Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  “My mother died when I was five summers old.” She hesitated. “A wicked man accused her of being a witch just because she helped people who were sick or injured. He had her burned.”

  Meg watched the sharp tongues of flame dance under the rabbit with the night breeze. Her mind touched on the awful dreams she’d had since her uncle had taken her away, the dreams born of whispers about her mother, whispers of how she screamed in the flames.

  “And now he chases ye,” Caden said.

  Meg watched the fire. The bowing flames entranced her. She could almost imagine the image of a body moving in the blaze, screaming in the flame. She turned to him. “I do not want to burn, Caden.”

  “Holy God, why would anyone want to burn ye, lass?” Ewan asked.

  “He thinks ye are a witch, too, because ye…help people,” Caden answered.

  “He doesn’t know me.” Meg focused on the fire. “He hasn’t seen me since he took my mother away.” She picked up a stick and pushed it into the dirt. “He might accuse me once he has me.”

  “Are ye a witch?” Ewan’s whisper held a bit of awe.

  “There is nothing but good in what I do. I have no dealings with Lucifer,” she snapped.

  “I…I didn’t mean to—” Ewan stuttered.

  “I need to get away from him.”

  “He cannot just take ye without yer guardian’s permission,” Ewan said. “Unless ye think he would steal ye away in the middle of the night.” He gave an odd little laugh.

  Meg squinted at him from her peripheral view.

  “He could take ye if he was yer legal guardian,” Caden said, his voice even.

  The statement hung amongst them while Meg’s stomach knotted. She wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned toward the warmth of the fire.

  “Is he yer—” Ewan began.

  “I think the hare is roasted through, Ewan.” Caden cut him off. “Let’s get our guest fed and to bed. We leave with the dawn.”

  Meg would have retorted that she wasn’t a child, but Caden’s words stopped any further interrogation. And she was tired. Down to the bone tired. She needed to keep her wits about her and exhaustion would only work against her. Tomorrow she’d enter into the heart of Scotland, the land of rugged mountains, raw beauty, and deadly secrets.

  …

  The moon was high when Caden laid his head down on the mossy ground outside Meg’s tent. Perhaps her pet prowled nearby, perhaps not. Donald and four others were on the first watch and Caden had sent Ewan to sleep far away from the lass, far away from her pleasant expressions that had returned quickly after her anger cooled.

  Caden watched the clouds blow across the sky, past the moon on their way north over the moors, over his home. Meg turned inside the tent, her body pushed outward against the confines of the draped blanket. He was only a few feet away. One roll and he’d be up against that warm outline.

  “Bloody foolish,” he whispered and closed his eyes against the sight of her backside molded by the blanket. He would keep his distance. The lass could lure any man with those long lashes and hazel eyes, the lushness of her mouth, the silky hair that lay around her soft curves. Half his men watched her like eager pups. If she weren’t so beautiful he’d swear she was spelling them. Her strong, gentle spirit was bewitching enough. She had no need for magic.

  Though Meg Boswell was not to be touched. She was a pawn to be used for a higher purpose, not a simple wench with which to dally. If she came to harm while in his protection, a peace might never be settled. And peace was more important than anything else.

  Caden drifted in and out of sleep, as was his usual slumber on journeys. He was never parted from his sword and never completely unaware of those around him.

  He first heard Meg’s voice vibrate along the razor’s edge of a dream.

  “No, leave her alone. Let go…” she mumbled.

  Caden’s eyes snapped open, his fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. Darkness still shrouded the camp. His eyes sought out the guards walking the perimeter. Nothing seemed out of place.

  “Go,” Meg muttered. “Mama…don’t go. No, don’t take her away.”

  The lass was dreaming. Her words pressed hard into his chest, clenching, making it more difficult to breathe. Pressure born of guilt perhaps or a need to protect the weak, whatever it was, it wrapped around him, made him ache to confront the foe in Meg’s dreams, to slay her demon.

  “Caden,” she murmured on a breath.

  Caden sat upright. Had she just called for him, called for him to save her?

  “Help…” Her word tumbled into a whimper.

