Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  They ran again, but didn’t go far before they stopped, and she was instantly on her feet. The man with glacier eyes was at her back, holding a small knife at her throat. Horses with no riders trampled tall grass, tethered close to a small chortling brook, almost as if the waterway were laughing at her for getting herself kidnapped. She’d basically been kidnapped to this time in the first place—she had been taken against her will—and now this?

  The man with flashing green eyes leaned close, inches from her face. “Ifnye scream, Greggor will slit yer throat, ye ken?”

  “Faolan, ye certain she can understand ye? She isn’t Scottish. Mayhap talk slower,” said the man at Fleur’s back.

  Green Eyes’, Faolan apparently, fierce stare shifted to just beyond Fleur. She actually pitied the man holding the dirk at her neck, whose name was Greggor it seemed, because the look Green Eyes was giving him was pure rage.

  Odd thoughts flittered through Fleur’s mind, like aimless butterflies. Those goddamned muses would have to get her out of this. Coyote better find her about now. But then usurping all other considerations, she imagined Duncan’s face, so handsome, especially when he smiled, and how she wanted to see him, have him close, rescue her.

  Another man still held her mouth closed, and sometimes, while jostling her around, he pushed his grasp over her nose, making breathing impossible. Bite him. Bite him. Bite him, echoed in Fleur’s head. Besides the need to fight, terror also rippled through her body, making her feel so powerless. Through it all she was slightly aware of the fact that the man at her back wasn’t holding her too tightly. She had the oddest feeling that if she fought him, he’d surrender to her.

  Faolan focused back on her, and all thoughts whispered away as fear oozed through her body, like a tar pit would suck an animal to death.

  “Ye’ll go on the horse with Greggor. Ye’ll go up like a good lass. Charlie, bind her.” A blond man who carefully avoided looking at her tied her hands together, then finally the hand over her mouth was removed to be replaced by a strip of cloth going through her lips and tied tightly behind her head. After that Green Eyes towered over her again, saying, “We’ll not hurt ye as long as ye do as I say, ye ken?”

  She stopped breathing.

  Bite. Fight. Get your life back.

  Something in Fleur bucked and lashed about internally.

  The man behind her moved and in a swift move was on a horse. He scooted back in the saddle, and before Fleur knew what was happening she was on the horse too, sitting in front of the man with the light blue eyes, Greggor. His arms instantly surrounded her, holding her very close with the reins in one of his hands.

  “Hold yer dirk to her neck,” Faolan reproached.

  “I—I fear I’ll cut her while on the horse.”

  Fleur almost looked behind, wondering about the statement.

  Faolan actually nodded, his scarf moving in the process, revealing a cheek with a black beard. “Fine. I’ll ride beside ye. Ye hear that princess?” Green Eye’s gaze lasered in on her. “I’ll be right beside ye. So if ye try to escape, I’ll kill ye.”

  Fleur believed him with a sickening feeling twisting her stomach.

  Faolin jumped onto a paint horse, then signaled the rest to ride. And ride they did. But before the dark bay under Fleur began to cantor, the man at her back leaned even closer, holding her tighter. Over her shoulder he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  At that she finally did turn slightly, staring at her captor. Blue eyes held hers for a second, but then he looked ahead.

  Again, she thought of fighting back, but then she glanced at Faolan. He was close. Terrifyingly so.

  The bay she rode was nervous and liked to favor a trot instead of a gallop. Already, Fleur absorbed the horse’s energy, begging for the mighty animal to heed to her internal pleas.

  Her uncles had taught her how to listen and talk to horses. How a human wouldn’t communicate with words, but with energy and sentiment, how horses could obey complex orders with mere thoughts. Fleur hadn’t thought of horse whispering for so long and wondered if she believed any of it. It sounded a bit like a fairy tale, didn’t it? Communicating to a horse with one’s feelings.

  As if the horse sensed her doubt, it stumbled slightly. Fleur began to transmit her silent chant of tranquility as well as pleas for freedom in earnest.

  The horse’s gait steadied.

