He waited impatiently while the big man he’d taken in the last village lumbered over to him, eyes blank, waiting to be told what to do.
“Take your knife from its sheath. I’d have you draw its blade across your finger. Do it now.”
Without hesitation, the blacksmith did as he was told.
Large of body, small of mind. It suited his purposes to have one such as this under his Compulsion.
Flynn lifted the man’s finger to his lips, fighting the revulsion he felt in taking the filthy Mortal blood into his mouth. It couldn’t be helped. He needed what the blood would give him. He needed to be solid and whole to take Abigail from the soldiers.
“Mount up, blacksmith. Follow with me.”
Flynn directed his horse forward to where the two bodies lay on the road.
Good. The soldiers had saved him the effort of dealing with MacAlister. It made his task of recovering Abigail much easier.
Once again, he’d follow. He’d wait and watch for the inevitable opportunity to make her his.
Thirty-four
Abby landed hard, pushed from her perch on her captor’s horse to the ground below. She stumbled and fell to her knees, completely ignored for the moment, as the men were greeted by their companions.
So much for all that medieval chivalry she’d read about.
“You’ll want to collect that wee weapon that dangles at her hip,” one of them pointed out as another pulled her to her feet.
Her weapon!
She grabbed for the knife too late. The man who held her twisted her wrist, breaking her hold on the weapon.
“Sir Stephen’s got the right of it on this one. Who but a fine lady would forget to use the weapon she wears for decoration, aye? It’s a fine ransom our laird will demand for her return.”
He dragged her through the waiting, jeering soldiers toward the far side of their encampment, back to a line of bedraggled and wounded men kneeling on the ground. Their arms were held high up above their heads, their wrists tied together over a rope strung between two trees. Clearly, these were the other prisoners Sir Stephen had mentioned.
“On yer lovely arse, lassie,” her captor ordered, pushing her to the ground.
“Have a care with the lady, you oaf,” the man on the ground next to her growled. “I’ll remember you well when my bindings come off.”
“Remember this,” her captor offered, sending a well-aimed foot into the prisoner’s midsection that would have doubled the man over had he not been held up by his ties.
He jerked her to her knees and roughly pulled her arms above her head, then halted his efforts, turning to call out.
“Angus! There’s no enough of her to reach the line when she kneels. Should I let her hang?”
“Bind her by one hand. It’s no like she’s much of a danger to any of us. Perhaps she’ll find use for that free hand in fending off admirers, aye?”
“Or in pleasing them,” someone else shouted, drawing another round of laughter.
“It is my order that the lady will remain unmolested.” Sir Stephen approached on foot, one man with a sword drawn on either side of him. “Your laird made quite clear his desire for captives who would bring him a healthy ransom. Despoiling her would only lessen hervalue. I can’t think he would go easy on any one of you who ended up costing him silver.”
Perhaps she’d judged too soon. Maybe chivalry was only in intensive care and not completely dead after all.
“She’s spoils of war,” the one named Angus countered. “Our laird has never denied us what we claim from battle.”
Sir Stephen stared at the man, his eyes as cold and hard as they’d been when he’d stared at her and threatened to have her throat slit.
“That may be so. But until we reach Dunstaffnage and I turn her over to your laird, you’ll do as I say or I’ll skewer your hide to the nearest tree and leave you for the wolves to dine upon. Do I make myself clear enough?”
He waited for a scattered round of ayes before he spoke again. “Give her a bucket to kneel upon, but tie both her hands. Our guest is . . . spirited.” With a formal nod of his head in her direction, he turned and, along with the men on either side of him, disappeared into the small tent at the far end of the encampment.