Highland Hunger

by Hannah Howell

  “Come, we need to rest and this place will be safe and easily defended,” he said.

  “I do not need to rest,” she said, knowing it was a lie, for her entire body ached for rest. The way he cocked one dark brow told her that he knew it was, too. “It would be best if I just continued on.”

  “To where?”

  Una silently cursed, wishing he had not asked that question. She had no idea where she would go. All she knew was that she needed help, an ally who would assist her in freeing the others held hostage by the laird. Instinct told her that she could trust this man, that he could prove to be the very ally she had been looking for, but Una had tasted the bitterness of betrayal too often to trust in her own instincts.

  “I can find a place when I need to,” she said. “I am nay helpless.”

  “Ah, nay, ye certainly are nay helpless.” He smiled. “Took five men and a long hard run to corner you.”

  The approval in his deep rough voice stroked her vanity in a pleasant way, but she tried to ignore that. “Which proves that I can take care of myself.”

  “Lass, I have no doubt ye can, but against five men? I could see that they were verra determined to catch you and didnae plan to be gentle in the doing of it. I heard them decry ye as a witch and ken weel the threat behind such accusations. I can see the bruises on your wee face and arms, see the hunger and weakness ye suffer. I also think ye have the wit to ken that those men willnae cease to hunt ye down, aye?”

  “Aye,” she agreed and wondered why she did because it told him far too much about her situation.

  “Then trust me, if only for a wee while. I swear that I mean ye no harm.” He held out his hand. “Share my poor shelter and mayhap ye will tell me why ye are being so avidly hunted.”

  “I could be a murderer,” she said even as she clasped his hand and allowed him to help her dismount.

  “Nay, I think not, and I will trust my instincts in that.”

  It occurred to Una that Raibeart had as little reason to trust in her as she did in him. Less, actually. His instincts could be wrong as easily as hers could. She could be a murderer, one who used her smaller size as an excuse to creep up on a man at his weakest and cut his throat. She knew she would not hesitate to do so to that mad laird who had kept her prisoner and still held the others caged, not if she knew it would free them all. Sir Raibeart MacNachton might be big and strong, but he was also taking a very large risk. Not as great a one as she was, but still a risk. That realization eased some of her wariness.

  Una was deep inside the cave before she realized she was looking around as if she could see easily in the dark, which she could, and she tensed with alarm. It was something she had always taken the utmost care to hide. A quick peek at Raibeart revealed him settling his mount in at the rear of the cave, moving about as if he, too, had no difficulty in seeing in the dark. Nor did he reveal, by look or action, that he had noticed her ease of movement.

  The way he walked right to the hollowed-out, shallow pit in the middle of the cave, gathering wood from a pile in the back¸ made Una frown. His every step was sure and steady. Not only could he see well in the dark, this cave was very familiar to him, an obviously well-used shelter. She sat down opposite him as he worked to light a fire. She knew without asking that he was not doing so because he needed the light but because he wished some warmth or because he thought she needed the light.

  Her heart began to pound with a rush of fear and excitement. Then she recalled that she had thought she had glimpsed fangs in his mouth when he had ridden to her rescue. Could he be one of the cursed, akin to her and the ones she hoped to save? Una rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms against her skirt as she frantically tried to decide what step she should take next. Ask him bluntly if he was one of the cursed or wait to see if there were more clues to be even more certain? She could not allow her desperate need for an ally make her act with a dangerous haste.

  “Did ye bring your whole larder with ye?” she asked after watching him chop a rabbit carcass into pieces, toss the pieces into a pot of water set over the fire, and then begin to chop up some leeks.

  Raibeart grinned. “Nay, but I ne’er miss a chance to gather food as I travel.”

  A smile so fleeting he would have missed it if he had not been staring at her mouth like some lovesick fool crossed her face, but the shadows quickly returned to her eyes. Raibeart had the oddest urge to tell her that he did not really need the meal he was making, that what he needed to survive flowed through that vein he could see pulsing faintly at the side of her long, graceful neck. He never felt such an urge. Every MacNachton learned the value of holding fast to such stark truths in the cradle. Something about Una Dunn made him reluctant to hide behind the lies that came so easily to him and all the others in his clan, the lies that meant survival.

  “So, lass, why were those men trying to capture ye?” he asked as he searched through his pack for a few more things to add to his stew. The food might not provide him with what he needed to survive, but he had always had a liking for the taste of a hearty stew, for a lot of the foods Outsiders ate, in fact. “Nay because ye committed some crime. I cannae believe that.”

  “Nay, I committed no crime.” She took a deep breath and considered what she could say that would help her decide if he was the ally she so desperately needed. “I am but different and their laird collects people who are different.”

  He tensed as he tossed a few wild mushrooms into the pot, sensing a tension behind each of her words, as if she sought something from him even as she told him what he wanted to know. Raibeart thought back over the first few moments after they had entered the cave, the very dark cave, and a deep darkness he had sought to alleviate for her by making a fire. She had shown no hesitation in moving around in that thick dark, had not even revealed a hint of the fear most Outsiders had of such darkness. Then he recalled the feral noises she had made when she had been cornered by the men trying to chase her down, her grace and speed while running through the woods in the near dark of approaching dawn, and even the way she had curled her hands until her fingers were curved like the claws of an animal. He had dismissed the fleeting thought that she had MacNachton blood because she was so fair, but he now wondered if he had been wrong to do so.

