Inside the smokehouse, Michael battled frustration. His arms were bound above his head to a rafter in such a way that his toes barely touched the ground. His arms were far enough apart that he couldn’t reach the knots of one hand with the other. Not only were his hands numb, but every inch of his body ached from the pounding he and his bothers received during the ambush.
At least four hours had passed since the sun set. He had no idea why he and his brothers were taken. Their Maclaren captors claimed they wouldn’t be killed if the lady cooperated – a real hope-dasher if one was needed. He’d never met a lady willing to cooperate with any plan not her own. Even Brendan and Duncan couldn’t get their wives to cooperate. Both Faith and Alera would smile and agree to anything their husbands said. Then the women calmly went about doing precisely as they damn well pleased.
Of course, Michael hoped whoever the lady was that she wouldn’t cooperate. He doubted not that he and his brothers would free themselves. And there was no time like the present for a good feud.
“Michael, do you hear that?” Luthias whispered from several feet to his left in the dark.
“I hear nothing,” Michael whispered back.
“That’s what I mean. All has quieted.”
The four men stilled. Not so much as a cricket could be heard.
Without warning, the door slammed against the inner wall. A torch entered followed by a small black shadow of feminine curves. As the form strode forward to stand among them, light spilled upon a short woman dressed in black wearing black war paint on every spec of unclad flesh. That is if one could call her dressed. Why she wasn’t freezing from the late winter chill was a mystery. She wore a skimpy black sleeveless garment, cut low to dip between ripe breasts, belted at the waist, and cut shorter than his plaid. High black boot ascended sleek legs to meet the hem. He wasn’t sure but thought he detected leather wrist cuffs around her slender arms. The paint made it difficult to be sure. Ebony hair drawn back from finely carved features appeared to be tucked down the back of her gown.
She couldn’t stand much taller than his mid-chest, but an aura of authority and dauntless fortitude enveloped the woman. Who in Perdition was she?
The lass casually approached Duncan. Holding the torch near his face, she inspected him top to bottom. From there, she proceeded to Brendan, then Luthias, and finally stopped before Michael.
After scrutinizing him, she ambled over to the wall and placed the torch into a bracket. She returned to stand where she could take in all four of them at one time. Her fists settled on shapely hips. A throaty chuckle finally escaped her lips to shiver down Michael’s spine in an unexpected and arousing manner.
“’Tis ironic if you consider your situation through my eyes, lads,” she said in perfect Gaelic with an unusual – yet somehow familiar – sexy accent. “Four such prime cuts, you are. I suppose the smokehouse is the best place for you.” She chuckled again at her own jest and shook her head.
Then she sauntered toward Michael. He caught the gleam of steel as she neared. Unsure of her intentions, he quickly brought up both legs to entrap her.
Without a moment for thought, the wee woman slammed her knuckles into his Adam’s apple. Michael dropped his legs and sucked in short choppy breaths with great effort. How the hell had such a slip of a woman rendered him near useless while in a conscious state?
The sparkles in her black eyes turned to hard glints. She sheathed her dagger and returned her fists to her hips, not bothering to move away from his leg reach. “’Tis your own fault, Michael. Do you not know better than to attack someone rescuing you?” She cocked her head. “Come to think of it, has no one ever told you to look for snakes in the grass? I saw the Maclarens from a hill away. Our Sacred Alliance may prove troublesome if you are so easily captured and I have to rescue you often.”
“Who are you?” Luthias whispered.
She flashed sparkling teeth at him. “It has been a long time since we met, and you need not whisper. Your captors are disabled. I am Regina Arturius, The Sophia, and Tribuna of the First Alpine Legion of the Holy Roman Empire.” She favored Michael with an irritated frown. “Take a few long deep breaths and let them out slowly while I decide whether or not I still wish to rescue you.”
“You are welcome to rescue me,” Luthias replied with a seductive grin.
She slanted her head and grinned back. “Do you flirt with all women?”
“Only the desirable ones.”
Another chuckle spilled from the woman’s mouth to sizzle over Michael’s senses. What was it about her?
“Luthias, my brother,” she said. “Watch your words. I’d hate for one brother to have to kill another.”
Luthias looked at Michael then winked at the lass. “You might be worth fighting over. Where are you from and why do you rescue us?”
“I am from somewhere south of Heaven and north of Hell.”
“That covers a large territory,” Luthias rejoined.
Twinkles appeared in those big black eyes, reminding Michael of starry night. “Can you not tell from my perfect Gaelic? I am a Highlander.” She chuckled at Luthias’s incredulous expression. This time every muscle in Michael’s belly tensed at the sound. “I see your disbelief, so I will qualify my answer. My country, Arturia, extends from the Roman Alps to the Roman Sea. My palace is in the mountains.”
