Close on her heels, he grabbed her arm, jerked her around and forced her up against the stone wall. Her heart catapulted into her throat.

She tried to yank herself free, but couldn't budge his grip. "Unhand me!"

"Nay. And be quiet." His breath reeked of strong whisky, and his belted plaid smelled like a wet sheep that had wallowed in a bog.

"Knave! What do you think your brother will say about this?" she asked. "Laird Torrin will be furious." At least she hoped he would. It was her only ammunition.

"He will never know, because if you tell him, you'll regret it." He breathed his odorous breath against her face, then pressed his lips to her neck, his beard scratching her skin.

She cringed. "Ugh." She twisted, trying to wrest herself out of his grip, but his arm only tightened around her.

"And even if he does find out, what of it?" he asked. "He's only marrying you for the three hundred acres in your dowry. You are a seductress and I must have you! Or 'haps you are a witch who has cast a spell upon me."

"You are mad!" She jerked her knee upward, slamming it toward his groin but his sporran and her own skirts hampered her efforts.

He tightened his grip and shoved his legs between hers. "You whore. Don't you dare attempt to fight me. 'Twill only make it worse for you."

He snagged his fingers in the back of her hair and pulled. Her head thumped hard against the stone wall. Pain shot through her skull but she dared not let him know he'd hurt her. Besides, none of his clan would come to her rescue. Nolan could do no wrong in their eyes. She was the outsider.

He covered her mouth with one hand and wrapped the other around her throat. "Do not utter a sound or I'll kill you now," he growled in her ear. "I'll squeeze the breath from your soft, slender neck."

Icy fear freezing her muscles, she remained still, her mind scrambling for an escape. Someone to help her? A weapon? His dagger! It was always in a sheath on his belt. She prayed it was now. If so, she would snatch it and stab him. She went limp as if acquiescing to his demands.

"Aye, that's a good lass. Now, we'll go into your chamber for some privacy." Grinning, he pressed against her so tightly, his hardened member jabbed against her stomach.

Rutting bastard. She would make him regret touching her. Her brothers had taught her well how to fight.

He loosened his hold, propelling her toward the door to her small room. One of his hands bit into her arm, while the other covered her mouth. When he pushed her through the doorway and kicked it shut behind him, her fingers landed on the bone hilt of his dagger. She yanked it from its sheath, the metal hissing against the leather.

"What are you about?" He grabbed her hand and pried at her fingers on the hilt. She jerked her hand, trying to free herself from his tight grasp. A crack sounded and pain shot through her middle finger. Mo chreach! Was the bone broken?

Gritting her teeth and fighting past the pain, she twisted her hand free, retaining her grip on the knife. He swung and his fist bashed into her face. Pain radiating from her cheekbone, she staggered back but stayed on her feet. Damn him!

Lunging forward, she sliced and stabbed at him in the darkness, connecting once.

"Ow! You whore!" he growled. "I vow you'll pay a steep price for this." He grabbed for her.

Ducking aside, she stabbed again, kicked at him and ran across the small room, dodging her trunks of clothing and the bed. Nolan stumbled and fell with a thump.

"I'll kill you," he seethed in a quiet but deadly tone. And she knew he would if he got the chance. Chills of dread and fear covered her.

Although he was fonder of drinking and whoring than practicing his battle skills, he was still far stronger and larger than she. From the bedside table, she picked up the stoneware jug, still containing a bit of watered down wine. She waited for him to move, her heart thumping in her ears.

Truly, she didn't wish to kill him—she didn't wish to kill anyone. But she wouldn't let him use and abuse her.

In the dim glow from the coals in the tiny hearth, she could only discern the outlines of objects. Growling, Nolan lumbered to his feet and charged for her once again. Using her good hand, she bashed the heavy jug against his head with all her strength. A thwack sounded, stoneware connecting with bone. With a groan, he crashed to the floor. Silence filled the room.

Holding her breath, she waited for him to move, to make a sound.

"I've killed him," she whispered, frozen in shock. "Bashed in his skull."

She set the stoneware jug on the floor and, with trembling fingers, lit a candle from the coals in the hearth to see if he truly was dead. And if so, what would she do? Flee? The clan would sentence her to death and drown her in the icy loch outside when they learned of it. Likely, they wouldn't even wait for her future husband to arrive. Or they might throw her in the dungeon until his return, and starve her.

Saints preserve me.

Her arms jittery and weak, she set the candle on the trunk at the foot of her bed and stared at Nolan's unmoving body for several long moments. His chest rose and fell with each breath.

"Not dead," she whispered. That was good, she supposed, but he could wake at any moment and try to kill her. Again. She observed him, seeing no movement except for his breathing. He appeared well and truly knocked out, thank the heavens.

Pains shot from her finger. Examining it, she found it was crooked at an odd angle. He had indeed broken it. Damn him! She pressed it between the thumb and forefinger of the other hand. Pain lanced through it. She sucked in a hissing breath. "Mo chreach!" She'd never before had a broken bone. What could she do about it? She'd seen her brother have his broken arm set when he was a lad. He'd screamed in utter agony.

The door behind her opened and she jumped. Her maid, Beitris, stood frozen upon the threshold, her round eyes locked on Nolan MacLeod illuminated by the candlelight. Isobel pulled her into the room, closed the door and barred it. Her maid had been with her since she was small and she trusted her above all others.

"Can you set a broken finger?" Isobel asked.

Beitris observed her as if she were mad. "What… M'lady, what is it you've done?" She whispered in a shocked tone and motioned toward the man on the floor.

"He is yet alive. You see how his chest rises and falls."

"But… the blood." She pointed at the floor.

For the first time, Isobel noticed candlelight gleaming off a small pool of dark blood spreading from his head. Fear shot through her. Sweet Mother Mary, even if he wasn't dead now, he might be in a short time.

"He tried to force himself on me. The bastard. I will not abide it."

"Doubtless, he will not abide this injury and insult to his pride, either… if he lives."

"I ken it. We'll have to leave, slip away during the night."

Her wide dark eyes troubled, Beitris nodded. "But where will we go? 'Tis late fall and the weather is turning."

"I know not, but I'll be found guilty for attacking him, even if he lives. And if he dies…" She shook her head, fear chilling her bones. "They'll drown me in the loch. You know that."

Indeed, women were not hanged in Scotland for crimes such as murder. Instead, they were drowned. And trials were only a farce in most cases. Many an innocent woman had been drowned. Who knew what Torrin MacLeod would say about it? Rarely did brothers go against each other. Even if he would defend her, he wasn't here at Munrick now and might not return for a week or more.