Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  The putrid breath was the last insult to Meg’s senses. She turned her head to the side. The vomit that came up flew down along Girshmel’s leg.

  “Bloody wench!” Girshmel cursed and virtually threw Meg to one of the other men riding beside them. Her sore body banged into the thick trunk of the other warrior. “Take her,” he yelled and wiped the frothy waste from his bare leg with the end of his plaid.

  “Dead?” Meg whispered.

  The man holding her answered. “Shot, he was, by Kendell up there. Must be dead by now.”

  Meg’s hand ran along her abdomen over the small life growing there. To stay alive and to keep their baby alive was her mission. How could a day so full of promise have turned so brutal?

  She wiped at her mouth and tears. She had to be strong and clever, for the baby and for Caden, because he just had to survive.

  Hope. She must hold onto hope. As the horses climbed along the rock-strewn path amongst the trees and patches of snow, she prayed and pleaded as she concentrated on breathing. Live, Caden, live! Live, my love, live!

  …

  “I broke the shaft off,” Alec said thickly behind Caden. “Lay back now, lad.”

  “I will sit,” Caden said. The pain in his chest and shoulder shot like fire through his stiff body, causing small bursts of light to pop before his eyes. “Colin, the others?”

  Alec squatted down and rubbed his hand over his short beard. “Not good. My man, Seonaidh, is dead.”

  Caden’s mind pushed past the stabbing sharpness of the wound and the difficulty breathing, past his fury for not anticipating the ambush. He forced air down his throat. The breath wheezed on the way back out, and he coughed.

  “You’re pale. Lay back, Caden.” Alec waved another Munro over.

  Caden remained sitting against the tree. “My da laid down when he’d been shot and he never rose again. I’ll sit.”

  Alec clasped his shoulder gently. “I’ve stopped the bleeding with the cloth, but that rasp in your voice says the arrow hit a lung.”

  “Good thing I have two of them,” Caden murmured and tried to keep his eyes in focus.

  “Go to Brenon Malley’s cottage, the one on the other side of this pass,” Alec said to a Munro warrior, one of the men who’d brought up the rear and hadn’t been shot in the bombardment of arrows. “Get Rachel—she’s there tending a fever—and bring her here.” Alec scanned the trees. “Watch for the bastards, but bring her here. Quick as you can.”

  The warrior ran off, a blur in Caden’s peripheral vision that tunneled in and out. He blinked. His eyes opened again on Alec wrapping Colin’s plaid around his father-in-law’s chest. Colin’s eyes were closed, but Caden could see his chest rise and fall on a shallow breath.

  Bloody hell, he hadn’t even seen Gilbert or Boswell among the attackers, but he knew they were Davidsons, had recognized them. Although he hadn’t seen Simon, either. Where were they? Gilbert Davidson may be a bloody traitor and murderer, but he wasn’t a coward.

  “Alec,” Caden said, though his tongue moved thick in his mouth, unwieldy with the taste of his own blood. “Gilbert and Boswell…I didn’t see Simon, either. They knew we were gone from Druim…Meg…they…going to get her,” he finally spit out with the blood that had collected against the corner of his lip.

  Alec frowned. “I’ve already sent a man back to Druim for help. He will find Meg and make certain she’s tucked up tight inside.”

  Caden nodded—or at least he thought he did—but then Alec’s face began to swim farther and farther away down a tunnel surrounded by darkness.

  Even though he fought it, the patch of light at the tunnel’s end continued to move farther out until it was just a single star in a sea of night. He closed his eyes and spit out the blood in his mouth. Meg, lass, stay safe, keep our wee bairn safe. The tree broke his fall as his heavy body fell backward. Just like his da, Caden Macbain laid down on the ground.

  …

  Meg held tight to the scrap of mane in front of her as she tried not to lean back into the Davidson warrior. The trail threaded up through birch and conifer trees around boulders and along a brisk stream. They stopped once to water the horses.

  She sat upon the horse and watched a dry leaf break free of a cluster up stream. The brittle form meandered down over ripples, swirling through eddies to finally stick to a clump of roots. The leaf’s wide span clogged the gentle flow, forcing the water to shoot alongside it.