  He pushed under the flap at the back of the tent. Meg lay wrapped in a binding cocoon of blanket, yet she shivered. Bloody hell, the lass was too delicate to be sleeping out on the cold ground as they traveled farther north. Thoughts of what she would be enduring if he hadn’t found her made his heart beat even heavier.

  “Macbain,” she mumbled.

  Caden knelt down, unsure what to do. “I’m here lass, ye’re safe,” he whispered near her ear. “Sleep. I will watch ye.”

  Meg muttered something but calmed with his words. She shivered again. There was no other blanket so he reached under the tarp and grabbed the blanket that was his pallet. He covered her with it and stared. Another quake jolted under the woolen, and her face crinkled as if she were in pain.

  “More night terrors,” he murmured and stretched out beside her. She rolled into his side immediately. His body radiated heat and Meg’s soft nuzzle against him fueled it even more. She whimpered. He turned toward her and pulled her against him, cradling her. “Hush, lass. I’ll chase away the bad. Dream of the good now.”

  Meg’s face relaxed, lips parted, the trembling ceased. Caden lay wrapped around her, listening to soft steady breaths, basking in the warm air escaping on exhales against the hollow of his throat, inhaling the sweet flower smell of her skin. He tried to close his eyes, tried to close his mind to the thought and sensation of her in his arms.

  She’s a hostage, a pawn. That is all. He said the words over and over again in the silence as he guarded her against the cold. With each repetition, the mantra turned more and more hollow until it sounded like a lie.

  For four long days, Caden rode near Meg, watching her examine the journal, listening to Ewan expound on some native flora, and grumbling about the flush most of his men exhibited when she tended their injuries. And for three more nights, Caden stretched out next to her, muting the cold wind that skittered under the tent, and soothing the nightmares that tortured her. Each night he would start off with intentions of leaving once she settled into the depths of slumber. Each night he ended up wrapped around her soft, sleeping form only to disengage and roll out from under the tarp just before dawn.

  Each morning his blanket was folded and laying over his horse’s saddle. She never said a word.

  …

  Caden rubbed his jaw and took a washing gulp of spring water. The sun set below the tree line, and several of the young Macbains he’d brought secured the horses. Meg walked gracefully between the injured. She spent some time changing Hugh’s bandages. Caden discussed the two possible routes for the next day with his scout. When he turned back, she was staring at him from before a newly lit campfire.

  She didn’t turn away. He nodded before he thought better of it. Ewan conveniently appeared. Caden scowled and flexed his shoulder muscles.

  Her lips seemed inclined to turn upward at him just because Ewan knew how to talk to lasses. She barely uttered a word to Caden, yet each night she turned into his warmth, his name often whispered on an exhale. That whisper alone was more enticing than a hall full of willing maids.

  It would end as soon as they reached Druim Keep. One more night, perhaps two, if he decided to circumvent Munro land.

  Two more nights, he decided. No need to risk the Munros stealing back his hostage. He couldn’t push them too hard with a lady traveling with them. Aye, two nights. He leaned back near the fire to wait for everyo
ne to fall asleep and the guards to walk on the far perimeter. Then he’d check to make certain his prisoner was warm enough.

  Caden laid on his back with Meg snuggled into his side. His mind drifted in and out of dreams until the sound of a horse shot through his consciousness and snapped open his eyes. He didn’t move, but the fingers of his left hand found the hilt of his short sword. Had he dreamt the horse nickering outside the tent? He breathed slowly. A low growl sent his blood rushing through his limbs. Damn. Was it her bloody wolf or some other beast? He shifted away from Meg’s warmth and sat up, eyes and ears trained on the back flap of the tent.

  The horse whinnied and trotted away at the same time a voice cursed from the other side. “Cac!”

  The growl increased in volume.

  “Nickum?” Meg opened sleep glazed eyes. She sat up and blinked. “Caden, what?” she started, and quickly assessed the sleeping arrangement. “Caden! You’re sleeping with me!”

  What could he say? There was no time to explain.

  Nickum growled and snapped outside the tent.

  “Nickum!” Meg called, her voice strained. “Caden!”

