Pushing his mount and his horsemanship to the limit, Finn battled his way through the rough terrain, one forbidding thought replaying in his brain. If she were to lose her bearings and stumble down the steep bank and into the river, she wouldn’t stand a chance in hell. And he wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of getting her out.
Every minute seemed like an hour, and by the time he finally found a safe, shallow place to ford the churning, glacier-fed river, a good thirty minutes had passed. And by the time Gus scrambled up the bank, the snow was falling so heavily, Finn could barely make out anything.
Breaking through a thick stand of trees on the periphery of the natural meadow, Finn squinted into the blur of white, his heart missing two solid beats when he spotted her on the ground, Rooney whining and nuzzling her head.
Dread shooting through him, Finn pushed his mount into a gallop. Reaching her, he reined up, and he was out of the saddle before the gelding stopped moving. She was lying there, so still. So very still.
Dropping to his knees beside her, he stripped off his gloves, his frozen breath hanging in the air as he pressed his fingers against the carotid artery in her neck. He found a pulse, and a feeling of relief pumped through his chest. She had a pulse. And he could see her breath in the cold air. That at least gave him something to work with.
Rooney whined and nuzzled her again, and Finn pushed the dog away, his voice gruff when he spoke. “Down, boy. Give me some room here.”
The figure on the ground stirred, and with a massive effort pushed herself up, the fingers on one bound hand closing around a grapefruit-sized rock on the ground. Realizing she had every intention of slugging him, Finn grasped her bound wrists, humor lifting one corner of his mouth. If she had enough juice left to slug him, she was in better shape than he expected. Muttering something, she tried to jerk free from his hold. As she gave a savage twist, the black garment on her head—the thing that looked like a black hangman’s hood—slipped over her eyes, partially blinding her.
Grasping her wrists in one hand, Finn tightened his hold, not about to take any chances with the rock. “Easy, now. Easy,” he murmured quietly, then reached out and pulled the head cover off, releasing a cascade of long, wild red hair.
Still trying to fight her way free, she gave her arms another hefty jerk, grinding out the kind of cusswords he rarely used. Half amused by her tenacity, but with one eye still on the rock she had clutched between her hands, he grasped her arms, holding her immobile. Okay. So he’d give her a minute, until she realized he was not a threat; then he would try to talk some sense into her.
Dragging herself to her knees, she shook the curly mop of hair out of her eyes, then lifted her head and glared at him. She might as well have hit him with the rock. Finn stared at her, his pulse coming to a complete stop. He felt as if an avalanche had broken loose in his chest. With the snow falling around her like something mystical—and that cascade of fantastic hair—it was as if she were right out of some childhood fable. Snowflakes caught in her bright copper hair like perfect jewels, and the sensation in Finn’s chest expanded. She was almost too much to comprehend. With her face sprinkled with freckles, and with her flashing eyes the exact color of spring moss—she reminded him of the wild Celtic warriors that were part of his Irish heritage. It was, he thought dazedly, as if a piece of ancient history had suddenly landed right in his lap.
For an instant, it was almost as if she were transfixed—like a deer caught in headlights, the undercurrent of terror paralyzing her. Then fire and fight appeared in those wide eyes, and she tried to twist free again.
Finn tightened his hold and spoke again, his voice low and gruff. “It’s okay. It’s okay—I’m not going to hurt you.”
As if finally realizing it was a total stranger who was holding her, she let go of the rock, then covered her face with her bound hands, a violent reaction shuddering through her. “Oh, God. Oh, God,” she whispered brokenly over and over again, her body folding into itself, as if all her strength was gone.
It was as if her words broke Finn’s own trance, and he hauled in a deep breath. Roughly snapped back to reality, he quickly brushed the snow off her hair, not wanting it to melt and leave her head wet. His expression tightened. There was something wrong—very wrong—with her eyes. They were dilated, almost as if she’d been hit on the head—or heavily drugged. Recognizing the sluggishness of her movements as the onset of hypothermia, he finished brushing the snow off her, then pulled her against him, trying to shelter her with his body. Pressing her head against his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around her. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice husky. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
A sob broke from her and she huddled into him, and Finn tightened his hold, trying to fold her in his own warmth. As if handling a terrified animal, he rubbed her back. His tone quiet and calm, he spoke again. “The name’s Finn Donovan.” Very carefully he turned her so he could get at her bound hands. “And I’m going to check you over to make sure you’re not hurt anywhere. Then I’m going to get the knife off my belt, and I’m going to cut the bindings on your wrists, okay?” The only response he got was another ragged intake of air, and he pressed her head more firmly against him, giving her a little shake. “Okay? I don’t want you to be scared. I’m just going to check you over, then I’m going to cut you loose.”
He knew it was a rotten thing to do, to leave her hands tied, but he didn’t want to give her a chance with that damned rock again. Keeping his touch slow and light, he checked her head, looking for any bumps that might explain the glazed look in her eyes. All he found was a couple of lacerations on the back of her head and some scrapes. And the only other injuries were some deep scratches on her hands. Reaching back under his coat to retrieve the knife in the leather sheath strapped to his belt, he spoke again, using the same tone he used on a spooked horse. “I’m not going to hurt you, honey. I just need to use it to cut the bindings, okay?”
As if the last of her strength had just deserted her, she shuddered and went slack in his arms. “Okay,” she answered weakly, her voice soft and thick.
Bringing the knife from under his coat, Finn cut the thick layers of silver duct tape binding her wrists. A strange feeling rose up in his belly when he pulled the tape away, and discovered that whoever had bound her had been in such a hurry, they had taped tightly over her watch, and her skin was purple and bruised from the pressure. His expression hardened by unexpected anger, he replaced the knife in the sheath, snapping the cover closed. Then he awkwardly removed his thick coat, trying to keep one arm around her.
With the sheepskin lining still warm from his body heat, he wrapped it around her, tucking the collar tightly around her neck. Then as if dressing a rag doll, he stuffed her arms into the sleeves. He was a big man, and the coat enveloped her, the sleeves long enough to cover her hands.
It was as if his tucking the coat around her broke through her shock, and she finally realized she was truly safe. Grasping the down-filled vest he had on underneath his coat, she curled into his arms. “Oh, God, oh God,” she sobbed over and over again.
For some reason, her hanging on to him made Finn’s heart hurt. Tight-faced with concern, he buttoned up the coat, tucking the folds snugly around her, then he spoke, stroking more snow from her hair. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said, his tone husky, “but whatever it is, I think we’d better get you out of here.”
Making sure the coat was tucked firmly around her, he scooped her up, then got to his feet. The moment he straightened with her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on, another sob breaking loose. It was as if the exposure to warmth set something off in her, and she started to shiver violently. A strange sensation climbing up his chest, Finn turned and started toward
