Where the hell were they? Maybe somewhere near the Cape? A lighthouse maybe? She strained, trying to hear or smell signs of the sea.

He nudged her, bringing Haley to stand before the opening in the wall. Oh God. Was he going to push her out a window? The panic exploded again, dimming her vision, and Haley instinctively went into action, throwing her weight back, forcing her body away from the gaping blackness. She felt his hand grip her harder, but she frantically kicked herself backward, scuffing her heels along the stone floor. Her feet struck something hard and in her frenzy she noticed a wooden flight of steps like something from a theatrical stage blocking their path. Haley froze.

She tried to look again at the man's companion. Useless, Haley thought with derision. Just standing there trembling.

And then the surreal realization clicked. Her captors wore bizarre clothing, as if they'd just returned from some kind of historical reenactment. They were both filthy, her in a long gown, soiled black at the hem, him barefooted and in a kilt. And not like those dapper kilts and sporrans men wore at the Highland Games. This one seemed threadbare, winding around him, the end tossed haphazardly over his shoulder.

Oh shit. Dread chilled her. Haley couldn't say why, but their clothing set her already screeching internal alarms into high gear. She didn't know what these people were into, but getting kidnapped by a couple of Gaelic-speaking medieval history buffs didn't seem like something that bode well.

His hand on her neck was loose now. He kicked at the long, rickety staircase. Typical man, she thought with a disgust that cleared her head.

Calm. Calm. I'm calm. She did another internal check, forcing her mind and body to stillness. Her heartbeat grew regular. Her muscles felt juiced from the adrenalin, but no longer jellied from shock.

Typical man to underestimate a woman. She could get free. She'd have to jump. If that staircase represented their height above the ground, she only had about one story to fall. She'd have to roll her landing. Then run like hell.

She didn't give herself time to think. Haley tugged away from the man's hand and she winced, feeling a clump of her hair tear from her scalp. Leaping forward, she stepped one foot onto the edge of the stairs and vaulted into the void.

“Ciod e… ?” The cursed lass had flown out, black hair streaking behind her, like a crow loosed into the night. MacColla raced to the edge and looked down in time to see her hit the ground with a roll and take off running. “Och, Christ.”

He looked to Jean and back out again. “Och,” he growled once more. He grabbed his sister by the hands and eased her out the entry door, lowering her down until his belly eaned over the edge and he could get her no closer. “Run,” he hissed as he dropped her. “Now.”

The Campbell lass was already far in the distance, fleeing like a deer across the moonlit glen.

Jean stumbled forward and MacColla wasted no time leaping to the ground, landing with a grunt and rolling quickly to his feet. He sensed commotion in the castle above . The Campbell men were stirring.

“Run!” he called, clapping his hand on Jean's back. “Now, lass” - he grabbed his sister's hand and tugged - “run!”

Jean finally came out of her daze and, hiking her dress over her knees, took off with surprising speed.

MacColla ran ahead, pumping his arms and legs until he closed in on the woman. He waved his hand out to snag her dress once, twice, but she ran only faster, winding an uneven path over the grass. “ Caile mhallaichtei” he snarled.

He sprang forward then, grabbing hard around her waist, tumbling them both to the ground. MacColla wanted to catch the lass, not crush her, so he went immediately into another roll, coming to rest with her straddled over him.

He gripped her hips. Then an urge so great swept over him, he didn't question the impulse. MacColla simply ground the lass to him as the vision of her riding him filled his head.

Watching those mystical gray eyes widen at the feel of him beneath her sent satisfaction surging through his veins. Panting hard, he felt the life pumping through him, and a smile burst onto his face, flush with his triumph.

Then like a feral cat she was clawing at his cheeks, swatting, and trying to gouge at his eyes.

“You wee hellcat.” MacColla ducked the blows as best he could, clutching tightly to her hip with one hand, trying to deflect her blows with the other.

“Alasdair!” It was Jean's voice, crying a warning from the shadows.

MacColla saw three men racing toward them and rolled the woman to the ground beneath him.

Grabbing her by both hands, he looked quickly to his sister. He cursed himself. Jean's safety was the only thing that should take his attention now. He couldn't let his thoughts be diverted by some mysterious Campbell clans woman.

He looked at the woman and regretted that he had to let her go. Regretted he'd never know the name of this strange lass who'd gotten the better of him.

A Campbell captive would've been quite the spoils, and such a beautiful one all the more so. But he'd not lose sight of the most important thing: freeing his sister, seeing her safe once more.