  “Bloody beast!” a guttural voice yelled outside and Caden leapt up, yanking the blanket flap aside.

  Girshmel stood, his sword in hand as the large wolf advanced toward him.

  “Girshmel, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” Caden demanded.

  Caden heard Meg stand behind him.

  “Ho!” Ewan called, running up to the tent with a short dirk and a torch. His hair stood up at odd angles. “What is bloody going on?”

  Donald followed Ewan and froze when he saw the wolf. The two perimeter guards also emerged from the night.

  The wolf’s stare moved between the men and Meg. The beast growled deep and snapped, fresh spittle flying from his muzzle. Girshmel stepped backward.

  “He’ll stop snapping if you put away your weapons,” Meg advised crisply. Moonlight flickered through the moving branches. Splashes of white danced over the small crowd where they stood near the tent.

  Ewan tucked his dirk in his boot and Caden tossed his sword into the tent. The guards dropped their weapons. Nickum turned to Girshmel and crouched as if preparing to pounce.

  “Keep a hold of that sword, Girshmel,” Caden said lowly. “When the beast tears your throat out, it will save me the trouble of finding out why you were sneaking into Meg’s tent in the middle of the night, with a horse waiting outside.”

  “What…I—” he began.

  Nickum growled, ready to spring. Girshmel jumped and dropped his sword in the leaves. Nickum kept his eyes focused on him but backed up to sit beside Caden at Meg’s feet.

  “I thought I heard something, someone with the lass. I just thought to make sure she was safe.” Girshmel held up both of his hands. “I didn’t know it was you, chief, in there alone with her.”

  Meg gasped and ducked into the tent. “He was not invited,” she bit out. Incoherent mumblings ensued with jabs of what could be colorful insults, yet she spoke them so softly Caden couldn’t quite make them out. Caden’s balled-up blanket hit the side of his legs where he stood just outside along with the hilt of his sword.

  Ewan turned toward Caden. His face was filled with shadows, flickers of torchlight, and condemnation. Hell!

  “Nickum,” Meg called from inside, and the wolf nosed his way into the tent. Caden heard the beast lower its bulk onto the ground. At least the lass would be safe and probably warm with the wolf.

  “I’m thinking you two may have something to discuss.” Girshmel glanced between Ewan and Caden. The man picked up his sword and stalked out of the circle of torchlight.

  “Girshmel,” Caden said, his words hard as stone. “Do not go near Meg Boswell again. Am I clear?” What was hopefully clear was the promise of death under his words.

  “Aye…chief,” Girshmel said without a backward glance and disappeared into the night. Caden listened to Meg’s muffled curses until she settled.

  “Donald,” Caden said. “Put a man on Girshmel…quietly.”

  Donald retreated with the guards.

  Caden grabbed the blanket and sword and walked toward the dying fire.

  Ewan followed. “You’ve been lying with her. Bloody hell, Caden! She was a maid.”

  Caden pivoted close to Ewan so that their words wouldn’t carry. “She’s still a maid.”

  “You mean you’ve lain next to her these nights—”

  “To keep her warm. To help her sleep,” Caden finished flatly.

  “How bloody gallant of you,” Ewan answered with unveiled sarcasm. “And here I thought you just liked to scowl at her.”

  Caden and Ewan stood only a breath apart, each of their faces rock hard.

  “Ewan, she will hate us, all of us, when we reach Druim.”

  “You even more so for making her soft on you, stealing her honor—”

  “I have barely touched the lass and have definitely not stolen her honor.”

  Ewan threw his arm out toward the tent. “You came from her tent where you two slept against one another! The guards, Girshmel, Donald…they all saw you.”

  “I’ll make sure they understand what did not happen,” Caden gritted out.

  Ewan stepped back and tossed the lit end of the torch into the fire. “No wonder the lass moons over you.”

  What the hell was Ewan talking about? “She smiles at you, Ewan, not me.”

  Ewan ran his hand through his hair, making it stick out even more. “Aye, but her eyes follow you, Caden,” he said low. “They search you out.”

