by Aileen Adams
“And what was he was offered to do it?” Heather broached.
Maccay tried to keep pace with the conversation, but found it increasingly difficult to pay attention. He felt so tired but he fought against it. He couldn’t lie here in bed while Alis was out there at the hands of the McGregors, the very members of the clan that had tried to kill her once already.
Both Sarah and Heather started talking at the same time, each to their respective husbands, urging them to go find Alis. Maccay felt much the same. “Phillip, find her… find her!”
Blackness pulled him down into its comforting embrace before he heard Phillip’s replied.
22
Alis woke just as sunlight made its way over the eastern horizon. Her head felt heavy, her hands throbbed, and every muscle and bone in her body ached.
Within seconds of regaining consciousness, she realized she’d been tossed over the withers of a horse in front of the clansman like a sack of potatoes. Every hoof fall jarred her. She desperately sought to prevent herself from sliding too far forward or too for backward but she had nothing to grab onto.
The ground sped by just an arm’s length away. Every time the horse took a stride, she felt her body lift slightly, not enough to toss her off, but certainly enough to dislodge her precarious balance.
She had managed, in amazingly quick time, to gauge the horse’s pace, had learned to hold her breath every time a hoof bit into the ground to prevent the air from being knocked forcefully from her. It wasn’t comfortable, and in addition to her physical discomfort, her mind raced through any number of not-so-pleasant scenarios for what would ultimately happen to her. She tried desperately not to succumb to her fear or her despair, and after those first few dreadful moments of alertness, anger then prevailed.
Maccay!
She had watched in horror as the clansman thrust the knife deep into his side, then knocked the base of his knife against the back of Maccay’s head.
Maccay had dropped to the floor, unmoving.
Then a fist had struck her against her jaw, pain exploding before darkness took over.
Where were they going? Where were they taking her? Most importantly, why? If she had been left to the wolves the first time, why even bother come looking for her? It didn’t make any sense. Something wasn’t right. Something was—
“There’s a good place to stop.”
The sound of the voice above her sent a shiver of dread through her body.
Stop? Why? To kill her?
She was at their mercy with no way to defend herself. How long had they traveled before she had regained consciousness, only to find herself dangling upside down on a horse? How far had they traveled from Duncan manor?
Every muscle in her body protested her position. Her rib ached from the constant bouncing and she yearned to take a deep breath, to fill her lungs with air. Maybe she should just pretend to be unconscious. Maybe that would provide her with a better idea of who these men were and what they wanted with her. At the same time, pretending unconsciousness would make her extremely vulnerable. What to do? What to do?
Before she could even come up with a plan, the horses pulled into the deeper shade of the woods. She smelled pine, spruce, and wildflowers.
How incongruous for her to notice how good it smelled when in a matter of moments, they could be slitting her throat or—
A hand grabbed the back of her shirt tunic and yanked her upward.
With the garbled cry, she felt herself pulled over the withers of the horse and falling through the air. She landed with a solid thud against the ground, the air knocked from her body.
So much for pretending unconsciousness. She lay sprawled on her side, one arm extended in front of her, every bone protesting the abrupt decent.
“Now what?”
The two men dismounted. Maybe if she laid still they would leave her here—
“Get up.”
One of the men was talking to her, but she didn’t respond.
She knew they were going to kill her, or even worse, take her back to where they say she belonged, which was not where she wanted to be. Maybe it would just be easier if they killed her here and now. Maybe—
“I said get up!”
A foot swung in her direction and pushed against her hip, forcing her to roll over onto her back. She lay sprawled, looking up at the two men staring down at her now, arms akimbo.
One of them had long, curly reddish-brown hair and a beard to match. The other was blond-haired and clean-shaven. Neither looked pleasant.
She did her best to keep emotion at bay. She didn’t want to show them fear, not that her heart wasn’t pounding, not that her mouth and jaw didn’t ache from the harsh blow one of them had dealt her. Not that she wasn’t worried sick, literally sick to her stomach about Maccay. Was he alive? Had someone found him in time? What if—
“I told you to get up, Mairi,” Red Beard ordered.
She looked up at him. Neither one of them looked like that man who had identified her—Clyde McGregor. Neither one of them looked like the man that had come into the manor house with him, either. These men were rough-looking, dirty, whiskered, their clothes showing the wear and tear of a life in the open.
“My name is not Mairi,” she managed.
Even talking was difficult and her eyes filled with tears as she accidentally bit her tongue.
“Aye, you are,” Red Beard said. He reached down with a meaty fist and grabbed her wrist, yanking her up from the ground.
Her shoulder felt like it was going to rip apart and she swatted at him as he lifted her to her feet.
She stood, feet braced, dizzy, her legs weak and wobbly.
“No, I am not,” she muttered. “My name is Alis.”
The man guffawed. “Whatever you say, Mairi, but I’ve known you for most of your life, so I can say with confidence that I know who you are. Pretending will not make it otherwise.”