“Och.” His voice was a low grunt. The men were closing fast. He looked from the lass, to the men, and back again. A challenge was in her eyes.

“Och, God help me.” Holding her arms above her head with one hand, he took her chin with the other, and crushed his mouth to hers for one last taste. He knew he needed to get his sister to safety, but he knew too that he had to press once more into that softness, feel one final lick of that heat. He pulled back and gave a quick laugh, having just missed her bared teeth.

MacColla pushed up from the woman and, grabbing Jean's cold hand in his, raced away, the Campbell castle at their backs.

He'd done it. He'd freed his sister. They had but to get to the ponies he'd tied hidden in the woods, and they'd be gone from there.

But then MacColla heard it.

A scream tore through the night, a ghastly, blood-chilling sound that stopped him dead.

Jean stumbled and fell beside him, looking up from her knees, terror in her eyes.

And then again.

It was the lass. Shrieking a sound of such horror, as if she'd been beset by demons, that MacColla's skin crawled from it.

He dragged Jean to standing and shoved her back into a run with force enough to launch her feet from the ground.

“Ruith!” he commanded. Run.

He turned, squinting to make out the figures in the darkness. The men had overtaken her. Moonlight limned their bodies, making them appear like fallen angels come seeking evil mischief from beyond. She struggled madly in their hands.

MacColla took off at a lope. Then the lass's scream broke. A hideous sound, it tore from her body until her voice grew ragged, then cracked finally into a wail of despair.

And MacColla broke into a run.

He didn't spare a thought as to the why or the how of it, but she was being attacked by her own kinsmen, and he'd not let a man get the better of any woman.

Especially this woman.

They had her pinned now, all atop her like wild dogs worrying a bone, and MacColla dove toward them, grabbin g wildly, catching a man in his hands and peeling him up by his head, breaking his neck and shucking him away from the pile like so much garbage.

That left two on her, and, just as he was leaning down to tear away another, the lass surprised MacColla by kicking her own self free.

He was stunned, looking at her - wild-eyed, but focused. The moon cast a white bolt of light along her smooth cheek. Her full mouth parted as she breathed heavily. She caught his stare and returned it. Fearless. Proud.

The most beautiful creature MacColla had ever seen.

He felt it too late. The hands damp and hot on his calf, tripping MacColla, pulling him down before he knew what he was about. He fell hard, the dead weight of seventeen stone of muscle slamming onto the glen, an d the two Campbells were on him in an instant.

Haley edged away. She was loose. She could run. Where?

She looked down at the scrum. The man called Alasdair fought for dominance, trying to best the odds. He had released her, leaving her to three attackers and a worse fate.

But then he'd come back.

She saw a hand - she didn't know whose - draw a knife.

Haley looked behind her. The stone building at her back loomed tall in the darkness. Not a lighthouse. Not a McMansion either. Looks like a damned Scottish tower house.

She scanned the night. The girl stood on the horizon shivering, whimpering. Haley could run, but if Alasdair were bested, would that girl be next? She knew with certainty that the pathetic creature wouldn't survive five minutes with those men. And Haley might not like the girl, but that didn't mean she wanted to see her brutalized.

Besides, Haley could run, but she doubted she'd be able to escape these two men who clearly had a taste for blood.

One of them was on top of her kidnapper now, h ands around his throat. The other one knelt, and she once again saw the flash of steel in the night.

She and her dark-haired stalker appeared to share the same enemy, which made him her ally. For the moment.

If she wanted to save her own life, she'd have to save

Alasdair.

Scampering backward, she dropped to her knees, frantically combing her hands through the cold, damp grass, her eyes never once straying from the scuffle in front of her.

All the years of training with her father, and the most frustrating thing had been realizing she'd never have a shred of hope in a fight if pitting her strength against a man's. The average woman didn't, against the average man. And so Haley had learned to fight dirty.

There. The sharp edge of a stone at her fingertips . Ignoring the soil jamming under her nails, she dug, pulling the rock free. It was small, just smaller than her palm, with one end coming to a point. It was the best she could hope for.

The second man sat back on his heels, helping hold down Alasdair as he watched his friend choke the life from him.

He smiled as if enjoying the show.

Which one? She weighed her options, the stone warming in her palm. Knock out the kneeling man, or distract the other? First things first.

Alasdair was being strangled to de ath. He pummeled his attacker, the brute force of his blows making his enemy sway with each hit. But the man clutched tenaciously at his neck, despite the blood that blackened his nose and eyes in the darkness.