“You’ll soon forget him, little one.”

Astrid sniffed, deigning not to answer, and knowing that whatever happened, she would never forget Griffin—the first man to risk anything for her. Everything. The first man with whom she had dropped her guard. Even if only for a few mad moments.

He was not a man she _could _ forget.

Hard hands tightened on her waist. “I’ll give you something else to concentrate on.”

“Unlikely,” she could not help biting out.

He laughed, sliding his hands around her waist, palms flattening over her belly. “You have fire.

But it’s buried deep. I shall enjoy bringing it out of you.”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed again. “Oh, yes. You and I shall rub along very well.” His hands moved higher, his fingers tracing her ribs through her gown.

She closed her eyes, willing herself not to flinch, not to think about what—who—she left behind.

Not to feel anything at all as his fingers inched higher and his voice rolled over her like a dark tide, blotting out all light, all hope.

Chapter 11

They didn’t travel far before they encountered a flock of sheep milling about in a grove, pathetic creatures that looked half starved and wore the same hungry look as the half dozen men standing guard over them, waiting for the return of the rest of their party.

The motley bunch showed no surprise at the sight of her ensconced on the saddle before their leader. They surveyed her with flat eyes and hard mouths that made her wonder if they frequently abducted women along with the livestock they reived.

Soon they were moving again, pushing a hard pace even with the flock herded before them. A harder pace than what Griffin had subjected her to. Squeezing her eyes shut, she told herself she would have an easier time if she learned not to think about Griffin anymore, to forget the look in his eyes when she had left. And most importantly, to forget all that nonsense of being _bound _ to one another.

They climbed deeper into the mountains. The bite of wind and cold on her face honed to the sharpness of a knife’s edge with each passing moment. The air thickened, making it a struggle to draw its frigid density into her contracted lungs.

The brigand used her name freely when addressing her, as freely as the hand that held her about the waist, his fingers at times crawling over her torso or dropping to caress her thigh in a manner that set her teeth on edge.

And still she could not stop thinking of Griffin, worrying over his injuries, hoping he fared well alone.

That final look on his face replayed itself in her mind. She knew the look. Knew it as well as anyone could. In his mind, she had betrayed him. For whatever reason, he had appointed himself her defender, and she had failed to permit him to protect her. A sigh swelled up from her chest.

She had done the practical thing. Perhaps he would come to see that later.

She forced her thoughts ahead, to her own fate. Once she reached their destination, she had to find a way out of this mess. She would appeal to the clan’s laird and pray he possessed the sense that Lachlan Gallagher lacked. Surely he would see it was one thing to steal sheep and another to abduct an innocent woman.

Astrid glanced around them. They moved up a particularly steep incline and she could not resist sneaking a peak over her shoulder. The sight only made her stomach squeeze.

“You’ll not see your man behind us.”

“I did not expect to,” she snapped, facing forward, sitting tall so that she did not lean back against him. Only too late did she even realize her reply signified acceptance of Griffin as her man.

“Even if he were not injured, these mountains aren’t for the faint of heart. Only a Highlander could maintain our pace. Don’t be looking for him to rescue you.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” A moment of silence fell before he added, “Because if he were to come after you, I would have to kill him.”

She twisted around to study him, reading the truth in his gaunt features. “You think he will come,” she muttered, a touch of surprise in her voice.

His lips twisted and his dark eyes gleamed with a feral light, as if Griffin stood before him now, challenging him in some primordial contest to the death.

“Aye. I saw his face when you left him.”

So had she. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

He continued, “It may kill him, but he will not quit.”

She turned back around and mulled over her abductor’s words. True, Griffin had said they were not finished, but that had been pride and anger talking. Once he cooled off, once she was gone, he would certainly remember whatever it was that brought him to Scotland and return to his purpose. The fate of a woman he barely knew would not plague him, would not cause him to act rashly and risk his own life.

The grueling pace eventually sapped her energy and she could not stop herself from relaxing against the man behind her, from taking support in the length of him. Nor could she seem to stop from drifting off into a state of half-consciousness, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, eager to escape the rigors of the journey. She did not know how much time passed before a hard hand on her shoulder jostled her fully awake.

“We’re here.”

She blinked out at the dark, moonless night. As far as she could see, _here _ appeared to be…nowhere.

Then she saw it. At first it seemed they floated on inky air, sinking down toward winking stars.

They left the wooded hills behind, descending onto flat terrain. Far ahead, hundreds of tiny lights flickered like stars in the night.

“Cragmuir,” he announced at her back, the pride in his voice evident as the outline of a castle took shape against the dark veil of night.

“Cragmuir,” she repeated, marveling at the stone edifice looming larger than life before her. Like something out of Arthurian legend.

A great drawbridge lowered over a moat that smelled of rot and refuse, the chains creaking in the night wind. Two men stood high on the battlements, cheering down at them.

The men in their party called back, the laughter and triumph in their voices mingling with that of bleating sheep.

