Page 4 of The Vicious Laird
It’ll nae be long before he comes lookin’…
The nunnery’s corridors were empty and dim, most sisters already abed. It stretched before her like a maze of salvation—or perhaps damnation, depending on whether she made it past the thick stone walls. Rain hammered on the narrow windows as Isolda passed the turn toward the outbuilding and kept walking, her pulse loud in her ears. Every shadow gave her pause. Every creak of timber made her flinch.
But the halls remained blessedly empty.
The small gate behind the herb garden!She’d spotted it riding in, and her heart leapt when she saw it was unguarded.
No one stopped her as she slipped across the courtyard. The storm swallowed all sound, the wind tearing at her cloak as she pushed through the herb garden’s iron gate. Rosemary and Thyme released sharp scents where she crushed them underfoot, mingling with the smell of wet earth and her own fear-sweat.
Then she saw the outer grounds, the road.
And Isolda ran.
She didn’t panic—she kept a steady pace. The road was muddy and slippery in the darkness, but she pushed onward, toward the forest. Her boots squelched through puddles she couldn’t see,water soaking straight through to her wool stockings. Coldness nipped through the fabric, but the discomfort barely registered.
Thunder cracked overhead, close enough to feel it in her chest. Lightning briefly illuminated the skeletal trees ahead—reaching, grasping—then swallowed again by darkness.
Freedom lay ahead of her. Distance. Escape from those intense blue eyes and that patient, predatory stillness.
Och, but what will he dae when…ifhe catches me!
The thought should have terrified her, but instead it sharpened her focus. She needed distance. Needed the storm to wash away her tracks. Needed…
Her foot caught on something in the mud—a root, a stone—and she stumbled, barely catching herself before falling. Her hands scraped against rough bark as she grabbed a nearby tree trunk for balance. Pain bit into her palms and she bit her lip against a curse that would’ve made Mother Superior faint.
She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, her heart thundering in her chest. Her hands shook, but whether from cold or fear, she couldn’t tell.
She straightened her spine, wiping her mud-slicked palms on her already filthy skirts. The road curved inland ahead, but the trees pressed close, offering her cover, but also concealment for?—
Someone’s watchin’ me…
The certainty slammed into her like a fist to the gut and Isolda froze mid-step, every instinct painfully alert. Suddenly, the storm sounds changed—became sharper, more sinister. The rain wasn’t just rain anymore. Every droplet hitting leaves could be a footstep. Every branch creaking could be a weapon being drawn.
Her breath came shallow. Quick. There were rain and wind, but beneath it all, something else. Something wrong…
Her skin prickled and the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rose. This was the same instinct that had kept her safe through years of reading signs of danger in her father’s face, in her brother’s sudden silences—and it was screaming at her now:
Run!
She dove toward the trees just as another flash of lightning split the sky, and in that flash, she saw them.
Four shapes. Men. Already moving toward her.
They’re too close!
A hand closed on her braid, yanking her head back with enough force to make her vision white out. Pain like fire exploded across her scalp as she was jerked backward, her feet skidding in the mud. Before she could scream, another hand clamped over hermouth—rough palm, dirt under the fingernails, reeking of sweat and old blood.
“Shhh. Ye’d better be quiet now, lass.” Hot, sour breath against her ear made her stomach lurch. “We cannae have ye alertin’ anyone?—”
Isolda bit down hard on the fleshy part of his palm.
The copper taste of blood flooded her mouth.
“Shite!” The man’s grip loosened just enough. She twisted, driving her elbow backwards toward where his ribs should have been. Instead, she connected with what felt like a stone wall wearing armor. The man grunted, but didn’t release her, and suddenly, there were more hands—grabbing her arms, her shoulders, forcing her to her knees in the mud.
Freezing cold seeped through her skirts instantly as her knees sunk into the muck.
Nay! This cannae be happenin’… there has tae be?—
“Feisty wee thing, isnae she?” A different voice came now, amused and cruel. The speaker crouched before her, hood shadowing most of his face. She could see his smile though—wide and satisfied. His teeth were surprisingly white in the darkness, almost friendly, if not for the knife at his belt and the way his eyes swept over her as if she were a piece of meat. “I toldye lads she’d run. Highland lassies always think they’re cleverer than they are!”
Isolda tried to jerk free, but the hands on her arm tightened, bruising.
“Now then.” The crouching man reached out to her, and grabbed her chin with an iron grip, forcing her to look at him. His fingers were cold. Calloused. One thumbnail was black—dead from some old injury. “Ye can come with us quiet-like, or force us tae bind ye, gag ye if need be. Though that’d be a waste of such a bonnie wee mouth.” His grin widened. “But either way, ye’re comin’ with us now, lass.”
“Who are ye?” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “What is it that ye want with me?”
The man’s smile widened. “What we want, is the Stag’s bride. Worth more than gold tae the right people, ye ken.” He released her chin and stood up. “And lucky fer us, ye walked yerself right intae our hands.”
