Page 65 of A Healer for the Wicked Highlander

That was when a hand clamped over her mouth. Freya’s scream died in her throat as strong arms wrenched her backward, dragging her against a solid chest. The stench of sweat and damp wool filled her nose.

“Tsk, tsk, foolish lass,” Leighton murmured against her ear, his breath making her nauseated. “Did ye really think ye could outwit me?”

She thrashed, kicking and clawing, but his grip was iron.

“Enough of that!” he snapped, yanking her tighter against him, and his arm squeezing the breath from her ribs. “I should slit yer throat right here and be done with it!”

Freya threw her head back. Pain exploded through her skull as it crashed against his nose, and a sickening crack filled the air. Leighton cursed, his grip loosening just enough for her to rip herself away from him.

Gasping, she stumbled forward, her feet slipping in the damp earth, but she caught herself and ran.

Branches whipped at her face, snagging in her hair, but she barely felt them. Her heart thundered and her body screamed with exhaustion.

Behind her, Leighton roared in fury. “Ye wee bitch! Get back here!”

She didn’t look back. Her legs burned, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she pushed on. The forest was too dark, the ground too uneven. She could barely see where she was going.

Just keep runnin’. Just?—

Her foot caught on a root. The world tilted, and she went sprawling, hitting the ground hard. Pain shot through her palms, as her knees scraped against the cold earth.

And then, strong hands grabbed her shoulders.

Freya screamed, twisting wildly, fists swinging, but the grip wasn’t cruel. It was firm. Steady.

“Freya!”

That deep and commanding voice was unmistakable. She froze, as her breath hitched in her throat. She lifted her gaze, and through the haze of fear and exhaustion, she saw him.

Michael.

His face was shadowed, his jaw clenched, but his eyes… they were burning with something raw and fierce as he looked at her. For a moment, she couldn’t believe that it was him.

“Michael…” she called out his name, as if she were afraid that he was just a figment of her distraught imagination, that he might disappear at any moment and she would be once again, alone with the madman trying to murder her.

Before she could say more, he hauled her to her feet, his hands gripping her arms as his gaze swept over her, taking in the torn dress, the scratches, the terror in her eyes.

His own eyes darkened. “Where is he?”

Before she could answer, a rustling came from the trees behind her.

Michael shoved her behind him, and his sword was drawn in one swift motion.

That was when Leighton stepped into view.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Ye’ve made a dreadful mistake, ye bastard,” Michael said, his voice low and menacing.

Behind Michael, the crunch of boots signaled the arrival of his men. Brodie came first, then the others, their swords drawn and their breaths heavy from the chase. Freya was behind him, her trembling fingers gripping his sleeve for the briefest of moments before she let go.

He didn’t turn, but he felt her there. He knew she was watching.

Leighton only chuckled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a mild inconvenience. “Have I?” His voice was thick with amusement as he wiped his sleeve across his nose. “And here I thought ye were supposed to be clever, Michael. Do ye really think I came unprepared?”

He lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled.

Michael barely had time to shift his stance before the forest came alive.