“Listen to me, lads, these Scots will stop at nothing to protect their thieving way of life. I have heard of Lord Ryppon, just like the rest of you, and I tell you this. No border baron would allow his gently bred sister to ride across the border land with her thighs spread over the saddle. She lies.”
“I do not. I am Curan Ramsden’s sister. The border land is no place for weak-kneed daughters, and that is why I was never taught to shiver at the sight of my own shadow.” Jemma wiped a hand across her mouth, removing the blood trickling out of the corner. “You will keep your hands off me, sir.”
“Hands?” He snickered again and reached down to cup his crotch with one of his mail-gloved gauntlets. “I’m planning on putting more than my hands on you. I’ve got a thick English cock for your lying Scottish flesh to entertain. We’ve been charged with finding your queen, and it has been too long since me and my men have had any fun. Ryppon would never let his sister out of his fortress this late in the day. You’re riding out to meet your lover, and I plan to help you get the tumble you came out here looking for. Get on your back if you want it without pain.”
There were a few low grumbles of agreement that sent a chill down her back. It was icy cold and full of dread, but Jemma held her chin steady.
“You’ll keep your hands from me, sir, and that is the last time I will tell you so.”
“Good. I’m sick of your talking.”
He reached for her, and she lifted her leg to plant her foot squarely on top of the crotch he’d so blatantly tried to threaten her with. Her boot pressed down on top of soft flesh before the knight let out a strangled cry. He stumbled backward a few paces, sending a surge of hope through her, but it was short-lived. With a vicious snarl he turned to glare at her. Fury lit his eyes, and he let out a foul curse while rubbing his injured flesh. Lust mingled with that anger, making her fight against the urge to back away from him. It was instinct, but Jemma forced her feet to stand firm. She refused to crumple at his feet; doing so would only seal her fate because he was the sort of man that preyed on those less powerful than himself.
“You’ll pay for that, bitch! I’m going to enjoy watching you bleed when I’m finished with your cunt.”
He lunged toward her, his comrades cheering him on. But his grasping hands never touched her. Instead, she heard the pounding of hooves so close she knew the horse was going to trample her beneath its deadly hooves. She stood still, accepting that fate instead of the one the unkempt knight had planned for her. Jemma actually smiled, taking in a deep breath in anticipation of the horse crushing her body beneath it.
But no pain punctured her body. In its place a hard arm scooped her off her feet, pulling her up and on top of the beast that had galloped into the ring of Englishmen. The sudden appearance of that rider sent the English into a frenzy of panic. Their horses reared, and she heard the sound of their armor shifting. There were cries and curses, but most of it was drowned out by the sound of the horse she’d been tossed across. Her head went over the saddle to hang down on one side. She gained a crazy view of the ground and hooves all moving too quickly to make sense of from upside down. The fact that she had declined to eat supper suddenly served her very well, for there was nothing in her stomach to sicken her.
A hard hand pressed her down, helping to keep her on top of the horse. A new sound rang out around her; it was a solid chanting in Gaelic.
It looked as if the English knights had found what they were searching for—the Scots they so arrogantly believed themselves better than.
For the moment, she prayed that the Scots won.
Chapter Two
The Scots didn’t need divine intervention.
They took the English by surprise, which gave them the advantage. Streams of tartan-wearing men surged over the hill, the horses following close behind each other. The English had been ringed around her, their attention on what their leader was doing. Now their horses reared up, fear in their eyes. With no warning, the Scots chanted again, and their deep voices boomed around the startled English like thunder breaking above their heads. The fading light lent more strength to their attack for it seemed as if they materialized out of the night.
“Hold this for me, Bryon.”
Whoever had pulled her off the ground tossed her once more. This time she landed in a tangle of her own clothing on the ground at the feet of a small group of younger boys. Jemma snarled as she tried to get her head upright, but the bouncing of her head upside down had muddled her senses. It took several moments for her sight to stop spinning, and still more time to gain control of her body again. She kicked at her skirts because they seemed to be stuck, trapping her feet where she could not use them. A soft male chuckle drifted over her ears before she was hooked beneath her arms and lifted up.
“Is that better now, lass?”
The voice was young but hinted at approaching manhood. Jemma lifted her face to stare at a youth with shoulder-length hair and a round knitted bonnet tilted off to one side. He couldn’t be more than fifteen, but the boy was a full head taller than her and there were several more standing near him. They looked down the hill with eagerness shining in their eyes. Most of them failed to keep their feet still, but they remained where they were and strained to watch what was happening below them.
Jemma turned and gasped. The sound of men clashing against men was horrific, far more so than any description might have prepared her for. She saw nothing noble about it, only the brutality. Most of the English failed to pull their swords. The Scots closed in on them with clubs, striking them off their horses. In the close quarter of the battle, the crude wooden weapons proved more effective than the swords hanging in their scabbards. Several of the English found themselves thrown by their frightened mounts. Men strained to stand beneath the weight of breastplate armor, some of them falling beneath the hooves of their own comrades’ horses. Screams filled the night, and it was impossible to tell whose cries came from which man because the fight was in such close quarters. Her mind tried to sort it all into understanding and had difficulty making sense of it.
But she did notice the lack of slaughter. Those clubs, although painful when they struck, did not spill enough blood to kill because they had been aimed at unseating the English. The Scots swung low, to catch the men below where their breastplates offered protection, knocking the English off their mounts like melons. She’d witnessed her brother teaching his younger charges just such a task and never understood how brutal it might be when employed. A shiver raced over her skin as she watched, too stunned to turn away.
The Scots herded their enemy into the center of them, riding around them to keep the fallen English contained. The youths behind her suddenly began to run after the horses that had left their English masters to the mercy of the Scots. The boys mounted and then began to tie the reins of the other horses together until they had a chain of riderless horses trailing behind them. They leaned over to catch the dragging reins but maintained their seat in the saddle using legs with an amazing amount of strength. Her eyes strayed back to the men who had rescued her; they were stronger still, hard men who appeared undefeatable in spite of their lack of armor.
“This is an act of war upon England,” roared the knight who had so recently tried to assault her. He’d been knocked to his knees.
“I’ll agree with ye there, man, but Scots who just committed the act of war.” The man talking was clearly the leader of the Celts. His voice was edged with solid authority, and his men became quiet while he spoke. He sat tall atop a huge stallion that was as black as midnight. His sword was held in a confident grip, but it was his expression that sent a shiver down her spine. Hard and edged with fury, he glared at his captives while pointing the deadly tip of his sword at their leader.
“This is Barras land and yer in Scotland, which makes ye the invaders.”
“We are sent on the king’s business to bring his son’s bride to where she can be raised well and protected.”
The Scots grumbled, their words muffled,