by Jackie Ivie
“And strange.”
“I’ve no experience with how a captive acts. You call me strange and give no reason. You wish me fighting? Screaming? Wailing? What?”
The smile was gone from her face. Aidan’s frown deepened, and a pounding in his head decided to join in. “Nae,” he replied.
“Good thing. I’m not certain I can affect them.”
“What?”
“To your . . . satisfaction, that is,” she amended.
“Your silence would be to my satisfaction,” he snapped.
She sighed. “You are a dense one, aren’t you?”
Aidan pulled back, and the limb she’d been holding smacked him full in the chest, scattering more dust and seed and leaves about him, as well as stopping him again. His eyes were wide and nostrils were flared as he sucked for breath and forced the instant anger down. He didn’t have to guess it. He could see it. He was called the Red MacKetryck for a reason.
Then Ewan Blaine added to the humiliation by chuckling.
“You find something amusing?” Aidan asked it after shoving through the branch and catching up to where the other three were standing, as if debating the path.
“Me?” Ewan asked and then shook his head. “Nae.”
Kerr MacGorrick answered for him. “He’s thinking this wench will be a handful, my laird.”
“I can handle the lass.”
“It does na’ sound like it, my laird,” Kerr replied.
“Aside of which, she’s my wench. I rescued her and I’ll decide what to do with her.”
They all waited. The wench didn’t say a word of argument about it.
“True. We give you that. You rescued her. Near lost your own skin doing so, but you’ve gained another wench. As to the why you’d wish another one? We doona’ ken, do we, Ewan?”
Now, both of his clansmen were laughing. Aidan fought the heat down and swallowed the ire away. His voice sounded it. “I had to bring her! You saw it. They slaughtered everyone.”
“You should’ve left her. ’Tis clear she wanted it.”
“How so?”
“We’ve been listening.”
“But you doona’ hear! There’s naught left to return to. Naught.”
“There’s the woodcutter.” The wench spoke up in a soft feminine tone she’d been keeping hidden. “They wouldn’t have reached there.”
“You think not?” Aidan snapped.
She looked up at him with an innocence she had to have practiced, and he hadn’t sufficiently readied to withstand the sight of her vivid blue-green eyes. Aidan had to look away before the flush gave him away. He felt discomfited and his thoughts jumbled together. He didn’t like the feeling at all.
“They got the woodcutter, too, lass.”
MacGorrick was speaking in a gentle tone. Aidan glanced at him before looking to the wench again. She’d put her hand to a tree trunk and appeared to be stabilizing herself against it with her head bowed. He watched and waited, and braced himself for the screaming and wailing she’d been threatening him.
“No,” she replied finally, speaking to the foliage beneath her.
“Aye. All of them.”
Aidan met Kerr’s unspoken question before lifting his shoulders in confusion. It was clear the woodcutter meant something to her, but it was all he knew as well.
“Very well.” She’d straightened and was looking at him with a blank stare. She totally ignored the other two.
“You readied?” he asked, licking his dry lips.
“You won’t . . . let me go?”
Aidan narrowed his eyes. He’d been hooked by her gaze the moment he’d first looked into it, and now, with a wash of moisture coating the surface, the sensation was worse. Aidan gave a shake before he answered.
“Why not?” she asked.
“There’s Sassenach all about. Razing the countryside,” he reminded her. “’Tis na’ safe.”
“You’d leave the dead without proper prayers and burial?”
Aidan sighed, long and loud.
Blaine spoke up. “Let her leave.”
“Nae.”
“We doona’ need her! We canna’ even gain a ransom.”
“I said nae,” Aidan replied.
“Why not?”
If it wasn’t all three of them asking it, he’d not have been so stubborn. Such argument was unbelievable and against type. Aidan MacKetryck had a certain reputation. He’d earned it. He wasn’t biddable or accommodating. He couldn’t remember when he’d faced this type of dissention. It made the pounding in his head more painful. He glared at each one in turn, but saved her for last. He had his hands in fists at his hips, too. She looked away first. And that felt like a victory for some reason.
