She looked around them, seeing nothing except the still of a Scottish wood. She glanced back at him, trying to determine what he saw, what he heard.

Suddenly, he grasped her wrist and dragged her off the ground and into his arms with a swiftness that stole her breath. His hands came up on either side of her head, holding her motionless as he stifled her cry with his lips.

She shoved at his chest, stilling the instant she realized he was not kissing her. Not as a man bent on ravishment would. His lips were firm against hers, warm, moving but not caressing…talking, whispering. “They’re watching us from across the brook. In a moment I will move toward my rifle. And you will run. Do you understand? Run for the brush behind me. Hide. Don’t come out unless I call for you.”

 They’re watching us from across the brook.

His words and their implication slithered through her like a snake winding in grass.

A hiss of breath escaped her mouth, fanning his cool lips. She nodded, her wide eyes staring into the glittering blue of his.

He gave a single curt nod. And then released her.

Stumbling, she ran, the metallic taste of fear rising thick in her throat, flooding her mouth. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Didn’t dare. Not even as she heard shouts and splashing water.

She did as Griffin commanded, even as her heart clenched at whatever was happening to him.

Panic fed her limbs. Her feet struck the earth in hard thuds, pounding in her ears, matching the heavy thrum of her heart. As she tore through trees and tangled gorse, she soon realized that her racing footsteps were not the only sound. Someone followed her, crashing through the brush, his breath a harsh wheeze, building fast behind her.

She ducked beneath a low hanging branch just as a crack of gunfire split the air. She jerked to a halt, terror striking deep in her heart. Griffin.

A hand caught and snagged hold of her cloak, yanking so tightly the strings at her throat cut into her flesh. Gagging, she clawed at the ties. With a spin, she fell into a pair of thick arms.

“Quick little thing,” a thick burr gasped against her ear.

Astrid caught only a flash of dark eyes set within a gaunt face before she was tossed through the air. A brawny shoulder dug into her belly. His every step bounced her until she thought she would be ill. Just when she thought she could stand it no more, he stopped and dropped her unceremoniously to the hard ground.

Wincing, she shoved the hair that had fallen loose from her face and looked about, taking in a scene far different from moments ago. Gone was the peaceful afternoon, the quiet song of the burbling brook, the still and silent woods.

A dozen men garbed both in breeches and kilts circled Griffin. The latter sat in their midst, battered and bloodied, a cross expression marring his face.

Astrid surged to her feet and charged into the circle of men. “What have you done to him?” she demanded, bunching her skirts in one hand and squatting to inspect his ravaged face.

Griffin looked at her with his one good eye, the blue circling the other all the more startling against his tanned and bloodied face.

“Looks worse than it is,” he assured with a wry twist of his mouth, wincing as the stretch of his lips pulled at a tear splitting his bottom lip. Blood seeped steadily from the cut and she pressed her fingers gently to it, the gesture impulsive, tender, and nurturing in a way that she never knew she could be.

“Animals!” she declared, glaring at Griffin’s attackers. “Take our things…or whatever it is you want and leave us be!”

The Highlanders glanced at one other, clearly caught off guard.

Griffin motioned to his saddle bag. “You heard her.”

Silence fell. Only the howl of the wind through the trees and the gurgle of the brook could be heard.

One of the brigands finally spoke, a dark-eyed man that might have been handsome if not for his twisted nose.

“You shot Lionel.”

He waved to a tawny-haired man at the edge of the brook who clutched a bloody thigh, a pained expression tightening his face.

“And what of you?” she demanded, surging to her feet. “Charging us like a pack of wolves!

Count yourself fortunate only one of you suffered injury!”

The dark-haired man blinked.

“Astrid,” Griffin growled, voice low with warning.

The leader assessed her, his eyes sliding over her in appraisal. “Are all Sassenach women as sharp-tongued as you?” He chuckled and looked to his men. “Perhaps I need to venture south after all.”

His men laughed.

Griffin grabbed her hand in an attempt to bring her beside him, but she held her ground, chin lifting as she stared down the brigand leader.

“This is no jest. Cease your laughing.”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” he continued, sobering. “’Tis dangerous indeed to earn the wrath of so fiery a woman.” His dark eyes fixed intently on her. “I might get burned.” His rangy frame executed a mocking bow. “Lachlan Gallagher. Pleased to make the acquaintance of one so lovely.”

She sniffed, unsettled, but did her best to conceal it.

“What’s your name, lass?” He glanced to Griffin. “Ashley, did you say?”

With a grunt, Griffin pulled himself to his feet. Clasping her arm, he pulled her behind him. “I call her wife. You may call her Mrs. Shaw.”

“That so?” He clucked his tongue. “Pity.”

Astrid peered around Griffin, finding the dark-eyed man’s eyes still fixed on her. A small shiver coursed her spine and any thoughts she held of refuting Griffin’s claims vanished. She would take what protection she could in pretending to be his wife.

“Well, it happens that you’ve stumbled upon me and my men availing myself of some fine MacFadden sheep.”

“Thieves,” Astrid muttered.

“We’re not thieves,” the dark-eyed man corrected. “Reivers. A fine Scottish custom. And we raid only that which belongs to the MacFadden clan, rot the lot of them.”

