Free Judith E French by Highland Moon Page B

more for her than her family or any of the other men who flocked around her. All he wanted was her money.
    Ross yelped as she scored another hit and his Scots bonnet went flying. “Not if my flesh were pulled off with hot pincers,” she shouted. “I’d not marry you to save my immortal soul!”
    “Lady! Anne! Hinney! For the love of God, be careful! You’ll hurt yourself!”
    “You loathsome toad! Barbarian! I’d sooner marry a heathen Turk!”
    He crouched low and covered his head with his hands. “Think of your reputation,” he shouted. “I’m saving ye from a life of shame.”
    “You’re after my fortune, you depraved scum!”
    Cautiously, he peered over the boulder at her. “Hinney,” he called, “we must talk.”
    Anne dropped her last stone and ran toward the stallion. If she could just get up in the saddle. She had a chance to get away. “Whoa, whoa,” she said to the horse. She’d never ridden Tusca alone—she wasn’t even certain she could stay on the horse if she could mount, but she was too angry to worry about that. The stirrup was higher than she’d thought, but she managed to get one foot into it. Holding the reins in her hand, she tried to pull herself up, using the stirrup leather as a rope.
    The stallion danced nervously and tossed his head. “Easy, easy, boy,” she murmured. She heaved herself upward and clung to the saddle as the horse began to walk.
    “Damn it, woman, what do ye think you’re doing?”
    She glanced back over her shoulder, saw him running toward her, and gave a final heave that brought her up over the animal’s withers. Heart pounding, she yanked on the reins and kicked the horse. “Gittup!” she yelled.
    The stallion started trotting back the way they had come. “Woman!” Ross shouted.
    Anne slapped the reins against the horse’s neck. “Go! Go!” she begged.
    Ross brought two fingers to his lips and gave a loud whistle. Tusca stopped short, and Anne slid forward on his neck. Ross whistled again, and the stallion turned back.
    “No!” Anne screamed. “Stay away from me.” Tusca snorted and began to paw the ground. He reared up, and Anne lost her precarious grip and tumbled off. She hit the ground so hard it knocked the wind out of her. When she opened her eyes, the Scot was leaning over her, glaring at her with those merciless black eyes.
    “Are ye hurt?” he demanded, running his hands freely over her arms and legs. “That was a fool trick to try.”
    “Take your hands off me,” she cried, rolling away from him and drawing her legs under her skirt. She pulled her knees up and hugged them against her. She was badly shaken, and fear was fast replacing her anger, but she wasn’t about to have him pawing her.
    “Ye didn’t find my touch so loathsome a little while ago,” he said gruffly. “A man would have to be a fool to believe you didn’t enjoy it.”
    “You tricked me,” she flung hack. “I thought you cared for me.”
    His eyes narrowed. “What do ye want me to say? That I find ye desirable? You know that already. That I love ye?” He shook his head. “I’ve too much respect for you to whisper false words of love.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “At Strathmar, we’ll be wed. That will save your honor and protect my neck from the hangman’s noose or from the axe. My father tells me that half the brides in the Highlands were carried away by force in the old days. We’d not—”
    “I don’t want to marry you,” she insisted. How could she ever have felt drawn to this man? Her own body had betrayed her, made her say and do things she’d never done before. “Nothing you can do to me will make me agree.”
    The image of Murrane’s scarred face formed in her mind. Butcher of Sheriffmuir or not, at least he was a baron, a man of breeding. He’d had estates to take her to. Ross Campbell was nothing but an outlaw. “You’re a common thief,” she accused, “and mad as a bedlamite if you think you can save your