Free The Rebel by Julianne MacLean Page A

could slay him in an instant.
    “I’m sure,” the lad replied, but his saber began to tremble in his hands.
    Alex wet his lips. “Just drop your weapon, boy, and run.”
    “No.”
    Alex paused. “You’re a brave one, aren’t you? Or maybe you’re just stupid.”
    All at once, the young soldier let out a vicious battle cry and attacked with a left-handed maneuver that cut Alex swiftly across the thigh.
    He gaped down at the wound in bewilderment.
    Musket fire rang out in the distance. The morning chill penetrated his senses, steeled his warrior instincts.
    The next thing he knew, he was whirling around with a fierce cry of aggression. He swung his targe and struck lad in the head. The young redcoat stumbled backward. His saber dropped from his grasp.
    Then, as if it were all happening in a dream, the soldier’s hat flew through the air, and long black tresses unfurled and swung about. The boy hit the ground and rolled unconscious onto his back.
    Alex’s eyes fell immediately upon a soft complexion and lips like red cherries. All thoughts of war and the Jacobite triumph fled from his mind as he realized with dismay that he had just struck a woman.
    o0o
    Twelve hours later…
    Elizabeth’s eyes slowly fluttered open. Groggy and disoriented, she blinked up at the thatched ceiling above her, while an explosion of pain erupted inside her skull and drummed against the side of her face.
    Laying a hand on her swollen cheek, she attempted to wiggle her jaw back and forth. It did not appear to be broken, but her cheekbone was surely cracked.
    Moaning with agony, she sat up on the cot and looked around the small room. Where the devil was she? A single candle blazed on a table by the bed. A grey woolen curtain covered the door to the rest of the cottage – if this was in fact someone’s home. She had no idea. The floors were made of dirt, the walls built of stone. It could just as easily be a stable or a prison.
    Again, she cupped her cheek with her hand and winced at the pain, but she would endure it, for she must leave this place immediately and return to Argyll’s camp. She could not remain here in Scotland. She’d rather die than linger here.
    Rising awkwardly to her feet, she inhaled deeply. She limped toward the curtain and dug deep for the strength and fortitude she would require to walk out of here and travel God knows how far on foot.
    Oh, sweet Lord ! Her entire body felt bruised and beaten. What had happened on the battlefield? The last thing she remembered was slicing that Highlander’s leg open with her saber.
    What had happened since then? How in the world did she get here?
    Sweeping the curtain aside, doubting if she would ever know the answers to those questions, she suddenly found herself staring up at him directly.
    “Going somewhere, lassie?”
    Elizabeth sucked in a breath. Heaven help her, it was him. The raven-haired warrior Scotsman, standing before her like a monstrous guardian.
    He was taller than she remembered. Bigger and broader through the chest, and his eyes burned with savage, dangerous intensity.
    “That I am, sir,” she firmly replied. “Step aside. I mean to leave here and return to my countrymen.”
    She glanced down at the heavy claymore belted around his waist, and made a mental note of the dagger in his boot, as well as the pistol and powder horn he carried, which was strapped across his chest.
    His green eyes flashed with a strange mixture of amusement and irritation, while he took in her soldier’s uniform from head to foot. “If you are referring to the pathetic flock of red-coated sheep that follows a German king - a king who can barely speak a word of English - then I’m afraid I cannot let you go anywhere, lass.”
    Her heart began to pound, and her mouth went dry. Quickly she looked down at his leg, curious to know how much damage she had inflicted with her sword, but his kilt cloaked any sign of injury. As far as she could ascertain, he was in perfect fighting condition,