  She grabbed hold of the mane above the steed’s withers, amazed. Glancing back at the blue, blue eyes that caught hers once more, she checked whether he noticed the horse accepting her. If she could have seen through his scarf, she would have thought he was trying to smile for her, trying to encourage her. He adjusted his hold again, holding her tight against him. Protectively, not provocatively. Perhaps Greggor’s embrace should have made her more comfortable, or the horse seeming to accept her as the guide should have buoyed her spirits. But her gaze kept returning to threatening Faolin.

  She shuddered, unsure what to do. What if there wasn’t anything to do?

  “Yer cold, eh?” Gerggor asked in a soft whisper.

  It was still incredibly hot. The sun castigated them with vicious rays that would melt the dead. She searched the horizon and all around for something that stood out, something that would help her get back to Duncan.

  God, she didn’t even think about going back to her own time, just to him. Her mind then raced to think about her adrenal medulla that was presently producing a huge amount of catecholamines, which would make her fight or flight. So why wasn’t she trying to flee? Or struggle?

  Why wasn’t she doing something?

  Cortisol had to be rushing through her blood streams, enabling her to heart to beat faster, her reflexes to be quicker, and her...and then it hit her. She was frozen. Another aspect of severe fear is paralysis. Immobility. As she had when she’d first been dropped in Texas. It hadn’t been her first time facing bigotry. But it had been the first time she’d been alone. Rather than fight against the whispered put downs about the way she had been raised, murmurs that she would scalp the student body, that she was inherently lazy and dirty, and the many, many feather pranks, Fleur turned to books. Words and thoughts had been her sanity, her comfort, her sanctuary from the new world she lived in, from all the uncertainty. She’d fallen into the tomes, as if she’d fallen into a different realm of reality, pushing away her fear, numbing it, until she felt nothing but her books. Later, she would feel nothing but her job. Ironically, her research was to help people discover their past, while she numbed herself from hers.

  Hopelessness had shadowed her since she was fourteen. Now, twelve years later that obscurity still usurped her heart. Twelve years of fearing her choices would be ripped from her, even though, absurdly she never made many choices other than her career that gave her the impassiveness to keep, well, numb.

  Making friends with Rachel and Ian had been the one exception in Fleur’s life, and thanks to that one allowance, she had just started to feel again.

  Faolin yelled something. Immediately the horse’s cantor slowed to a trot, then a quick walk.

  God, she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. Or maybe it all looked the same—big boulder there, small mountain range there, tall grass along a strip of a games’ trail, sometimes, though, there was a bright purple from a blooming thistle. If she could escape, she would have no idea where to head. She’d gotten herself in a hell of a mess and didn’t even have the wherewithal to pay attention to any markings on the boulders or crags or whatever they were called. All right, she hadn’t been the one to get herself into this mess. Like so much of her life, she hadn’t had a choice.

  She was hopelessly lost. Lost in her own time and in this one too, in her own head, in her own damned way.

  Faolin jumped from his horse and led it to a creek, and Greggor soon enough did the same, except he kept Fleur on the mount. As soon as Greggor had left the saddle, she caved in, wrapping her arms around herself and bowed her head to cry. She hadn’t really given herself the allo
wance to weep since she’d lived in Porcupine. Hated doing it in front of her kidnappers, but the fear, the panic and her self-incrimination had gotten the better of her. The tears flowed down.

  Something warm patted her calf. She flinched when she realized it was Greggor touching her.

  “It’ll be all right, princess,” he whispered.

  Angrily, she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  Greggor sighed, slumping his shoulders. “’Tis Faolin. Thinks he’ll get a huge bounty from ye, what with ye being a princess.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “I ken. I ken.”

  “What did ye say to her?” Faolin had snuck up behind Greggor, hollering.

  Greggor jumped and removed his hand from Fleur as if she’d burnt him. “Nothin’,” he said.

  Faolin glared at Fleur for few menacing seconds.

  Asshole.

  Finally, Faolin glanced again at Greggor. “See if she needs to water a bush. I’ll get the highness something to drink.” Clearly Faolin had disdain for royalty, and Fleur thought to tell him she was no one of consequence. No one would miss her. Not here. Not even where she lived.