  They both watched the thin blue and red flame of the torch catch along the dry wood left in the pit. So the lass did watch him. The heat of her stare wasn’t just his imagination or the lust built by nights of inhaling her sweetness.

  “She’s simply a pawn to force the peace, Ewan. Don’t get attached. She will hate us.”

  Ewan turned toward him. “What if she doesn’t hate us?” he asked on the rush of an exhale.

  Silence shrouded them, waiting, listening for a reply. The little flame snapped and crackled, flashing light against their faces as it grew.

  Caden turned his head, his eyes locking with his friend’s. His voice was low, cold, unbreakable. “Then she’s mine.”

  Chapter Four

  1 August 1517—Hedge Woundwort: reddish in color, hairy plant that flowers in summer.

  Found in shady places, hidden away from the world. There are many paths to take to find Woundwort’s ring of flowers. When in doubt, one should take the third path to the right.

  Stamp the plant in vinegar and apply as a poultice to take away hard knots and inflammation. Use the leaves for healing persistent wounds.

  Meg noted the subtle changes to the countryside as they traveled northward. Gently rolling meadows turned to coarse, mossy fields erupting with steps of jagged rock. They’d left the North Road two days before for another road that had dwindled to nothing but a pebbly path. Deciduous trees flapped their brightly colored leaves amid soaring pines under a crystal blue sky.

  Meg let Pippen follow Donald as they wound their way along the edges of cliffs and down through autumn-colored valleys. Here snow already touched the tops of the mountains, and she kept her borrowed wool blanket tucked tightly around her. More than once she sent a prayer of thanksgiving that she wasn’t alone, starving, freezing, and most likely lost. Or worse, prisoner of those dishonorable English soldiers.

  Although she didn’t speak about her thankfulness because she was still furious over Caden’s trespass and embarrassed by everyone’s knowledge of it. For they surely must know, even though no one said as much. How could they not know that their chief had bedded down with her? Meg was fairly certain that she was still a maid. If Caden had taken liberties with her body, she would have woken up. Wouldn’t she? Just how much of her dreams about the Macbain chief was truth?

  No one talked about the disappearance of that ogre, Girshmel, either. Donald had said that the man was a mercen
ary who’d been living amongst the Macbains for a couple months. Since he’d obviously offended the chief, he’d left. Because the man had taken his horse, it didn’t appear that Caden had murdered him or Nickum eaten him. He’d simply left the morning after the incident.

  Meg wondered what Donald would say if she asked him about the horrible drama of the other night. If only this long trip could be over. She could start over with her aunt’s clan, where no one knew of her humiliation.

  Donald held one finger against his lips. “Quiet now, lass,” he whispered. “Dangerous terrain here.” He pointed up to a line of trees above them. “Ambush territory.”

  Meg glanced around her. She drew her bow across her lap and nocked an arrow. Her gaze moved between the narrow path and the tree line above. She hadn’t thought about enemies other than her father after they’d crossed into Scotland. Of course there were enemies even within one’s own country. She just hadn’t considered it so close to the Macbain border. Whose lands were they traversing?

  After an eternity of watchful silence, the winding trail along the side of the mountain gave way to a moor filled with late blooming wildflowers and purple heather. The men pushed their mounts into a run across the sun-washed expanse.

  Donald pulled back beside Meg. “We’re almost home, lass.” He pointed ahead. “Just past those boulders is Macbain land. No need to keep quiet now.”

  He kicked his horse into a gallop.

  Meg twisted around as the men raced past her on both sides, smiles cracking along their dirty, fuzzy faces. She tapped Pippen and raced after them. The relief of almost being at her aunt’s, the fresh wash of mountain air along her skin, the surge of her horse after days of sedate walking. The speed was more than her frown could take. She beamed widely. Halfway across, she glanced over one shoulder and her heart leapt high. Caden rode behind, restraining his charger to match Pippen’s pace.

  The sun beat down. The wind tugged at her loose braid, pulling several locks free to fly behind like errant ribbons. Meg’s blood pumped under her skin, warming her as she bent forward along Pippen’s neck and kicked lightly, giving him freedom to run.