“We tarry and camp is na’ getting any closer,” he finally replied.
“You’ll na’ let her go? Truly?” Ewan asked it. Kerr had his eyebrows raised.
“She’s staying with me. Safe.”
“The laird has spoken. Come along, Kerr.” Blaine took the lead this time. Aidan lowered his chin and waited. He’d haul her over his shoulder if he had to. He hoped the look conveyed it. It wasn’t like him, but everything about this lass unsettled him and he didn’t know why.
He made a walking movement with his fingers and got a look of hatred in response. At least, he thought that was what the scrunching of her features looked to be. He waited. Her jaw was so set he could see the delineation of a vein along one side. She gave a closed jaw exclamation of some kind before swiveling in place and following his men.
Aidan watched a leafy branch swish back and forth from the shove she’d given it. He’d won for now, and he could probably add to the victory. Not only was she moving toward the copse where they’d hobbled the horses but he’d managed to shut off her arguments, too. He lowered his head, shoved the branch aside, and followed. He still didn’t know what was wrong with him and why she unsettled him so. Keeping her was yet another rash move, made without reason and continued without sense.
At least that facet of his character he could count on.
Chapter 3
This MacKetryck was a very rich laird, if the amount and quality of horseflesh was any indication. The saddled mounts were also testifying to how many clansmen he’d lost. Juliana counted twice before she was certain. There were seventeen horses milling about a small clearing and two young men were watching them.
Both lads leaped to their feet and shouted for Aidan the moment the small party broke through the trees. Then they were racing past her to reach her captor.
“Alpin. Arran.”
Juliana turned and watched as MacKetryck had an arm about both young men. They looked like miniature versions from the same mold. That said a bit about their close relationship. Juliana was good at guessing and fair with accuracy, as well. Not that she cared at all who the new clansmen were, or what relationship they shared with her captor, but guessing was habit from a lonely childhood and helped pass the time.
The wide, welcoming grin on Aidan MacKetryck’s face gave her pause. Despite his rudeness and arrogance, his handsomeness hadn’t altered. If anything, the shafts of cloud-dim light penetrating the rooftop of trees showed her exactly how jaw-dropping and striking a man he actually was.
She swallowed the self-disgust at what had been an instinctive jaw drop and forced her lips closed. It mattered little that her captor was a beautiful man with a brawny masculine size. Nor did it matter that he appeared to have younger siblings that he cared deeply for. All she was concerned with was finding his weaknesses long enough to escape him. She already knew one of them was his temper; yet as she watched him with his brothers, he didn’t look like the same man who’d shoved her twice during the last bit of trees without bothering to note when she’d tripped and spilt some of her millet.
“Good lads.” Aidan had finished his greeting and pushed the young men toward the group of stallions. “Now, off with you. Fetch the horses.”
“And be quick on it!”
The one
named Kerr ordered it. Juliana watched both Kerr and Ewan join the boys weaving among the horses, grabbing at ropes and reins. The MacKetryck didn’t look like he was handy at doing anything other than observing.
She stole a glance his way and instantly regretted it. He wasn’t just observing the men gathering horses. He had his chin lowered and was watching her as well. She blew a sigh and watched a shadow of a smile touch his lips before jerking her gaze away. She’d known better.
“Where is everyone?” one of the lads asked.
Kerr spoke again. “Dead.”
“Dead?” The boy sounded horrified. The other lad was perched on a stump with his eyes and mouth wide, looking horrified enough for both of them. “All of them?”
“Aye.”
“Wh-Wh-Wh . . . happened?” The younger one had a stammer. He was also shy, if the blush overtaking him was any indication as he caught Juliana’s eye for a moment.
“Sassenach.” Ewan Blaine answered them from somewhere among the horseflesh while Juliana pretended not to note that Aidan had moved closer to her.
