when two phantom figures lunged out of the darkness, slamming into her. Knocked off balance, she started to fall, her cry broken as she hit the ground. In no time at all she found herself gagged, tied, swung into the air and unceremoniously flung over a horse. One of her assailants then climbed up behind her.
She found herself in total suffocating blackness, chafed and extremely uncomfortable as she was bounced along over the saddlebow of the galloping horse with her bottom facing heavenwards; the waves of fear and hysteria crashing through her were palpable. Unable to know why this was happening to her and who these men could be, she had the impression that she was caught up in some strange dream, but the discomfort she was being forced to endure told her that it was all happening, all unmistakably real. One thing was plain. She was being kidnapped. But by whom? And to what end?
Without respite they rode on. Lorne lost all track of time, her torture—both physical and spiritual—increasing with each passing mile. Just when she thought she would faint away, mercifully her assailant slowed his horse to a walk and fell into conversation with his companion. Their voices sounded muffled through the sacking that covered her head, but on hearing the occasional English word she assumed they must be Lowlanders.
Anger and revolt were already brewing in her spirit when the horse clattered over a cobbled yard and finally halted. After being dragged roughly from its back and flung over someone’s shoulder, she was carried inside a building. On hearing more male voices, she was aware that they were no longer alone.
‘So, John, ye’re back then,’ Lorne heard someone say. ‘What happened to ye and Andrew? One minute ye were with the hunt and the next ye’d disappeared. Rode after quarry of yer own, I see.’ The man laughed, which was accompanied by his hand slapping Lorne’s rump. Hidden from view, she seethed with the indignity of it.
‘Aye—of the two-legged kind,’ someone else guffawed. ‘What ye got there, John? Come—let’s see what ye have. Something to eat, is it?’
‘Nay, but what I’ve got is lively enough—and makes up for our lost time.’
Without more ado John dropped Lorne’s wriggling form on to the hard floor, removing the sacking and loosening her bonds before taking the gag from her mouth. Shrouded by her cloak and quivering with fury, Lorne struggled to sit up, her body stiff and sore from the rough treatment she had received.
Making a brief sweep of her surroundings, she saw she was in the hall of some ancient castle, although it had a distinct air of dereliction about it. Ancient timbers supported the high ceiling and the walls were bare but for festoons of spiders’ webs. It smelt stale and musty and damp. A combination of firelight and candlelight illuminated the features of a large number of men seated around the room, drinking from flasks being passed round. Some were dressed in kilts, their tartans in a variety of colours, their plaids slung across their chests.
Lorne suspected they were a hunting party a long way from home and staying the night in this ruined castle. No doubt they would resume their sport at first light. In a huge open hearth where a fire was sustained by one massive burning log, meat was being cooked on a griddle, and something bubbled and steamed in an all-purpose three-legged black pot, the appetising aroma pervading even the darkest corners of the hall. Someone said something that Lorne could not understand, and the laughter that ensued was coarse and loud, adding fuel to her rage.
‘Brute, swine—savage,’ she cried, spluttering with fury as she glared at the man standing over her, who was grinning broadly down at his prize, his eyes filled with something akin to triumph. Beneath the short brown beard bristling fiercely from cheek and jaw, she could see it was a face not handsome or ugly, a face used to living with the harshness of the land. ‘You will pay for this insolence—this outrage. My brothers will make you pay dearly for this—this insult.’
‘So—scratch the wee lassie and she shows her claws,’ her abductor, John Ferguson, chuckled throatily, a strong Scottish brogue marking his speech. He was amused by her anger. She looked like some well-bred, high-sprung horse ready to bolt. ‘Let me introduce ye ta my friends. They’ll not be laughing so heartily when they learn yer identity.’
Reaching out, he snatched away the hood covering Lorne’s head so that the golden treasure of her hair—the thick tresses coiled close to her head—was revealed. It gleamed softly in the golden light. A heavy silence fell inside the room as everyone gazed at it, and Lorne felt their hostility creeping around her. The men who were sitting got to their feet and moved closer, closing ranks around her.
An edge of fear caught at Lorne. The atmosphere had become ugly, the circle of faces masks of hate. Living for many years in her grandmother’s world, Lorne had never had reason to despise anyone, but crouching dishevelled and filthy before this crowd of hostile men who wished her nothing but ill, filled her with a humiliation and hatred she could not even have imagined. Clenching her teeth, she held on to her fury—it was the only thing she had to combat her fear.
‘Behold, Lorne McBryde, me friends,’ John proclaimed. ‘The beautiful spawn of Edgar McBryde—scourge of the Highlands, murderer, arsonist and thief—is reputed to have the most magnificent hair in the whole of Scotland—and I’ll be damned if this isn’t it.’
‘You’ll be damned anyway,’ Lorne spat. ‘My brothers are strong and you would be wise to fear them,’ she threatened, as if the mere mention of her brothers would send a shiver of fear through the stoutest of hearts. ‘When they learn you have taken me, they will slit your throats while you sleep.’
John bent over, thrusting his face close to hers, a snarl turning his mouth. ‘Aye—like rats stealing grain in the dark. I thumb me nose at this carrion ye speak of,’ he scoffed. ‘And where me manners are concerned, I agree they are somewhat lacking—but compared with the brothers McBryde, they are impeccable.’
Lorne was aware of another person entering from outside, but she vented all her anger on her abductor. Her defences manifested themselves in the most unexpected way. Somewhere deep within, a reserve of strength propelled her to her feet and she lunged at him, pushing him hard and sending him staggering before falling on his backside.
Stepping into the fray, Iain caught her arm as, incensed with fury, she was about to inflict further damage on his friend. Instinctively Lorne administered a mighty kick to Iain’s shin and sank her teeth into his hand, relieved when it relinquished its iron hold on her arm.
‘Enough!’ Iain roared, his voice reverberating off the walls of the cavernous hall, experiencing a sharp pain in his leg and hand, where her sharp teeth had punctured his flesh and drawn blood.
Lorne’s whole attention was strained to the sound of the male voice, a voice that sent shivers down her spine. It brought her head jerking up.
Iain was momentarily stunned. He saw a woman with hair the colour of sunlight, and found himself meeting eyes of emerald green set in a face of incredible beauty. After a rewarding and exhausting day with the hunt, he allowed himself a moment to look his fill. A faint smile of admiration tugged at his lips. The sight of her infused passion into his blood and loins. Her skin was creamy white, her lips rosy and moist, and her angular cheekbones gave her dark fringed eyes an attractive slant. She was perfect. She was—
Then he recognised her and he drew himself up, his face convulsed in a spasm of violent rage and disbelief. ‘God help me!’ he uttered, his voice quivering with a murderous fury. ‘What have we here?’
Lorne was struck dumb to find her dream of meeting Iain Monroe again made flesh. His eyes were on her face, evaluating her with a light so intense it sapped her strength. Looking up to meet his incredible silver gaze, she saw he was exactly as she remembered. His features were stamped with implacable authority and granite determination, and there was a dark arrogance about him. His blue-black hair was rough and tousled, and the features not covered by his short beard were sharply defined, his mouth having acquired a bitter line.
‘The lassie’s name is Lorne McBryde, Iain,’ John told him. ‘Ye canna have forgotten the wee girl who betrayed ye brother’s whereabouts to the Galbraiths of Kinlochalen.’
Only the collective breathing of