Read Online The Prince Kidnaps a Bride by Christina Dodd - Free Book Online
Authors: Christina Dodd
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it was short and his toes dragged on the ground. In this godforsaken country, it might well be a barrow hog. As the creature trotted along the trail on a harness behind the other two men, the dust rose beneath its hooves, settling into the blanket and making Rainger sneeze. The two Scotsmen brayed with laughter, but Rainger didn’t care. The sun warmed his blanket-clad ass. His legs were free... and the knots around his hands barely held him. He worked them, amused by Brian’s incompetence, furious with every mile that carried him farther away from Sorcha.
The hour dragged on. The trail wound up into the hills. The men gave up laughing at Rainger and talked to each other. Rainger heard the discussion of crofters, of Englishmen, and the ’46, of whether the rain would be enough for the crops. And when he finally slipped the ropes from his wrists, he had the satisfaction of knowing the men were paying him no heed. He pulled the blanket out from underneath him, freeing himself for action. He looked around. He was draped over a shaggy pony. The men rode a few feet ahead of him on horses. He’d have to move fast to knock Brian into the dirt, hoist himself into the saddle, and take MacLaren out.
Then MacLaren said, “This is far enough. Dump him here. Take his boots. See how long it’ll take him to make his way back to Edinburgh barefoot and with his hands tied.”
Bastard. Rainger held each end of the rope tightly in his fists. I’m going to make you sorry.
Brian chortled, pulling Rainger’s creature to a halt. Rainger listened as the men dismounted. Brian walked toward him. Rainger tried to judge his location, and Brian made it easy—he patronizingly patted Rainger on the rear.
Like an avenging god, Rainger rose from the pony, threw off the blanket, whirled the horrified Brian in his tracks, and wrapped the taut rope around his stout neck.
Brian choked, grabbed at his throat, and futilely tugged.
MacLaren’s face turned ruddy with horror and fury. He scrambled for his musket hung on the side of his saddle.
Rainger laughed. At this range, with the horses plunging and Rainger holding Brian in front of him, MacLaren had no chance of hitting his target without killing Brian, too. “Go ahead,” Rainger taunted. “Shoot.”
“Ye big bloody arrogant ass!” MacLaren kicked his feet free of the stirrups and threw himself out of the saddle. He pointed the musket at Rainger and stalked forward.
Rainger had to give it to MacLaren. He wasn’t intimidated by Rainger’s size or prowess—and he was none too bright, for he should be.
But Rainger had no time for a fight. He tightened his grip on the rope.
Brian kicked in abject silence, his shrieks silenced by the pressure on his windpipe—and went limp.
Rainger threw Brian at the approaching MacLaren.
The dead weight sent MacLaren staggering.
Rainger leaped and grabbed the muzzle. He twisted the musket free of MacLaren’s grip, then smashed the stock into his chest.
MacLaren fell with a hard thud. Dust rose around him.
Rainger rammed his knee into his chest. He smashed his fist into his face.
MacLaren’s head smacked the ground hard. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites.
Rainger laughed again, glad to finish this business. He unbuckled MacLaren’s leather belt and truncheon. He ripped the knife and its scabbard off his wrist.
And fingers grabbed his hair and yanked him onto his back.
He didn’t have to think. Instinct took possession of him. He waited until Brian leaned over him, then kicked straight up, catching Brian under the chin.
Brian’s jaw broke. He screamed.
Rainger didn’t waste any more time. Musket in hand, he mounted MacLaren’s horse. He took the reins of Brian’s horse. And with their saddlebags and their supplies, he rode hard back toward the road.
He had a princess to rescue.
Sorcha rode down the main street of Hameldone, turning her head from side to side, trying to take in all the sights. It had been so long since
The hour dragged on. The trail wound up into the hills. The men gave up laughing at Rainger and talked to each other. Rainger heard the discussion of crofters, of Englishmen, and the ’46, of whether the rain would be enough for the crops. And when he finally slipped the ropes from his wrists, he had the satisfaction of knowing the men were paying him no heed. He pulled the blanket out from underneath him, freeing himself for action. He looked around. He was draped over a shaggy pony. The men rode a few feet ahead of him on horses. He’d have to move fast to knock Brian into the dirt, hoist himself into the saddle, and take MacLaren out.
Then MacLaren said, “This is far enough. Dump him here. Take his boots. See how long it’ll take him to make his way back to Edinburgh barefoot and with his hands tied.”
Bastard. Rainger held each end of the rope tightly in his fists. I’m going to make you sorry.
Brian chortled, pulling Rainger’s creature to a halt. Rainger listened as the men dismounted. Brian walked toward him. Rainger tried to judge his location, and Brian made it easy—he patronizingly patted Rainger on the rear.
Like an avenging god, Rainger rose from the pony, threw off the blanket, whirled the horrified Brian in his tracks, and wrapped the taut rope around his stout neck.
Brian choked, grabbed at his throat, and futilely tugged.
MacLaren’s face turned ruddy with horror and fury. He scrambled for his musket hung on the side of his saddle.
Rainger laughed. At this range, with the horses plunging and Rainger holding Brian in front of him, MacLaren had no chance of hitting his target without killing Brian, too. “Go ahead,” Rainger taunted. “Shoot.”
“Ye big bloody arrogant ass!” MacLaren kicked his feet free of the stirrups and threw himself out of the saddle. He pointed the musket at Rainger and stalked forward.
Rainger had to give it to MacLaren. He wasn’t intimidated by Rainger’s size or prowess—and he was none too bright, for he should be.
But Rainger had no time for a fight. He tightened his grip on the rope.
Brian kicked in abject silence, his shrieks silenced by the pressure on his windpipe—and went limp.
Rainger threw Brian at the approaching MacLaren.
The dead weight sent MacLaren staggering.
Rainger leaped and grabbed the muzzle. He twisted the musket free of MacLaren’s grip, then smashed the stock into his chest.
MacLaren fell with a hard thud. Dust rose around him.
Rainger rammed his knee into his chest. He smashed his fist into his face.
MacLaren’s head smacked the ground hard. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites.
Rainger laughed again, glad to finish this business. He unbuckled MacLaren’s leather belt and truncheon. He ripped the knife and its scabbard off his wrist.
And fingers grabbed his hair and yanked him onto his back.
He didn’t have to think. Instinct took possession of him. He waited until Brian leaned over him, then kicked straight up, catching Brian under the chin.
Brian’s jaw broke. He screamed.
Rainger didn’t waste any more time. Musket in hand, he mounted MacLaren’s horse. He took the reins of Brian’s horse. And with their saddlebags and their supplies, he rode hard back toward the road.
He had a princess to rescue.
Sorcha rode down the main street of Hameldone, turning her head from side to side, trying to take in all the sights. It had been so long since
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