Free Kate Wingo - Highland Mist 01 by Her Scottish Captor

canter.
    “Humph,” Iain snorted, still in a foul mood over his cousin’s avid interest in his Sassenach.
    Worried that Yvette may have injured herself in the precipitous fall, he urged his own steed forward. It didn’t matter whether she fell off the horse, or if she intentionally threw herself from the beast, he had to find her.
    When he reached the edge of the pine grove, he dismounted and tethered his horse to a stout pine limb. That done, he quickly made his way toward the plush grassland that bordered a nearby loch.
    Overhead the clouds parted, allowing a slender skein of sunlight to filter down to earth.
    Mayhap it portends good fortune . If anything dire happened to the lass, he would—
    Just then , Iain caught sight of Yvette near the loch, causing him to murmur a quick prayer of thanks.
    At h earing him approach, she very slowly craned her neck in his direction, a stricken expression on her face. When Iain waved his hand in greeting, Yvette tersely shook her head, silently signaling him not come any farther.
    “Like bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath, wo ndering at her strange behavior.
    Turning his head from side -to-side, Iain carefully surveyed the grassland abutting the loch. Although nothing appeared amiss, in the distance a heron loudly screeched, the shrill noise alerting him to the fact that some unseen danger lurked in the near vicinity.
    Careful to make as little noise as possible, he slid a dirk out of his boot, the deadly dagger his preferred weapon when fighting in close quarters.
    Slowly, unsure whether he stalked man or beast, Ia in made his way toward Yvette.
    When he came to within a few feet of where she stood, Yvette’s expression turned frantic. In the pale glow of morning sunlight, Iain saw a plump tear roll down her cheek. No sooner did he notice the rock that she had clutched in her hand than he heard a distinctive, bloodcurdling squeal.
    Immediately, h is gaze dropped to the ground.
    There, hidden in the marsh grasses only a few feet from where Yvette stood, was a ferocious, slathering boar.
    “Don’t move,” Iain hissed at her, the sound of his voice causing the vicious beast to abruptly whirl in his direction.
    Which is precisely what Iain wanted the boar to do. A woman armed with only a rock was no match for an animal capable of using its tusks to gut a good-sized man to death.
    Come to me, ye hell-born brute, Iain silently beckoned as he locked gazes with the beast.
    About to launch his attack, Iain s aw Yvette unexpectedly rear her right arm.
    Christ’s blood! What is she doing?!
    “No!” he roared as Yvette threw the rock at the snarling beast, hitting it square between the shoulders.
    The boar jerked its head, malevolently eyeing Yvette . . . just before it lunged toward her.
    In the next instant, Iain threw himself across the animal’s backside, imprisoning its massive head in the crook of his left arm as he jabbed his dirk into the wiry gray coat that covered its neck.
    With a quick yank of the wrist, he slashed the beast’s throat, the boar falling to the ground with a purposeful thud.
    Infuriated , Iain lurched to his feet.
    “By hell ! Ye nearly got us both killed!” he yelled, drops of warm blood flying off the tip of his dirk as he angrily swung his arm through the air.
    Trembling , her beauty marred with a look of stark terror, Yvette recoiled from him. She had such big, fearful eyes – like that of a forlorn waif – Iain had to resist the urge to take her in his arms and offer what comfort he could. Noticing the way that she stared at his bloodied dirk, he bent at the waist and wiped the blade on the boar’s hindquarters.
    “I thought I ordered ye not move,” he snarled, annoyed that Yvette seemed more terrified of him than she had been of the boar. Still holding his dirk, he slipped the blade into his boot.
    “I d-did not realize it was an order,” she warbled, takin g a backward step as she spoke.
    To counteract her retreat, Iain took two