“Here,” Sorley said. “This is where she was overcome.”
“And I laid right there,” Dugall choked. “I could have helped her.”
“Dinna blame yourself,” Brogan said. “Ye couldna have helped her. Ye were out cold.”
“They went across,” Sorley said.
Brogan surreptitiously eyed Cameron, who made no comments nor any moves. In fact, he seemed to only be following the other men. What did he know that he didn’t want them to figure out?
“Let’s get the horses.” Mounted up, they crossed the water. Whoever had taken Fiona was not going to get away with it, of that he was certain.
Theirs might be a fake marriage, and he might have reinforced their future parting, but he loved her so damn much, and there was no way in hell that some phantom melting from the dark was going to take her away from him. The only phantom in their lives was Fiona.
Brogan followed Sorley, who spotted another area of struggle. Fury, red and molten, filled Brogan.
“She struggled.” Sorley watched Brogan. “She’s a fighter. The lass willna give up.”
“Aye.” Brogan swiped a hand over his face. “She’s strong.” Stay strong, lass, stay bloody strong.
At the last sign of a struggle there were also hoofprints scattered on the ground.
“How many men?” Brogan asked.
“I’d say three.”
“Then all three of them will suffer,” Brogan declared. And the pain he would inflict would be worse for every blow and ache Fiona had to endure. His gaze slipped to Cameron, who was avoiding eye contact. One sign from the bastards when they met that they knew Cameron and he was going down too.
Brogan had been mad before, filled with hate and the need for retribution, but never had those feelings been as strong as they were now. He wanted to burn the men to the ground, make them suffer. Make them scream and beg for mercy. And then deny them the mercy they’d not shown Fiona. Deny them everything they wanted, including breath.
In fact, he might just let Fiona help. Aye, he would follow her lead for she would deserve to see their end. And then he would wrap her up in his arms and tell her how much he loved her.
Those bastards better keep her alive or they would pray for the death he had planned for them.
Sixteen
Fiona woke to aches and pains, but nothing she couldn’t push herself through. What scared her the most was the unknowing.
Who had taken her? Why? What were they going to do with her? She wasn’t dead yet, which meant they needed her alive for some reason… What?
Blinking away the blurriness of a headache, she assessed where she was exactly. Sitting on the ground, tied to a tree, her hands at her waist. The wetness of morning dew soaked through her gown at her rear. Thick rope wrapped around her upper arms down to her elbows and her chest, leaving her hands free. But her ankles were also tied.
Panic rose sharp and sour in her throat, but she tamped it down. Now was not the time for emotions to take away her wits. Fear had no place. She closed her eyes a moment, breathing in deeply. One, two, three, four… And out, one, two, three, four… Over and over she used the breathing technique that had helped her throughout the years until she’d calmed the storm brewing inside her.
Fiona opened her eyes once more into the grayness of predawn, assessing. Shapes of men and horses, three of each, were a couple dozen or so feet away. The men talked in low voices and she couldn’t really make out what they were saying. Something about the prince. Something about her.
Did they know she was the prince’s messenger? She closed her eyes and tried to envision the ring on the chain around her neck to see if she could feel it there against her skin. A hard object was pressed between her breasts, and she guessed that must be it.
Relieved that they’d yet to find her ring, she listened carefully for sounds of anyone else from camp that she might recognize. Oh God, she prayed no one else had been hurt. Worry filled her for Dugall and James. She imagined a massacre back at camp with Brogan, the prince, and her new brothers all slaughtered, Cameron and MacDonald standing over their bodies.
A glance around showed her to be the only one in the vicinity. So, there were no other prisoners. Or had they put them farther away so they couldn’t see each other? She wouldn’t put something like that past these men. They were clearly vile and clever.
She shifted ever so slightly, so as not to draw attention, in order to test the ropes. Saints, but they were very tight. She was lucky to be able to breathe the way they had her in there. Even though her lower arms and hands were free, being able to move them was difficult, especially since her elbows were tied.
But she was going to damn well try.
In her belt was a knife, and if she could just flip open that one little tab, she could pull out the blade and start cutting these ropes.
As long as her abductors didn’t look. As long as they thought her asleep.
As long as it was still mostly dark.
Fiona worked her hand to the place on her belt, her thumbnail catching the small button. Concentrating, she flicked it open. Stage one, complete. She sighed in relief, studied the shadows in the distance to see if they’d noticed her moving. If they figured out what she was up to, they’d pounce.
But their conversations didn’t stop. No one called out that they’d seen her, so she slowly worked to edge the blade out. With the handle pinched between her thumb and forefinger, she slid it out a fraction of an inch, then pinched it lower down the handle and slid. Because she didn’t have range of motion with her arms and elbow, this was the only way she could slowly get it out, and she prayed she didn’t drop it. There would be no getting it then.
Oh, God… Come on!
Down the handle she went until her fingers were on the blade and she held tight to it, concentrating so hard that sweat started to bead on her upper lip and beneath her arms. She could do this. She had to do this.
Inch by excruciating inch. At last the blade was free.
With both hands, she creeped the point of the blade beneath the ropes, wincing when she pressed the tip a little too hard against her own body. But she’d endured worse pain, and she’d endure more if she didn’t get out of these ropes.
When she was finally free, she’d run, just like Ian had told her when they were children. The rest she’d figure out later, but for right now she had to try to get free. Not trying wasn’t an option.
She sawed slowly and methodically, feeling as if she was getting nowhere. Watching the men with nearly closed eyes so they would think her asleep, and stilling when they quieted or she thought they were looking her way. But none of them seemed interested in her at the moment. Laughing among themselves between deeper conversations.