  No, that wasn’t true, but by then truth had taken a serious beating from her self-pity.

  “Ye—ye need to, ah, relieve yerself, Fleur?” Greggor’s voice came out reedy, but was gentle nonetheless.

  She didn’t know if she did. She couldn’t feel anything within her body, other than the cold, hollow sensation of hopelessness.

  Greggor watched Faolin for a few moments, and as soon as the obvious bully of a leader was farther away he leaned close, pressing his hand against Fleur’s calf once more. “I hope I didn’ scare ye. I’m sorry about the circumstances I met ye.” He paused as Fleur finally met his gaze. He appeared worried. “Ye should ken that I wouldn’ harm ye.” He leaned even closer then, narrowing his eyes. “And I vow to no’ let anyone harm ye either.” His gaze skid to meet the imposing form of Faolin.

  As much as she believed Faolin would kill her, she thought Greggor would try to protect her. But he would fail.

  Her heart sank. Or did it become more numb? She couldn’t tell anymore.

  Then she couldn’t explain what happened next. Not even to herself, because what happened was even more fanciful than believing a horse could listen to her pleas.

  A cool wind pushed through her hair, nestled close to her cheek, then whispered how Duncan was coming for her.

  She couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.

  Chapter 15

  Rory, Duncan, and the green troops had caught up then passed Lady Fleur’s lads long ago and rode through the night, stopping only occasionally to water the horses and check for traces of her. Somehow Duncan followed the kidnappers’ horses’ tracks as if he knew exactly where the mosstroopers were trying to take Fleur. Rory thought it...well, it was unsettling. It was as if Fleur were sending out a beacon that only Duncan could see. Of course, he knew Duncan could hunt by moonlight because he was that much more skilled, and Rory also recognized that this was no time for glory, this was the time to find Fleur and save her. Still, it galled him that Duncan seemed more attuned to the lady than he.

  Once again Duncan made the sign he was stopping, and the other troops slowed their horses. As the night progressed they’d had a waxing thick, bright moon show them the thin game trail they followed. But now there was a flickering from the east. The sun would rise with its early lavender light, enhancing the sky with pink and orange. But not just yet. Still, the slim morning light was enough for Rory to guide his horse less from the noise belonging to Duncan’s mount and more from sight.

  Duncan jumped off his dark steed before it stopped and lowered to peer at the ground. Rory halted his own horse beside the kneeling man. He straightened and jogged to a hill’s crown, holding out his palm to the troops, making them wait while he spied over the rise.

  Crouching low, Duncan then hurried back to Rory and the recruits. “They’re just over the crest of the hill.”

  Everyone hushed, solemnly quiet as they should be.

  Rory nodded and gazed toward the direction Duncan pointed but couldn’t see anything over the rocky crag.

  “They move very slow. More than likely their horses are close to giving out,” Duncan whispered. “Fan out. Captain Rory and Ewan, ye take half the men to the other side of the rise there.” He pointed the direction he wanted the men. “I’ll have the other half here. We’ll wait ‘till yer in place, then rush down the side of the hill into the valley they’re riding through.”

  Rory leaned over his horse. “Won’t they hurt the lady if they see us coming in an ambush like that?”

  Duncan thought for a moment and nodded. “Get off yer horse. All of ye get off yer horses. We’ll attack on foot. ‘Tis more difficult, but more stealthy. But ye must run with all haste while we have the opportunity.” He nodded, probably to convey how important it was to sprint, which Rory was proud he’d trained the men at least that much. Then Duncan continued. “When ye attack, ye jump on the abductor’s horse. Or cut the mount down, ye ken? We have strength in our numbers. From their tracks and from what I just saw, I’d guess there’s less than a dozen of ‘em. We have almost four times as many men, and we have the element of surprise, but still be careful. Be quiet. And we’ll get us back our lady.”

  Quiet ayes and grunts were issued from man to man, and Rory was proud of the lot of them. Even though many were much too young, they wore the faces of warriors ready to save a damsel. Rory too was caught up in the heroism of their feat. Lord, he was about to save Fleur.

