Free A Highlander for Christmas by Jamie Carie Page A

rubbed a hand over his eyes, dashing the tears away. “There’s too many of them.” His arm swept toward the blacksmith. “He shot him without provocation.” His voice trembled and Iain wondered if this was the first man he’d ever seen shot down. “He’s capable of anything.”
    Iain looked at the blacksmith and shook his head. It was as the boy said—Lord Malcolm was without a scrap of honor and would do anything to get what he wanted. They had to take care of the blacksmith first.
    “Come then, lad. Let’s find the sheriff or whatever law is in this village.”
    They hurried to the busiest establishment, a pub a few doors down the cobbled road, and were soon directed to a man sitting at one of the tables, Sherriff McKinney.
    “’Tis a pity, ’tis a pity, indeed,” he kept saying as Iain told of what happened. “Such a good mon, the blacksmith. And takin’ your new bride.” He shook his head as if it was unheard of. “Well.” He rubbed his hands together and reached for his hat and musket. “I’ll gather the lads and give instructions to Mrs. McCreedy to see to the body. Meet me out front of the blacksmith shop with fresh horses. You ken their direction, do ya now?”
    Iain nodded. “I believe he’s taking her back to Northumberland, to his home, which is a neighboring estate to the Lindsay lands. About two days’ ride if they hurry.” Iain didn’t let himself think of that final threat, but the fact that they might stop for the night… “They have about an hour’s lead.”
    The sheriff looked him in the eyes with a knowing stare, nodded a little and clapped Iain on the shoulder. “We’ll get to them in time, lad. Fear not.”
    Even though Iain was the head of the clan now, a leader and old enough to not need a father so much, the sudden feeling of fatherly support, of someone comforting him , overcame Iain and he felt a load being lifted from his shoulders. “I believe you.”
    Within another half-hour Iain and Ruck sat mounted on fresh horses and saw what looked like a troop of soldiers come around the bend in the road toward them. Iain’s heart thrummed with the sight of them—at least twelve men, and trained. What they were doing in Gretna Green he didn’t know, nor overly care. He’d needed a militia and, and praise be to God, he just got one.

    They’d stopped. She couldn’t see where, as they’d put a flour sack over her head, but she felt the sudden lack of movement and Lord Malcolm’s body sway against her. They’d forced her arms around his body and tied them together at his stomach. She’d fought it at first, not touching him nor leaning upon him, but after the first few miles knew it for a fruitless endeavor. If she were to stay atop this horse, she would have to cling to her captor.
    Stay alive. I will come for you.
    She repeated the words in her head anytime she felt the least nauseous from the swaying of the horse, the least guilty for grasping hold of her captor, in the moments of terror when she heard their plans for stopping for the night and dread for what was to come.
    Iain would come for her. Her husband would not forsake her.
    “Get her off!” Lord Malcolm barked the order to someone she couldn’t see. She felt rough hands grasp her around the waist and pull her toward the ground. She resisted the urge to kick out at him, to fight. She would save that until she really needed it. It would only anger them now.
    She felt the man stumble back as he pulled her off and heard a grunt and then her own screech as he pulled her to the ground and on top of him. The scratchy burlap was lifted off her head. She gulped the fresh air, seeing that it was dusk, and rolled off Malcolm’s man, awkward in her movements with her hands still bound together.
    “We will camp here for the night. Prepare the tents and a small fire. You there, Reginald—untie her hands and see that she attends her needs. Watch her closely.” He glared at the man in warning. Juliet looked at the