“Then you have no interest in us,” Griffin pointed out. “We’re merely passing through.”

The man shrugged. “Be that as it may, I find that you have _something _ that interests me.” His dark gaze fell on Astrid again.

She did not miss his meaning. Nor did Griffin. His fingers tightened around her arm. “She belongs to me.”.

The leader tsked. “Yes. A wife. Inconvenient.” His hand moved to the blade strapped to his side.

“I suppose I can take care of that bit of nuisance.”

Her fingers tightened around Griffin’s arm.

Gallagher gave her an exaggerated wink. “It should be an easy enough matter to rid you of your husband, lass.”

“You will do no such thing,” she announced, stepping around Griffin, a frisson of fear skimming her spine.

The Highlanders around her laughed as if she had uttered some extraordinary quip.

“Ah, Sassenach, what a gem you are.” The Highlander slid a deadly looking blade from the scabbard at his waist. “Choose your weapon,” he advised Griffin.

With a grim set to his lips, Griffin pushed Astrid out of the way. Tugging up his pant leg, he pulled an even deadlier looking blade from his boot.

Astrid stared at him in amazement as he turned to face the other man. Her stomach clenched.

Could he mean to fight in his condition? She could not allow him. With his recent head wound and freshly battered body, he could not stand up to such a contest.

She had to stop him. He had done enough for her already. More than enough. She would not accept his life as sacrifice for her. He would lose, die, and she would still be at the mercy of the Highlander.

Stepping in front of him, she ignored the feel of his hard stare on her back and announced, “I’m not his wife. He lied to protect me. I’ll come with you.”

“Astrid,” Griffin hissed, the sound sharp and furious.

The dark-eyed Scot smiled. “I see.” He shot Griffin an almost empathetic look. “Clever of you to lie. But not worth your life. You should thank the lass. You’ll live because of her.”

The leader turned to his men then. Sheathing his blade, he instructed, “Let’s move before Old MacFadden catches wind that we’ve been at his flock.”

Astrid turned and faced Griffin. His look of acrimony flayed her like a whip, leaving her bare and bleeding before him. She held his gaze, suffered his stare, willing him to understand, hoping he would. If not now, then perhaps someday.

“Could you not trust me?” he asked, his voice soft, wounding her more than if he shouted fiery words.

She blinked, her hand drifting to her throat, to the pulse there that suddenly thrummed wildly.

 Trust him? This man? A relative stranger?

“Griffin, I…” she paused, wetting her lips, looking away from the hot accusation of his gaze.

“Dammit, look at me,” he hissed.

“I do you a kindness,” she whispered in a rush, facing him again.

Her words made his eyes darken with fury. “You forget,” he rasped, wiping the blood from his lip with a fierce swipe of his hand, “there is nothing _kind _ about you.”

Stung, Astrid stepped away, startled to hear her own words flung back at her. “You are correct, of course,” she replied crisply, gathering her composure and wrapping her familiar reserve like a cloak about her.

“Yes.” He snorted. “I should have believed you when you told me.”

Lifting her chin, she confessed. “I’m not sorry. I won’t have you kill yourself over me.” She shrugged one shoulder.

The muscles knotted along his jaw. Hot fury burned in his eyes, reaching out to singe her.

“We’re not finished, you and I.”

She shook her head. “Good-bye, Griffin.” The words caused a deep ache beneath her breastbone that she could not have anticipated. Even when Bertram had abandoned her she had not felt this way. Like a cord had been forever severed, a part of her ripped open…almost as if they had been bound. As Griffin suggested back at the inn. Absurd, but the pain of it was there.

The Scotsmen mounted, the jangle of harnesses and horses’ hooves filling the air. She held Griffin’s gaze, unable to look away, knowing this would be the last time she saw him—the intriguing man that made her feel as no one had, a woman to be honored, protected. The memory of the heat in his eyes before he kissed her flashed through her mind, a taunting farewell.

Lachlan Gallagher plucked her from the ground and set her before him on his horse. “There you go,” he murmured in her ear, “make yourself comfortable.”

She shivered as he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her eyes fixed on Griffin. He watched her with an intent expression on his face, eyes a pale, silvery blue that seemed to echo his earlier words. We’re not finished, you and I.

“Let’s be off, then,” the brigand at her back called out, his voice smug, grating as he nudged his mount to the front of the line, removing Griffin from her sight. But not from her mind.

His face stayed with her as they rode away. Even with one eye blackened and swollen, the memory of his rancor gleamed clear as lightning in a dark night.

Her belly twisted, knowing he thought she had failed him. Betrayed his trust. Even though she _knew _ she had done the right thing in stopping him from gambling his life for hers.

She inhaled cold, stinging air through her nose and reminded herself it would not be the first time she had failed someone with pure intentions. Her sister-in-law still refused to speak to her.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll not rape you.” The brigand’s breath fluttered her hair as he spoke. “I’m not the sort to force a woman.”

“No?” Despite herself, his words allowed some of the tension to ebb from her.

“I’m a patient man. I can wait. You’ll grow fond of me.”

“I don’t think so.”