  “How are you different?” he asked in what he prayed was a gentle yet coaxing voice, a voice that would prompt her to be completely honest.

  “Weel, I can see verra weel in the dark.” When he just nodded, his expression one of calm and interest, she gathered her courage and continued. “I am verra strong and fast for a lass, stronger and faster than many a mon even. I also heal very quickly if I am wounded, and I rarely get sick, even when all around me are felled by some fever.”

  “And?” he pressed when she fell silent and just stared at him, her brilliant blue eyes glowing in the fire’s light, her unease so strong he could almost smell it on her skin.

  “Is that nay enough? Why do ye think there is more?”

  “I sense it. I could almost hear the and in your voice even though ye then ceased to speak. So, what else makes ye different ?”

  “I have verra sharp teeth.”

  Raibeart studied her for a full moment, adding up all that made her different, and then asked, “Sharp like these?” He smiled wide enough to reveal his fangs, which, although not lengthened by the scent of blood, were still very noticeable, and readied himself to catch her if she grew too afraid and tried to flee.

  Una bit back a gasp. He did have fangs. She had not imagined seeing them. They were not as long as some beasts’, but much more sharp and deadly than any man’s. When he closed his mouth, she looked into his eyes and saw no fear of her. He looked intensely curious and as if he ached to ask many more questions of her but hesitated, just as she did. There was only one thing left to reveal, one thing that could easily turn him against her or prove, beyond any further doubt, that she had stumbled upon someone burdened with the same curse she had been born with.

  “Do ye like your meat
barely seared?” she asked, unable to keep all of her rising fear, and hope, out of her voice.

  “I do. And, because of these differences, ye think ye are what? Cursed? A witch as those men called you?”

  “Nay, no witch, but, aye, I am cursed, as was my mother and her mother. Grandmother was the first of the women in our family to be burdened with this curse.”

  “Ye are nay cursed, lass. S’truth, I think our families may have joined together at some time in the past. Do ye ken who sired your grandmother?” He frowned when she blushed.

  “Nay. My grandmother was a bastard child. She told my mother that she was born of darkness and violence, that her sire appeared out of the night, took her mother by force, and then disappeared. He ne’er returned.”

  “So, nay even a name for her mother to curse at.”

  “Nay, but Grandmother said that her mother was terrified of the night from that time on and that, when she realized the child born of that night was cursed, she wept. I gather from Grandmother’s tales that the woman wept a lot. But she eventually wed a good mon and Grandmother did as weel. The curse has waned some.”

  “ ’Tis nay a curse.” Raibeart sighed when he caught the glint of fear in her eyes, for he knew he had nearly snarled the words at her. “What did your grandmother eat and could she bear the light of day?” He could see her fear in her eyes, and it was even a light scent upon the air, but he did not know how to ease it. “Nay, dinnae fear. I willnae condemn ye for the truth. ’Tis verra important to me that ye tell me the full truth.”

  “Blood,” she whispered. “Grandmother drank the blood of any slaughtered animal, and she couldnae step outside once the sun rose, but spent the day in the darkest part of the cottage.”

  “She was of my clan then. She carried MacNachton blood.”

  “Are ye saying that your whole clan is cursed?”

  “ ’Tis. Nay. A. Curse.”

  Una lightly bit her bottom lip to suppress the sudden urge to smile. The way he bit out those four words and scowled at her should have frightened her, but it did not. Not even a little.

  “Then what do ye call it?” she asked. “I cannae think it some wondrous gift or blessing, nay when it stirs others into a dangerous fear, causing them to decry one as a witch.”

  Raibeart sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “Nay, although it should be seen as a gift. There has to be some good reason for the MacNachtons to be what they are.”

  “But ye dinnae ken what that good reason is yet, do ye?”

  “Nay, but that doesnae matter now. What matters is that ye are of our blood, our kin, a MacNachton. Our laird has been sending us out to hunt for ones like you. Our ancestors were a brutal lot, arrogant in their strength and power. For a long time they harried all the nearest villages, taking what they needed or wanted. There are still whispers about them, tales of the Nightriders used to keep the bairns close to home at night. It was recently that we were shown that they had left behind more than pain, destruction, and dark tales. We found ones of our blood, ones bred of that dark time, and now we search for more of them. We call them the Lost Ones.”

  “How could ye nay ken that bairns could have been born of such raids, of the taking of the women?”

  “Because MacNachtons breed few children. Our laird believes that is because we have been too much alone, breeding only amongst our own kind. That begins to change.”

  He looked at her, studying her expression closely but seeing only curiosity and just a hint of disbelief. The latter was no surprise. The truth about his people was difficult for most Outsiders to believe, and she had been raised as an Outsider.

  “But that is of no importance now,” he continued. “What matters now is what ye were running away from and whether that trouble has aught to do with the MacNachtons.” He handed her his wineskin. “Drink this. It will make ye grow stronger.”

