by Amanda Boone
She rides on into a clearing, a gap made by an old, majestic tree falling, giving way to bracken and brush. The light is brighter here, giving her the shivers despite the residual warmth of the hard ride. Her eyes adjust to the light, and in the clearing, suddenly, she notices a man.
She breathes in, sharply, the sudden human presence a shock in this emptiness. Then she looks again.
He is slightly older than her. Perhaps about twenty eight, she judges. He has a strange dignity. Even here in the forest, he is holding himself regally, like a king. He is also a strange grey color, and sweating profusely. She cannot see if he is armed, but he does not look in a fit state to do damage to anyone.
“Hello?” Sophie ventures.
This could be less straightforward than just asking:
The locals all speak Gaelic, and mostly only that.
“Hello?”
The man replies in perfect English, only slightly accented. And his voice is... well... it has a soothing quality, a deep resonance. Sophie bites her lip. The voice throbs through her, making her feel alive.
“Perhaps you could help me?”
And then Sophie notices it. His leg. Where the left calf should be is a confluence of flesh and metal and blood. A snare. She feels shock, and then calm. She is used to blood and wounding.
“Of course. Let me see.”
The scent of blood wafts up to her as she nears him, a sharp, metallic brightness in this place of pine-needles and damp earth. The leg seems broken, the teeth of the trap caught solidly. They are deep in the flesh, which is itself soaked in dark blood. The smell is overpowering.
“Won't you… sit down?”
He lifts his brows. “How can I?”
True.
Sophie looks carefully at the man while she gathers her thoughts. That he is a Scotsman is clear. That means he is certainly her father's enemy, But he is an injured man. She cannot leave him here unattended.
She studies him while she thinks. Fine-boned face. Thin lips, well-curved. High, angular cheekbones, grey eyes. She looks down again, suddenly shy. A sudden sweet stab of feeling has distracted her. She shakes her head and concentrates instead on the injury. At least that is something she understands.
She has never faced an injury quite like this one before. Sophie takes a deep breath. Makes a decision.
“Would you like me to try and remove the trap?”
“You can?” The hope is raw in his voice.
“I could. But it could be dangerous.” She cautions. “When I remove the teeth of the trap, blood will flow. You could bleed to death.”
“Put... bandage. Here. Above the knee.” He gestures. “Stop... bleeding.”
A tourniquet. Of course.
A branch. Wrapped into the ends of the bandage, it can act like a lever, to help fasten the bandaging tight. Sophie searches frantically for a minute.
“Here!” She rejoins the path and runs back to the clearing.
The man looks up levelly. She threads the branch quickly, tying the opposite ends of the bandage to it in two firm knots. Takes hold. Starts to twist. The strength in her slender arms is surprising. She bites her lip with concentration.
When the tourniquet seems tight enough, Sophie takes the cold iron of the trap between her hands.
She grips the metal and pulls. Hard. And harder. The man groans. Nothing budges. No. Her face creases with the intensity of that thought. I will not let this have him.
She pulls again. Her shoulders are burning; she is gasping with the effort.
The teeth part. The trap opens. The man falls slightly to the side, then sits down heavily. The leg is free.
They are both silent for a moment. The only sound is Sophie's strained breathing. The bandage is holding back all but a thread of blood. The smell of it is bright, iron sharp. It catches her throat.
“Are you alright?”
She looks up. Their eyes meet. It is impossible, suddenly, to look away. They are strange, a caste in the left eye, which makes him look somehow implacably authoritative. This is a man born to lead. Sophie feels her blood rise to her face, and a strange pulsing deep inside her, somewhere between her heart and her waist. Then his eyes close.
Sophie makes a decision.
“I'm going to stay with you until help arrives, Mister...”
He opens his eyes a slit. “Bryce. Bryce Gowan”
“I'm going to stay here with you, Mister Gowan.”
“Bryce.”
He smiles. She smiles back. It is a beautiful thing, a sudden brightness in the forest. “Bryce.”
They sit for a while. Bryce is close enough for the warmth of his body to seep through to Sophie, through the cotton of his shirt and the green velvet of her riding-habit.
After a moment, Sophie realises she has not introduced herself.
“Bryce... I didn't introduce myself. I am... Sophie Hogarth. Daughter of...” She stops. She should not, cannot, tell him. He will hate her. And somehow she absolutely does not want his hate.
“You're English, aye?”
Sophie nods. Yes. She cannot speak past the lump in her throat.
He is looking at her, his eyes level and grey.
“That's alright, lass.” He pauses. “Whoever your father is; it doesn't make a blind difference. That's not who you are.”
Sophie swallows. No-one has ever said that before. To have someone see her, first, and not care about her parentage or peerage... that has never happened before.
“Thank you... Bryce.”
“Aye.” He pauses. “And thank you, and all.”
There is silence in the forest for a moment. Blissful, unbroken.
Then, suddenly, a shot rings out. And another. There are voices, and shouts, and orders and the smell of smoke. They are close. And they are coming closer.
***
Bryce tries to stand. Sophie is already on her feet. She reaches out and pulls him to his feet.
