Victoria slipped out of her shoes, then tugged off her dress and laid it out a few feet from the wide stream. Moist air prickled in cool waves along her exposed arms and legs, penetrating the thin fabric of her chemise. The water would be even colder, but two days on a horse had left a thin layer of dust and grime that she could smell.
She picked her way across the rocky ground to the water’s edge and paused. The piercing cry of a Red Kite overhead broke into the quiet of the waning day. The bird disappeared around a bend and Victoria slid her gaze upward to the stars emerging through the sun’s final rays. By the map forming in the sky, Montrose Abbey was two days journey southwest. Walking back should be as simple as the bird’s escape had been. But Iain MacPherson was no fool. The unassuming slope of forest surrounding the stream’s shore led straight up the foothills of the Grampians. The only way out of the meadow was the way they had entered. A neat trap, indeed.
With a disgusted shake of her head, she lifted her chemise above her knees and stepped into the water. A shock of cold dug deep into her bones even as smooth pebbles soothed beneath her feet. An arm suddenly snaked around her waist. She gasped. A large hand clamped over her mouth and yanked her against a heavy body. Iain MacPherson?
Nay.
Victoria screamed through the calloused hand covering her mouth and clawed at the fingers. He yanked her off the ground. She thrashed. The slosh of footsteps through the quiet of the shallow water jerked her attention to the right. A stranger stepped into view. Canny brown eyes met her gaze, then dropped to the low, stitched bodice of her chemise. His expression darkened with lewd, male appreciation. He reached toward her and Victoria knocked his hand aside. He growled and backhanded her. Stinging pain lanced out in tiny tendrils through her cheek, and she slammed harder into the man holding her.
He thrust his arousal against her. Her stomach churned. She twisted, but he shoved her to the ground. A rock jammed into the vertebrae between her shoulder blades. She wheezed. Her attacker fell on her. She shoved at him, still gasping for air.
He clamped a hand over her mouth. “Do not be afraid. ’Tis just a bit of sport we want.”
His mouth came down on the sensitive flesh of her neck. The feel of coarse hair against her cheek startled her, but his hot breath, so intimately brushing her skin as he continued downward, triggered something primal. Victoria bit down on his hand with such force it took him two hard yanks to free himself.
“Bitch.” He sucked on the spot where she had drawn blood.
Victoria drew breath for a bloodcurdling scream, but the second man dropped to his knees and stuffed a cloth into her mouth, cutting off the sound. She sputtered at the foul taste as she was yanked to her feet. He bound the gag with a long strip of cloth. She slashed at his face with her nails. He jerked back. The man behind her pinned her arms beneath the steel of his arm.
“She is a bloody wild cat,” the one in front muttered.
“Aye.” Her captor smiled against her hair. “I saw it in her eyes yesterday.”
Comprehension dulled as the warrior before her reached out. Her stomach lurched and the darkening sky spun. He massaged her breast, and his focus sharpened in unison with a malicious smile. A low, guttural sound emanated from the man holding her. The man kneading the tender flesh of her breast ceased and jerked his head toward the forest.
They started forward and Victoria stumbled, causing the arm around her to tighten painfully against her ribs. She gasped for air, barely aware her feet had left solid ground. The stream vanished from view as they entered the trees. The men made surprising progress, and she realized the safety of the camp would be a distant memory in minutes.
Tears welled in her eyes. She strained in an effort to wrench a hand free, but the man holding her only snickered. She kicked and her heel made solid contact with his knee. Harsh Gaelic words ground out against her ear. The hand clamping her mouth yanked her head back, twisting it against his shoulder.
“You will not enjoy the payment due for that,” he rasped. “Or mayhap you will. If you want it that way, just keep fighting, and obliging will be a pleasure.”
He released her mouth and slid his hand down the smooth linen of her chemise until his fingers grasped a nipple. His pace slowed as he rolled it between his fingers. He pinched the nipple. Victoria drew back in shock, but this time not in reaction to his touch. Instead, recollection of another cruel hand rushed forward. Her mind staggered and her resolve fragmented with the unexpected memory.