Page 76 of The Laird who Craved her

"My lady!" Molly shrieked from the open carriage door.

Claire stretched desperately toward the carriage, toward the brave maid running uselessly after them, and toward the men still fighting and dying in the muddy road. But the dense trees rushed rapidly between them, and within moments, the dark forest swallowed every familiar face, leaving behind only the thunderous pounding of heavy hooves.

Heavy pine branches lashed brutally against Claire's heavy skirts as the horse plunged deeper and deeper into the wilderness. She fought every single stride of the journey. The massive man holding her swore violently beneath his breath as she twisted in the saddle, driving her sharp elbow backward into his ribs for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Hold still," he growled, entirely out of breath.

"I will do nae such thing!" Claire shouted back, slamming the hard heel of her boot directly into his shin.

He grunted in pain, and the massive warhorse stumbled over the uneven ground before barely recovering its footing.

"Blast the woman," he cursed angrily.

Claire seized the momentary distraction, throwing her weight sideways in a desperate attempt to unbalance both rider and horse. Instead, his iron-thick arm locked even tighter around her waist, squeezing until the cold air rushed painfully from her burning lungs.

"Dinnae make me tie ye," he warned darkly.

"Then let me go!" Claire demanded, clawing fiercely at his forearm.

"Nay," he answered flatly, barely reacting as she dug her fingernails through the coarse wool of his sleeve.

She shifted her weight slightly, pretending to finally sag against the man restraining her in complete exhaustion. His punishing grip loosened just a fraction, but it was enough. With lightning speed, Claire snatched the sharp dagger tucked casually into his thick leather belt. She had the blade halfway free before he even realized what was happening.

"What the…" he began, but Claire swung her arm violently backward.

The sharp steel sliced deeply across his forearm. The man roared in sudden pain, his grip failing completely as the bloody dagger tumbled into the dense undergrowth.

"Ye little devil!" he shouted, his heavy hand striking her wrist hard enough to send a sickening jolt of pain shooting all the way up her arm.

Another rider riding parallel to them laughed loudly at the spectacle. "I told ye she would fight," the man chuckled.

"Aye," another answered in amusement. "She is more Highland than English."

Claire ignored their taunts, staring instead at the bright crimson blood trickling steadily down her captor's torn sleeve.He bleeds,she thought fiercely.Good.The realization gave her a renewed surge of strength.

"If ye are finished admiring yer work," the wounded man growled in her ear, "I will nae be so gentle next time."

"Gentle?" Claire laughed bitterly, her voice ringing with defiance. "Is this what ye call gentle? Dragging women from their carriages like common thieves?"

No one answered her. The heavy, oppressive silence unsettled her far more than any cruel insults would have.

Time slipped strangely as they rode beneath the dense, suffocating canopy of the pines. The pale sun eventually disappeared behind gathering storm clouds, leaving only thin, grey shafts of light filtering through the ancient branches. Eventually, the riders slowed their punishing pace. The wounded man behind her adjusted his hold, and she felt him glance toward the leader riding confidently ahead of the pack.

"We will rest soon," the man stated quietly.

The leader gave a single, short nod, but did not bother to look back. Claire studied him carefully through the gloom. Unlike the rough men surrounding her, he rode with a quiet, undeniable confidence.

"How far?" the leader finally asked.

"Another mile," one of the scouts answered.

The leader considered it for a moment. "Nay," his voice rang out calmly. "We stop when I say."

No one dared to argue with him, and Claire filed that crucial piece of information away. Even these hardened, violent men obeyed him without a single question. Who was he? What did he truly want with her? If this were simply about a ransom, surely they would have said so by now to keep her compliant.

The exhausted horse carrying her finally slowed to a steady walk, and the leader turned around in his leather saddle. For the veryfirst time, Claire caught a proper glimpse of him. He was much younger than she had expected, perhaps only a few years older than herself. He had dark, intelligent eyes and a striking, pale scar running cleanly from his temple to his jaw.

His dark red hair stirred in the biting wind. There was deep intelligence in his gaze, but not the wild madness or casual cruelty she had expected. Instead, she found something far colder, absolute, and unyielding bitterness.