“Can you walk?”
“I believe I can.” he nods.
Sophie feels a sudden flush, as she steps forward to help him balance.
The touch of his hands was strange and wonderful enough. But he needs her help. She steps beside him, and he puts an arm around her shoulders. His body is warm, heavy, and strangely good to have so close.
They have to be fast. If he is caught here, he is dead. If she is caught with him, her fate could be as bad. And she will lose Bryce. Already, that means something.
Behind them, the sound of men is coming closer. They can hear boots on the stony soil, twigs and brush breaking underfoot, the sound becoming steadily louder. They are heading this way.
They are in the shadow of a great tree when they hear a horse whicker in the clearing. They freeze.
They hear the soft snort of another horse, in answer. Midnight is still there. With the saddle from the British military, Midnight will be taken back to the stable, Sophie reassures herself, even as she freezes in terror. The discovery of the horse will, hopefully, keep the men busy.
Bryce gestures behind them. Sophie nods. They walk back, silently.
“Those your boys?” He asks, casually, when they lean on a tree for a moment, out of earshot.
Sophie looks down. “They... I don't think they were my father's troops.”
“Good.” Bryce grunts. “They shot some of mine, back there, I think.”
Sophie draws a breath. How can he sound so calm about that? His men, shot not thirty paces from where they are now; and yet he seems so pragmatic?
“Used to it.” He says, as if he has followed her train of thought.
“My men, but... own free will to be here.”
Sophie nods.
“We should stop.”
“Not here.” Bryce manages. “Almost... home.”
They walk for another twenty minutes. It is getting dark. Bryce is starting to speed up now, as if he knows they are nearing home. Then he stops. Sophie waits and lets her eyes adjust to the darkness.
Perhaps thirty paces ah
ead of her is the outline of a house. She had imagined a cottage, perhaps. A small dwelling. A lean-to, even. But here, spread out before her, is a manor, like her uncle's house at home in England, built during the Restoration.
They are at the foot of a wide flight of stairs, the bannisters gracefully carved and low.
“Welcome,” Bryce says quietly, “to my home.”
Sophie feels herself swallow. She is trying not to seem impolite. She cannot explain that she expected he would live in a peat-roofed cottage, or even like an outlaw, in a shed or barn or stall.
“It's... it's beautiful.”
Bryce smiles, faintly. “Good.”
They stand at the foot of the stairs together. It is a strange moment, almost a shared homecoming.
“Shall we?”
Sophie nods.
Inside, the house seems warm. And huge. Bryce leans on the door frame, standing at the entrance. Watching her.
She is beautiful, caught in the last, lancing beam of the sunset, a curl loose against her cheek, the surprise widening her eyes. She is looking up at the soaring ceiling with its arching vaults, head is tipped back, her hazel-green eyes wide in the half-light.
Since the moment he saw her in the clearing he has been feeling something strange. He has had many women. More than he remembers, ever since he was fourteen. But this feeling is something new.
He has never felt a simple pleasure in someone's presence like this before.
Bryce walks forward to her, stumbles through a few steps, and then collapses. Sophie cries out and rushes to him.
The room into which he has fallen is a smaller room, a dining-room, perhaps. There is the remnants of a fire in the grate. Clearly, this place, and the man who owns it are well-tended.
Sophie stands gracefully and offers him her hand. He takes it, and she leans back, pulling him to his feet. His weight almost unbalances her, for she is slight, and not as tall.
Together, they reach the table and sit down. They are silent, each recovering from the exertion of their journey.
After a moment, Bryce rests his hands on the table. Near hers. Neither of them move.
Bryce clears his throat.
“Thank you. For your help.”
“No... no need.”
Sophie looks down at his hands. The hands of a man used to the battlefield, his nails broken and the fingers hard with muscle. She reaches out. He bridges the gap, takes her hand in his own. They both feel the shock of that, and the warmth.
They sit like that for a moment, in silence.
“I should pull the bell-rope there. Call Mhaire.”
“Let me.”
After about a minute, an older woman appears, with kind eyes in a wrinkled face. A rapid dialogue in Gaelic follows. The woman looks once at Sophie, nods. Leaves.
Sophie speaks no Gaelic. Her father would not have her learn despite her curiosity about it.
“You will stay for supper, I hope?”
Sophie nods, speechless.
After ten minutes, the woman returns. She lays out warm wine and oatcakes, and pours a cup each, lights the lamp.
Withdraws.
They eat in silence for a moment. The oatcake is impossibly good, crumbly and warm. After a moment, Sophie swallows and looks up.
“And your leg?”
“I will have it addressed later. Mhaire will help, or Leeson, when he is back from tending the men.” He waves a hand in airy dismissal.
Sophie nods again, her eyes round and liquid in the candlelight. “Good. Perhaps I can help? I have some knowledge of such.”
He nods. “I can see that, lass. Don't fret yourself. You've done enough.”
They are quiet for a while. Sophie is worried.
The enormity of the situation is slowly sinking in. Here she is, in the household of a rebel, in a location even she herself could not pinpoint on a map. She has no hope of getting home.
