by Aileen Adams
As she crossed the meadow between the edge of the cliff and the woods where birch, conifers, and spruce grew close together, the sun hanging low in the sky and casting long shadows, she noticed how quiet it was.
At the edge of the meadow, just before she stepped into the tree line, she realized she didn't hear any of the usual evening birds. Nothing but the breeze wafting gently through the trees, branches jostling slightly. She glanced up to the sky toward the east, wondering if it would rain again tonight. She grunted when she caught a vague hint of rain in the air.
Another night of rain pounding on the roof of the house? Finding bowls and buckets to catch the ever growing number of leaks? Another night where either Patrick would stay away or would come rumbling in from wherever he disappeared to get out of the rain? He would collapse at the kitchen table, his mood, as usual, dour and demanding.
She sighed and quickened her pace. She would collect the last of her items and then hurry home. Perhaps if she had warm lamb stew and biscuits waiting, in case he did come home, he could be mollified. Maybe, just maybe, a belly full of stew, biscuits, and ale would keep the peace for just a few hours.
Just as she stepped into the shadow of the woods, her gaze focusing on a cluster of mushrooms growing at the base of a spruce, the hair on the back of her neck stood on the edge.
She straightened in alarm, casting her gaze through the growing shadows. She heard not a sound, nor the snort of any wild animal. Then again, wild boars often roamed these woods, as her history in these trees attested. She listened for several moments but heard nothing.
Shrugging off her alarm as a byproduct of her disturbed and reflective thoughts, she once again bent to pluck several mushrooms from the loamy soil growing between the tree roots.
The next instant, she heard it.
A soft footfall.
To any other ear, it might have just been the wisp of a breeze, but Sarah spent enough time in these woods to know every sound the creatures made as they rustled through in the underbrush. The sound of squirrels as their tiny claws scrambled for purchase on tree bark. The sounds different birds nesting for the night made. A deer cautiously stepping through the low-lying brush, seeking tasty leaves or heading for water.
No. Not an animal. A—
She sensed the large shadow coming up behind her just before she saw it. Sarah turned, prepared to flee an instant before she found herself clenched against a hard and powerful body. She opened her mouth to scream, an instinctive, reflexive action even though she knew it would be useless.
No one would hear her scream. No one. She was too far away from the village. Aldith wouldn’t hear her either after rounding the bend, the sound of lapping waves from the bay disguising the sounds of the forest.
Her scream was abruptly cut off as a gloved hand wrapped clamped down over her mouth, causing her to bite her tongue. Warm tears flooded her eyes. The pain propelled her out of the frozen sense of panic.
Infuriated, she lashed out, struggling with everything she had to escape the clutches of whoever had grabbed her.
No! This couldn’t be happening! She had to get home. As she struggled, grunting with her efforts, she couldn’t stop the questions racing through her head. Who would want to harm her? And why? She had nothing of value. She owned nothing. Nothing! But she was not naïve. She had heard of brigands roaming lower Scotland, kidnapping women. Selling them. Using them. Doing what they wanted because they could, and no one stopped them.
She twisted in her captor’s arms, kicked out with her feet. Her heel connected with a shin and she heard a grunt. The grip on her tightened, threatened to squeeze the air from her lungs but still, she fought. She was no stranger to pain, to beatings. She took them from her stepfather to spare Heather, but she would not take it from a stranger.
How dare he lay his hands on her!
If he intended her harm, then he would have to fight for it. She didn’t want to die. No, but she was no wilting flower. She wasn’t a fainter, no. Whoever this man was, whatever it was he wanted from her, he wasn’t going to find her willing.
She made contact with her heel again, this time on his foot instep.
A growl rumbled close to her ear.
Fear surged through her, pounding through her veins. Her ears rang with a loud buzzing sound. Her breath escaped her mouth in ragged gasps.
Those arms were like steel! She couldn’t break free!