“Sheep not being the only prize caught,” Lachlan whispered in her ear, the tips of his fingers brushing the undersides of her br**sts.

She drew a hissing breath through her teeth and forced his hand down.

He chuckled against her cheek. “You’ll grow accustomed to my touch. Come to like it, I vow.

I’ve had no complaints before.”

Griffin’s furious eyes flashed through her mind again, a burst of fire in a dark night, and she shoved down her misery. She chose this fate, and she would find a way out of it.

They thundered into the yard to the welcome of barking dogs and a burgeoning crowd of Highlanders. Lachlan dismounted and swung her down beside him, a hand circling her wrist like a manacle, forcing her close to his side as he dragged her through the keep and into a cavernous hall that resembled something out of the middle ages.

Several massive tables littered the room in no apparent order. An old man sat at one, enshrined in a great wood-carved chair. His blue eyes watched their approach with keen interest.

“Uncle,” Lachlan greeted.

“Nephew,” the older man—Gallagher, she presumed—returned, “I see by your grin that your mission went well.”

His hand flexed on her wrist. “Very well.”

The volume in the hall intensified as the rest of the men spilled inside behind them. Serving girls poured into the room, carrying trays and trenchers, beaming smiles on their faces.

Her stomach clenched at the smell of fresh-baked bread and roasted pheasant.

“And what have you there? A present for me? Something else you stole from MacFadden.”

“Sorry, uncle. This prize is mine,” Lachlan declared. “A reward for successfully completing my task.”

“Oh?” the older man asked, his voice a scratchy growl on the air as he lifted bushy brows. “Since when do you decide your reward? You’re not yet lord and master here.”

She tugged anew on her wrist, deciding now the best time to plead her case, while the uncle appeared to be hovering between favor and disfavor with his nephew.

“I belong to no one! I was abducted! Taken against my will.” She fastened a beseeching gaze on the clan’s laird. “Please, sir. Surely you can see such an uncivilized act is a poor reflection on you and your people. I am an innocent traveler in your land. Your nephew viciously beat my traveling companion and—”

“Och, a Sassenach?” The old man shook his head in disapproval, the rest of her words lost on him. His gaze skimmed over Astrid in new estimation, as if his nephew had brought home a serpent. “Why would you want such a creature?”

“She’s different—”

“Aye, she is that. Trouble, she is. Not a sweet Scottish lass that can keep her tongue behind her teeth and show her man proper deference, to be sure.”

“Uncle,” Lachlan chided, his voice knowing, “I don’t recall my aunt being a reticent woman—”

The old man’s eyes softened at the mention of—presumably—his wife. “Nay, she was not.”

“Well, perhaps I want the same thing for myself.”

“And you would compare her to your dear aunt?” He flicked a large, gnarled hand Astrid’s way.

“Pardon me,” Astrid interjected. “So that there is no mistake here, let me clarify that I’m a hostage.”

“A hostage, eh?” Gallagher mused. “In that case, what sort of recompense shall I demand for your release?”

“Uncle,” Lachlan broke in, his voice a whine.

His uncle waved a hand to silence him, eyes still trained on her. “And,” he added, “to whom shall I make these demands? Family? Friends that might miss a fine Sassenach lass such as yourself?”

Astrid considered what he was asking of her. Should she give up the names of her friends?

Certainly Jane or Lucy would pay whatever ransom request these Highlanders made. She had resisted prevailing upon them before. But had the time come to put her pride aside and take their help?

“Yes,” she admitted. “I have friends. Extremely wealthy, important friends that would care a great deal to have me safely returned.”

“Interesting.” The laird combed fingers through his scraggly beard.

“Uncle, she is mine,” Lachlan insisted.

“Ah, hell, man. Would you cease thinking with that twig between your legs. If you’re to take my place someday, then you better start thinking like a laird and put your people before your own needs.”

A sudden commotion erupted at the front of the hall, drawing the attention of the laird and his nephew.

Astrid turned to watch as a small crowd of Highlanders advanced on them, nearing the head table. Grumbling and foul curses filled the air, gaining volume as the men reached them.

A sudden hush fell over the ragtag group. They parted, revealing an imposing, tartan-free figure in their midst. Even battered and bruised, he stood heads taller than most of the men, his carriage erect, proud, eyes a deep, glittering blue.

Astrid’s heart seized in her chest. A sob rose in her throat that she barely caught from spilling into the suddenly charged air. He had come. Unbelievable. She took one step forward.

Lachlan growled at her side, his hand clamping down on her arm. “What are you doing here?”

Griffin trained his gaze on her, his eyes blistering with hot accusation. Not once did he glance at the man who addressed him. After a long moment, his drawl rose strong and defiant over the hall. “I’ve come to claim what is mine.”

A breath shuddered through her.

“Lachlan,” his uncle demanded, “who is this?”

“My name is Griffin Shaw.”

Astrid looked nervously to the clan’s laird, knowing he held their fate in his hands. The old man’s eyes flitted over Griffin in hard-eyed scrutiny. “The lass belongs to you?”