  Girshmel stomped through the water, rinsing his leg. “Bloody leg still stinks,” he said, glaring in Meg’s direction.

  Meg moved her eyes back to the leaf and stared, emotionless, aloof. If she allowed her emotions to flow, she’d succumb to weeping. And she couldn’t do that, not when her baby’s life was still in peril. More leaves followed the strong current, piling up onto the first leaf until a clump dammed the water along the far side.

  “Let’s go,” the man who’d shot Caden called. “Gilbert and the Englishman want her up at the cave now.”

  Why would they need her at the cave? Meg swallowed hard. They needed a map, but she’d left the key at Druim.

  The Davidson warrior named James pulled up behind her again. Had they followed Caden and Colin up there? Would Caden be lying there? Could she reach him in time? Meg’s hand tingled with blue heat and she fisted it against her leg. She leaned forward in the saddle.

  The horse seemed to sense her impatience and surged forward, making James work hard to keep him under control. “Bloody horse, what’s gotten into you?”

  Meg’s gaze whipped through the trees. Was Nickum near? She moved her fingers up to her lips and stopped. If Nickum attacked she might never find the cave, or at least not quick enough to save Caden. She clenched her fingers and lowered them, still glancing through the layers of frosted forest.

  Long minutes later, two riders appeared ahead. The rushing sound of water caught their hail as one raised an arm. Gilbert Davidson. Rowland Boswell sat his horse next to him.

  Meg studied the ground they rode over. A blood spot here, scuffed ground there, leaves mixed with reddish slush lay scattered in clumps.

  James pulled his horse to a stop with the others near Gilbert and Boswell. Gilbert showed his pristine white teeth at Meg and bowed his head. “Ah, the Lady Meg. Or should I say the Widow Meg?”

  Meg sat up as straight as she could. “Show me Caden’s body. I see no bodies here.”

  Gilbert’s gaze grew cold. “Caden Macbain is dead. Kendell shot him. See?” He indicated the puddles of blood under the horses’ hooves. “Shot through the chest.”

  She tamped down the panic that pushed bile up her throat. She swallowed, but hid it by narrowing her eyes. “’Tis a trick. I see no body. Did my dead husband walk away, then?”

  Kendell shrugged and pointed to the ground. “Dragged.”

  “You left some of them alive,” Boswell said, his hard eyes stared down the man.

  Kendell’s throat worked up and down. “One or two, perhaps. I had to make contact with Simon to get the girl.”

  Boswell shifted his black eyes toward Gilbert. “And your other warriors?”

  “Ye wanted the Munro Witch taken as well. Half are at Munro Castle and half are at Druim, making sure they are too busy to follow. With The Macbain and The Macleod of Lewis out of the way, we can fetch the letters and be back at my holding by nightfall.”

  “And after I fetch me woman,” Girshmel said. Jonet should be halfway back to Druim by now, if she didn’t run into any of the other Davidsons or English.

  “Ye’ll have yer letters, yer daughter, and the Witch Munro as promised,” Gilbert continued.

  “In exchange for forty pieces of silver?” Meg asked sarcastically.

  Gilbert moved his horse toward her and leaned forward to rub his thumb against her cheek. Meg turned away but found her retreat blocked by James, who pushed forward until Gilbert held her whole face in the palm of his hand. “Gold,” he said, his thumb tracing a lazy circle over her cheek. “Weapons, English pr
omises…” His grin hardened into a leer, “…and ye before yer father decides yer fate.” The surrounding men chuckled.

  Meg’s stomach tightened as James ground into her from behind.

  “Perhaps ye could be persuaded to share the lass, Gilbert,” James said in English. He inhaled dramatically. “She smells delicious.”

  Gilbert moved his thumb over Meg’s mouth, dipping it between her parted lips. “Aye, let’s see how many times we can make her beg for release.” Gilbert laughed at his own pun and jammed his finger into Meg’s mouth like she was a horse being made to accept a bit. Her jaw snapped down over his digit, her teeth cutting flesh.

  Gilbert yanked his hand away. “Bloody bitch!”

  Whack! His palm slammed into Meg’s cheek, sending her reeling backward into James’s arms. Gilbert pushed his face into hers. “I can be charming,” he snarled, “or I can be cruel. Yer actions, milady, will decide which it will be.”