She had to try harder. If she surrendered, she was doomed. She garnered her strength. She had to escape. She had to get back home, to Heather.
Heather needed her! Heather would not be able to bear her stepfather’s wrath if Sarah was not there to protect her. With the anniversary of her mother’s death so near, Sarah had to be home. Had to shelter her sister from—
She suddenly felt herself falling.
No, she hadn’t fallen. She’d been pushed. She landed on the ground on her stomach, the wind knocked out of her. Her hands clutched at the dirt, grabbed handfuls of it, and then she rolled onto her back as the arms reached for her again.
She flung the dirt upward, into her attacker’s face.
A bitten off curse rewarded her efforts, and she surged upward, scrambled to get her feet under her, her heart swelling with a brief surge of triumph.
Run!
She bolted.
And slammed into something hard and unyielding.
A tree? No.
Her eyes wide with horror, she realized that she’d slammed into her captor’s body.
His arms snaked around her and in an instant, she was again caught in a vise-like grip.
2
Phillip growled low in his throat as he tried to grab hold of the wildcat with which he suddenly found himself dealing.
Who knew a slip of a woman could struggle so hard?
He had watched her throughout most of the afternoon. His two comrades had stayed further back in the trees, but he knew they were within whistling distance. He had even gotten so close once that he heard her humming.
She was a pretty girl, and well-formed. Her simple beige woolen dress and dark brown kirtle hid her figure, but when she bent over, he got a good view of her hips, noted her long legs, and when she stretched a time or two her ample bosom had been plainly outlined for his viewing pleasure.
Even as he watched, waiting for the perfect chance, he hesitated. He had never stooped to kidnapping a woman before. A man either for that matter. But he was desperate. He had missed a chance a little while earlier. Had almost taken it, but then she’d strolled out of the trees and made her way to the edge of the cliff in the near distance.
She had stood there, at the edge, for the longest time. What was she doing? Then, to his chagrin, she had sat down, her basket of herbs and roots and flowers beside her. Unmoving, she had stared out at the water below. Thinking? Even while sitting, she was not idle. Her fingers plucked at the long grass, even plaited several strands of it together before tossing the strip aside, only to do it again, then again.
He had stifled a sigh of impatience as another woman, heavy with child, had laboriously up the path to the cliffs, heard the sound of their voices while they spoke though he was not close enough to hear what they said.
Finally, the other woman had left, and his prey was alone again, heading into the trees once more.
Dusk would soon be upon them. No more time to waste. And so, moments after she stepped into the shadows of the woods, he had made a grab for her. He hadn’t expected her reaction. He had thrust her to the ground already, not wanting to hurt her, had not pushed her hard.
To his surprise, she was on her feet in an instant, flinging dirt into his face.
He tightened his hold on her, as if he was trying to hold onto a slippery fish. He swore as her heel made contact with his shin. Despite the fact that he held her in a great bear hug, her back pressed up against him, her arms below her elbows remained free.
Her right fist swung upward, caught him on the edge of his eye. Her left hand reached downw
ard, tried to grab ahold of his—
He backed away, the twist of his hips barely preserving his dignity.
“Hold still!” he snapped.
She didn't listen.
He tried to twist his hips, to keep his precious jewels away from her clawing hand, his temper fraying. He was about ready to throw her to the ground again. He was not one who often lost his temper, let alone with a woman half his size. He was nevertheless startled by her ferocity.
Behind him, he heard a chuckle and turned to glance over his shoulder. “What are you laughing about?” he snapped at Maccay Douglas, his longtime friend and commander of his castle's men.
“At you,” Maccay laughed, not at all daunted by Phillip’s growing annoyance at the twisting, grunting, flailing woman he tried so desperately to hold onto. “You've got your hands full, for sure.”
Guffaws came from Phillip’s second companion, hiding in the depths of the shadows.
Phillip had had enough. “Grab ahold of her feet if you can stop your chuckling for a minute.”
Hugh emerged from the shadows.
