Rationale fought against the ghost, but it wasn’t a face she saw. Instead, like the man who held her now, it was the feel of his hot breath in her ear. Her husband’s whispered words on their wedding night had been as foreign as her captor’s Gaelic words. The same panic she experienced when Richard instructed her in his sexual preferences roared to life, and the inclination to comply as she had then, warred with the primal fight for survival.
Her attacker’s hand fell from her breast, breaking the morbid trance. A cool wind whistled through the trees as if to say all would be well. Yet, as relief filtered through her, his arm slid around her hips, grinding her against his erection. His hand dropped lower, and Victoria screamed through the gag, bucking wildly when he cupped the area between her legs. He groaned, sending the sound reverberating past her screams and deep into the part of her that pleaded with him to stop.
She kicked and thrashed, but her struggles didn’t halt the rise of her chemise as the fingers bunched the fabric into his fist, inching it ever higher. Tears stung when the heat of his hand on her thigh slid upward.
Another hard kick hit him below the knee, but instead of stopping his efforts, it only hastened his hand’s contact with the curls that hid the most private part of her. A deep sob escaped her and her strength ebbed. Still, she crossed her legs and stiffened.
With a low growl, the Fraser warrior came to a halt. Victoria forced back bile. He had finally chosen a place to finish the deed. A sword seemed to magically appear before them. She blinked as another, then another appeared. MacPhersons. Tears filled her eyes.
Her assailant reached across her. She tensed upon realizing he was drawing his sword. The sight of his weapon gleaming against remaining shafts of sunlight that pierced the canopy was followed by the spectacle of his companion flying through the air in front of them, landing close to where the MacPherson swords stood in readiness. Her captor whirled.
Strong hands wrenched Victoria free and pushed her to the ground. Dull pain radiated through her shoulder. She winced and blinked in the direction of the Fraser clansman as he lunged recklessly with his claymore, only to have it deflected with the steel of another, more skilled, sword. The Fraser warrior stepped back, but Iain MacPheson advanced on him.
“Is that the hand you touched her with?”
The man’s gaze flicked to his free hand.
Fool. Even past the haze, Victoria could see the word written on the MacPherson lord’s face. His sword shot out. The man shouted in pain as blood spurted and his hand dropped away from his wrist. In a blinding fury, he raised his weapon, but not quickly enough to avoid the claymore that impaled him in one swift movement. Her eyes refused to move from where Iain MacPherson stared at his opponent for a long moment.
“You will never touch another woman.” The soft words belied the hard twist Iain gave as he wrenched his sword deeper into the belly of his victim before yanking it from his body.
The man’s eyes bulged and a loud gurgling noise filled the silence, but Victoria kept her gaze fixed on him even after he crumbled to the ground.
Firm, but gentle hands clasped her shoulders, pulling her into reassuring warmth. The gag was loosened from her mouth, and she coughed as much out of reflex as the need to spew the rank memory from existence. She jumped when Iain shouted something to one of his men. A moment later, a MacPherson appeared, tartan in hand, and Iain surrounded her with the soft wool. His attempts to coax her back to where her dress lay were met with staunch refusal on the part of her legs to move.
“Come, love,” he said, his voice low and gentle. “You will feel better after you dress.”
The tenderness in his voice sparked something undefinable and the dam broke, bringing with it trembling, followed by quiet weeping. Clutching his shirt, Victoria leaned into him. She shook her head over and over. Iain hugged her close, making soft, indistinguishable noises until she shifted to peer through her tears at the body of her attacker. Iain’s fingers caressed her cheek as he forced her face back to his chest. She convulsed and again sobbed against him. The cleansing tears finally slowed and shock gave way to anger.
“This is your fault,” she railed between hoarse hiccups.
“Aye,” he agreed all too quickly.
Victoria looked up at him. Fear shown on his face. She pounded a fist against his chest.
“You think your penitence absolves you?” Her voice rose and cracked. She leaned away from him and pounded him harder. “Damn you, you bastard!
Let—me—go.” She repeated the words over and over, until at last they drifted into nothing more than a whisper. Her knees gave way and Iain caught her to himself.
Strength surged through her and she pushed at him. “I would rather you left me than touch me.” But he held her close until her tears again subsided, though her whispered pleas to return home did not.
When she finally quieted, he placed shaking fingers beneath her chin and tilted her face upward. As though searching for some answer, he held her there for what seemed an eternity before lifting her into his arms and carrying her back to where her dress lay. He set her feet on the ground, his arm around her, and again lifted her tear-stained face up to his.