Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  Meg’s hand flew to cover her mouth. The Englishman grabbed his arm where her arrow stuck out and took a step toward her.

  “Hanover!” another Englishman yelled from the other side of the field. The injured man glared at her as he held his bleeding shoulder but retreated back across the meadow.

  Meg touched the fallen warrior’s chest, searching him for injury. The warrior would have an ache in his head from the mild swelling she sensed and a new scar, but he would live.

  Thank you, Lord. Since when had she decided to side with the Scottish? Perhaps it was because of the valiant stories she’d heard growing up or because she was headed to her Aunt Rachel in Scotland, away from an English father. Or perhaps it was the strong jawline and wavy brown hair of the Scottish warrior.

  Foolish! She sprinted back through the woods, desperate to get out of there before he awoke. She jerked to a stop. Ugh! She still had to retrieve Pippen! She huffed and continued her jog. Later. It was too dangerous right now with the English out there and the Scotsman waking soon. She dove into the cave and tripped over Nickum.

  She groaned softly. “I’ve endured a beating.” She crawled to the back of the cave, threw her cloak around her shoulders, and lowered herself onto the ground.

  As her body began to calm, the weight of exhaustion pulled at her worn muscles. She would just rest awhile. And pray. She pulled the leather bag of medicines and her mother’s last effects toward her without letting go of Nickum, then pushed her hand inside and sifted through the small clay jars, past the healing journal and grasped onto cold hard iron. Meg pulled her mother’s key out and hugged it against her heart. Somehow the familiar weight of it grounded her.

  What am I going to do? Warriors out there. Boswell following me. I’m practically lost. With no mount. Meg ran her fingers through Nickum’s fur and held tight to the heavy key. She would rest, rest, and pray until she knew the men outside had left. Then she’d figure something out. She would survive, just like Uncle Harold had taught her. “Dear God, guide us to safety,” she whispered. “Guide us to safety and to the truth.”

  Chapter Two

  9 June 1517—Figwort: shrub that grows as tall as a Scotsman, oval leaves, and small reddish-brown flowers during summer.Decoction to treat swellings, sprains, redness, putrid wounds, diseased parts, sores, and flesh rot. Crush fresh leaves into an ointment, with the cridhe of a stone.

  Caden Macbain, chief of Clan Macbain, punched his way through the muck of darkness that strapped him down. The brittle lightning that arced through his head reassured him that he was indeed alive. As he opened his eyes, Ewan Brody’s grim face split into a grin. Caden’s friend and second in command grabbed his hand. Ewan’s strength could carry Caden’s large frame, but Caden shook him off. He’d stand on his own. Caden swore beneath his breath and touched the side of his head. His own blood stuck to his fingers.

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Good to see you rise, Caden.” Ewan studied him with an irritating grin. “I’d hate to have to tell your sister that an Englishman killed you with a pebble.”

  Caden frowned and pinched the pain that had settled between his eyes at the top of his nose. “’Twas a bit more than a pebble.” He surveyed the meadow. “The battle is finished?”

  “Aye, you slept through the last of it.” Ewan pushed the small boulder with his boot. “You’re lucky the English have poor aim. He would have cracked your skull open if he had hit you straight on the head.” He chuckled. “To be knocked unconscious by a Sasunnach—”

  “Enough!” Caden roared.

  Ewan backed away, although his grin stayed in place.

  Fury, at himself, filled Caden’s gut. He had been deaf to the English dog sneaking up on him. Caught off his guard…by a woman.

  “Where did she go?” he demanded as he turned in a tight circle.

  Ewan, Hamish, and several of the young warriors turned to search the clearing.

  “Where’d who go?” Ewan asked.

  “Bloody hell, she’s gone,” Caden said and strode to the rock wall. The woman with large, beautiful eyes. He hadn’t imagined her.

  “See to the wounded,” Ewan said to the other men, “and set a guard in case the English cowards decide to regroup.” The young warriors quickly dispersed to set up a small camp. “Caden, who is this ‘she’ you’ve misplaced?”