Phillip raised a brow at the mirthful expression on Hugh’s countenance. “Hugh, grab her arms and tie her hands before I lose my temper.”
Between the three of them, they finally got the woman bound, but that didn't stop her from screaming epitaphs at all of them.
If he weren't concerned that her shouts would bring someone from the village down below, he would have let her go at it. As it was, he already had a headache, and her shrieks were only making it worse. Her hands tied in front of her, she still continued to twist violently in his arms.
Finally, he had enough.
Not so gently, he put her on the ground, a hand pressed against her back as she lay in the dirt on her stomach. She bucked beneath his hand.
“Give me that,” he growled at Maccay, reaching for the rag tucked into Maccay’s waistband, usually tied around his forehead. When Maccay hesitated, he snapped his fingers. “Now. I can't take her caterwauling one more second!”
With another laugh, Maccay plucked the rag from his waistband and handed it to Phillip.
In another few seconds, he had the gag over the woman's mouth and tied at the nape of her neck. He then rolled her onto her back and glared down at her.
To his surprise, her angry gaze bore right back up at him.
Well, now, she was a feisty thing, much more than he had expected.
Even bound, her hands pounded at him, ineffectual, though impressive in her efforts.
He had expected a wilting flower, maybe even some fainting, but this?
He stood and then backed away from her thrashing feet. Hands on his hips, he stared down at her. No, not at all what he expected. She was supposed to be a healer.
Healers were gentle, weren't they? Compassionate? The woman writhing on the ground continued to scream through the gag, though muffling her rage, unable to block it all from his ears.
He shook his head, glancing at Maccay and then Hugh.
“One of you put her on your horse.”
Both of them, longtime friends, stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
Maccay spoke first.
“You want me to put that on my horse?” he protested.
Phillip glanced down at the girl, at the moment trying to roll over onto her side to stand. How she planned to manage it was beyond him, but he had to give her marks for determination.
Approaching from the side, he quickly lifted a foot and placed it on her stomach, just below her breasts, rising and falling with infuriated temper. He didn't put a lot of pressure on her, again not wanting to hurt her, but enough to make her stop thrashing.
“If you don't stop, I'm going to knock you unconscious. Do you understand?” He had no intention of laying hands on the woman, but a threat might help suffice to calm her. He was no expert in kidnapping, but this reaction was nothing he had anticipated.
After several seconds, the girl quit thrashing, though her eyes still blazed fury his way, also toward Maccay and Hugh. Her hands were balled into fists.
“I'm going to put you on your feet. You fight me, and you’ll find yourself on the ground again. You understand?”
The girl glared at him for a few moments and then grudgingly nodded.
He removed his foot from her stomach.
She didn't move.
He reached down and grabbed her by her arms, yanking her upward and onto her feet. He half expected her to fight him, but for the moment, she remained calm.
Maccay spoke up. “Hugh, you take her.”
Hugh McInnis, also a long-term friend, muttered under his breath, but didn't argue with Maccay. Hugh, like Maccay, was a soldier who had sworn allegiance to Phillip years ago, and devoted his life to his clan’s protection and well-being.
Very few people were outspoken enough to argue with Phillip Duncan of the Highland Duncan clan. He usually had his hands full defending his small castle and lands situated on the slopes of Ben Nevis Mountain in the Grampian mountain range. He was noted throughout the Highlands as a fierce combatant, not one to be taken lightly, nor underestimated. Most people feared him, but, glaring down at the woman staring implacably back at him, he had to wonder. Was she touched? Was her mind in one piece? Was she the one they sought?
“Let's go,” he muttered to the others. He crouched down, wrapped his arms around the woman’s waist and lifted her from her feet, tossing her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She pounded his back with her bound hands, ineffectual.
Briefly amusing, though his amusement soon transformed into annoyance. He shook his head as he walked side by side next to Maccay deeper into the woods where the horses were tied.
