She braced her legs, setting her boots firmly on the ground, and lifted her chin. She knew her defiance was born mainly from the sheer strength and power coming toward her. These men were escorts, nothing more. She didn’t want their first impression of her to be that she was a sniveling woman afraid of them just because they were English. She was born of a long line of warriors. Her first instinct was to defend. She understood only too well that her country was being conquered slowly but surely by the English, perhaps even by the very men who trampled the delicate heather beneath the hooves of their stallions as they approached.

“The queen sends only four men to guard my daughter when she crosses the country,” her father muttered angrily moments before the riders reached them.

Each wore a common man’s dress of long coat and breeches, and a sheath dangling from his hip. Three of the riders held back, creating a line of brawn and steel as they drew their swords behind one whom Abby guessed was the leader. The four men were outnumbered at least five to one. If her kin attacked, the escorts’ meager swords would offer them little aid.

For a moment, no one spoke a word while Abby tilted her head up to have a view of the mounted men. She could sense the thick tension emanating from her kin and she prayed none of them, especially her brothers, did anything foolish. When she turned to the lead rider, she was amazed to find only cool arrogance in eyes the vivid green of a glade on a summer day staring back down at her. A shiver, neither hot nor cold, trickled down her spine and quickened her breath. He was terribly beautiful, arrayed in strength and deep confidence. In fact, he looked positively fearless on his snorting black destrier with sunlight radiating off his broad shoulders and setting fire to his clipped auburn locks. She squinted up at him and scowled at herself for being moved by his appearance. He was no boy, but five to ten years older than her cousins. Experience and mistrust hardened his features. Taller in the saddle than his comrades, he radiated an air of authority of one who demanded instant obedience. She looked away before he did, sensing a power in this man that challenged her. Perhaps another day, she thought, biting her tongue. She was used to intimidating warriors and she wasn’t afraid of him, but she wouldn’t foolishly provoke him in front of her kin and get him killed.

“I am General Daniel Marlow of Her Majesty the Queen’s Royal Army.” His voice fell in deep, rich tones around her ears.

“And knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.”

Her cousin Malcolm stepped forward. Malcolm had traveled to England on a number of occasions and must have heard of him.

“And also the Earl of Darlington, aye?” Adam added. Everyone there from her clan, including Abby, turned to offer Adam a surprised look that he would know such things.

So, her escort was a general, an earl, and a knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter? Abby gave him another looking over, deciding as her eyes lingered on his booted legs and muscular thighs, his rigid posture in the saddle, the sun gleaming off his head, and the long broadsword dangling from his hip that he indeed resembled a knight.

“That’s correct,” he answered, sounding bored before he set his eyes on her again. “Miss Abigail MacGregor?”

Her blood heated her veins and rushed to her heart. Her knees went weak beneath her and, not for the first time since Queen Anne’s letter had reached them, she wished her kinsmen were escorting her.

Her father stepped forward. “I am clan chief Robert MacGregor of the MacGregors of Skye. Her father.”

General Marlow turned his head and simply nodded at her father. Abby narrowed her eyes on him. She wasn’t used to seeing anyone show her father so little respect.

“Is this the girl?” he asked, turning back to her, his expression darkening on her Highland attire. His distaste was obvious. He didn’t like Highlanders, or mayhap it was Jacobites he had an aversion to. Either way, she didn’t like him either. Knight or not.

This trip wasn’t going to be pleasant.

“My father is the clan chief of one of the most fearsome clans in Scotland.” She gritted her teeth as she spoke. “You should be off yer mount and on your knees thanking him fer not skinning ye alive.”

The rider glanced down at her with eyes of fathomless, faceted green. “Lady,” he said, his voice a compelling blend of elegance and cool undertones, “I serve God and Queen Anne. Since neither has decreed your father’s royal status to me, I remain in my saddle.”

He looked briefly to his right. “Hubert, unarm the lady of her sword.”

Abby stepped back, placing her fingers on the hilt at her side. She raised her chin with an icy stare in the leader’s direction. His expression changed in an instant from uninterested to threatening. He said nothing, and yet the raw challenge in his glare stilled her heart. She’d trained almost every day of her life but never actually fought an enemy. And she didn’t want to fight one now, especially since her father would most likely kill the poor fool before she had time to fight, and then Queen Anne would send her forces to Skye for battle rather than diplomacy.

The brute called Hubert dismounted and held out his hand to receive Abby’s weapon. She handed it over without comment, but managed a black glare to the General.

“I willna’ have my daughter ride all the way to England withoot protection,” her father growled.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Marlow said without taking his eyes off her. “She will—”

He didn’t flinch when he felt the steel of her father’s claymore between his legs. He merely looked from the chief’s deadly eyes down to the tip of the blade and lifted an eyebrow.

“Before even one of yer men can move to save ye,” the MacGregor chief warned him, his eyes burning fire into the arrogant rider., “I will have driven my blade into ye, riddin’ England of any future heirs ye may have. The blade will then sever yer mount’s spine. The beast will fall to the ground, and ye will find yerself on yer arse before me. I dinna’ seek homage from ye, Englishman, only the respect due to my daughter.”

The air went deadly still. Even the knight’s own men dared not take a breath while their leader stared, seemingly unfazed, into the face of the man who threatened him. Then, to Abby’s astonishment, the English knave had the audacity to curl his gloved fingers around her father’s blade and lift it away from his precious nether region. He positioned it, instead, at his throat.

“I despise the senseless bloodshed of horses, especially that of a beast as fine as Vengeance. If you wish a display of why the queen sent me and not anyone else to escort your daughter to her, I would be happy to show you. But I will not kiss your arse, or hers, no matter how many men stand behind you.” He looked over the chief’s shoulder and spread his eyes over the rest of her kin.

Abby thought they looked damned fearsome. This knight was mad not to fear them. Either that, or the confidence he oozed from every nuance of movement was authentic.

In the next instant, he proved that it was.

Abby had to admit that lifting her father’s blade to his throat had been risky, but now, as he moved, she saw the advantage.

No longer impeded by steel, the English knight swept his legs over the saddle in one fluid motion and was on his feet, his own sword positioned at the chief’s neck.

Rob MacGregor smiled. Behind him, Abby squeezed her eyes shut. “All right then,” her father said, “show me how ye will protect my daughter.” He took a quick step back, his neck just out of reach of the other man’s blade, and swept his fur cloak off his wide shoulders. “Ye’ll begin with one man, me. Ye must work yer way up, if ye still can.” He swung. He swung hard.