skill.
The Duke said nothing, rolling away and scrambling to his feet. In all of his shuffling, he disoriented himself once again. It wasn’t difficult for Ryan to snatch the blade from him.
“Ach, ye messed up, Duke Cunningham,” he spat, twirling the blade to adjust his grip. “And this mistake ye just made, it’s going to cost ye yer life.”
Margaret felt frozen in place. From where she was crouched within a bush, she could see everything that was happening. Ryan was ruthless, not allowing Duke Cunningham to get a single decent blow.
Ryan took another swing at Cunningham, this time connecting with his nose. Blood gushed out, dribbling down his face and dripping onto his shirt. He spat, a glob of bloodied saliva making an arch from his mouth into the dirt.
“Piss off, you Scottish bastard,” Cunningham said as he lunged forward again. He seemed fairly incapable of fighting properly though. “You really think that you can take what belongs to me? I will not allow it. You’ll regret ever laying a finger on what belongs to me.”
“Margaret doesnae belong to anyone,” Ryan replied, knocking Duke Cunningham to the ground once again. He grunted with the effort of his swing, sweat collecting on his brow. “She chooses where she goes, and ye’re actin’ like a child because she didnae choose ye. Grow up, ye disgrace of a man.”
This time, the Duke didn’t get up. It seemed as though he were incapable of doing so.
His heels kicked uselessly on the ground, throwing clumps of soil into the air.
He pushed his palms against the earth, but they slipped on fallen leaves.
If he weren’t such an awful man, Margaret may have felt bad for him.
Ryan stood over Cunningham. His back was to Margaret, so she wasn’t able to see everything that was happening though she did see him placing his foot on the center of the Duke’s chest, holding him down.
Margaret gasped when Ryan lifted his leg and brought it back down against the Duke’s sternum.
He let out a broken sound, something between a whine and a groan.
There was no doubt in her mind that Ryan had broken one of Cunningham’s ribs.
When he attempted to curl in on himself, Ryan stopped him, his foot coming dangerously close to the Duke’s face.
“Ye shouldnae have come here,” Ryan said, dropping down onto the Duke’s waist. He landed so hard that Cunningham wheezed with the impact. “Ye could have lived a full life in England had ye nae decided that me wife was yer property. She’s her own person, and ye should have kent that.”
The sentiment struck Margaret through her ribs. There was such a stark difference between the way Ryan viewed her and the way the Duke did. She was valued, respected in a way she didn’t think she’d ever have been if she’d stayed in England.
No one but Ryan would ever fight for me this way.