“But . . . y-y-you was reaving on Liddlesdaleby Village, a-a-and Biggstown-by-the-Dale. Both held by MacDonal clan. As is Castle Fyfen.”
“True,” Kerr MacGorrick answered. “At least . . . that’s what we were told. We were told wrong, though. Dead wrong. Now we’re just dead.”
“But—I thought MacDonal took the castle back from that English sheriff . . . that Sir d’Ancen-fish. Or whatever.”
“D’Aubenville,” Kerr corrected. “Giles D’Aubenville.”
“That’s the one.” The older one was the one talking. “D’Aubenville. Baron D’Aubenville. He was the overlord . . . or something near that. But MacDonal clan won Castle Fyfen from him over a season past. Before the winter. In battle. Bloody battle. I hear they beheaded him, too.”
Harness was jingling amid their talking while the Ewan fellow was whistling and attempting to corner a stallion. Juliana kept her attention on him and not what they were saying. She already knew what had happened anyway.
“Strong clan, MacDonal,” Kerr remarked. “That’s why we planned this. Reaving from MacDonal is a good thing. Adds a bit of boast to a man’s name, it does.”
“We d-d-d-dinna’ get one Mac-Mac-MacDonal?” the younger one asked.
“All we got was that lass yonder.”
Juliana kept her features still and halted any reaction as they looked over at her. It wasn’t easy.
“Who is she?” the older one asked.
“Doona’ ken that yet, Alpin. All I know is Aidan rescued her. And then took her away from all the murder and burning and raping . . . and she put no end of argument to it since.”
“Why?”
“He wants another lass. Doona’ ken why on that either. He already has too many doing his bidding.”
“I should have brought some with me, since you’ve done naught save stand about jawing when you’ve mounts to gather,” Aidan said.
“I mean, why would the lass argue her rescue?” Alpin asked.
The older one was named Alpin. That meant the young shy one was Arran. Juliana automatically deduced it, and then did her best to ignore it. She didn’t want to know their names, or anything else about them.
“Perhaps she fancies a MacDonal clansman . . . or anyone aside from a man crazed enough to attack a Sassenach horde.”
“You a-a-attacked the Sassenach?” The younger one asked it.
“If I did, it was poorly done,” Aidan commented from beside her.
“They were better armed,” Kerr informed him. “There were also more of them. Near two hundred more of them. And they’d horses. And archers.”
“They . . . a-a-ambushed you?”
“Nae. They dinna’ even see us. They were too busy doing the devil’s work, murdering and burning,” Ewan added.
“Then . . . how did everyone die?” The older one was talking. He didn’t have the stammer, nor was he shy. Juliana wondered if it was something they outgrew.
“That there’s the rub, Alpin lad. We were hid well. Waiting. They dinna’ even see us. Nae one did. So . . . we up and decided to announce our presence. To a murdering horde of armed Sassenach. We mounted a rescue. Of the villagers.”
Kerr MacGorrick put every bit of sarcasm to his words. Juliana felt the reaction in the frame beside her as Aidan stiffened. He didn’t say anything.
“With twelve men?”
“Thirteen. You need some more learning on how to count, lad.”
“But . . . everyone—is . . . gone?”
“Aye. We doona’ rescue properly, although the liege did send a few of them to hell afore getting noticed. And that just turned the attack from the villagers onto us. It dinna’ help much either. They still killed the villagers.”
“Cease speaking of it and get the horses,” Aidan ordered them. “And fetch me Rory’s mount. He’s docile enough.”
“You need a docile horse now?” MacGorrick asked.
“I need less jawing and more action,” Aidan answered. “We all do. We’ve a bit of a ride. ’Twill be harder as we’ll all be leading horses. Can you ride?”
Juliana didn’t realize he’d addressed her until she noticed the silence that came from awaiting an answer.
The young man named Alpin was leading a large horse over to where she stood. It might be docile, but it didn’t look it.
“No,” Juliana answered him.
“How well do you learn, then?”
