A Laird's Promise (Highland Heartbeats Book 1)

by Aileen Adams

  The others had taken cover.

  She no longer saw any sign of Ceana. She dove into the shadow of the trees and cowered behind one of them, her back scraping against the rough bark, hands pressed flat against the ground, reaching for a rock, a stick, anything with which she could defend herself.

  She had never been so frightened in her life. Not even when she had been kidnapped. She gazed into the semi-darkness of the trees, warily eyeing the slight mist that rose from the ground.

  Which way?

  Which way?

  She decided that any direction away from the camp was a positive one. Rising to her knees to crouch behind the tree, hands pressed against the trunk behind her, she made a decision. Forced her legs to move.

  Go! Run!

  She dashed into the deeper shadows of the trees, but an instant later, a blur of movement caught her attention.

  It was too late to stop her forward momentum.

  Only at the last moment did she recognize the figure.

  Ceana!

  They collided, toppling them both to the ground, Ceana with a string of choice words, Sarah with a grunt of pain.

  They lay entangled for several moments before Ceana managed to scramble to her knees, her expression twisting with fury, the woman reached for Sarah's throat.

  Before Sarah could stop her, Ceana's hands had tightened around her neck, squeezing. She yanked Sarah’s head from the ground, and then slammed it back down.

  Sarah bit her tongue. Her eyes watered. She gasped in pain as she tried to pull Ceana's hands from around her throat.

  “You've ruined everything! Everything!”

  Crash.

  Her head slammed against the ground. She saw a flash of white, and then pain shot through her head and down her spine, leaving her gasping.

  Panic. She felt nothing but panic. She couldn’t die! Who would take care of Heather?

  “You’re as good as dead!”

  Smash.

  Her head slammed against the ground again. She desperately tried to thrust her body upward, to throw Ceana off-balance, but the woman was determined.

  All her anger, her frustration, and her fury, she took out on Sarah.

  Sarah grabbed her forearms, tried with every ounce of strength she had to loosen her grip, but Ceana had the advantage.

  Sarah gasped for breath, trying to hiss in a lung full of air. The buzzing in her ears grew louder. Her mouth gaped open, but no air entered. Her vision swam. She was going to choke to death.

  Fight!

  She tried, but is it was no use. The darkness was hovering now, causing splotches of blackness to waver in front of her eyes. Her arms grew numb and weak.

  How many times had she defended herself against her drunken stepfather? How many times had she escaped with nothing more than some cuts and bruises, a few scars? She couldn't let Ceana win. She had to get back to Heather! She had to—

  Thunk.

  Her head slammed into the ground again. Her teeth clacked together. She felt as if her head was going to explode and the encroaching darkness grew deeper, blacker…

  Then—

  Nothing.

  16

  Phillip glared down at the two dead men sprawled on the ground, one with an arrow through his neck, the other, Fergus Orkney’s brother, with an arrow sticking out of his chest, right through to his black heart.

  Damned Orkneys!

  They knew better than to broach his lands for any reason. He and his companions had ridden through much of the night, stopping occasionally to light a torch and search the ground. After the second time, it was obvious where the Orkneys were heading—toward their own lands and borders. If they had expected the night to delay Phillip’s pursuit of them, they were sadly mistaken.

  He had not even waited for reinforcements from the manor. A couple of hours before dawn, they had spied a small fire in the distance. The glow wavered occasionally through the trees, but enough to give them a direction. The fire had not lasted long, but it had been enough to tell Phillip where they had stopped to rest. They were taking shelter among the trees along the slopes of Creag Dearg, one of the most northwestern landmarks on his lands before transitioning to those of the Orkney land another day's ride to the west.

  Fools.

  As they had ridden, his anger grew. He tried to tamp it down. He had to keep his wits about him.

  The Orkneys would be prepared for a fight. They may not be able to anticipate just when it would happen, but they knew it would. They wouldn't be taking chances.

