The Scot had rage in his eyes, the like of which Giselle had never seen in her life. He carried on trying to hurt Banan, and it was all the other man could do to keep him back.
‘Stop, I say. The lass is yours, you have won. There’s no need to hammer it home,’ said the other man.
The Scot pushed the man aside and went over to Banan, now rolling in agony on the floor. He spat on him.
‘You’ll not hurt her now, you twisted whoreson,’ he said.
He turned, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand and stormed towards her. Before Giselle could protest, the Scot grabbed her wrist with a bloody hand and dragged her out of the hall.
Behind her, she heard Lord Douglas shout out. ‘Well fought Buchanan. Enjoy your victory and having something soft to cushion your aching bones this night.’
As they sped through dark passageways, Giselle spied an archway she recognised. Just days before, she had climbed that stairway up to the top of the keep and looked out, longing for home. It could be an escape of sorts now.
She twisted quickly and tore free of the Scot’s hand. He lunged for her, but not fast enough, and she managed to get to the arch and tear up the steps, stumbling in her haste and hurting her knees.
She plunged out into the twilight and sped to the edge of the battlements. The Scot was only seconds behind, his face a fury of blood and wild eyes.
Giselle shrank from him. ‘Get away. You’ll not touch me.’
The Scot took a step closer.
‘Go away. Leave me alone,’ she gasped, with a hammering heart. She climbed up onto the battlements, slippery stone, still clinging to the day’s warmth. ‘One step closer, and I’ll jump.’
He stopped dead in his tracks.
‘Get down. It is dangerous. Come,’ he beckoned, in a voice that was all authority.
Giselle clung to the capstone with both hands, wobbling on the apex of the arched middle stone, where the sole of her shoes dug in painfully.
‘I’ll not let you do anything to me. I’d rather die first.’ Her voice was a plea and a whisper.
‘And die you will if you don’t get down. Come to me, now,’ he said, again beckoning to her.
‘No.’ She glanced over the edge and back at the Scot. Maybe this was the best way. End it all now and stop her suffering. It was not as if she had much of a future anyway.
The Scot took a step closer. He stood just in front of her, one hand on the wall. His voice turned softer as if he was reasoning with a child. ‘Your virtue isn’t worth dying for, lass. It’s an awfully long way down, but the fall may not kill you. You could just break your limbs and linger, in agony, for days.’
His gaze flicked from her face to the drop below.
‘Come away now, lass. I’ll not touch you, I swear on all that’s holy. No harm shall come to you by my hand.’
Something in his voice made her want to trust him as he held out a blood-soaked hand to her. It shook violently. Giselle took a deep breath and reached for it, but, as she did, her foot slipped. For one awful moment, she was falling, clutching wildly at the capstone. Her stomach lurched and then she came to an abrupt stop, wrenched to a standstill by the swinging grip of his hand on her wrist. The Scot grunted in pain as he hauled her back up and dragged her back over the edge.
He said nothing as he hauled Giselle to her feet and pushed her before him, back down the stairs. When they got to the bottom, he threw her up against a wall.
He came close, his mouth an inch away from her face, pulled into an angry snarl. ‘That was close. You almost lost your life. It is too precious to throw away on foolishness and honour. Don’t ever run from me like that again.’