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bloodied his nose, only to be yanked to the left by another pair of hands.
    An ear-piercing whistle cracked the air. The rebels parted , opening a path. Panting, she had only a moment to catch sight of a behemoth of a man thundering toward her on a great black horse. She’d never seen a horse so large. Nor a man. Goliath himself had come to end her life.
    He barreled toward her, his pace not slowing and she kicked her mount to turn in the opposite direction but the rebels held her in place.
    He was closer now. Maybe even a leader of these rebels. He too was covered in filth, his eyes wild, light hair flying grabbing the wind as he rode hard, lips curling into a snarl. As he drew closer she saw that his eyes were a brilliant green, like fresh spring grass and new leaves covered in dew. Arbella had never seen such a color. An odd contrast to the grime on his chiseled cheekbones and rough-looking beard. She never expected to see beauty on a demon. Her breath caught and her lungs refused to function. Arbella could not look away. She was amazed, yet frightened by the sight of him. He was from the stuff of fairy tales—not the ones with a happy ending she reminded herself.
    Dizziness took over. This must be God’s way of saving her. She would faint before he trampled her with his monster horse.
    But that was not the way of it. Instead he swooped in on her, grasped her by the waist and yanked her from her horse. He settled her on his solid lap, still galloping hard as he turned in a circle and headed over the bridge. Arbella bounced wildly in his arms, not sure if she should be more terrified of the man who’d stolen her or the threat of falling from his humongous mount.
    Then she knew. The devil would toss her into the river to drown. Although she could swim, but the deep river water was surely freezing and her muscles would tense up refusing to work. Her gown would fill with water and act as a weight dragging her down to the bottom to her death.
    Arbella tried to pull from his arms, but he only held her tighter in his steel-like grip. Thick with muscle, his thighs were hard and warm beneath her bottom, his arm heavy, solid against her waist.
    “Sit still,” he growled with a deep burr against her ear, his breath tickling her neck.
    She slapped her hand on the spot, not understanding why her flesh tingled. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it all away.
    The sound of the horse’s hooves clopping on wood gave way to a softer , squishier pound. They were on marsh grass. Arbella opened her eyes wide. He hadn’t dumped her in the river. From behind she heard a whistle, but she couldn’t see who followed.
    “Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice sounding surprisingly strong for how weak she felt inside.
    “To safety.”
    Safety? The demon had saved her? In truth, God had an unconventional way of answering prayers.

Chapter Four

    Chunks of marshy grass and dirt flung from the horses’ racing hooves hitting Magnus about his face and neck. The lass buried herself silently within her cloak to avoid the stinging muck. He was mildly surprised at her lack of whining. Most lasses would have complained of his speed and the handling of her person, but she seemed to accept it or at the very least tolerate it for now.
    With good reason, h e did not slow down. The battle was over—a Scottish victory, but the men were hungry for more, and this lass was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The rebels would think nothing of taking her for their pleasure. She was English, which made it acceptable in their eyes.
    But not in his. She might be of English descent but no woman deserved to suffer.
    He and his men raced toward the wooded area at the base of the mountain path that would take them up into the Highlands.
    At first, some rebels gave chase on foot but they soon abandoned that notion, no match for Magnus and his men on horses. They were battle hungry, willing to fight their own for a share of the spoils. ’Twas a