Hard hands gripped her waist and tossed her atop the horse like she was a sack. Juliana’s breath clogged her throat, but one hand automatically grabbed for the horse’s mane as her feet left the ground. That gave her the pivoting point to spin right down into the saddle, facing forward and clinging with both hands wrapped about the horse’s neck. She’d also split her legs. That position lifted her skirts to her knee, putting her lower legs against horse hair and her thighs on the cool texture of leather. She watched Aidan flick a glance to her well-tooled boots before going up her legs and torso, before finally reaching her face. There wasn’t any millet left in the basket shape of her skirt either.
The older lad was chuckling, but he was the lone one she could hear. All about her horses were gathering, hemming her closer to where Aidan stood, hands on hips and not one expression on his face. Then he nodded.
“You’re barbaric, MacKetryck,” she informed him, lifting her chin with the announcement.
“I have been so described afore. Come. I owe you a meal.”
He had her reins in his hand as he went to another horse. Juliana’s mount walked alongside him without demur. She watched Aidan jump upward onto his horse’s back before swinging a leg over, pulling her closer with the pressure of the reins in his left hand. That was when she knew for certain escape wouldn’t be easy.
Rain started before they’d cleared the trees, peppering everything with large drops that just got harder and thicker and wetter until it was difficult to breathe. Juliana pulled her cloak over her head and hunched forward into her mount’s neck. That made a sluice for the water to drain from, once the black wool got saturated. The wet wool smelled musty, while rivulets of water ran down her neck and into the neckline of her shift. It was uncomfortable, but it was warm. In fact, it was so warm that the slit she’d made to see through was venting steam.
The MacKetryck laird appeared to be in the same posture from what she could tell, looking like a sodden beast atop his horse. He’d decided to lead four horses, including hers. He’d lined them up, with hers closest to him. She assumed it was in the event she didn’t learn how to ride fast enough.
Juliana made a face at him. He probably knew it didn’t take much talent to stay atop a horse at a walking pace, especially when someone else had the reins.
She also assumed the other clansmen were following. A quick check back proved little. The rain blurred everything from two horses back while steam rose from every mount’s head to hover with the rain mist, making it even more opaque and indisti
nct. She didn’t know how MacKetryck could see to lead.
He never showed any hesitation.
Juliana knew when they started to climb by the pressure of her buttocks into the back of the saddle. She responded by leaning forward, hunching even closer to her mount’s neck. That posture turned into a full body cling as the horse slid more than once on ground that looked mud-slick and treacherous, when there was ground. Some parts of the path didn’t appear to have anything below the horse at all, except mistfilled air. On each slide, Juliana caught her breath and kept the screams from sounding, until the horse regained its footing. She refused to fall. Not only would it be undignified, but it might prove fatal as well, for not once did MacKetryck check on her.
There wasn’t any warning when they reached his camp. The ground had leveled once they reached the top of the hill, and then they’d descended into a glen that was followed by another hill. Juliana counted one more glen before he led them into a lone copse and stopped, seemingly without reason. She parted her cloak opening, putting a critical eye to what was so grand about this particular bit of forest, and then she noted sharp angles that were tent tops meeting the leaves above her. It was well hidden.
MacKetryck’s camp appeared to be two large tents settled among the trees, while a third was just an outline behind them. All were tautly set up, with pegged ropes, giving the rain an easy run-off. They all appeared to be constructed of a densely woven gray, brown, and green material, making them a perfect match of the forest, as well as hiding any light coming from within.
Her eyebrows rose in consideration. She’d assumed this Aidan MacKetryck a Highlander of low manners, combining a mass of brawn with a dearth of wits, but she was rethinking her evaluation. He appeared to be cunning and disciplined, and planned well. He also expected to be followed without question and without checking. All marks of leadership. That made his continual avoidance of his men’s taunts strange, and started her pondering what use such insubordination might be to her, and when it was best put into play.
Food and rest came first, however. No escape back the way he’d just brought her was going to be successful without the same qualities she’d assigned him: cunning, planning, and discipline. And a horse.