She didn’t recall either one of them. She stared at them, trying to force herself to remember, to think, but nothing came to her.
The one with blonde hair turned toward Red Beard.
“I don’t think she remembers.”
“I don’t care whether she does or not. We have our orders.”
Orders?
Red Beard was about to reply when the sound of another horse approaching prompted the two clansmen to stiffen.
Blond Hair roughly pushed her deeper into the trees.
She lost her balance and fell, grunting with pain after she landed hard on her shoulder. She barely managed to scramble to a half-sitting position when the rider approached.
“Over here, Clyde.”
Her heart pounded and she fought back an instinct to scream, cry, or to try and run away, deeper into the woods.
That was the man who had recognized her in the manor house. That was the man that had looked at her with such an expression of disgust and revulsion that she had frozen, pierced by his gaze.
His horse stopped, scampered a bit, and then spoke in a demanding, angry voice.
“Where is she?”
“Over there,” Blond Hair gestured.
Alis soon found herself staring at a pair of legs, feet and calves encased in leather boots anchored in place by narrow strips of leather. Thick knees, hairy legs, and then the bottom edge of his tunic. Her gaze swept upward, past the hands balled into fists, up past the broad shoulders and into the face of Clyde McGregor.
Despite her efforts, she doubted she was able to disguise her fear, sure that he could see the pulse pounding in her throat, perhaps even watching her try to work up enough spit to even swallow.
She grasped handfuls of dirt, pine needles, and dead leaves, not much of a defense to be sure, but anything at this point was helpful. Maybe not in actually defending herself, but—
“Explain yourself.”
She stared at Clyde, then glanced past his shoulder at Red Beard and Blond Hair, both watched with curiosity. She turned back to Clyde. She didn’t like feeling so
vulnerable, but had a feeling that if she tried to stand, she would just be knocked down again.
“Explain what?” She was proud of herself for managing that much without revealing any trembling in her voice.
“What you’re doing with the Duncan clan.”
She recalled what Maccay told her. Maccay… she blinked back warm tears and glared up at Clyde. “I’ve been told that you left me for dead. What difference does it make that—”
He reached down for her so fast she didn’t have time to duck the blow.
Instant pain burst again in her head, heating the side of her face as the flat of his hand struck her cheek, knocking her sideways. Her head bounced against the pine needles beneath her. She cried out, not in fear but in pain and outrage. She scrambled to a sitting position as quickly as she could, locking eyes with the McGregor, anger boiling deep inside.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t remember,” she gritted out.
“You will answer me, Mairi McGregor!”
He leaned forward as if to slap her again, but this time grabbed a handful of her tunic and yanked her upward, so hard and fast that she bumped into him.
“Answer me, lass!”
“I don’t remember!”
He slapped her again.
And again.
Her lip broke open.
His fist grazed her eye. Then he pushed her and she slammed her back against a tree before her legs gave way beneath her.
She didn’t utter a sound.
He lunged forward and grasped her jaw in his hand, squeezing as he glared at her, his nose nearly touching hers. He squeezed harder.
She tried not to wince.
He stared down at her for several heart-stopping seconds, the look in his eyes filled with fury, gazing at her from head to toe and back again.
“I think she lost her memory,” Blond Hair’s voice broke the silence.
Clyde sent him a silencing glare and the man dipped his head and pretended to find something interesting at his feet.
Clyde said nothing for several moments, just continued to stare down at her, so close that she felt, and smelled, his foul breath on her face. Finally, he spoke.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter whether she remembers or not.” He gestured toward Blond Hair. “Tie her up, Rory. She’ll ride in front of you until we get far enough away. The Duncans may not be far behind, if they dare risk their lives for this piece of waste.”
She wanted to ask questions. She wanted to know why they had kidnapped her. Why they had hurt Maccay. Why they had come to Duncan lands in the first place. So many questions but no answers—
“Get over there,” Clyde snarled, shoving her toward the horses.
Once again, she stumbled. She barely managed to catch her fall in time to prevent her head from slamming into the trunk of a nearby pine tree.
Infuriated, she glared up at him. She wanted to rail against them, scream vulgarities, but she kept her mouth shut. She would bide her time. For now, she had to keep her wits about her, her temper in check.
Blond Hair reached for her, holding a strap of leather in his hand.
She wanted to run, but knew that her chances of escaping them, at least at the moment, were slim to none. She desperately wanted to live. She wanted to escape, but to do so, she knew that she had to be patient.
Yes, they could kill her at any moment, but she had a feeling if that was their intention, they would have done so already. They could have killed her at Maccay’s house or anywhere along the road.
No, what they had planned for her would not be quite so easy as slitting her throat.
Her hands were bound behind her back so tightly that her fingers turned numb in a matter of moments.
Blond Hair roughly grabbed her arm and propelled her toward his horse. In one swift move, he lifted her upward and placed her astride in front of his saddle. He leapt up behind her, arms reaching around her to grab his horse’s reins. At least she was no longer dangling.