  Caden studied the ground, but his mind filled in the memory. She had stood in the mist with the sun shining on her hair. Red highlights flowed through her deep brown hair over her slender shoulders to her narrow waist. Her lips—full kissable lips—had been parted, breathless, and totally begging to be plundered.

  Long lashes framed her eyes. Hazel. More green than blue or brown. Although they had been round, she hadn’t swooned nor frozen in fear. The lass had courage and skill. She’d fired her bow at him, or at the English. Caden frowned. Had she meant to shoot him and missed?

  “Diana, goddess of the hunt,” Caden said without a trace of humor. “She appeared like the huntress that my da described to us from the ancient stories,” he mumbled, and peered through the forest.

  He easily picked out the broken branches that marked her trail. He glanced at Ewan, who stared back like he’d lost his sense. “Bloody hell, Ewan, I’m not touched in the head. There was a lass here, and she shot the bastard with her arrow.”

  “So,” Ewan said haltingly, his face a mixture of worry and checked amusement, “a pagan goddess saved your thick head?”

  Caden scowled. “I know she isn’t an ancient goddess, but I did spy a lass along the edge of this rock face.” He plucked an arrow fletching from the twigs and traced the feather with his finger. “Her eyes were so wide.” He pointed to the trail through the forest. Deep smudges in the soft earth showed that she’d run back along the rock face. “And she knows naught about hiding her tracks.”

  Ewan took the fletching from Caden’s fingers and studied it. “Who is she?” he asked. “I’m intrigued. I will call a search.”

  “Nay,” Caden returned abruptly. “The men would scare her.” A worse vision replaced his concern. At least ten of the English bastards had scattered from the battle. One of them might find the girl. What if she were alone?

  “I don’t have time for this,” he grumbled and pushed past the bare branches. “I’m in bloody England on a mission, not to rescue foolish lasses.”

  Although she had saved his head. And she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen.

  She could be surrounded by battle-stung Englishmen ready to take out their vengeance and lust on an innocent lass. The thought tore across his chest, and Caden pushed off into a run along her trail of broken twigs and churned up mud. Hell, he could nearly trace her individual footprints.

  He stopped at the rock wall where the grass had been flattened and chewed. No horse, but the woman’s footprints led to a crack in the rock face. A cave. Caden ducked his head into the dark hole and pulled his dirk from his boot.

  “Lass?” He blinked to help his eyes adjust to the low light.

  A deep growl came from the rear of the cave and every nerve in Caden’s body shot warrior’s lightning along his muscles. He crouched, dirk before him, and squinted into the black. Bloody hell, the lass had walked into a wolf’s den! He crouched, waiting for the beast to hurl his body at him. Waiting and listening for the faintest sound of human life. Waiting for his blasted eyes to adjust to the dark.

  With another long blink, the outline of a huge beast standing over a lump came out of the inkiness. A foot. There was a small foot sticking out from under the wolf.

  “Don’t move, lass.” Caden spoke in English using the most unaggressive voice he could muster with the blood pounding through him, urging him to lunge. “I’ll lure him out.”

  The beast growled low again and Caden wondered briefly how heavy the creature was.

  “Scotsman?” Her soft voice penetrated the darkness.

  “Aye,” he answered and blinked hard at the strange sight.

  The woman sat
up and pushed her hands against the side of the wolf.

  “Stad, wait,” he gritted out as calmly as he could.

  Caden took another small step forward in the tight space. Even bent, his shoulders grazed the ceiling. The wolf leaned back on his hind legs and snapped as if he were about to jump.

  “Nickum, no!” The woman pulled her legs out from under the beast. “I know him…well, perhaps not really…” She stood, her hand stroking the enormous creature.

  She pointed at Caden. “Your weapon. Put it down and he won’t attack, at least not unless you threaten me.”

  Caden lowered his dirk but kept it poised to throw. He could hit the beast right between its yellow orbs if it turned on the girl. The wolf relaxed into a sitting position. He stared at the two for a long moment.

  “Ye have a wolf,” was all he could think to say.

