Bruar's Rest

not felt a hundred times before; much to her horror it heightened his pleasure. ‘Kick me again,’ he laughed insanely, and drooled.
    ‘If you insist,’ she wriggled free and stood away from him, but in her eagerness to escape failed to notice that in her way was a bulky oak branch that had succumbed to the ravages of the storm. She went sprawling over it.
    His eyes widened at her vulnerability; again he was like the cat standing over its small prey before the final pounce. She was trapped and she knew it!
    ‘If you plan to rape me, kill me first. I’d not want to live after you’d been inside me.’
    ‘What cat kills its prey quick? I’m not going to rape you once; I’m planning to make a meal of you. I might even keep you breathing and do it tomorrow as well.’
    He threw back his head, rested two sinewy hands upon thin hips, and for what seemed like eternity said nothing. Her body was shivering with cold, she bit her bottom lip; it bled profusely. Yet this creature would not see her tears.
    ‘Am I not a power unto myself? I control every living gypsy in England. For instance, see that burning wagon of poor Mother Foy’s; it’s turning into a pile of ashes, see how the wind scatters them. For all we know them ashes might be hers.’ He leered at her nakedness, and with sadistic pleasure slowly, one by one, opened the buttons of his trousers, eyes narrowing into slits. When finished he dropped his body onto hers. She waited, her breaths coming in short pants, but she would never beg; not to a weasel like him. He was toying with her, and now that she was gripped by the arms, had to have his fun.
    ‘Did you notice the bruising on the old woman’s neck while plaiting her hair, or did you accept she passed away peaceful, like?’
    Was she hearing things? Surely no human, no matter how low, could kill a dying woman who hadn’t a day of natural life in her. His nodding head was already answering her question. Her temper, that the circumstances had buried, began stripping away the fear. He could rape her to kingdom come, chew every inch of flesh, but no way would she go without a fight. England and the gorse field with its dead and its demon were gone. She was home, beneath her heels once again the wind-teased heather, and a sea of stars sparkling in the heavens above the mountain tops of Glen Coe called to her from an open moor. ‘Megan,’ their voices joined those of the ancestors calling through the holly trees, ‘get his eyes.’
    His face contorted, he leered at her exposed, bitten breasts and revelled in his merciless control. Second by agonising second he held back, letting her arms go, drinking in the sordid infatuation of his power, but in his savage enjoyment he failed to see her curl fingers around the bulky branch that had been her earlier downfall. Now tightly held in her freezing hand, it came thumping into the side of his head. Dazed and confused he staggered onto all fours. With dominance now transferred into her hands, she wasted no time in swinging the heavy wooden weapon so hard into his ribs he buckled under its force.
    ‘I’ll not let the likes of you interfere with me, son of darkness, fiend that kills an elderly body waiting on a quiet death! You’re no king! You’re a shit-pit dweller, a lowlife, unfit to breathe the same air as Mother Foy or any decent gypsy.’
    But he was no ordinary human, she knew that well enough, and soon his bent back was straightening, his eyes widening, staring fire, smirking; the victim once more was at the mercy of the cat.
    Her momentary courage deserted her. Her fingers, unable to hold onto the weighty branch, loosened their grip.
    Slowly he shook his red hair clear of snow and dead twigs and hissed through clenched teeth, ‘Hell’s here!’
    Inside her head, voices screamed to her to run and run until exhaustion would deny him the sick perverted pleasure he’d planned, but an invisible magnet held her to the spot. She stood her ground and waited.
    Suddenly, beneath their feet, loud thumping was felt, her tent and kettle moved upon the ground, the bushes sleeping under blankets of snow parted as if a fury of wind was tearing them apart. Something was thundering towards the campsite. A shout from a familiar voice along with loud thudding hooves filled her ears—it was Sam riding Beth. Pulling on her reins, he steered her to charge in Buckley’s direction. ‘Go on, girl, run him down,’ ordered the feisty stable lad. Buckley was sent flying