Heart Of A Highland Warrior

by Anita Clenney

  She eased his kilt up until she found the source of the blood, a cut on the front of his thigh. Warriors healed quickly and were immune to most diseases, but they weren’t immortal. If they were injured badly enough, they could die. Like Angus. And she wasn’t positive this man was a warrior. She looked around the cell to see if there was anything she could use to clean his wounds. The floors and walls were lovely, but the cells were bare except for a toilet in one corner, a sink with a cup and paper towels, and a stone bench with a folded blanket.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, unsure whether he could even hear her. She filled the cup with water and grabbed the roll of paper towels. She worked on the cut on his thigh first, cleaning off the worst of the blood. He was shivering when she finished, from pain or from the cold. She didn’t clean his back since his shirt was stuck to his wounds. She would do that later, after they’d escaped. There had to be a way out of this place.

  He shivered again, and Anna worried that he was going into shock. She got the blanket and stuffed it through the bars, spreading it over his body as best she could. Then she checked his pulse again. Still strong.

  She spent several minutes checking the cell for some way out, but the bars were secure, and she didn’t have anything to pick the lock. There wasn’t even anything she could use as a weapon. If the bastards got close enough, she’d strangle them with her bra.

  The man moaned, and Anna went back to him. Squatting next to the bars, she slipped her hand through and touched his face. Still cold, but no fever. That was good.

  He seemed unsettled. He tried to raise himself to one arm. “Piss.”

  “What?”

  “Piss.” The man fumbled with his kilt and lifted the front.

  Anna’s eyebrows rose. Was he going to do it right here on the floor? “Wait! You have a toilet.” Damn. He couldn’t walk to the toilet. He’d been drugged. Grabbing the cup still sitting on the floor, she tilted it just in time. She looked away, trying to give him privacy. His hand was unsteady, and she was afraid he’d end up soaking the floor. Anna cursed under her breath and reached through the bars. She put her other hand over his, guiding his aim.

  What a bloody freakin’ day. She’d gotten captured by God knew what kind of creatures, there was a monster hybrid on the loose, and now she was helping a man she didn’t know piss in a cup. When he was finished, he groaned and fell back, not moving. She lowered his kilt and emptied the cup in the toilet. When she returned, she straightened his blanket and sat on the floor next to the bars, afraid to leave him alone.

  After ten minutes with her teeth chattering and her head drooping, she lay down, trying to draw what little heat she could from his body.

  A smell woke him. Something tugged at his memory. Hugging a woman? No. Fighting…He opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor. A blanket had been thrown over him, and a woman lay inches away in the next cell, her back to him. She wore a short gown that left most of her legs bare. His eyebrows rose, and he winced at the movement. His face felt bruised and swollen. She must be a whore. What was she doing here? He pulled in her scent again, and he smelled something else. Blood. What had they done to her? Had the guard ravished her?

  If that bastard had hurt a woman, whore or no, he’d wrap his hands around that thick throat and squeeze until there was no bloody life left in the man. When he could move. Damnation, he felt like he’d been trampled by horses. He looked at the floor and saw the bloodstain, there and on his kilt. It was his blood, not hers. His body hurt from head to toe, but he was warmer than he’d been for a fortnight. The blanket must have been her doing. Memories shot through his head. A woman’s voice whispering to him. Soft hands checking for wounds, holding his hand while he pissed. Bollocks. And he smelled worse than a sweaty horse. He hadn’t bathed in days.

  “Well, now, isn’t this cozy?” The guard stood outside the cell. His arm was bandaged.

  The prisoner didn’t recall attacking him. He didn’t think he’d been capable in his condition. Had the woman done this? Not likely. What could a woman do against a guard? He heard an indrawn breath, and the woman jumped up, her back to him. All he managed to do was roll over. Since he didn’t have a sporran, he dropped his hand over his groin, but the guard had already seen his reaction to the woman.

  “Nature blessed you, warrior, so you might manage it through the bars. We could use some entertainment.”

  An unholy light lit the guard’s eyes, sending dread to the prisoner’s heart. He struggled to his feet, longing for his dirk. He would drive the blade up under his ribs, directly into his heart. The guard would be dead before he hit the floor. He must be a killer, else how would he know that?

  The guard opened the woman’s cell and stepped inside. “Time to start talking. Who are you?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Did you come for him?” He nodded toward the prisoner. “Strange clothing for a rescue. You couldn’t have come for the other one. He’s been here over two years. No one knows about him.”

  “Do you know her?” the guard asked him.

  “No.” He didn’t know anyone. Or did he know her? Was that why he’d felt the beginning of a memory?

  The guard advanced on her, but she didn’t back up. Her body tensed, balancing. She was prepared to fight. Another rush of dread filled him. The guard would kill her.

  “Answer me,” the guard demanded, clenching his fists. “Who are you? How did you get in?”

  “You’ll need more than your fists to get me to talk,” she said.

  Was she insane? The prisoner moved closer to the bars separating the cells. His body was still weak, but anger and fear gave him strength.

  “I can make you talk.” The guard pulled out his pistol. “Lance, come here.”