  He frowned. Then why light the fire? They had to have known the firelight could be seen from a great distance, especially halfway up the mountain.

  What were they about?

  Perhaps a mile or two distance from where they had last spotted the fire on the slopes, Phillip pulled his horse to a halt and spoke to Hugh and Maccay.

  “They have set a trap. I know it. I also know that Sarah would not have gone with them willingly.” His heart skipped a beat as realization dawned. “They’re using her as bait. Ceana knows that I would pursue her.”

  Hugh and Maccay agreed, but it was Maccay who spoke up.

  “No one in the manor has failed to notice the look in your eyes when you watch the lass, Phillip. It's clear that you care for her.”

  Phillip was about to protest that the reason he cared for her was because she was a healer. She was there to help Jake. Not for any other. But he also knew the futility of lying—not only to himself but to his friends.

  “Aye, I find myself captivated by her. But now is not the time to fathom why.”

  Hugh and Maccay chuckled, but then sobered as Hugh gestured up the mountainside.

  “So it's Fergus Orkney, Ceana, and Sarah. Where Fergus is, so too is his brother and cousin, maybe two or three others. Shall we wait for our men?”

  Phillip pondered.

  While it made good sense to wait, he knew that the longer Sarah was in the hands of the Orkneys, the worse it would be for her.

  And Ceana? Her obvious hatred toward Jake, himself, and likely Sarah for helping them would not bode well for her either.

  Sarah might already have been hurt. One of the Orkneys might have already… no, he could not allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of what might have already happened to her. She was strong. Smart. She was used to fighting her own battles. The scars and bruises he had seen on her body had proven that much to him.

  But he swore by everything he had in his power that Sarah would never be hurt again. He wasn't sure how he would achieve that, but he was damned well going to try.

  “They will be expecting us, but maybe not so soon. They've ridden all night with two women. I'm not sure about Sarah, but I can guarantee that Ceana has been grumbling about the pace. She's not used to such activity.” He shook his head. “She would likely have wanted to stop and rest but at the same time be hesitant to remain out in the wilderness any longer than necessary. She's too used to her comforts. Besides that, she has to know by now that we know Sarah escaped. She has to know that when I catch up with her, she will pay, and pay dearly for what she has done.”

  * * *

  The attack had occurred swiftly and without mercy.

  Hugh, Maccay, and Phillip had crept up to the outskirts of the camp. Hugh had taken care of the first man on watch with a swift slice of his knife to the man's throat. As they stepped closer, Phillip saw Sarah being grabbed by one of the Orkney clan.

  Fergus, Ceana, and another man stood on the other side of the small fire.

  Phillip’s temper had raged when he saw the man slap Sarah so hard it caused her head to snap back.

  She didn't cry out. She turned immediately back to the man, her gaze fierce and wordlessly taunting.

  The man had raised his hand to strike Sarah again.

  Phillip had led his arrow fly. It struck the man in the shoulder.

  He had cried out and fallen, hollering.

  Chaos ensued.

  The Orkneys and their companions
had quickly recovered from the surprise attack and spread out. Phillip had been forced to duck back into the shadows to reposition himself, and so he had lost sight of Ceana, Fergus, and Sarah.

  Shouting the Duncan war cry, he and his companions had rushed the camp.

  The women were gone.

  Fergus stood by the fire, an axe in one hand, a knife in the other. His eyes wide and wary, he watched as Phillip approached, then as his companions took on Hugh and Maccay.

  “You shot my brother, Duncan,” Fergus snarled, quickly casting his gaze between his fallen brother with the arrow in his shoulder and Phillip, slowly advancing.

  A short distance beyond, another of the Orkney clan was felled with an arrow to the chest.

  “I did.” Phillip carefully watched Fergus. “He's not dead, yet. Why not have Ceana help him?”

  He had clashed with Fergus Orkney before—didn't underestimate him. He was a fierce opponent, but Phillip was ready for him.

