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Authors: Her Scottish Captor
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chase.
“Come, lass,” Iain quietly urged, motioning her forward with his hand. “While the steed may be a bit fractious, there’s no need for ye to be afraid.”
Suddenly w orried that her captor would indeed give chase should she attempt to escape, Yvette dejectedly took hold of Iain’s hand, allowing him to hoist her onto the horse’s back.
“Wrap y er arms tight around my waist. We’re in for a hellish ride.”
For a brief moment, Iain held her gaze, the shared glance causing Yvette to recall with vivid clarity all that transpired between them in the shanty. Perhaps Iain also recalled their passionate interlude; for she discerned the hint of a tender smile upon his lips. A ghost smile that was soon replaced with a look of steely resolve.
In the next instant, grabbing the reins in his left hand, Iain urged the horse into a fast trot.
Unwilling to dwell on the meaning of that fleeting smile, Yvette obediently fastened her arms around his waist. And silently wished Sir Galen Godspeed.
The surrounding countryside passed in an indistinct blur of leaden gray sky, emerald green grass and purple heather. Having bypassed the rutted cart track that led to the foothills, Iain and his kinsmen instead raced across a windswept glen, chunks of flayed turf flying in their wake. Yvette could only assume that they were bound for the snow-covered mountains that loomed on the far side of the narrow valley.
Again, she craned her neck, anxiously scanning the vale behind them, hoping to see a shimmer of polished armor, or any tell-tale indication that Sir Galen and his men were in pursuit. Clearly, Iain and his Highlanders feared as much for they relentlessly charged across the glen as though the Prince of Darkness himself was on their heels.
Already they’d traveled a good league and a half, and with each passing furlong, the hope of resc ue seemed all the more remote. Once Iain and his clansmen reached the mountains, they would be able to fade from sight, green and brown-swathed chameleons. Familiar with these wild environs, they undoubtedly knew every mountain pass and every village where they could take refuge.
Espying a winding burn up ahead – without a bridge in sight – Yvette nervously tightened her hold around Iain’s waist, surmising that he intended to ford the rain-swollen stream in a flying leap.
As they cantered ever closer to the verge, she tried not to dwell on the fact that not only was Iain’s horse winded, it carr ied a heavier load than usual. Although that didn’t stop the beast from lengthening its stride as it bounded forward.
In the next instant they were airborne.
When, a moment later, they returned to earth, the impact from the landing caused Yvette’s body to slam against Iain’s backside, her rump precariously sliding forward. Hit in the side of the face by the leather-covered scabbard that hung off Iain’s shoulder, she nearly lost her balance.
Which is when Yvette realized that the only thing keeping her aloft was her white-knuckled grip.
While it might be potentially dangerous, it suddenly occurred to her that if she threw herself from the horse, she might be able to affect her escape. Then, once she was free of her captors, she could simply wait for Sir Galen to happen upon her.
With a dangerous foe in pursuit, more than likely Iain would curse the loss of his two thousand pounds, but continue on his way. Sir Galen de Ogilvy was one of the most feared knights in all of Christendom and only a madman would challenge him in open combat.
Knowing that she had to execute her plan before Iain and his clansmen reached the mountains, Yvette focused her gaze on the terrain up ahead. Already they’d started to climb upwards, the verdant valley undulating into rolling foothills. Sighting a copse of pine trees abutted by a grassy meadow, she clenched her teeth as she girded her resolve. As fate would have it, she and Iain were in the rear of the pack of riders; and so she
“Come, lass,” Iain quietly urged, motioning her forward with his hand. “While the steed may be a bit fractious, there’s no need for ye to be afraid.”
Suddenly w orried that her captor would indeed give chase should she attempt to escape, Yvette dejectedly took hold of Iain’s hand, allowing him to hoist her onto the horse’s back.
“Wrap y er arms tight around my waist. We’re in for a hellish ride.”
For a brief moment, Iain held her gaze, the shared glance causing Yvette to recall with vivid clarity all that transpired between them in the shanty. Perhaps Iain also recalled their passionate interlude; for she discerned the hint of a tender smile upon his lips. A ghost smile that was soon replaced with a look of steely resolve.
In the next instant, grabbing the reins in his left hand, Iain urged the horse into a fast trot.
Unwilling to dwell on the meaning of that fleeting smile, Yvette obediently fastened her arms around his waist. And silently wished Sir Galen Godspeed.
The surrounding countryside passed in an indistinct blur of leaden gray sky, emerald green grass and purple heather. Having bypassed the rutted cart track that led to the foothills, Iain and his kinsmen instead raced across a windswept glen, chunks of flayed turf flying in their wake. Yvette could only assume that they were bound for the snow-covered mountains that loomed on the far side of the narrow valley.
Again, she craned her neck, anxiously scanning the vale behind them, hoping to see a shimmer of polished armor, or any tell-tale indication that Sir Galen and his men were in pursuit. Clearly, Iain and his Highlanders feared as much for they relentlessly charged across the glen as though the Prince of Darkness himself was on their heels.
Already they’d traveled a good league and a half, and with each passing furlong, the hope of resc ue seemed all the more remote. Once Iain and his clansmen reached the mountains, they would be able to fade from sight, green and brown-swathed chameleons. Familiar with these wild environs, they undoubtedly knew every mountain pass and every village where they could take refuge.
Espying a winding burn up ahead – without a bridge in sight – Yvette nervously tightened her hold around Iain’s waist, surmising that he intended to ford the rain-swollen stream in a flying leap.
As they cantered ever closer to the verge, she tried not to dwell on the fact that not only was Iain’s horse winded, it carr ied a heavier load than usual. Although that didn’t stop the beast from lengthening its stride as it bounded forward.
In the next instant they were airborne.
When, a moment later, they returned to earth, the impact from the landing caused Yvette’s body to slam against Iain’s backside, her rump precariously sliding forward. Hit in the side of the face by the leather-covered scabbard that hung off Iain’s shoulder, she nearly lost her balance.
Which is when Yvette realized that the only thing keeping her aloft was her white-knuckled grip.
While it might be potentially dangerous, it suddenly occurred to her that if she threw herself from the horse, she might be able to affect her escape. Then, once she was free of her captors, she could simply wait for Sir Galen to happen upon her.
With a dangerous foe in pursuit, more than likely Iain would curse the loss of his two thousand pounds, but continue on his way. Sir Galen de Ogilvy was one of the most feared knights in all of Christendom and only a madman would challenge him in open combat.
Knowing that she had to execute her plan before Iain and his clansmen reached the mountains, Yvette focused her gaze on the terrain up ahead. Already they’d started to climb upwards, the verdant valley undulating into rolling foothills. Sighting a copse of pine trees abutted by a grassy meadow, she clenched her teeth as she girded her resolve. As fate would have it, she and Iain were in the rear of the pack of riders; and so she
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