“You sure this is the right one?”
Maccay chuckled. “I'm sure.”
Phillip wasn't so sure, but they couldn't linger in the territory long. He could only hope that they had snatched the right woman, a healer he needed for his brother.
Jake had been wounded a month ago at the Battle of Largs. Of course they had healers in the Highlands, and none was known to be better than Ceana Cameron—the fair one indeed. Not only had his brother failed to improve under her ministrations, but he had grown worse.
His search for a healer with the knowledge to cure strange and mysterious maladies had sent him forth on this venture south toward the coast. He had heard of this one's gift from Maccay, who had heard it from a distant cousin, who in turn heard it from a friend who lived in the lowlands. That friend had learned about her from a storekeeper in Edinburg, whose family member had been cured by the woman.
He had come all the way to Kirkcaldy for this woman. He glanced at his friend, grinning back at him with ill-disguised amusement.
Phillip cocked his head. “You’re sure?”
Maccay nodded. “I’m sure.”
Still, glancing askance at the woman, now writhing silently on his shoulder, he had to wonder. He couldn't make a mistake. He knew instinctively that his brother would die soon if his malady were not cured.
Did this aggressive yet beautiful, wild young woman have the skills needed to cure his brother? Would she? What if she refused? That would not happen.
They reached the horses. Hugh mounted, then reached down for the girl. Phillip hefted her upward, and between the both of the, despite her squirming, they finally got her astride in front of Hugh.
He shook his head as he mounted his horse, then without another word spurred the animal into a trot through the trees. If she refused to help him, he would… what would he do? He'd never been confronted with such a situation before.
While fierce and unforgiving on the battlefield, he had never harmed a woman. Still, his brother was in dire need. He had no patience nor tolerance for anyone who delayed any chance his brother had of surviving.
Phillip Duncan rarely came down from the mountains. It had been years since he had been down by the coast. He didn't like it. Too crowded. He preferred the Highlands; the towering mountains, the lochs, the p
eat bogs of the north and the wilderness encompassing them. The small villages and scattered population. The closest he had been to clusters of people was the small settlement at the base of Ben Nevis, one of the highest peaks in all of Scotland.
In the past, the region was a stronghold overseen by clan Cameron, but over the past couple of generations, the Duncans had claimed their own portion and held onto it with fierce determination. On more than one occasion, the Duncan clan had sided with the McPherson and Macintosh clans, bitter rivals of clan Cameron. More than once, Phillip and his warriors had clashed with the Donald and McMillan clans, allies to the Camerons. In recent years, the region had been relatively peaceful, but Phillip never took the tenuous peace for granted.
He had spent months of his youth exploring the expanses of Ben Nevis, the glacial valley surrounded by slopes of bracken and the wild bluish-gray scree. He enjoyed the sight of the long-haired Highland cattle grazing along the slopes and on the valley floor, the river running through the valley providing a wealth of rich farmland, fish, and wildlife.
The slopes of Ben Nevis were in his blood; its peak often dusted with snow year-round. He had climbed to the summit of the mountain many times over the years, nearly a full day's travel, but from the top, the vistas opening up before him never failed to lift his spirits, to make him stand tall with pride at his heritage.
As a warrior and a leader of the Highland Duncan clan, Phillip was a formidable opponent, his body honed by years of fighting. One day, perhaps in the distant future, his clan could live peaceably among others in the Highlands and generations of needless feuds bloodshed would cease. Most of the clan leaders today couldn't even remember what had triggered centuries of feuds, and he had a feeling that he wasn't the only clan leader who had long tired of the endless fighting.
He shook his head, muttering to himself. He wasn’t an old woman. He was a warrior! A clan leader! Since his brother’s return however, wounded and unable to recover, he had realized that over the years, his loss of friends, fellow clansmen, and even family members had slowly dwindled the size of the Duncan clan to an alarming degree. He and his brother were the future of the Duncans, but if his brother died…
