Introducing another HUNK

If you like a Scottish accent, a man from the past in a kilt, then this hunk is for you.

ALL I WANT by Sally Painter

Jeanne stood in the circle of sputtering torches. Acrid air seared her nostrils. She coughed and gasped for fresh air but the smoke burned a path to her lungs and stung her eyes. She blinked against the tearing. Panicked, she struggled to see beyond the mob, searching the woods.

Verica had not heard. There would be no rescue. The mob moved closer. The flames from their torches blasted her in a wave of dry heat. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down her back and she licked her lips, longing for a cool sip of water from the well only a few feet away.

The men lifted her onto a rickety wooden barrel. Helpless, her senses charged alert when one of the men threw the other end of the rope over a tree limb. She struggled from the threatening jerks against the noose as her hangman took up the slack.

He pulled the rope taut, and the noose constricted around her neck. She stood on tiptoes trying to ease the choking, but the hangman jerked the rope tighter and she gagged. Panic overrode all thought, with only one mandate—escape. A man rushed up and tossed straw about the barrel.

“We burn her, too. Let the fire purify her soul.” His action started a new frenzy.

Others rushed to find more kindling and tossed it on top of the straw. Soon, they had constructed a menacing wall of sticks and straw around the barrel. Her chest heaved high as one man lowered his torch. Her throat closed around the scream that bubbled from her chest and trapped it into silence.

Suddenly, a shadow moved from the line of trees bordering the village. Hope welled in her. Verica! The night stirred cooler, and the mob hushed. Sensing the presence, they turned en masse to peer behind them.

He emerged from the depth of blackness. Silent. His broad frame cut through the mist and smoke with the hilt of his sword glinting from the torches’ light. The villagers parted in a wave, whispering to each other. A few dropped their torches to the ground and ran from the circle, while some of the women fell to their knees wailing.
Her knees were water and her pulse, a riotous throbbing in her throat. His auburn hair lifted around the thin long braids that ran both lines of his jaw.

The blue and black plaid of his clan flapped around him as an angry gust of wind seized the village. The kilt hugged his trim waist. The hem stopped just above his knees with a slight venting midway his thigh whenever he took a step.

“MacRaigl.” Jeanne’s breath escaped her but her own voice was lost beneath the wicked roar of torches and a sea of murmurings.