by Aileen Adams
She plunged her dress into the water with a splash, grunting. “If there is a man in the world more impressed with himself with less of a reason to be so, I do not wish to know.”
He laughed. “How would ye know I have no reason to be impressed with myself, not having looked upon me?” He knew he ought not torment the lass, but something in her nature appealed to something in his nature. The worst part of his nature.
What she did next was something he could never have predicted, not if given a hundred years to do so.
She turned. Slowly. Still crouching, still mostly concealed. But she turned.
And she looked upon him.
Daring him to move. To cover himself.
He would not. It would mean admitting… something. That she had won. Won what, exactly? He could not say. He simply knew deep inside, where his instinct lived, that to back down from her insolent glare would mean admitting she had won a silent battle.
The moment hung between them, stretching out into what might well have been years, the only sound that of his breathing and the gentle lapping of water against the bank.
“Rufus!” Tyrone’s voice, calling to him from camp. “Have ye drowned, man?”
“Nay,” he called out, still looking at the lass in the water. “I’m coming.”
And he did, dressing in a matter of seconds and turning his back on Davina. “Remember, not too far,” he ordered over his shoulder. He realized that he was glad for the excuse to remove himself from her presence, for he might have said or done something he would heartily regret otherwise.
11
“That was when we met up with William and his men. Do ye recall, Rufus?”
Davina did not much enjoy how aware she was of the man seated behind her. His every change of breath, his every movement. The tone of his voice. When she heard his name, the question posed by his cousin, she was like an animal suddenly aware of a presence nearby. If her ears could have pricked, they would have.
“Aye,” he grunted, and that was it. This had been his attitude throughout the day, ever since they’d woken in their camp and saddled the horses. He barely spoke, choosing to communicate through grunts, nods, and shakes of his head. Little more.
He was terribly tense, as well. Stiff.
Was it because of their encounter at the river?
No, it could not be. Nothing had happened. She’d merely shown him she was not to be trifled with. His games were not games for her, no matter how he chuckled and snorted and found himself clever. She did not find him clever.
She found him cruel. A cat toying with a cornered mouse. Just because she hadn’t been bound at the wrist at that moment, bathing and washing her garments, did not mean she’d been free. She was still his captive, at his mercy, and he’d chosen to go out of his way to make her uncomfortable.
If she had given him discomfort by staring at his naked, glistening form, so be it. He deserved every bit of embarrassment he’d felt and much more.
As though she was not humiliated, being forced to ride in front of him, wrists bound, unable to speak for fear of being ordered to silence herself.
Still, no. She sensed something deeper than anything she could have done.
If any of the other men had the same sense, they did not show it. That was how men behaved, though, was it not? They pretended all was well when it was certainly anything but. They pretended not to notice when another man was hurting or upset, even if that upset was plain to see.
And they hated the woman who reached out in an effort to be of service. She knew that all too well.
Rather than asking, she sat in silence and chose instead to observe the clouds gathering overhead. She had not seen the sun all day, so the clouds were not surprising. What did come as a surprise was how quickly they darkened to an ominous hue.
“We’re going to see rain,” she murmured.
“And feel it and hear it, I would imagine,” Drew agreed. “We ought to find adequate cover for the night.”
“The night?” Rufus scoffed. “It’s hardly mid-morning, and ye wish to settle down for the night?”
“It’s going to rain. Heavily.” Tyrone cast a doubtful look skyward. “Ye know how quickly the ground turns to mud, and how one canna make their way through such mud. How many times did we find ourselves fighting witless beasts, trying to help them out of mud up to their knees?”
“How many did we leave behind?” Alec asked, his tone more reflective. “I’ve no desire to go back to those terrible days, man. I would much rather find a place to make camp, hunt for something to roast over the fire—if anything dares leave its home now, with such a storm coming on—and wait for the worst of it to pass.”
Davina closed her eyes, feeling the rage building in the man seated at her back. How was it that she could feel this?
“You’ve all become as soft as the lass here,” he snarled. “A bit of rain, and ye all whine and cry about how ye wish to bed down. Do ye need me to sing ye a sweet lullaby to soothe ye while the rain passes over?”
“Och.” Drew shot him a look of warning which Davina saw from the corner of her eye. “Enough, now. Ye happen to be a man of sense, no matter how ye strive to convince us otherwise.”
“I dinna wish to wait. It will not be more than another half-day until we reach the next town or village—there must be something coming up soon, along the river.”
They had followed the winding River Carron for more than a day, finding nothing but woods and the narrow road which cut through them. The overgrowth to both sides was so thick in places, it covered the road completely.
She could see the sense in traveling this way, far from the main road and away from passersby. The less contact they had with riders along the road, the fewer the chances of Ian getting word of how near they drew to his position. Rufus wished to surprise him, or at least to catch him unaware.