  Phillip tossed his bow to the side and pulled the knife from the sheath at his waist. He did not take his eyes off the Fergus; knew without question that Hugh and Maccay were dealing with the others.

  Guttural cries, curses, and the sound of scuffling were evident behind him, but he focused on Fergus. Both of them stared at one another, both half-crouched, circling one another, weapons at the ready.

  “You want the girl, you can have her,” Fergus said. “She's not worth getting killed over.”

  “Then maybe you shouldn't have kidnapped her,” Phillip replied. He saw the look of consternation cross Fergus’ face.

  “Kidnap her? I didn't kidnap Ceana,” Fergus denied. “And she told me that the other one was a cousin who you had kidnapped yourself and forced into servitude.”

  Phillip wasn't surprised. “And you believed her?”

  Fergus frowned, paused in his circling. “So you're not after Ceana? You're after the other one? Why?”

  Phillip was surprised when Fergus straightened. “I want both of them. Ceana because she tried to poison my brother. The other one because she's a healer. And she’s not Ceana’s cousin.”

  Fergus scowled and shook his head. “Phillip Duncan, if what you say is true, then she is not worth more bloodshed.” He glanced quickly around the campsite, saw that his men had been overpowered. Two lay dead facedown by the dying fire, blood puddling around them. His brother lay on his side watching them, grimacing in pain as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his shoulder.

  Fergus glanced toward the trees and back to Phillip. “If you can find them, you can have them both.” He lowered his weapons. “I see that Ceana is gifted with lying. I want no more to do with her.”

  With that, he calmly tucked his knife and his short axe back into his belt. He stood with a straight back and lifted chin. “You and I will live to fight another day, Phillip Duncan, I can promise you that. But not over these two women.”

  As suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

  Phillip watched as Fergus stepped to his brother and lifted him in one swoop from the ground and over his shoulder; the brother cursed a streak as Fergus turned his back and simply walked away.

  Phillip let them go, then turned to Hugh and Maccay, nodding. They too released their captives. It wasn't often this way, but Phillip was not one to wantonly shed blood.

  Fergus had made his claim of innocence in Ceana’s schemes, and Phillip believed him.

  Ceana had disappeared, but her options were few. She could no longer seek shelter or support from the Duncan or the Orkney clan. She would be forced to leave the area.

  He would find her—someday, but first, he had to find Sarah.

  Where had Sarah gone?

  He turned to the others, surprised by the fear in his voice when he spoke. “Where is she? Did you see where she fled?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but raised his voice and shouted her name.

  His voice echoed through the early morning stillness. It was as if dawn held its very breath. The only movement he saw were thin fingers of mist in the low-lying clouds and fog oozing upward from the ground, the gullies, and the trees higher along the slopes.

  Phillip was sure that she was nearby.

  She had to be!

  But as he and his men had attacked the camp, he had seen several figures run into the depths of the forest.

  In the midst of the clash, short though it was, he heard the pounding of horse’s hooves.

  Had Sarah found a horse, leapt onto its back and raced away? Or had that been Ceana?

  “Sarah!” he shouted.

  The forest had returned to normal after the short skirmish, but now the birds once again stopped chattering, and a squirrel halfway up a nearby tree trunk froze with a nut in its mouth. Then, with a twitch of its tail, the squirrel scrambled upward into the shelter of the tree.

  His mouth grew dry, and his heart pounded. Had she been killed? Was she injured, lying somewhere nearby bleeding to death?

  “Find her!”

  They spread out, searching for any sign of her. She couldn’t have gotten far. No sign of her anywhere.

  Phillip grew increasingly concerned.

  Had one of Orkney’s men managed to escape on horseback, taking Sarah with him just after they attacked? It was possible.

  After nearly an hour of searching, he heard Maccay shout.

  “Phillip! Over here!”

  Phillip hurried down a nearby slope, startled by the combination of relief and anxiety he felt.

  What would he find?

  Startled by the emotion that either question elicited, he emerged from the tree line and hurried toward Maccay, standing at the edge of a small clearing, gesturing.

