large enough, but it kept her vision from darkening further. Pushing it out, she drew another one in, this time succeeding in filling her aching lungs.
“Well now, what have we here? A wild Scot woman off to meet with her lover?”
Men snickered all around her, the sound frightening beyond belief.
Jemma drew in another breath and narrowed her eyes at the one who had spoken. The sound of their laughter might be frightening to someone who was easily scared, which she was not.
I dare not fall into panic’s grasp . . .
The men halted their horses, ringing her while they stared down at her from beneath the visors of their helmets. There were at least thirty of them, and not a single one offered to help her off the ground. Pain still maintained its grip. Her hips became numb, or there was simply too much pain for her mind to feel it all. Dragging in a few more breaths, she succeeded in restoring her sight. What she viewed wasn’t pleasant. Smirks decorated the lips of those men watching her. They were unkempt, their faces sporting several days’ worth of whiskers. The armor they wore was darkened from lack of polish, and their behavior further attested to their lawless nature.
“I believe our fortune is looking up. Here’s a treat for us all to sample. I hear these Scottish bitches like their men rough and randy.”
“You have no right to wear the plumes of a knight with immodest speech such as that.” Jemma pushed herself up and winced at the new pain that resulted. Her hips were no longer blissfully numb. Red-hot pain pierced them when she forced her body to stand.
“Mind your tongue, wench, or I’ll cut it out.” He even pulled a small dagger from the top of his boot to threaten her with. The blade was dark, and a shiver raced down her spine when she realized that it was dried blood that made it so. “I don’t take orders from women.”
“I am Jemma Ramsden, sister of the Barron Ryppon.”
The man with the dagger spat on the ground in front of her. “You are what I say you are, and listen to me well—claiming to be noble-blooded carries a high punishment.” He swung one leg over the back of his horse and hit the ground with a thud. His gaze settled on her chest, and the tip of his tongue appeared to take a swipe along his lower lip. He reached out and struck her across her face. It was a vicious blow, one that sent her tumbling away from him.
“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
