Captured by the Highlander by Julianne MacLean

camp, as if he were crawling toward safety in the bushes.
    So they were not dead after all —although their leader, Major Curtis, was still thrashing about in the lake and would probably drown in the next few minutes.
    “Come with me now,” Duncan growled, “or take your chances with these men.”

    The one closest to her was rising up on his hands and knees, and the next thing she knew she had taken hold of Duncan’s arm and was bounding up onto the back of his horse.
    Duncan pulled the shield off over his head and handed it to her. “Put this on. Strap it to your back.”
    She did as he instructed, wrapped her arms around his waist, and they galloped out of the English camp toward the trees.
    * * *
     
    The precise moment they entered the forest, Amelia glanced over her shoulder and saw something speed by on the beach. It was Angus on his pale gray horse, his golden hair flying on the wind, his broadsword swinging over his head. He was galloping after the cowardly soldier who had been the first to flee the camp.
    God help that wretched man now.
    Then suddenly darkness laid siege to all that was visible, and they were whipping past branches and leaping over logs. It was quiet in the woods, except for the fast pounding of hooves on the ground and the snapping of twigs and dried leaves. The wind blew into Amelia’s face, and she clung more tightly to Duncan’s solid frame.
    “Keep your head down,” he commanded, and she buried her face in the soft wool of his tartan, which was draped over his shoulder, across his strong muscled back. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her body to stop shaking, but it was no use. It was a delayed reaction to the terror of what had just occurred when that despicable man was on top of her, tearing at her clothes and slobbering all over her.
    She clung more tightly to Duncan, overwhelmed by gratitude and relief— thank God he arrived when he did —but at the same time she was disoriented by the dizzying about-face of her emotions.
    He was her captor. It was his fault she was here to begin with, and it was not so long ago that he had pinned her to the ground while she struggled and fought against him.
    Somehow, however, what had occurred with the English soldier had felt very different, and she was hard-pressed to understand it in her panic-stricken mind. She had been both infuriated and alarmed when Duncan threw her to the ground in the field that first morning, but she had always felt as if she were being toyed with. She’d sensed that he was just biding his time, all owing her to fight and claw at him until she was depleted of strength. It had been his intention to wait for her to give up. To surrender when she was ready to surrender.
    It had not been like that with the drunken soldier. He most definitely would have violated her. He would be doing so at this very moment if Duncan had not arrived and thrown him into the lake.
    So what was she feeling now, exactly? Was Duncan her rescuer? Her protector?
    No, that was not correct. He had stolen her from the safety of her bed in a guarded English fortress. He wanted to kill her fiancé. He had killed hundreds of men. He was a brutal, vengeful warrior and she was still not entirely certain she would not end up dead. He may have saved her tonight only because she was his bait. He still needed her to lure Richard into his trap.
    Even so, she was not yet ready to loosen her grip, and if someone tried to separate her from him now, they would not succeed. She was holding on as if her life depended on it, and she didn’t think she could pry her own fingers off him if she tried. She felt more safe here than she had back there on the beach—even in this wild, out-of-control moment while she was hurtling through the dark forest as fast as a musket ball .
    She had no idea how long they galloped through the trees.
    She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to keep going, as far away as possible, but then she felt Duncan lean back and slow the horse