  “My escort,” she said with strength in her voice. In the dim light that filtered into the cave, she was a darker blur against the rock. “Your head? You are well?”

  “That’s the largest wolf I’ve ever seen.”

  The woman patted the beast’s head. “I made sure he was fed well as a pup. He grew large…and protective,” she stressed. “Your head?”

  Caden replaced the dirk in his boot. “Will heal.”

  “You need to clean it.” She motioned to the mouth of the cave. “In the stream. I have a poultice that will help it heal without taint. I can give you some to apply.”

  When he didn’t move, she shooed him toward the door again. “Go wash it.”

  “I’m not leaving here without ye,” he said, the words surprising him. Her eyes grew round. “Not until I know ye are safe,” he added.

  The woman stood bent over in the small cave. She picked up a bag and dug out a leather jar. “I am safe with Nickum.”

  When she threw it to him, he caught it but didn’t move. The presence of the wolf and her odd behavior caught him there. For a long moment they all stared at one another.

  “How,” he said slowly, “do I apply it?”

  The woman huffed lightly and moved forward. “Go out so I can see.”

  Caden stepped into the bright light, made certain they were alone, and turned to the woman. She blinked up at him. Her forehead drew together when she examined the cut on his head. Her lips, pink and soft, opened slightly. Caden shifted.

  “Aye, my ointment will help immensely.”

  “Ye are a healer.”

  “A dab of this.” She took the leather cup from his hand. Her finger brushed his, her skin cool, thin, not the overly oiled skin of the pampered, but soft nonetheless.

  “I have men who could use yer poultices.”

  Concern warred with refusal across her lovely features for a long moment. He watched the tiny scrunch reappear between her sloped brows as she considered his request.

  “Of course they could.” She uncorked the vial, dabbed some on her finger, and reached up to touch the cut over the bump. Caden hardly noticed the intense sting with her so close, just under his chin.

  She stepped back, dropped the vial back in her bag, and eyed him warily. “You handled that much better than Nickum,” she said with a casualness that contradicted the stiffness in her stance.

  “Yer wolf’s name is Gaelic.”

  “I know some of your language,” she answered.

  “‘Mischievous’?”

  “I found him half starved as a pup, tangled in brambles, alone in the world. I pulled him out of so much trouble as he grew up, the name seemed fitting. He follows me everywhere.”

  The woman’s eyes shifted past him into the forest, roaming, searching. Did she fear the English?

  “My men are back in the meadow.”

  “Oh, yes. I…yes, I can help for a time, but then I need to continue on.”

  “Where are ye headed?”

  She walked back along the face of the rock. Caden watched the natural sway of her hips and the soft folds of hair down her back as he followed. She didn’t answer his question. There was a little leaf stuck in the auburn waves. He reached to pluck it out right when she stopped. Caden pulled up short, his fist in her hair around the leaf.

  She turned, her hair wrapping around a shoulder.

  “Ye have a leaf.” He inhaled silently, pulling the fragrance and warmth of her closeness into his lungs. The flow of auburn silk smelled fresh, clean. What was that flower? Her gaze moved to his hand in her hair and then up to his eyes. So close, close enough to kiss. Caden dropped his hand and the leaf fell out on its own.

  “North,” she said.

  “North,” he repeated, having forgotten the question. Och, what a fool. How long had it been since he’d tupped a fine lass?

  “I can pay ye with food,” Caden said, his words blunt.

  Ewan spotted them and strode across the green. “Sweet Diana, ye are real.” He spoke in English and bowed to the woman, eyes lingering on her neckline. Caden scowled so hard his jaw ached. Ewan had a way with the lasses. He was slightly shorter than Caden and one of his most cunning warriors. The man had been known to use battle strategy to lure a lass into his bed.

  “‘Diana’?”

  Ewan’s eyes danced. “When ye shot yer arrow to save our chief’s life, fair lass, he saw ye in a golden glow coming out of the mist. ’Tis truth it is he who named ye after the pagan goddess of the hunt, Diana. However, I must say that ye are much more bonny than any goddess could ever be.”