  Lance arrived, and the guard handed him the pistol. “If she struggles, shoot her.” The guard grabbed the woman’s arm. “Tell me who you are.”

  “No.”

  The guard slapped her.

  The prisoner’s fingers pressed into the bars. He heard a growl and realized it came from his own throat. Then a startling thing happened. The woman punched the guard in the face and then kicked him in the chest. He fell backward, smashing into Lance. The gun flew from his hands. Damnation. Lasses didn’t fight like that. Maybe his dream of fighting with her wasn’t a dream.

  “Bitch!” The guard jumped up and grabbed the pistol, pointing the weapon at her head.

  “Just shoot her,” Lance said. “The master will be here soon. We don’t need trouble.”

  “No. Get on the floor.” The woman’s face was still hidden, but her anger was apparent in her stiff movements. “Now.”

  She sat down, awkwardly, because of her short gown. The guard pointed his pistol at her chest and shoved her back onto the floor. She tried to sit up, but the guard straddled her. He ripped the top of the woman’s gown, baring part of her breasts. Not overly large, but plenty. He sneered as he unfastened his belt. “Somebody needs to teach you a lesson. Human women are only good for one thing.”

  A cry of rage rolled up the prisoner’s throat. “Get off her.”

  “Sedate the prisoner,” the guard ordered Lance. “Then leave.”

  In one swift motion, the woman lifted her legs, baring a backside covered in a tiny white cloth and the most bizarre shoes on her feet, and wrapped her legs around the guard’s chest, yanking him backward. At the same time, she swung her arm toward the pistol. It fired into the ceiling. She ducked, and the guard scrambled to his feet.

  The prisoner growled and pulled against the bars. He felt the wounds on his back open with the effort. He wasn’t aware that Lance had entered the cell until something sharp jabbed him in the arm. He turned and swung at Lance, throwing him against the cell door. The prisoner started toward him, but Lance scrambled out of reach. The prisoner’s legs went weak as a new lamb’s. His mind blurred as Lance shoved him onto the bench.
As the shackles closed around his wrists, he saw the woman’s face for the first time.

  But it wasn’t the first time. He’d seen those turquoise eyes before.

  Anna jumped up and lunged at the guard again, striking him in the groin. It wasn’t a direct hit, but he groaned and staggered back. Still, he held on to the gun. She expected him to shoot her, but a roar echoed down the corridor.

  The guard cursed, holding his crotch with one hand and the gun with the other. “I thought you sedated him.”

  “I did.”

  “He’s out of control. We’ll have to give him more.” The guard hobbled to the door.

  “He’s not the only one out of control,” Lance said, looking at Anna. “We need to kill her.”

  “Not until I get what I want.”

  Anna backed against the wall, anger and fear making her blood pound. She didn’t know if he meant answers or rape. She didn’t mind a fight, but rape…the thought made her sick. Her mother had been raped. It had ruined her life.

  The guard slammed the door and started to lock it. “The lock’s broken. The bullet must have hit it. We’ll have to move her.”

  “Not if we kill her,” Lance said. “We have too much to worry about with these other two.”

  Did that mean there were only three of them being held here? The prisoner, the hybrid, and her?

  “No. The master will want to know who she is. She must be a warrior. She had one of those necklaces.”

  She touched her bare neck. Warriors didn’t lose their talismans. It just wasn’t done. What a bloody mess she’d gotten into.

  “Put her in with Faelan for now. I’ll deal with her later. Move,” he ordered her. He stayed several feet away, aiming the gun at her head as Lance unlocked the other cell and shoved her inside. “We’re not finished. You’ll pay for this.” The guard gave her a dark look, and the two left.

  Anna turned to the prisoner. He sat on the stone bench, his arms shackled to the wall above him, his bare feet shackled to an iron ring in the floor. Dried blood smeared his kilt and shirt. He was unconscious, head cradled between his upraised arms and his chest. Who was he? The guards thought he was Faelan, and he did resemble him, but they were wrong.

  She touched his arm, and he yanked at his chains and opened his eyes. Anna leaned back. She had no doubt he could be dangerous. His dark gaze locked on her, and something zinged along her nerves. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He looked disoriented, but his gaze was steady. “Faelan.”

  He couldn’t be. He didn’t have Faelan’s battle marks. “What’s your last name?”

  “Last?”

  “Faelan what?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

  Amnesia? They had beaten him so badly it was no surprise. “Where do you live?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “How do you know your name is Faelan?”

  “That’s what they call me.”

  “Hold on, I’m going to try to free you.” Anna tested the shackles and chains. They were strong. She needed something to pick the lock. Her hair clip. It had a sharp edge. She touched her head, but the clip was gone. It must have fallen out when she fought the guard. She hurried to the bars and scanned the floor of the next cell. The clip was lying in a corner. She lay on the floor and stretched out her arm. Too far. Blimey. She reached around behind her and unhooked her bra. She shrugged one shoulder free, then the other, and wiggled out of it.

  The prisoner watched, his brows drawn together. If he hadn’t looked so broken, his astonishment would have been comical.

