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more aware of her own body than she’d ever been before in her life. Her blood rushed through her veins, her heart its hot, thudding pump, lungs pulling in breath in fast, cooling gulps, limbs tingling, torso a burning inferno, as if the man’s look alone had caused her body to catch fire.
    “Ye’ll pay for this!” Alistair roared, writhing in pain on the ground. He was trying to work the arrow out of the tree with his other hand, but it was buried halfway in. The trees in these woods were yielding, their trunks soft with the dampness that permeated this land, and Sibyl knew just from looking at it, the arrow would have to be clipped.
    “I must be away,” she whispered, hearing the sounds of the men, dogs and horses growing nearer, knowing the repercussions for what she had done would be severe if she was caught here in these woods still wielding the longbow that had impaled her future husband through his forearm.
    But her means of escape had, well, escaped. Both Winnie and Fian had disappeared down the path and she had no choice but to attempt her flight on foot. She turned to run, knowing she didn’t have long, but she was waylaid once again by the stranger’s bare chest. He had somehow sidestepped and appeared in front of her, even though she was now facing the opposite direction, heading deeper into the woods.
    “Tiugainn!” The man spoke Gaelic, a dialect she only remotely understood, but his meaning was clear enough in the way he took her by the elbow and steered her down the path. At least, Sibyl thought as she struggled to keep up with his long strides, they were headed in the right direction.
    “Let me go!” she cried, trying to shake out of his grip, but it was no use.
    The man’s enormous hand easily encircled her upper arm and the strength in it was surprising. He pulled her along and she stumbled after him, unable to yank herself free. The dark-haired stranger didn’t follow the path. He steered them to the right, through the trees, where the underbrush was thick and the hem of Sibyl’s dress caught on branches and made her falter. The sound of the stream grew louder as they traveled deeper into the forest.
    Sibyl felt a rage growing in her belly, now that the wolf was gone and she knew she wasn’t going to die—and least, not imminently—and they had vanished far enough down the path that Alistair’s voice had grown dim. She could no longer hear his men approaching on horseback, and the sound of the dogs was faint.
    Beside her, the half-naked Scotsman finally stopped, cocking his head and listening. His hair fell like a black waterfall over his broad, brown shoulders, eyes narrowing, shifting from side to side, a gesture she knew from years of being taught how to stay aware of her surroundings by her father. He was scanning, looking for movement, listening, perhaps, for anyone pursuing them, but Sibyl wasn’t going to stay around long enough to find out. She’d had enough of being pawed by one man or the other.
    “Let me go!” she insisted, taking advantage of his hesitation to finally wrench herself free.
    She began to stalk away from him, the satchel under her skirts heavy, weighing her down. Once she was away from this stranger, she would stop to unpin it. The longbow and quiver were still slung over her shoulder, and for that she was grateful. Once she had found a place to cross the stream and she’d left any trace of her scent behind, a certain dead end for the dogs Alistair would surely send after her, she would start looking for game.
    “Ow!” Sibyl complained when the stranger grabbed her again, and this time not just by the arm. He had her from behind, the way Alistair had held her against him in front of the wolf’s cage, but her reaction was far different on this occasion. The stranger’s body was big, muscular, his arms easily enveloping her small frame. “You big, dumb oaf! Let me go!”
    She had no idea if he understood her, but she thought she sensed his demeanor