  Moments later, he was joined by Hugh.

  They both looked down where Maccay pointed.

  On the ground were definite signs of a struggle. Leaves and small twigs pulled off of nearby shrugs. Scattered footprints, pine needles shoved aside.

  His stomach clenched when he saw the droplets of blood on several of those leaves.

  Maccay stepped over toward a thorny bush, lifted one of its small branches, and exposed a rock. He swore when he saw the blood on it.

  The three exchanged glances and then focused on searching the ground nearby.

  “Here!” Maccay pointed to a spot between two close-growing trees.

  Phillip looked down at the ground and saw what looked to be drag marks. His heart plummeted as he followed the tracks to the nearby ravine, lined with brush, rocks, and debris from years of snowmelt.

  There, at the bottom, he saw a shape that didn't belong to the landscape.

  He scrambled down the steep slope, sending small pebbles and debris raining down to the bottom.

  Maybe fifteen or twenty feet down, Sarah lay at the bottom. Face down, arms and legs akimbo.

  If she was dead, it was his fault. He knew it.

  “Sarah!”

  “Phillip, be careful!”

  He ignored Hugh’s cautionary tone from hue and scrambled downward.

  Not yet halfway down, he lost his footing, and half-slid down to the bottom, triggering a small landslide of dirt, pebbles, and stones. He hunched over Sarah, seeking signs of life.

  The back of her head was bloodied. So too were two knuckles of her right hand.

  He smiled grimly. She had at least managed to get in at least one punch to her attacker. He placed his hand gently in the middle of her back, holding his breath until he felt her chest rise, then fall.

  The relief that surged through him was nearly overwhelming.

  Without pausing to contemplate exactly when Sarah had suddenly become so important to him, he gently turned her over, the rage inside him growing when he saw her bloodied face.

  In addition to the blood on the back of her head, she had a cut on her forehead that had bled profusely, leaving trails of it running down over her eyes, her cheeks, and her neck.

  Worst of all though, was the bruising around her neck. Someone had tried to choke the life out
of her. The bruises were fresh, only now turning from a reddish hue to a dark, angry purple.

  Whoever had done that would pay, and pay dearly.

  “Sarah? Sarah, wake up!”

  Nothing.

  As carefully as he could, he gathered her into his arms and then began to make his way laboriously up the steep slope.

  Maccay and Hugh met him halfway up, helping to pull him, with the added weight of Sarah in his arms, up to the top. They both wore grim expressions, and he could only imagine his were similar. With Hugh leading the way, they trio quickly hurried through the woods and back toward the clearing where they had confronted the Orkneys.

  He gently laid Sarah on the ground while Maccay hurried to his horse and retrieved a thick leather pouch with a cork. He shoved it at Phillip.

  “Here's some water. Maybe it'll help revive her.”

  The three hovered around Sarah as he attempted to assess her injuries.

  He didn't know how badly she was hurt.

  Carefully, he lifted her head, placed the leather pouch to her mouth, and trickled some water into her mouth. It dribbled out. Muttering under his breath, he handed the pouch to Maccay and then repositioned himself behind Sarah, pulling her up into his arms, her back resting against his chest, her head on his shoulder.

  He extended one of his hands and nodded to Maccay. “Pour some of that on my hand. Then check to see if she's got any broken bones.”

  While he passed his hand over Sarah’s forehead and cheek, she made a small, breathy moaning sound. Maccay and Hugh each felt her legs and arms, shaking their heads as they completed the task.

  No broken bones, at least there.

  He gestured for Maccay to wet his hand. This this he passed his fingers over her lips. Her mouth moved against his finger, her lips warm and soft. He repeated the process several times before he felt her trying to move against him.

  “Rest easy, Sarah. It's Phillip. You're all right. You're safe now.”

  But safe according to whom? Him?

  She still wasn't free. S

  he was still his captive, although he didn't think of her that way.

  Was he any better than Fergus Orkney?