Chapter 3
Oskar had considered himself pretty well prepared for the attack. He prided himself on good planning and spending enough time on foresight so as to never be taken off guard.
Apparently, he should have considered the possibility of running into a beautiful English lady, disheveled and visibly terrified, racing through the forest as if the hounds of hell were after her, pursued by Brodie.
He knew enough about the rules of English propriety to know that this lady – she was a clearly a lady, judging by her fine dress, straight spine, and general haughtiness – should not be out and about unaccompanied and unchaperoned.
Skye would never submit to such restraints, but then, Skye had a baby now.
Perhaps if she'd been chaperoned, she would never. ..
He nipped that thought in the bud and concentrated on the here and now. Glancing down at the woman's bruised wrists, a fresh surge of anger rolled through him.
Oskar knew enough about bruises and wounds to know that this woman had been restrained with rough rope, tied far too tight, and for far too long.
Layers of discoloration revealed days, if not weeks, of bondage, and in places, the skin had been scraped raw. Her yelp of pain when he'd accidentally squeezed her wrists indicated that she was suffering with it, too.
For a split second, Oskar imagined Skye with bruises like that on her wrists, and white-hot anger surged through him again, almost blinding.
"Who?" he repeated. "Who did this to ye?"
His voice raised, making a few birds take off from the treetops, and the woman flinched. Guilt rapidly cooled off his anger.
"None of your concern," she responded tartly, lifting her chin defiantly.
Oh, aye, a proper English lady.
She wrenched her wrists away from him again, and this time he let her put a few paces between them. There was nowhere she could go, not with Brodie standing behind her.
Oskar glanced over her head – a beautiful red-brown color of hair, he noticed, with streaks of gold that a person didn't see very often – and met Brodie's eye.
"She came from the house," Brodie answered, without being asked. "From the front door. I saw her. Crept out, then ran like the clappers. Said she dinnae know where the Marquess had gone."
"And I don't," the woman snapped. "I'm not a liar, sir."
Oskar lifted an eyebrow. She was watching him narrowly, obviously having decided that out of the two men, Oskar was the one in charge. And she was right.
"I'm only concerned for yer wellbein', as I'm sure ye can imagine," he said, as courteously as he could manage. No doubt his guttural accent was grating on her delicate English ears. "It's nae really a safe place for a lady to run around."
"No doubt," she said crisply. "Well, I'm grateful for your concern, but I really must be doing."
He suppressed a smile. Really must be going. Another few minutes, and she'd be sitting down on a tree stump and having them fetch her tea.
"We're nae taking tea on the lawn, woman. Ye are goin' nowhere until ye answer me questions. Ye can try and run if ye like, but ye willnae get far, dressed in that..."
He paused, eyeing her dress again. There was something odd about it, aside from the obvious fact of its unsuitability for running through the forest. It was white, wastefully made of reams of fabric – a person could clothe an entire family with the material in that dress and have some left over for handkerchiefs – and clearly expensive.
Not that she didn't look breathtakingly beautiful in it, of course. Oskar prided himself on staying focused when there was work to be done. Plenty of beautiful ladies had flirted with him back at the castle, and he'd steadily ignored them all. That wasn't to say he was made of stone, of course.
The English lady was beautiful, with a fine, slim figure which the dress clung to like a glove. Her remarkable hair, easily reaching to her waist, was done all finely, despite it clearly coming undone, and was even decorated with some white silk flowers.
The penny dropped.
"It's a weddin' gown," he breathed. "Are ye wearin' a weddin' gown, woman?"
"Do not call me woman," she snarled.
"Well, why nae tell me yer name, then?"
"I think not."
"Fine. I'll tell ye mine. I am Oskar Russell, and I have business with the Marquess of Huston. Can ye tell me where he is?"
"For the final time, no, I cannot. Now can I please go?"
"Nae just yet. This dress – it's very pretty, by the way."
"Please don't pay me compliments."
"It's yer weddin', is it nae?"
She glared at him. "No, in England everybody wears wedding dresses at a wedding. It's a common custom. Have you not heard of it?"
Brodie laughed, hastily turning it into a cough. Oskar did not allow himself to smile.
"Very funny, lass. Can I assume – and this is merely the logical conclusion here – that ye are marryin' the Marquess on this very day?"
Silence. Well, that was an answer in itself. Oskar studied the woman's face closely.