  “Enough of this play,” Boswell called. “Let us get past this water.”

  Meg’s head throbbed and she had trouble focusing. The trees fuzzed until she couldn’t discern their individual shapes. She sucked in the crisp air, trying to rally her magic. The ache alternated with stabs of pain in her cheekbone and head. She sent a small sliver of healing energy into her head, just enough to stabilize the world around her.

  James lowered Meg as the others dismounted. Gilbert handed Meg a flask and a linen with cheese. “Provisions for milady,” he said, all gallant again.

  Meg drank and ate. She had to keep her strength and the nausea became worse with hunger.

  The waterfall rushed down into a frothy cistern below. Large rocks jutted upward, breaking the water into huge splashing spray. Meg shivered at the ice edging the top of the rocks.

  Girshmel grunted as he lowered a thick log across from the ledge they stood out on. The makeshift bridge fell behind the curtain of water to a barely seen rock ledge, which must have been at the mouth of the cave.

  As James pushed her closer and the mist rose up, forming droplets of ice water in her hair. For the barest of seconds, she focused on the jutting rocks below and wondered if her best choice was to jump. Would the simple pain of death be so much less than what these brutes had in mind? If Caden was dead…her hand moved to rest on her stomach. Nay, she couldn’t jump, not with so much to live for, so much to protect. She had to stay alive as long as possible. With life there was hope.

  “James, go across first,” Gilbert said and grabbed Meg’s arm. James didn’t appear to want to be the first to try the crude bridge, but he didn’t argue. With three rapid steps he slipped across the log and behind the waterfall. His head peeked out, a cocky grin on his pockmarked face.

  Gilbert glanced at his three men. “Ye stay out here and guard the cave entrance.”

  Boswell moved across the log with assured grace, though slower than James.

  Girshmel glanced around at the woods and frowned. “Best be prepared,” he warned.

  “For what?” Kendell said. “We slaughtered most of them.”

  Girshmel lifted his bushy chin toward Meg. “The lass has a beast.”

  Nickum! Meg stuck two fingers in her lips and blew. A shrill whistle cut through the crash of water, through the trees. She blew again until Gilbert grabbed her wrist, bruising it as he yanked her against him.

  “None can hear ye,” he said, but his eyes flitted to the bare trees. “Move,” he ordered and shoved her toward the log.

  Just as her foot stepped onto the slippery wood, she heard the familiar crash through the leaves. A snarl echoed through the trees followed by a scream of pure panic. Nickum’s powerful body flew through the air, landing on Simon.

  “Move!” Gilbert barked in her ear and pushed her across the log. Meg’s feet slipped and fought for purchase with the big man at her back. “Fast, or ye’ll fall!”

  Out of the corner of Meg’s eye she saw Kendell fall backward over the side. His flailing body thudded against the rocks below. The sound of the crashing water diluted the screams and snarls from behind.

  “Cac!” Gilbert yelled.

  Meg landed on the cold, wet rock floor at the mouth of the cave. A wall of water rushed before her face. She crawled to the edge to see around the flow. The water washed away the melody of death as Nickum and his mate tore into Simon. She winced at the sight and closed her eyes.

  “This time you’ll stay dead.” Meg’s eyes snapped back open.

  Girshmel held his bow steady and nocked an arrow.

  “Nickum!” she warned just as the arrow released. Nickum jumped and the arrow darted through the sheet of water, nearly pinning Gilbert.

  Nickum lunged at Girshmel. He darted around the beast and tried to reach the log, but Nickum’s teeth tore into his calf, yanking him back. A curse froze on Girshmel’s wet lips as Nickum dragged him, the man’s nails digging into the frozen earth.

  “Pull the log,” Boswell yelled at Gilbert. “Or her beast will come across.”

  Meg stood before the log and whistled.

  “Bitch!” Gilbert threw against the outside of the cave with one hand and reached down to yank the log. Nickum turned, his muzzle covered with fresh blood. Too late. Gilbert braced his feet against a boulder and pulled the log off the far edge. “Help me. If I drop this, we’ll never get back across!”