  It took but one taste for Una to know that the wine was enriched with blood. She almost tossed it aside, her fear of revealing her dark hunger to anyone deep and old. Her body demanded the sustenance, however. She drank deeply, her injured body welcoming the needed nourishment, and then handed the wineskin back to him.

  “And now tell me your tale so that we may ken the best way to free ye of the trouble dogging your heels,” he said.

  “I escaped in the hope of helping the others who are still held prisoner at Dunmorton,” she said. “My plan was to find someone to help me free the others, but something went wrong, for I was not gone from the place for very long before the laird’s men were fast on my heels.”

  “Mayhap one of the other prisoners told them.”

  “Nay. They all ken that they are trapped until they die unless someone helps them. And they all ken that nothing they do will gain them any ease from their torment or mercy.”

  “Why?”

  “The laird began merely hunting ones like us for sport, killing us, or sending us to another who undoubtedly killed us. He caught poor Allana and decided he would rape her first. They fought, for Allana is no meek lass, but she lost that battle. In the fight, however, the laird swallowed some of her blood. It healed the wounds she had given him and made him feel stronger, younger even than his fifty years.”

  She frowned. “Considering how he looked when I first set eyes on him, he must have had a hard life or lives hard and unwisely, for he looked far older than that.” She shrugged. “I think Allana was saved from execution at first simply because he wished to abuse her a few more times, but he quickly saw that she might have more use than as a reluctant leman. He did not need much time to discover that he was right, that Allana’s blood healed him, made him stronger, and he began to make potions of it to share with the five men closest to him.” She nodded toward his wineskin. “Much like ye have in there. Then he sent his men out to find more of us. He now has eight, aside from myself, and he keeps us caged, attempting to abuse the women and bleeding all of us for his potions so often that we are all weakened by it.”

  “He raped all of the women? He raped you?” Raibeart had a fierce need to get his hands around the man’s neck.

  “Nay, only Allana, Nan, and Mora, and, although he still attempts it from time to time, he no longer can do it. Allana told us not to fight him, that he needs a woman to show fear, to fight, before he can become man enough to take her. Nan and Mora still fought but quickly learned not to. Madeleine is able to swoon at will so was ne’er even taken away.”

  “And you?”

  “I dinnae ken why, but he fears me. I am but beaten now and then. And he may share his potion with his men but nay the women.”

  The man needed to die, Raibeart thought as he fought against a surge of mind-searing rage. “That makes five. You said there were eight aside from yourself. The other four?”

  “Two youths, Bartram and Colla, and two children. Two wee lasses. Joan who is six and Alma who is five.”

  “He takes the blood of children?”

  “Aye. Do ye see why I must find an ally?”

  “Ye have found one.”

  Una’s relief was so fierce it made her head spin. “Thank ye. We can leave for Dunmorton as soon as the sun sets.”

  “Nay.”

  Chapter Three

  Una wondered if one’s heart could stop when assaulted by such a rapid, fierce change in emotion. She had been so relieved, almost elated, when he had declared himself her ally only to be struck by a crushing grief and disappointment when he said nay to going after the others. Her mind, filled with plans to save her fellow prisoners, was now empty. She was unable to gather the thread of a single thought.

  Raibeart watched all color leave the woman’s face and cursed himself for not softening that nay. “You misunderstand me. I am your ally, lass, but we cannae save the others on our own. Two people cannae storm the laird’s wee castle and take away eight people who are undoubtedly weakened by what they have suffered, nor protect them as we flee the place.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. For a mom
ent, as she regained some calm, she thought over all he had said. He was right. Two people could not rescue the others alone. Even if they could get inside the keep, defeat the guards without an alarum sent out, and free the prisoners, getting that many people out safely, including two small children, would be impossible. Una knew that would be true even if all the prisoners were in good health, and they were not.

  “I ken how to slip in and out of the keep,” she said, reluctant to leave the others at Dunmorton for any reason, even one as sensible as getting more help.

  “And do ye nay think they now ken that?”

  “I am nay sure they do. There is more than one way to get in and out unseen. The one I used was old, verra old, and I dinnae think it has been used by this laird. Mayhap his father or his grandfather, but nay him.”

  “How did ye find it?”

  “I wasnae a verra weel-behaved prisoner.” She gave him a brief, narrow-eyed glare when he grinned at her, even as her heart gave an odd little skip at the way the smile illuminated his handsome face. “Thrashing me didnae change that.” She nodded when his grin abruptly disappeared into a scowl. “I was made to scrub the filth from the walls and floors of the dungeon, clean the cages, scrub the ragged clothes and blankets we were allowed, empty the slops, and all of that.”

  “All the filthiest work.”

  “Aye, for I had revealed a need to remain as clean as I could despite the rough conditions of my imprisonment. So, one of the times I was scrubbing away I found the opening to a tunnel.”

  He served her a bowl of stew. “Were ye nay guarded as ye worked?”

  “Oh, aye, but nay closely. The men guarded the ways out. At least the ones they kenned about.”

  “Ah, and they were nay guarding that particular opening.”