Frantically, she rolled away from Skene’s bruising grip, kicking blindly and striking flesh. She used the wall to brace her shoulder. Used her fear to drive her to her feet.
No time. She had to run.
She ran. Used her bound, numb hands to claw her way up the stairs. Screamed for her husband. “English!” Over and over, she screamed, though something told her she wasn’t loud enough. Her lungs were flat and useless. And he was a hard sleeper. But, God, she needed him. Now. Bloody now.
If she could just make it back to the first floor, she’d sprint for the master bedchamber.
Skene wheezed behind her. She chanced a glimpse over her shoulder. Beady, malevolent rat eyes roiled with mad rage. Blood trickled from a rat nose. He wiped it away with his sleeve. He was right behind her.
She scrambled higher, kicking backward. He grasped her ankle, pulling her toward him. But she swung her hands into his damaged nose and broke free. Then scrambled away. Higher and higher. Toes slipping. Fabric tripping. Up and up.
Glancing back, she saw him close.
And in his hand was a blade, gleaming in the faint moonlight.
Only then did she realize, in her panic, she’d passed the doorway to the first floor.
A wave of sickening terror gripped her hard. There was no way past him. She could only go up. The tower was nothing but winding stairs and a series of empty bedchambers. The stairs led nowhere, but she hadn’t any choice.
Up she went. Each step was too slow, almost dreamlike. Her shift tangled around her legs, her toes digging into stone. In her ears, blood and breath pounded.
“English!” she screamed again, hearing the echo spiral. Her voice was thin. Too thin. He’d never hear her from the other end of the house in the middle of the night.
Up and up. She took the steps at a frantic pace that still felt slow and clumsy, rounding each landing with a desperate glance behind her. Skene was there, following with the slow prowl of a predator that knew its prey was cornered.
His smile relished the chase.
Sweet Christ. He had her trapped. And he knew it.
Even if she reached the top of the stairs, there was nowhere to go. A window and an empty bedchamber. No weapons. No passage to another part of the house.
No way out.
“English!” she screamed again, hoping someone might hear her. If not John, then one of the MacDonnells. But they, too, slept in a different part of the castle. They, too, were unlikely to hear her.
Her feet slipped, and her shoulder slammed into the wall. She shoved with all her might and forced herself up onto the landing. More stairs. The last of them.
She reached the third story and searched for something—anything—she might use as a weapon. But there was only a long, low window, and a cracked one, at that.
Moonlight poured through the glass, making a prism of the webbed pattern. She gasped for more air—enough to scream louder and summon help. “English!”
The rat’s head appeared on the landing below. He still wore his smile. “Ye’re wastin’ yer breath,” he sneered. “They’re all sleepin’ sound. Wee bit of encouragement added to the cider casks took care of that.”
He’d drugged them. That must be why she hadn’t awakened when he’d taken her from her bed. Why she felt weak and dizzy and sick and like her head was splitting open.
Terror coiled like a serpent, squeezing until she wanted to whimper. But she refused to show this vile pestilence her fear. “They’ll kill ye, Skene,” she spat, her voice slurring and shakier than she’d like. “They’ll tear yer ugly head from yer shoulders and drop it next to yer puny ballocks.”
His gaze flattened into meanness. “No, lass. They’ll return what belongs to me. And, if I’m feelin’ generous, I’ll return their sister to ‘em.” His smile stretched wide. He wiped his nose with his wrist. “A wee bit worse for wear, I grant ye. Recompense for my trouble, eh?” He climbed two more steps, taking them slowly. “The MacPhersons have caused me a great deal of trouble. Price for that will be steep.”
She backed away, her elbow catching on stone.
Oh, God. She needed a weapon. Anything.
Light glittered in the corner of her eye. The window. Cracks. Ordinarily, she’d need a rock or a hammer to break glass this thick. But not now.
Now, she could use her kitchen-strong arms and numb, useless hands.
No sooner did she have the thought than she reeled back to take a wide, two-handed swing. The first one thudded hard and expanded the web.
Not enough.
The second swing shattered the glass into shards. One of them lay on the low sill, dotted with her blood. She forced her fingers to work. To pick it up.
With a nasty growl, the rat charged her, knocking her back into the wall. They struggled for control of the shard. Skene was stronger, but Annie was more determined.
“I will kill ye!” she screamed, aiming kicks at his ballocks and biting the hand that tried to grip her jaw. His knife flew, skidding across the floor to the chamber door. She sliced and jabbed at him with the glass, pleased with his grunts of pain. But she couldn’t hold onto it. He managed to grasp her wrists and twist. Torturous agony weakened her grip and forced the shard from her fingers. He pushed her harder against the wall, flattening his body against her until she felt crushed.
Then the strangest thing happened. He reeled backward, screeching. Freeing her. White wings flapped on either side of his neck.
Annie blinked and tried to make sense of it. A bird had flown in through the shattered window. It had sunk its claws into Skene’s nape and was presently using its beak to sever the top of his ear. He clawed and howled and tore at the bird.
A white raven.
She mustn’t let Skene hurt the raven. She lunged to retrieve the knife, but her hands were slick and numb, and she couldn’t grasp it properly. By the time she turned around, Skene had knocked the bird away. The bonnie white creature lay still near the stairs with one wing outstretched.
“No,” she wailed. “Ye killed it!”
“I’ll do the same to ye,” he snarled. “MacPherson bitch!”
She gripped the knife harder, recalling what he’d done to Broderick. Pain disappeared. Light sharpened. Blood pounded and pounded. “My name is Huxley, ye putrid pile of shite! And if ye think the MacPhersons have done ye damage, wait ‘til my Englishman gets hold of ye!”
She knew she was screaming nonsense, but she had nothing left. The knife was slipping. Her hands were weak. Cuts on her arms and wrists dripped blood in a steady stream. He had her cornered, and they both knew it.
Cold air gusted through the shattered window. A wave of dizziness assailed her. She slumped against the wall, her arms shaking.
Skene started toward her.
And that’s when she heard the primal roar. “Annie!”
Like a Highland barbarian, her beloved Englishman topped the last stair wearing nothing but her plaid around his waist. He looked crazed. Ferocious.
Heavenly.
He charged Skene, who had spun to face him. The two men grappled for a moment before Skene leapt back and retrieved another knife from his boot.