  James leapt over and grasped the log where thin stumps of branches gave them handholds. The log slid across the chasm, leaving Nickum staring from the edge. His black eyes locked with Meg’s. He was a beast, but the expression that passed across his face was human regret, regret for not getting there sooner, not jumping across the log, regret for leaving her with her tormentors.

  Meg stood tall along the side of the cave entrance. “You know he won’t leave me.”

  Gilbert spun on his heel and stalked toward her. He grabbed her hair and yanked it back so that he washed her face with his stagnant, fear-drenched breath. “Ye will make him leave, witch.”

  “Or what?” she asked against the sting on her scalp. “You’ll kill my family? You’ll kill me? What other threats could you use against me that you haven’t already?”

  Gilbert’s lips crushed down on top of her mouth, bruising, suffocating. He pushed her hard, banging her head, the sharp rocks scoring her back. When he pulled back, the worry was replaced with raw fury. “There are many worse things that can happen to ye before ye die, Meg. Things that can start right here on this rock until ye send yer minion away. Think about it,” he said, the spittle from his wet lips speckled her cheeks.

  Meg stared at him defiantly but kept her silence.

  “Enough, Davidson,” Boswell said, stepping out of the cave. “I need her alive to navigate these tunnels.”

  Gilbert leaned in, his arms braced on either side. “Think about it,” he said and pushed backward. He strode toward the cave entrance. Nickum stood there, staring past the edge of the waterfall.

  “Find him,” Meg called to Nickum and turned before the others could question what she was doing. Whether Nickum understood, she didn’t know, but when she glanced back he was gone.

  Gilbert lit the dry end of a torch he’d brought out from inside the tunnel. “There are three paths to take,” he said and turned to Meg. “The lady will guide us.”

  “What makes you think that I know which way to go? I’ve never been here.”

  Boswell’s hands came down heavy on her shoulders. He peered down his hawkish nose. “I’ve heard of your mother’s journal. That there were clues hidden within it.” His hand dug into Meg’s pocket, down to the very bottom. She stood motionless, though Boswell’s fingers sliding against her thigh through the surcoat made her queasy. His hand moved around and his frown deepened.

  “I heard there is a key, a map,” Boswell said.

  “You certainly hear a lot,” Meg said, staring into his beady eyes.

  “Ah, the lovely Gwyneth.” Gilbert said it as if he were sampling a sweet morsel.

  “Where’s the key?” Boswell
asked.

  “I gave it to my father,” Meg said.

  Slap! Boswell’s palm burned against her cheek. Her eyes teared with the pain and she swallowed hard.

  “Then you will have to remember the way through the tunnels, won’t you?” Boswell articulated with cruel precision. “There are three paths that branch off.” He turned to Meg. “Which way?”

  She kept her lips shut tight.

  “Gwen saw the key,” Gilbert said. “She said one line off to the right went the farthest.”

  The dark victory of Boswell’s gaze squelched Meg’s breath like fingers pinching a candle flame. “To the right,” he ordered.

  Gilbert pulled Meg under the heavy lip of wet granite into complete darkness. The contrast between the filtered sunlight under the waterfall and the sharp black of the cave was blinding. Meg blinked several times to help her eyes adjust. Boswell followed them in with the torch, throwing sharp shadows against the moist walls.

  “James, walk ahead of her so she can’t lose us by running ahead,” Gilbert called.

  Gilbert gave Meg a small shove. “Ye be thinking of which way we should turn at the first divergence.”

  Meg followed James but murmured, “I don’t know the way.”

  And it was true. Colin had said the markings were a map, his finger lingering on a spot at the end of the line that extended off to the right, but she hadn’t confirmed that it was the hiding place.

  Boswell moved the torch closer so that it cast a glow through the circular rock cave. The irregular walls closed in and widened out as they walked. Water trickled along cracks and small mushrooms cropped out at odd intervals. A musty earth smell infused Meg’s inhales. The tunnel slanted, curved, and continued like a throat leading into the stomach of the mountain.

  Lord, give me strength. She shuddered and tried to keep her breathing regular. The flame flickered as a breeze blew through, followed by a mournful cry. Mmmaaaayyyyy.

  Meg stopped and rubbed her arms at the chill that had flooded the channel with the wind.

  Gilbert turned rapidly, his sword sliding free. “What was that?”