  “I’m sure it isn’t the first time you’ve seen a bra.” Holding one end of the bra, she knelt and tried to snag the clip through the bars. It was sort of like fishing. It took several tries to retrieve the clip. When she got it, she scooped it up and hurried back to the man. She stuck the pointed end in the lock. She wasn’t as good at picking locks as Ronan, but she wasn’t bad. Her efforts paid off, and she heard a click as the shackle released. She opened it, and the prisoner’s arm dropped. His wrist was raw from where he’d pulled at the chains. The second shackle proved harder. Anna glanced at his face, only inches from hers. She felt a jolt of something, but decided it was sympathy or shock.

  His eyes moved over her face. He frowned and shook his head.

  “I’m Anna. Anna MacKinley.”

  “Anna?” He said the name stiffly, but there was no doubt he was a Scot. And a warrior. Why hadn’t she seen him before? There were some smaller clans who kept to themselves. Perhaps he belonged to one of them. But it didn’t answer the question of what he was doing here and why the guards called him Faelan. A thought was forming in her head, but it was so outlandish, she didn’t give it credit.

  “Do you remember how you got here?” she asked.

  “No. They’ve taken my memories with their damned potions and needles.”

  “An amnesia drug?”

  “I don’t know. I woke once, and they were taking my blood. And I think they branded me.”

  “Branded?”

  “There are marks on my chest.”

  Strange that he would refer to them as brands and not tattoos. Maybe they weren’t battle marks. Lots of guys had tattoos on their chests. But he didn’t remember who he was, so it was possible he didn’t remember that he was a warrior. “Can I see them again?”

  He looked slightly taken aback. “Aye.” He pulled his shirt aside.

  They both jumped when she touched his skin. Her fingers ran over the marks, confirming what she’d seen before. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Faelan.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE WOMAN STARED at him with the most startling blue-green eyes. They reminded him of water he’d seen in Greece. Greece? He dug through the fog in his head, grasping at the small thread of recognition. Was he from Greece? But the memory moved past like a wispy cloud on a windy day.

  He looked away from her breast jiggling a hand’s length from his face as she worked on the shackle. “How do you know I’m not Faelan?” He was oddly distressed by her words. He had felt a connection to the name. The only connection he had in the midst of this darkness. Until her. She was bonny. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that made him nervous, but he didn’t know why.

  “I know Faelan,” she said.

  “You know him?” That was a bloody odd thing, for her to know someone by the name his captors were calling him. “And you’re familiar with his chest?”

  “Of course.” At his questioning look, her dark brows drew into a delicate arch.

  “How do you know him?” he asked, hoping the words didn’t sound as impolite to her ears as his.

  “He’s a friend.”

  Friend. That could mean anything. “Why would they call me Faelan if I’m not him? Is it a common name?”

  She continued to work on the shackle. “No. Uncommon, in fact.”

  Yet she knew a man named Faelan, the very name they called him. Very odd indeed.

  “Well, we know you’re Scottish.” She nodded to his kilt.

  “Do you want me to try?” he asked, looking at the shackle.

  “I think I can get it. We need to get out of here. We’ll have to set a trap and attack him. Maybe one of us can play dead, then we’ll attack him when he comes to check. I wish I had my dagger.”

  Damnation. What kind of woman carried a dagger? The shackle clicked open. He removed it while the woman, Anna, started working on his feet. The shackles there opened easier. When he was free, he stood, wincing.

  “Are you all right?” Anna asked, looking him over. “They’ve beaten the crap out of you.” She looked oddly guilty when she said it.

  He frowned at her rude speech. Obviously a whore, which made him wonder again if she was telling the truth about this F
aelan. More likely he had used her services. She was the bonniest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He didn’t visit whores himself, but he’d be sore tempted with this one. How could he know he didn’t visit whores when he didn’t recall his own name? He touched his face and winced.

  “Aye. If feeling like you’ve been run down by a team of horses is all right.” He noticed a streak of blood on her thigh, and his stomach knotted. “Did the guard hurt you?” Lasses like her were often ill treated, but whore or not, it made his blood boil.

  She followed his gaze to her thigh and then wiped the blood with the edge of her gown. “It’s his blood, so it doesn’t matter.”

  Cheeky wench.

  “Do you know how long you’ve been here?” she asked.

  “I’ve lost count. A fortnight or longer.”

  She seemed puzzled by that. “Fortnight? What do they want with you?”

  “They’re testing me.”

  “For what?” Anna asked, smoothing down her gown.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is your leg still bleeding?”

  He lifted the edge of his kilt. Dried blood still crusted the cut on his thigh, but it had closed up overnight. “Thank you for tending me.”

  She glanced away. “No problem. We have to get you out of here and back to your family.”

  Family. Several faces rushed through his head so fast he didn’t have a chance to recognize them. It was damned frustrating.

  The woman, Anna, walked to the cell bars. He glanced at her bare legs, wondering why a whore would feel so familiar to him. Perhaps he had glimpsed her briefly when she was put into his cell.

  She grabbed one of the iron bars and tested it, then went around the cell testing them all, as he’d done when he awoke in here. “They’re strong,” he said. “I’ve checked them all.”