Chapter 3 #2
Brodie peeled away, heading back towards the estate, and Oskar rode on alone.
She's the key, make no mistake. I'll not let her slip through my fingers like he did.
A wave of relief passed through Daphne when she realized that she wasn't being followed.
It wasn't that the men had intended to do her harm – or at least, so she assumed. Perhaps she should have been a little warier. After all, they were armed Scottish bandits, were they not?
Not bandits. The gray-haired one, Brodie, he called the other one laird. What was his name? Oskar something or other. Yes, Oskar. Oskar Russell.
The name didn't sound familiar to her, and she pushed the thought out of her mind. His face kept popping up in her mind, the way his heavy brow knitted when he saw the bruises at her wrist. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he was concerned for her, or angry that she'd been hurt.
You're a fool, Daphne. This is the sort of silliness that got you here in the first place, eh?
She was uncomfortably aware of the fact she was tiring, and tiring quickly. Her stomach cramped from hunger, and her mouth and throat were dry, reminding her that she hadn't actually had anything to drink this morning, not even her usual morning tea.
Neither had she slept, since she'd been able to think of nothing but the pain in her wrists and the fact that her so-called marriage was taking place in the morning.
And now here she was, barely half a mile from the house she'd been kept prisoner, already getting too tired to carry on.
Her legs were cramping, and her dress was tattered.
A branch scraped across her face because she was too slow to duck, leaving vivid pink marks on her cheek.
She stumbled forward, fear pushing her on, knowing that she hadn't got nearly far enough, that he would catch her, there was nowhere to hide. ..
Abruptly, the forest stopped, and Daphne stumbled forward into a wide stretch of grassland. She blinked, looking around, trying to get her bearings. Her plan of disappearing into the forest suddenly seemed very silly indeed.
And then she heard hoofbeats.
Heart turning to ice, Daphne stumbled around to see who was coming. She half expected to see the Marquess, leaving a veritable cavalry of soldiers, bearing down on her with demonic glee.
Instead, it was that wretched Scot again, riding a flame-colored mare, and heading straight for her.
Daphne uttered a very terrible word that she'd once heard one of the footmen say, and turned and ran.
Pointless, of course. People could not outrun horses.
If she'd had her wits about her, Daphne might have dived back into the forest and hid between the trees, but she was too afraid to think straight and too tired to run faster.
The ground shook and the world seemed to wobble as the horse approached.
Is he going to run me down? she thought, just conscious of a flash of fear. Then a large hand seized her arm, and she was hauled up into thin air, sky and earth spinning around her, and deposited on the front of a saddle like a sack of potatoes.
"Hold still, wretched woman!" she heard him shout, and Daphne wished with all her might that she'd kicked him harder.
The horse skidded to a halt, nearly sending her tumbling down to the ground, far below. The horse was taller and larger than any she'd ever ridden, and Daphne didn't dare struggle in case she actually did fall.
It occurred to her that, sitting in front of the saddle as she was, she was pressed tight against the man behind her. His chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing, and she felt his warm breath tickle her ear.
He didn't smell bad, which was a relief. He smelled of soap and horses, which was an entirely acceptable scent. After the perfumed powders and choking colognes that the Marquess favored, Daphne thought she preferred a more natural scent.
"Where are ye going, lassie?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in his chest. She longed to twist around and look him dead in the eye, but then she might fall, and would end up practically nose to nose with the man, and that was certainly not proper.
"None of your concern." she snapped.
"He'll find ye in a minute."
That sentence, spoken so coolly and confidently, made her feel stupid. He was right, of course he was.
"I can take care of myself," Daphne heard herself say, thoroughly unconvincingly.
"Oh, aye, I'm sure. For now, though, ye are coming with us. I'll nae tie ye up – those wrists of yours need to heal – but I wouldnae try and struggle if I were ye."
"I suppose I don't have any choice in the matter," she responded, keeping her gaze down on the horse's mane. It was well-maintained, a well-groomed horse that seemed healthy and happy.
Having seen the skeletal, broken animals that limped around the Marquess' stables or slunk miserably at his heels, she had come to the conclusion that a man who mistreated animals would treat humans exactly the same.
"Nay," the man responded shortly. "Ye daenae."
Something rustled behind her, and she barely had time to react before a burlap sack was pulled over her head, cutting out the light.
"Before ye start whinin', let me tell ye that the bag's nae comin' off," he said, sounding a little weary now. "I'll take it off when we stop. Does it smell bad in there?"
"No," she said primly. "It smells of bread."
"Fine, that's fine."
"You should know that I'm going to escape as soon as I have the chance, Mr... uh, your lordship?"
She heard him chuckle. Or perhaps it was her imagination. The man hadn't so much as smiled sine she'd met him.
"Laird McIrvin. But ye can call me Oskar. Care to tell me yer name?"
"No. And I will escape."
"Ye can try," Oskar sighed, wheeling the horse around. "But ye are nae going anywhere. Ye are mine, lassie. Mine."