He spent the next three hours watching every small movement she made as she read. Her blonde hair, artfully styled by Fanny that morning, had a few loose curls framing her face. They weren’t the tight, perfect kind of curls most ladies wore. These held a gentle but wild look about them. The way they caressed her cheeks made him envious. He wanted to touch her. He wanted his lips to kiss that creamy skin while she blissfully sighed his name.
At one point, Lydia noticed his attention and tried to distract him by asking questions about Scotland now that they were over the border. Her interest in his country was a surprising and pleasant thing, so he told her as much about his homeland as he could.
After some time, Rafe spoke up. “I say, as fascinating as this lecture is about . . . misty mountains, lochs and whatnot . . . do you mind if we stop? I need to attend to my needs.”
“Of course.” He opened the coach window and told the driver to stop at the next bit of woods. Rafe popped out of the carriage before it even stopped rolling and headed straight into the nearby woods.
“Would you like to stretch your legs?” Brodie asked Lydia.
“Oh yes, please. I would appreciate that.” She set the book aside, and he assisted her out of the coach. “I do believe I may need to see to my needs as well,” Lydia admitted quietly, her face flushed.
“Are you able to do it in the woods?” Brodie was surprised. She seemed unlikely to be comfortable with that.
“Yes, I’ll be quite fine, so long as you’re not listening.” Lydia actually smiled, amused at his reaction.
“Don’t go too far, lass. I wouldna want you to get lost.”
“I won’t. I shall keep a straight path in this direction,” she assured him as she pointed.
He kept a close eye on her figure as she disappeared into the woods. If she didn’t return in ten minutes, he would go after her to make sure she was all right. He wasn’t worried about her escaping. Where would she go? But it was all too easy to become lost in the thick woods of Scotland and lose one’s way.
Lydia carefully picked her way through the woods, keeping in mind to maintain a path back as straight as possible. If she yelled, she was certain Brodie would be able to hear her and come running.
When she finished, she spotted a nearby stream, where she washed her hands in the cool water. The stream babbled over sandy-colored stones, smoothed by centuries of water rushing over their surfaces. She picked up one of the smooth stones and brushed her thumb over the almost glass-like surface. It was lovely here in Scotland. Brodie had explained how the Highlands and Lowlands varied and how all the northern lands above England had a harsh beauty to them.
She slipped the stone into a pocket of her skirts to have as a keepsake, but then she froze at the sight of a tall, red-haired man staring at her from twenty feet away. He wore a leather coat and dark trousers, and he looked to be in his late forties. Harsh living had taken its toll on his once-handsome features, leaving a series of craggy lines as he scowled at her.
Uncertain of what to do, she tried to smile at the man, but something warned her that he was dangerous. Why else would he be silently watching her in the woods with no one else about? She had no choice but to walk in his general direction, as he blocked her path back to the coach, but she was careful to make a wide arc to avoid him. He turned only his head as she started to pass by him, and she was so focused on him that she never saw the true danger coming.
Someone jumped at her from behind, clamping a dirty hand over her mouth and silencing the shout that rushed to her lips. Another man grabbed her from the front, binding her wrists and gagging her with a cloth. Lydia thrashed about as one man lifted her into the air. Her feet struck the man in front of her in his groin. He doubled over, grunting as he cursed.
“Little shite!” He got to his feet and slapped her hard across the face. Pain exploded through her with a force that left her ears ringing.
“Bind her legs!” the man holding her from behind growled. He squeezed her ribs, making it hard to breathe. Terror ripped through Lydia as she fought for her life, but when a third man joined them, she had exhausted herself. She was pushed to the ground and her legs bound with rope. The red-haired man lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She struggled to lift her head as the three men took off at a run, but she was jostled so much she couldn’t see where she was.
They stopped a short while later, and she was set down on her feet for a brief moment while the men mounted horses they had tied in a copse of trees. Then she was hoisted up and laid facedown over the lap of the red-haired man, his hand holding her back still over the horse. She dared not move, barely dared to breathe, lest she fall and be trampled as the horse took off in a mad gallop.
They rode for what felt like hours. The sun was perched on the horizon when the men finally slowed to a stop. Their leader, the red-haired man, stopped his horse at a dense clump of woods. Lydia was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, where she fell to her knees and gagged. One of the men noticed and removed the cloth from her mouth so she could vomit.
“Christ, Willie, she’s sick,” the man who’d helped her complained to the red-haired man.
“Get her up and walking a bit. It will clear her head,” Willie said. Then he nodded at the third man. “Fergus, let’s set up camp here.”
Lydia’s legs were freed but not her wrists. The man behind her gripped one of her arms roughly and pulled her into motion.
“You heard him. Walk, lass,” he growled.
Stumbling over the rocky ground, she tried to calm her panicked breath in hopes that it would ease her upset stomach. She licked at her chapped lips and winced as she tasted blood. Her lip was split, probably from the blow she had been dealt earlier. Her face and neck hurt, but she could handle the pain.
Her stomach finally settled, and when she and the third man returned to the camp that they set up, a new set of fears replaced her nausea. What did these men want with her? What were they going to do with her?
“Sit.” Willie pointed to the ground, and she did as he ordered. The three men faced her as they sat by the small fire, which was contained by a ring of stones.
“Give her the flask,” Willie told Fergus. Fergus passed her a leather flask, scowling as he did so. She recognized him as the one who had slapped her.
Hands shaking, she accepted it, taking a large drink. She gasped, choking. It was not water but whiskey. The men laughed at her reaction as she tried to catch her breath and returned the flask to Fergus. He took it back and handed her a flagon.
“This is water,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice raspy. She gulped down the water until Fergus snatched the flagon from her.
“That’s enough. We dinna want you to become sick again.”
Lydia touched her wrists, which had been rubbed raw by the thick ropes.
“May I please have these removed? I won’t run away. I haven’t the faintest idea where I am.”
“See, Reggie?” Fergus snorted. “I told you she was a proper English lady.”
“Cut her loose,” Willie commanded in a deep, curt tone that sent chills down her spine. “You canna run. And if you do, we will find you, and you willna like us when we bring you back.”
Lydia nodded. She was not a fool. Running away would only get her killed, or exposed to the elements with no ready source of food, water, or shelter.