  She actually blushed over Ewan’s rhapsody and tucked a stray hair into place. “‘Chief’?” She glanced at Caden.

  “Aye, he is our chief, Laird Caden Macbain, from the ancient Colum line of the Macbain clan, from Druim Keep at the base of the triple mountains, north of Loch Tuinn.”

  The lass nodded as if all that made sense. Perhaps she was familiar with their country.

  “And I am Ewan Brody, cousin to Caden and part of Clan Macbain. And what is yer true name, lass?”

  Caden waited. What would she say? Would her name give a clue to her character like the one she’d given her wolf? A name could tell a lot about a person.

  “Excuse me,” she said and jogged briskly to a man sprawled against a tree trunk.

  Ewan’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

  “Healer,” Caden said.

  “You don’t know her name?”

  “Not yet,” Caden said and followed her across the clearing. “Beware, she knows some of our language.”

  Ewan cocked an eyebrow. “Interesting for an English.”

  “Odd.”

  “I need fresh water, fire, rags. Clean.” She rattled off orders in fairly well pronounced Gaelic while she inspected the bloody end of Hugh Loman’s arm. The limb had been severed.

  Caden motioned to Hamish. “Get what she needs.” The young warrior rushed toward the supply wagon. Caden called back over his shoulder so that everyone could hear his order, “and if anyone sees a large wolf around the parameters, don’t shoot it.” Several eyebrows shot up among the men, but not one question was voiced.

  The woman stared at him and bowed her head slightly. A “Thank you” perhaps.

  Caden inspected the state of his men around the camp. A skirmish had been anticipated, but not so soon after crossing the English border. Perhaps the young English king had ordered local militia to attack any Scot.

  Caden took a long drink from a bladder filled with spring water. He wiped some of the liquid on the back of his neck. “Bloody English heat.” He would rather be home seeing to his clan’s protection. Unfortunately, his mission required the journey. He frowned. This skirmish would delay them and he needed a truce before the first snowfall to save his clan.

  Ewan caught up with Caden. “What’s the lass doing out here on her own?”

  “She hasn’t said.”

  Ewan tilted his head to a tawny-colored horse tied to a tree on the other side of the camp. “Sean found him wandering about near the lass’s trail. I’m supposing it is hers.”

  Caden nodded.

  �
�Just she and the horse? Perhaps she’s daft,” Ewan whispered.

  “Perhaps she is, Ewan. Best stay away from her.”

  Caden moved onto the supply wagon to check the rations.

  Ewan followed him. “What was that about a wolf?”

  “She has a pet wolf.” Caden counted the barrels of mead then turned to Kieven, who was in charge of the food. “Fill all the containers ye have with that spring water before we move on.”

  “A pet wolf,” Ewan mumbled and leaned against the wagon. “Most unusual.”

  Caden surveyed the clearing. “Where’s Girshmel?”

  “He’s checking the road and perimeter to the creek.” Ewan indicated the narrow river they’d been following behind him through the woods. “To make certain the English scampered home to lick their wounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if Girshmel brought back an English head on a stick. He is an odd one.”

  Caden agreed. “Odd one,” he echoed, though his mind and gaze followed a very different odd one. The woman from the mist was unlike any lass he’d ever met. Alluring, capable, especially for an English lass. Perhaps it was the mystery shrouding her that caught at him. She shot a bow with accuracy, traveled alone through hostile countryside alongside a wolf, and although she was cautious, fear didn’t paralyze her. Diana, the goddess of ancient Greece, no. Yet there was something special about her, something unique, and Caden would figure out what it was.

  …

  Meg moved among the wounded men, all of them Scots. The only English she saw were dead. She spoke to Caden’s men in a mix of Gaelic and English; luckily Uncle Harold had made certain that she was schooled in Gaelic, but she rarely had chance to practice it. They seemed surprised, even wary, but eventually she won some nods. They were fierce men, large, grimy, and bloodied. She was extra careful not to reveal too much knowledge about their ailments, even though she could sense every scratch upon contact. She must seem odd enough to be wandering around in the forest alone.