She was very pretty indeed. There was a spray of freckles across her nose, something the English did not consider beautiful, but Oskar thought otherwise.
She had a well-shaped face, good features, and large gray-blue eyes. She was the sort of woman a Marquess would like to have beside him. Pretty enough to earn him compliments, but intelligent and ferocious enough to pull her weight.
"I'll take that as a yes," he remarked. "And, as a further point, I can conclude that ye are not pleased about the weddin'."
She folded her arms tightly, giving him another flash of the nasty bruises at her wrist. She was too pale, he noticed. Not a natural paleness, but the sort of color a person might get from hiding from the sun for too long.
"What a clever man you are," she said shortly. "You see a woman in a wedding dress, obviously terrified, fleeing a house and diving into the forest, and you assume she's trying to avoid her wedding. What a breathtaking intellect."
"Has anyone ever told ye that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?"
"Often. They're generally quite stupid people."
That quip nearly earned her a smile, but Oskar collected himself in time. He glanced over her head again and saw Brodie almost stuffing his fist into his mouth in an effort not to laugh.
"And I think that answers your previous question, too," the woman continued. "As to who inflicted those bruises on me. I'm sure you've guessed by now."
"Aye, I have."
"Excellent. Listen, I have no objections to what you are doing here.
So long as you don't hurt or kill innocent people – which you don't seem to have done – I would never stand in your way.
If you can find the Marquess, by all means, do whatever you came here to do.
But please, let me go. I have nothing to do with.
.. with whatever this is, and I would merely like to get away. "
Oskar pursed his lips.
"I'm nae sure I can do that, lassie."
There was a split second when her expression dropped. Fear and annoyance crossed her face, and she pressed her lips together in a tight line.
That was all the warning he got before she lifted up her skirt to reveal surprisingly practical boots and kicked him hard in the groin. He gasped, doubling over, and the woman darted to one side, diving into the undergrowth and disappearing.
"Oskar!" Brodie shouted, hurrying forward.
"I'm fine," Oskar gasped, straightening up with a wince. "Damn, we cannae let her go."
"I must say, I've nae seen ye taken by surprise like that for a long time."
Oskar shot his friend a venomous look. "Aye, well, I wasnae expectin' her to have boots like that under those skirts. Or even to think of kicking there. That's goin' to be sore later."
"Can we nae let her go? The Marquess..."
"We daenae need the Marquess," Oskar interrupted shortly. "We only need her. Where are the horses? We can cut her off."
"I daenae understand."
Oskar started walking back the way Brodie had come.
"She's his bride-to-be, Brodie. He wants to marry her. He wants to marry her so badly he kept her tied up in his house, and she took the first opportunity she had to escape. If we have her, we can get to him."
Brodie bit his lip, but followed obediently.
Oskar had studied the shape of the landscape around the Marquess' house very well. The forest seemed thick, but in fact was only a thin finger of woodland. Judging by the direction she had set off, she would soon break out into a flat, open space, where she'd be a sitting duck.
Brodie's horse waited patiently for him, and Oskar's horse – trained well to follow his master – had appeared, too. Sighing, Oskar mounted his horse, and spurred it forward.
"She dinnae half give ye a good kick, though," Brodie shouted, his sleek gray mare coming up beside Oskar's. "She insulted ye more than anyone else I've ever heard. At least, anyone who stayed livin', that is."
Oskar growled. "Is that gray hair leeching into your brain, lad? I'm nae about to strike a woman. Besides, she's a soft English lassie. I'm surprised she even made it this far."
It occurred to him, with a jolt of displeasure, that the Marquess would undoubtedly have found her if they hadn't got her first. A man who'd kidnap a woman – he assumed she was kidnapped, and it seemed like a reasonable assumption – and keep her prisoner would not hesitate to do so again.
This place was remote, and the few villages they'd passed through were sour and unfriendly. The poor lass would find no help here. There was nowhere for her to go, and he'd wager that she had no money of her own and no friends who could take her in.
Perhaps Skye felt that way, when she realized that she was with child.
Stop it. Don't think like that.
Gritting his teeth, Oskar spurred his horse forward, racing past the dark treeline. He couldn't afford to lose her now, absolutely not.
"Go and find the others," Oskar shouted. "Round them up and wait for me by the meetin' point. I'll get her meself. Then we head home, aye?"
"Aye, me laird."