All she could see was Morag's frail body lying on the ground as she rushed forward. Forgetting the other man, she rushed to her maid's side, the knife slipping from her limp fingers as she dropped to her knees and gently touched one leathery cheek. "Morag? Morag!"
The flickering of those old, white eyelashes seemed the most beautiful thing in the world to Kyla. Releasing a gasping sob, she hugged the frail body close and silently offered up a prayer of thanks.
It was only then that she recalled the other barbarian. Glancing up, she saw with some surprise that he was a mere boy. And that he wasn't paying her the least bit of attention. He was looking past her.
Following his gaze, she immediately understood his lack of concern. The battle was over. The warriors were approaching, expressions grim.
Laying Morag quickly back down, Kyla snatched up the dirk she had dropped and got to her feet, moving instinctively between the prone woman and the approaching men. But, like the boy, the warriors paid her little heed. Instead, they hurried to their fallen comrade and encircled him, hiding him from view.
Clenching the dirk tighter in her sweaty hand, Kyla set her gaze darting about the area. It seemed obvious there was no escape, for she could not leave without Morag. Standing and fighting was her only option. In truth she wished it were not. She had never thought to die this way. Nor so young.
The men began to turn their attention to her now. Expressions forbidding, they moved forward, forming a half-circle in front of her as they took in her stance and the dirk in her hand.
Kyla expected an immediate attack, men coming at her all at once. It was a bit unnerving when they merely continued to stare at her, then began to discuss her in Gaelic, unaware that she understood the language.
"Bonnie," one commented, drawing her wary gaze to him. He was tall. Good God, they were all tall. She was of average height herself, and these men seemed giants. They stood, looming like a forest of trees before her. Broad-chested, solid, strong, and terrifying.
"Aye. Bonnie. But wee." The man who said that seemed to be the leader. She had noticed that the others had deferred to him as he led the way to stand before her. He was the red-haired man, the same one who had stood on the back of the wagon, then called her a harpie and ordered her to keep her head down. He was one of the tallest of them. He also seemed to be one of the brawniest, though the man directly beside him, the one who had originally called her "bonnie" was a good deal larger. Good grief, that man could be mistaken for a small building from a distance, she thought, frowning briefly at him before turning her attention back to the leader. She realized that the men were agreeing with him and not very flatteringly.
"Aye. Puny."
"Pulin'."
"All bones."
"Frail-lookin'."
"Pale as death, too and swaying on her feet. I be thinkin' she won't survive the trip home, let alone our harsh winters."
The leader nodded at that observation and they all eyed her gloomily. A dark-haired man behind the leader brightened. "Mayhap 'tis not her. Mayhap we attacked the wrong party."
Those words brought a round of hopeful looks from the other men, but the leader shook his head. "Nay, Duncan. 'Twas the MacGregors we fought with the Sassenach. I recognized at least two of them."
Kyla's sigh of disappointment joined that of the men. For a moment she had glimpsed freedom; surely if they had erred, they would have let her go. Alive? But, aye, it was the MacGregors that had been escorting their party. Twenty of them had met them at the border. It had been an added precaution, though Kyla had thought it unnecessary at the time, since forty of Catriona's men had already been escorting her. Now she saw how wrong she had been; the English men-at-arms had been slow and awkward in their mail. They had fallen quickly against these savages, leaving the MacGregor men alone to protect her. She supposed she was who these men were looking for, though she could not for the life of her figure out why. Unless the entire betrothal had been a ruse to get her away from the castle and assassinate her. That was a possibility. And not beyond her sister-in-law's nefarious mind.
"Well, we'd best be collecting her and moving on," the leader commented finally, drawing her attention back from her thoughts. He did not seem eager to accomplish the deed. In fact the only move he made was to shift his feet as he eyed her. Still, even that was enough to make Kyla stiffen warily. She would not go down without a fight.
"Careful of that blade of hers. 'Tis verra sharp. She gave me a fair nasty scratch with it."
Her gaze turned at once to the speaker, the man she had noted could be mistaken for a building. Shock covered her face now as she took in his features rather than his bulk; he was the one she had stabbed, then knocked out. The man was now standing tall and strong, no discomfort on his face and little to show that she had hurt him except for the blood on his shirt and plaid. And there was not very much of that either, she noted now with disgust.
Mouth tightening, Kyla braced her feet farther apart and bent her knees slightly in the manner she had seen her brother take during hand-to-hand combat.
Tipping his head to the side, the leader eyed her briefly, then suggested in English, "Ye'd best be dropping the blade, lassie, ere ye hurt yerself."
Kyla's only response was to lift her chin grimly. When the leader moved calmly forward, she was ready for him. Or so she thought.
He took two steps in a slow, meandering pace, then suddenly lunged. Grabbing her wrist in one hand, he forced it into the air, snatched the knife from her fingers with embarrassing ease, then tossed it to the man she had stabbed.
Screaming in frustration, Kyla kicked at his legs. She screeched even more furiously as she found herself picked up and slung over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.
"Calm yerself!" The stern order was accompanied by a slap on the behind that shocked her into silence. "We'll not hurt ye or the old witch."
Cursing roundly, Kyla thumped her fists ineffectively against his wide back, then paused to watch anxiously as one of the other men stooped to survey Morag. She nearly sobbed with relief when the fellow seemed to realize the woman's fragile condition and took care to lift her gently before following the man carrying herself.
When the barbarian transporting her suddenly paused, Kyla knew instinctively that they had reached the wagon and that he would most likely drop her into it. She tried to brace herself for what was to come, but no amount of preparation on earth could have readied her for her landing in the back of the cart. 'Twas not that he was unduly rough. Simply that he knew not of her injury and set her flat on her back in the bottom of the wagon with a small bump. It had the same effect as if she had been dropped on a wide board with nails poking out of it. The pain took her breath away, leaving not even a small gasp for her to cry out with. Lights danced briefly before her eyes before everything went black.