“What is it, lass?” Bryce has been watching her. His voice is deep, and quiet, concern in every syllable of it.
“I can't go back. Not tonight.” Sophie says it flatly.
“No.” Bryce agrees, mildly.
They are silent for a moment.
“Can I... May I stay here?”
He nods. “Of course.”
He cannot help feeling a warm satisfaction at that. It is surprisingly good to have her close.
Bryce clears his throat.
“If you would like to rest now? Mhaire told me that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes.”
Sophie swallows, then nods. “Yes.”
“Good.”
They both look down, shy.
Sophie forces herself to speak.
“Can I, well, do you need help to get somewhere?”
“I should not impose.” He says it gallantly, but takes her outstretched arm nonetheless.
“Now your room is on the left. I believe they have set aside the East room for you. It has a beautiful view over the park.”
“Th-Thank you, Mister Gowan.” Sophie manages.
He laughs, a hollow sound. His eyes catch hers and they are deep and level. She looks back, transfixed.
“Bryce.”
“Yes.”
He pauses a moment, looking down at her. Then he stumbles forward, to the doors opposite, and falls through onto the bed beyond.
Sophie is left alone in the hallway. She opens the first door on her left. Inside, it has satin wallpapering in pale peach. The windows look onto a small lake with a central fountain, the dark shapes of conifers still visible. The land gives way to the encircling fold of trees: a beautiful, tranquil scene.
The bed is big enough for more than one, and elaborately covered in a cream silk. Sophie collapses onto it and ten minutes later, she is sound asleep.
***
It is early morning, the light seeping slowly through the curtains, most of the house still grey and mauve with the early hour.
Bryce is in the breakfast room, unable to sleep.
His thoughts are filled with her. Sophie.
His thoughts chase each other in circles, heedless and directionless, like hunting-dog pups. He chides himself for his stupidity. Sophie is the daughter of a high-ranking English officer, surely. How else would her father even have permission to bring her to a war?
How can a father risk that? He wonders.
He can understand a need to have her close. His thoughts wander back to the evening before, when he opened the door to her bedchamber, and saw her curled up asleep on the silk of the bed, her skin like satin, reflecting the firelight there.
He had wanted, with every fiber of his being, to touch her. He has not, he thinks, ever wanted something so much. But closed the door and left her to her rest. Dragged himself up the corridor to sleep alone.
Now, his leg is swollen, bruised and throbbing. And his mind will not settle.
Two men, at least, he lost, yesterday – captured or dead. Dougal and McLeary. Waiting for him to return, when they were caught unaware. He shakes his head.
He finds himself trying to stand.
He braces himself on the table. He is trying to summon enough energy to hobble to the bell-rope, when he catches a movement in the corridor.
“Sophie?”
There is a moment of silence, and then she appears.
“Yes?”
She is pale, in the faint light of the dawn. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, her outer dark green riding-habit removed, showing the plain white dress beneath.
“Come in.” He says softly. He cannot move from the table, where his weight is braced.
She crosses the room to join him.
“I...sorry to intrude thus, so early.” She begins.
“No.” He contradicts her, gently. “No intrusion.” He smiles. “I was just having breakfast.”
“Oh.”
Sophie suddenly remembers how hungry she is and swallows.
“You would like some, yes? I'll have a tray brought up.”
She nods,
vigorously. Then looks down at the leg, her eyebrows raised.
“It's...better.” He says, in a bold attempt at nonchalance. “But still not fit enough for walking.”
Sophie's briskness takes over. “I'll call for breakfast, and then I am having a look at that leg myself.”
He grins, despite himself. “You are, are you?”
“Yes.”
While Bryce passes on the request for breakfast in Gaelic, Sophie considers the treatments for the leg.
Ten minutes later, she is crouched beside Bryce's chair, running a hand over the leg, grimacing at the heat and hardness she feels around the wound. Mhaire brings in a tray of breakfast and looks at the two of them, and smiles, then leaves, as silently as she came.
Sophie finishes her examination of the leg, and sits down to breakfast. Bryce smiles at the innocent relish with which she bolts it down.
“You need... you need rest.” She pronounces at last, around a mouthful of sausage. “And a bread poultice, with onion, for the swelling. And you need to drink a tea of yarrow, to clean the blood and help it set in the wound.”
“Yes, my lady.” He grins, delighted.
“Don't you ‘my lady’ me.” She grins back, her eyes slanted in mischief. She points a fork at him, warningly, a small cube of sausage impaled on the end. “That's Sophie to you. I'll ‘Lady’ you where you least expect it.”
They find that they are both laughing.
After a moment, he sobers. “I...I have...duties...to attend to. In the forest. My men.”
She nods, silent. She had almost forgotten.
“You...” He continues, his voice quiet. “I need to get you home.”
Sophie knows that she must return.
“You... cannot come too far with me.”
“I know.” He swallows.
His voice is very quiet. It is strangely hard to think of saying goodbye. “I will...I'll take you as far as the path.” He suggests. “Then you will know the way. I'll lend you a map, which you can burn when you are home.”
