Chapter 2 #2
"Careful, lass," came a deep, curious voice. Another Scot, then.
She blinked, still a little blinded by the bright sunlight, and squinted up at her savior. Savior? Or a new captor?
Perhaps I jumped out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.
The first thing she noticed – besides the fact the man was a great deal stronger than her and much taller – was that he had the most remarkable green eyes. Real green, not blue-green or hazel. It was impressive, to stand in a forest and still have one's eyes look green.
He had shoulder length brownish hair, twisted half back in a clumsy queue, and a pale oval face, covered with the shadow of a stubble. She estimated he was no more than twenty-five or six.
Aside from this, he was also the most handsome man she'd ever seen. That seemed like a thoroughly inappropriate thing to think of in this situation, and Daphne fiercely suppressed the thought.
"Are ye well, lassie?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble.
"Let me go!" she snapped, wriggling out of his grasp. Or at least, she tried. Moving faster than one might have thought for such a large man, his arms shot out, hands wrapping tightly around her wrist.
She hadn't meant to, but a squeak of pain escaped her, as his fingers pressed unbearably tightly against her bruises.
At once the pressure disappeared. He still had his hands on her wrists, but gripped them loosely, so as not to hurt. She tried experimentally to pull her hands away, and learned immediately that she could not.
That realization sent a flutter through her, something she did not understand and did not like.
Why am I not scared?
Perhaps it was the curious, unhurried way the man looked at her, or perhaps it was because he was handsome – it was human nature to trust in beauty, after all, foolish though it was – or perhaps it was the simple fact that one's enemy's enemy was one's friend.
Gripping her forearm carefully, he lifted one of her arms up to the light. It took her a moment to understand that he was looking at the vivid, angry-looking ring of bruises around her wrist.
"Ye are hurt," he said, conversationally.
She clenched her jaw. "Yes, but it's nothing. A few bruises won't kill me."
Behind her, she could hear heavy breathing and running footsteps, and guessed that it was the man on horseback, pursuing her into the woods.
"Laird McIrvin," she heard him say, breathless. "We've nae found him. We think he's made a run for it, or else gone into the hills."
"Nay matter, Brodie," the man said, still inspecting Daphne's wrists. It felt strange, having him stare so intently at her. Although, it was not her he was looking at, but her injuries. He was standing entirely too close for propriety, too.
Really, Daphne, she thought tiredly. You're worried about propriety now? You've spent weeks in a gentleman's home, kept prisoner and tied to a bed. Your reputation is entirely gone, I'm afraid.
And with that came the knowledge that she would never, ever be able to return to London Society, unless she came as the Marquess' wife. There were rules, and she had broken them.
The circumstances did not matter. She'd been kidnapped, yes, but the marriage had been approved of by her own father, and so she should not have been resisting it in any case. She was lost, entirely lost.
Briefly, Daphne considered her two closest friends in the world: clever, sharp Leah Anderson, and cheerful young Katie Crawford. She immediately rejected the idea of seeking help from them.
They would help her, of course they would, without a second thought, but could she really risk putting them in danger?
Not even Leah, with all her fire, was a match for the Marquess.
Daphne imagined what would happen if the Marquess got his hands on somebody as sweet and soft as Katie and shuddered.
No, she could not risk it. What friend would she be, to lead such a monster to their doors?
There is nowhere I can go. Noone that will take me in. My life is over.
Perhaps it was the lack of food – the Marquess liked to keep her weak and thin – or the panic she'd felt, but Daphne wobbled ever so slightly on her feet.
The man's eyes – truly a remarkable green – snapped up to hers, sharp and insightful.
His large hand closed gently around her shoulder, steadying her.
He has such rough hands, she thought dizzily. Not like the Marquess' white fingers.
That was an odd thing to say and served to rather shock her back into the present, and the danger she had gotten herself into.
"Are ye well, lass?" the man asked again, voice quiet.
Before Daphne could answer, the second man – Brodie – spoke up.
"I've already asked her about the man. Says she doesnae know where he is, but she must."
"Now, now, Brodie, let's nae contradict the word of a lady, eh? I think our bird's flown the coop, anyhow."
He was still looking at Daphne thoughtfully. It wasn't proper to stare at a man so intently, of course, but neither was it proper to corner a lady in a forest and grab her wrists, so Daphne stared right back.
He lifted her wrist again, so that the bruises were level with her eyes. She glanced briefly at them, not wanting to remember the pain that had caused them. She had other injuries, cuts and bruises that were thankfully covered by her clothing.
"Now, me lady," he said. "Let's start with tellin' me who did this."
She blinked, a little taken aback.
"I beg your pardon?"
He scowled. "The bruises, lass. Who hurt ye?"