Red Beard and Clyde quickly mounted and then they were off again, this time at a gallop, putting more distance between them and the Duncans.
She tightly clasped her thighs against the horse’s barrel, and though she still bounced with every hoof fall, at least she could breathe.
And think.
How was she going to escape three enemy clansmen with her hands bound behind her back? And that’s what they were to her. Enemy clansmen. She was not a McGregor. At least not anymore. Nothing about any one of them triggered a memory. It was as if they never existed, as if her life before waking up in the room at Duncan manor had never been.
She wasn’t sure how far they rode. Morning turned into early afternoon.
Finally, the horses breathing hard, Clyde ordered them to a halt.
Even though she hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and she didn’t even remember what she had eaten, she felt the rumbling in her stomach. The thought of actually consuming food filled her with a rising sense of nausea.
They were going to make camp? In the middle of the day? What would happen to her? What would they do to her?
She felt cold, her hands so numb she couldn’t even wiggle them anymore. Her thighs ached, as did her back from trying to maintain her balance on the horse without having to lean against her captor.
As they stopped, Clyde dismounted, watching while Rory slid off his horse.
He laughed when Rory yanked Alis off his horse and once again, she landed hard on the ground.
She tried to maintain her dignity, to straighten her back and lift her chin, but inside, her mind whirled with fear and uncertainty.
Clyde stared down at her, expressionless.
She watched him warily. Not that she’d be able to defend herself if he pulled his knife or decided to cut her heart out right here and now.
It was at that moment that she realized how desperately she wanted to survive. She needed to survive. She had to go back to the Duncans, to see how Maccay fared. And if he had died? The thought left her feeling despondent.
“Get up.”
Maintaining as calm an expression as possible, Alis managed to get her feet under her and gradually rose. She faced Clyde, trying to hold his stare. Trying to pretend that she wasn’t afraid of him. Trying to pretend that she was brave and would face anything they had in mind for her.
“You don’t remember why you were found in the forest?”
His voice was softer than before, as if he might, just might, believe that she truly had no memory of her life before.
She gently shook her head.
“You don’t remember anything about the McGregor clan, growing up as the niece of the clan leader? Of me, your cousin?”
Again, she shook her head.
“Who are you?”
If he thought to trick her, he failed. “You tell me that my name is Mairi McGregor, but I’m not. I’m Alis.”
“Alis what?”
The question startled her. She offered a slight shrug, wincing at the pain even that small movement caused in her shoulder. “Just Alis.”
“You were living with a Duncan.”
“He was… sharing his roof, his food, and his protection. Nothing more.”
Clyde’s expression transformed from calm to revulsion, his lips turned down in a sneer. “It doesn’t matter what you remember or not. You have brought shame to both the McGregor and the Orkney clans by refusing the betrothal. You were left for dead in the woods once. This time, the woods is where you will stay.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
What did he mean by that? He turned to Red Beard and Rory.
“Take her deeper into the woods.”
Before she could utter a cry of denial, the two clansmen stepped toward her.
They each grabbed an arm and forced her deeper into the woods, Clyde following.
“Put her back to that tree.”
She was spun around and slammed into a pine tree, its trunk bare of branches until just over head-height
&n
bsp; . The canopy of branches overhead started maybe half an arm’s length above her head. She smelled the pine needles, the sap oozing from the bark, the scent of the dead pine needles underfoot.
“Tie her to the trunk,” Clyde ordered.
In a matter of moments, her bound arms had been released.
She had a brief respite of relief as blood rushed into her hands before her arms were yanked roughly behind the tree trunk, her hands separated by maybe six or seven inches.
Out of nowhere it seemed, Red Beard produced another length of rope, thinner than before, but sturdy. In a matter of seconds, her hands were tightly bound, her arms stretched in their sockets, her elbows bent at an awkward angle. Her hands grew numb instantly.
Clyde approached and bent down so that his eyes were on a level with hers. She stared back at him. So, they were going to tie her to this tree tonight while they ate, slept, and rested the horses.
What if she had to—
Clyde gestured to the other two. “Come on. We will ride through the night and return to McGregor lands before the Duncans catch up.” He turned to glare at Alis. “And you… you will never bring any more shame to our clan, nor to your uncle or what little family you have. You are dead to them. You are dead to me.”
What?
They were leaving her here?
He turned to Red Beard and Rory. “Leave her here to rot.”
23
“Maccay, please, lie back down. If you move around too much, you’re likely to open the wound and start bleeding again!”
“I can’t just lay here and do nothing, Sarah,” Maccay argued.
He felt better. Weak, but better.
She had told him that no vital organs had been hit by the knife thrust.
He was fortunate indeed, but now he focused on Alis.
“I know how you feel, Maccay, but you can’t—”
Maccay gently removed Sarah’s hand from his shoulder, pressing him down onto the bed.
“You’re in no condition to fight me, Sarah, and you know it.” He sat up, wincing with the effort, but managing.
