Page 11 of To Wed a Wild Scot
She brought them to an abrupt halt. “Are you all right, sweet girl?”
But she already knew the answer. The horse was fatigued, and so was Juliana. Under such circumstances there was a high chance of injury to either one or both of them. She hadn’t any other choice but to keep moving, but she couldn’t charge forward without first checking to see if the horse had sustained some hurt.
She dropped the reins, threw a leg over the saddle, and prepared to jump down from the horse’s back and check her legs for injury.
She never got the chance.
A long, hard arm snaked around her waist and jerked her from the saddle. Juliana let out a faint shriek and immediately began to kick and squirm to free herself, but it soon became clear she might as well have saved her energy.
Logan—for of course it was he, lying in wait for her—hauled her against a chest as hard and unyielding as a stone wall, and pinned her there with a pair of arms that felt like two iron bands squeezing her ribs.
“Sneaky bastard, aren’t you?” His deep voice was heavy with menace. “But not sneaky enough.”
Chapter Three
Logan had known for some time he was being followed.
A mile or so back he’d heard something—a horse’s gentle snort, or a muffled nicker—and every one of his senses had sharpened in warning. He’d jerked Fingal to a quick halt and spun around in his saddle, but when he peered behind him he saw only darkness.
He waited, his ears pricked. He heard nothing, but Logan never doubted his instincts. The noise had attuned him to his surroundings, and he could sense someone was there, hidden by the darkness.
He hadn’t heard them approach, and he didn’t know from what direction they’d come, but now he knew they were there, he became aware they’d been following him for some time. He had a warning feeling in the pit of his stomach, one he’d long ago learned not to ignore.
The dusk was thickening, but Logan nudged his heels into his horse’s flanks and eased Fingal into an easy trot, listening carefully for the sound of pursuit. Several long minutes passed in silence, but then he heard the faint thud of hooves hitting the dirt coming from behind him.
Whoever was following him was taking care to keep a careful distance between them, and that would be their downfall.
Logan and Fingal had trod this same pathway so many times before, they could easily find their way home in the dark. They knew every inch of turf between Inverness and Castle Kinross—every hill, every turn, and every outcropping of rock big enough for a mounted rider to hide behind.
His pursuer might know the road, but there was no way he knew it as well as Logan did. Logan simply had to get far enough ahead so the man would lose sight of him, then lie in wait, leap upon the scoundrel when he tried to pass, and drag him from his horse.
Careful not to show any haste that would betray him, Logan urged Fingal farther ahead of their pursuer, toward a curve in the road that wound sharply around a hill. Once they were on the far side, he dismounted, and waited.
He didn’t have to wait long.
The slow, hesitant hoofbeats drew closer, then so close Logan judged his pursuer was mere seconds from rounding the curve in the road…
A large, black shape emerged from the surrounding darkness. The rider, who was cautiously maneuvering the horse around the bend, didn’t have a chance even to attempt an escape before Logan pounced. He snaked his arm around the rider’s waist and with one hard jerk, dragged him from the saddle.
He was just about to throw the blackguard to the ground when a high-pitched scream made him freeze, his assailant still locked in his grip.
That scream. It had sounded almost as if—
“Unhand me at once, you…you…despicable villain!”
Even before the distinctly feminine cry met his ears, Logan realized something was amiss. The waist he’d grasped was far narrower than he’d anticipated, and the bundle now struggling in his arms weighed less than the saddle on the back of her horse.
Herhorse.
His pursuer wasn’t a man at all, but a woman, and judging by her slight weight and the soft curves pressed against his chest, she was a wee one at that.
Wee, and…pungent. Good Lord, she smelled even worse than he did, and after days of hard riding he smelled like the very devil. Still, it wasn’t his practice to manhandle ladies, no matter if they did set his nostril hairs afire. “I’m not going to hurt you, lass,” Logan said, tentatively loosening his grip on her waist.
It was a mistake. She began kicking and writhing like a rabid animal to escape him, and he was obliged to haul her higher against his chest and pin her there to prevent her from hurting both of them. “Be still, will you?”
“Go to the devil, you scoundrel!” she spat, digging her small fingers into his arm in a fruitless attempt to free herself.
Logan stifled a strange, sudden urge to laugh. She might be a tiny little thing, but she had a wicked mouth. “Youwere following me,beag deomhan. That makesyouthe scoundrel.”