  If Duncan didn’t get to her first.

  Immediately, they tethered their horses close to water and green grass, so they would munch happily and not give away the troops location. Rory led half the men to the site Duncan had advised. Spying over the top he saw thirteen horses and riders. Near the middle, one of the horses carried two dark forms. Rory swallowed, gazing across the thin valley as Duncan descended like an oily shadow in the night. Rory could hardly believe such a huge man could make so little sound, let alone be so clandestine. He tried to follow suit as did the rest of the men.

  Again, this galled Rory. He knew it shouldn’t. It was time to focus on saving the lady. But he hated how Duncan led the men so easily, and how they’d listened to him so respectfully.

  As Rory stalked forward, the riders became clearer. Each was cloaked in their plaids, and one man had his around himself and another. Finally Rory snapped from his pettiness. This truly was about Fleur, and she must be cold and scared.

  Not for long.

  One of the riders suddenly disappeared. The man hadn’t even made a grunting noise, and Duncan flung himself on the horse and rode closer to another man, easily pulling him off his horse too. That was when Rory decided to do the same. He silently crisscrossed from heather bush to another and waited for a rider to come too close, while anger built through his shaking hands. How dare these men steal Fleur!

  His heart beat in his head, making logic a thing of the past. He leapt as soon as he saw the legs of a horse approach. Surprising Rory, a man toppled down on him, leaving both of them breathless and tangled together as the horse neighed loudly and crow hopped away. Someone shouted something. More shouts. The man on Rory yelled loudly and managed to punch him in his ear, next his shoulder. Rory held out an arm to defend himself and saw the man reach for his dirk in his hose. Startled, Rory made an effort to push away and run, but had thrown his head about wildly and accidentally head butted the man. Rory’s heart then pounded even louder in his ears as the man’s eyes rolled back, revealing sickening white in the early light of the dawn. Jesus, his head ached, but the man fell forward in a limp heap.

  Rory stole the sgain dubh and managed to extract himself and rise on his wobbly legs. His men were surrounding the riders. Many were fighting and pulling down the kidnappers. Glancing quickly, Rory saw that the one horse with two forms was somehow racing away. With another
cursory look, he saw Duncan fighting on horseback, sword to sword, against a man almost as large as the former. The man might have been as big, but he didn’t have the years of training Duncan had. It was easy to spot whose life would be taken.

  Rory searched for a horse without a rider. The morning’s light was streaking bright orange through the sky, making the attack easier. Ah-ha! He spotted a gray that was only a few feet away. His feet got him to the mount faster than he thought possible, and with a jump he was on it, chasing after what he hoped was the princess and her abductor.

  Within a few minutes, he caught up to the riders. A plaid wrapped around both the forms suddenly tore free, waving like a flag behind them. Rory saw Fleur’s black hair, tangled and messy. But that was all he could see, since the man enveloped the wee lady with his form. Rory urged the horse to run faster, but it seemed the mare was no longer responding to him. He kicked at its sides, forcing the reins, urging the horse on with brutal determination. However, instead of speeding up, the mount seemed to slow even more.

  Damnation!

  The riders before him came to a quick stop. Rory approached, seeing Fleur twisted to look at her abductor. The man held her firmly, shaking his head.

  Rory withdrew his sword and pointed it at the man behind Lady Fleur.

  “Unhand her this instant.”

  The lady leaned around the man, her eyes almost seeming disappointed when she saw him. “He’s released me, Rory,” she said calmly.

  The man had a black scarf tied around his face and unraveled it; although, Rory wasn’t too sure why the disguise. The man was a stranger to him. He bowed his head toward Rory once he was done.

  “She was never harmed.” The man’s voice scratched and had an almost imperceptible accent. What that accent was, Rory had no clue. Fleur’s abductor continued. “My leader just wanted the money her bounty might bring.”

  As Rory heard those words a sickening brown blurred his vision, something rumbled through his mind. Rage coursed through his blood. He reared back his sword, planning to crash it down on the man, when Fleur screamed and the horse under her backed away.