Something gave way, the first twine of twisted rope, and a surge of hope ricocheted inside her. There might be dozens more fibers to go, but that one had cut. She was on her way to being free soon.
Another fiber snapped, the sound echoed in her body, and then another. Could they hear it, the tiny snaps that edged her closer and closer to freedom?
But only laughter and snorts came from her abductors. The dark gray of predawn was lightening, and soon she would be fully exposed to daylight. As if fate were on her side, one of their horses strolled into the space between them, munching on grass, and seeing the move, the other two followed suit, their legs blinding the men more to her position.
She used the opportunity, for she wasn’t certain how brief it would be, to saw harder, fibers snapping quicker and quicker. Two lines of rope had been sawed through, her elbows gained range of motion, and she was able to move more quickly, up and up, cutting, sweat pouring down her back, until she reached the very top.
Aye! She wanted to shout with joy—she was free!
Her lungs expanded, and she’d barely noticed before that she couldn’t breathe. How tight the ropes had been. But there was no time to think about it, no time to revel in breath; she had to cut the rope at her ankles before the horses moved.
Fiona bent over her legs, cutting as fast as she could, fear making her fingers tremble, the blade unsteady. Her palms were sweaty, making the blade slippery. She was so close to being free. She strained to hear the men talking as she worked, their voices a steady, low murmur. Hopefully that meant they were not aware of her movements and preparing to come at her.
She tried to peer at them through the horses’ legs, tried to make out their shadows beyond, but she couldn’t.
Saw, saw, saw. Dinna stop. Dinna give up.
The rope around her ankles collapsed, and rather than wait to see that she wasn’t being watched, she leapt to her feet and started to run, the blade still clutched in her fingers.
She had no idea where she was going. If she was running farther from Prince Charles’s camp or toward it, it didn’t matter, she just had to get away from them. With her sole objective to be free of her captors, she ran blindly into the forest. All the memories of her past melted into this present moment as the three men shouted behind her. Their feet pounding into the earth, their breathing heavy.
Dinna stop. Dinna give up.
Fiona tripped over something, her body flying forward, but she managed to right herself before she fell, before she stabbed herself. They were gaining on her, and she ran harder. Feet flying out in front of her, legs long and reaching. Strides far apart as she fairly sailed over the ground. She’d not run this hard, this fast in so long. Muscles screamed, but her head screamed louder. Heart pounding a drumbeat of encouragement as she kept going, the monsters crashing through the forest behind her.
The sky was getting lighter, enough that she could make out shapes on the ground to avoid and not trip again. Still she stumbled, as if at the last minute some invisible enemy were thrusting things in front of her feet.
A root caught her foot, sending her flying forward. She landed on all fours, her knife slicing into her palm, but thankfully not through it. She grabbed for the blade with her other hand and shoved herself to her feet. Darting to the left now. Why had she been so dumb running in a straight line? She knew better than that. Knew that she had to confuse her tormenters. Run in a zigzag, keep them guessing. Wasn’t that what Gus had said when they were younger? Aye, something like that.
Ignoring the pain in her hand, she ran at a zigzag, feeling at any moment that a meaty paw would grip her by the hair and yank her to a stop. That someone would tackle her from behind, knocking her to the ground before he pounced on her and tore at her clothes.
And she’d stab him. She would. She’d stab him until he stopped.
Fiona shuddered at the thought. Wished she’d never left Brogan’s warm side. But Milla… Where was her dog?
Tears streamed down her face, blinding her momentarily as she ran in the quickly lightening forest.
“Get back here, ye bitch!” they yelled behind her.
They were Scots. The thought hadn’t truly dawned on her yet. But these were not dragoons. Fellow Scots.
Nay, not fellow. A fellow Scot would not have done this to her. These were traitors.
Fiona veered to the left again, her boots sludging into mud and then water from what looked like a shallow burn. She barreled into it, not caring for the wet, for the cold, only to cross, and when she got to the other side, her lungs burning, she heard them behind her, crashing into the water.
They were closer now.
She sensed they would reach her soon. Could feel their breath heavy on her neck. Feel their painful hands on her body. Felt the ropes squeeze tighter.
* * *
“They were just here,” Sorley said.
Brogan heard him through the rage of blood pummeling his ears. In his hands he held thick ropes, frayed at the edges, cut with a knife. Three horses nibbled at the forest floor.
“They ran quickly,” Brogan said. “She escaped.”
“Let’s no’ tarry.”
“Split up,” Brogan said. “There are only three of them, and they left their horses. We dinna know which direction she ran.”
“Aye, we do, look.” Sorley pointed at the ground, and Brogan could just barely make out a footprint.
“Ye’re damn good at your job,” Brogan said.
Sorley winked. “I know.”
They took off following Sorley as he went first in a straight line and then veered back and forth until they reached a shallow burn. Crossing over, they were no longer quiet, no longer caring if the men could hear them because they wanted to be heard. They wanted the bastards to feel the fear of being chased down just as they were instilling that fear in Fiona.
Ahead there was a bloodcurdling scream, the grunts of men.
They’d caught her.
“Fiona!” bellowed Brogan, urging his horse faster in the woods.
And then they were upon them. A man on top of Fiona, two others turned to face them, swords drawn.
Brogan stared only for half a breath, dumbfounded—Scots. At the same moment he noticed that, Cameron joined the bastards they’d been chasing, turning his fury on Brogan.
This entire time, he’d been mostly certain he’d been chasing dragoons. He’d had his suspicions about Cameron, but given the man hadn’t run, it made him wonder. Well, now he needn’t wonder at all because the man had just proven which side he was on. Traitorous bastards.
Knowing they were his own people made Brogan all the angrier. He threw himself from the horse, sword drawn, and crashed against Cameron, his blade cutting through sinew and bone.