While Ian knew the man would search for him, she doubted he knew how determined Rufus was to find him—or how prepared he was, how many men he’d brought along. As far as she knew, only Malcolm, Ronald, and Fergus—her brothers—rode with him. The cousins were due to break off from the group.
They were outnumbered.
And they did not carry the pistols which everyone but Clyde held in leather pouches sewn to their belts. She had seen them, often concealed by cloaks and tunics, and very nearly felt sorry for her brother. He did not know what was coming for him.
What would Rufus think if he knew this? Would it grant him a measure of comfort, of peace? Perhaps. But she would never know, would she? For she would never tell him, not for anything. He did not deserve comfort.
Even so, she enjoyed imagining her brother coming to his rightful end.
“What say ye?” It was a moment or two before Davina understood Drew had posed the question to her.
“A—about what, now?” she sputtered. It was the first time in days that one of them had asked her a question not pertaining to her most basic physical needs.
“What do ye think we ought to do?”
“She has no say in this,” Rufus snarled before she had the chance to speak.
Had he not said this, she might have deferred to him. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height before speaking. “I believe my brothers will stop to make camp, wherever they happen to be. We will lose no time in doing the same for ourselves.”
“Rather than taking advantage of the rain and covering the distance between us?” Rufus challenged, his voice in her ear, loud enough to make her cringe and flinch away. “Aye, ye would say that, as ye have no desire to see us catch your brother and bring him to justice!”
She bit her tongue hard enough to bring tears to her eyes—it was either that, or blurt out the fact that no, he was wrong, he could not possibly be more wrong. That she might have done all she could have to help him and his friends if only he had treated her with a little kindness, decency.
“Do ye need to yell at the lass?” Alec muttered, turning his face away.
Ru
fus drew the horse to a halt, jostling her as he dismounted. “I see,” he spat, looking around at all of them. “I see that I might as well be on my own out here. I was mistaken, thinking I had called upon men to ride by my side.”
“Ye did at that,” Drew murmured. He seemed best suited to speak to his cousin, perhaps because they were cousins and understood each other. “And ye know what this means to me.”
“It means nothing to ye!” Rufus pointed an accusatory finger. “To none of ye. Not what it means to me. I have not even been granted the chance to pay respects at the grave of my parents. I dinna know even how they were buried, or where. I canna step foot on my family’s land, and I canna find my brother. I know not whether he’s dead or alive.”
His words were anguished, strained, and Davina’s heart betrayed her by clenching at the sound. At the thought of his pain. This was the pain which Ian had created. How she loathed him for it.
“Forgive me, then, if I wish to ride in the rain. Every day that man lives is another day when Clan MacIntosh does not have the vengeance it deserves. I dream every night of killing him. I imagine it throughout the day. I will kill the man. I will destroy him.”
Davina held her breath. She’d never imagined he would speak so plainly in her presence. And she’d somehow not imagined the depth and violence of his hatred. How had she not imagined it?
Was it because she’d never felt such loyalty to her kin?
Rufus looked up at her, cold and hateful. “What have ye to say to that? As ye have an opinion on other things?”
She decided to remain silent. There were times when there was nothing to be said, and she was wise enough to know that this was one of them. For once, she would overcome her temper and her penchant for speaking before thinking.
He scoffed. “Nay, now you’ll stay silent, now that you’ve agreed with all of those who would go against me.”
Tyrone growled. “Would ye simply admit you’re in pain, man? Your injured shoulder is painin’ ye terribly thanks to the storm coming, and you’re in need of rest. There is no crime in admitting to pain.”
Rufus’s face fairly shone with rage, but it appeared as though there was nothing to be said, as he merely led the horse away from the road and into the woods.
He had come to his senses, but at what cost?
Thunder—rare for spring—rumbled overhead as they rode deeper into the woods, foretelling what was to come.
12
Rufus sat with his back to the base of a tall, ancient spruce. The roots which sat above ground formed a cradle, reminding him of the tree against which Davina had found protection not long ago.
He hardly dared move from the spot once he’d tied the gelding off and taken a seat, for Tyrone had been exactly right. He was in a haze of agonizing pain and had been since before dawn.
He’d known then that there was indeed a storm coming, and had wanted so desperately to hurry, to cover enough ground before the rain began to fall.
Before the pain became too much to manage.
It was not enough. It would never be enough. Ian was no longer only a man. He was a force, such as the very air or the fire which Clyde fought to keep burning in spite of the rain which poured down around them.
They’d chosen a place far from the road, where the branches were so thick overhead that no light whatsoever crept through. In spite of this, drops made their way through, dripping and pattering and already forming pockets of miserable, sucking mud.
It was going to be a long day. The best Rufus could hope for was for the storm not to last into the following day.
The men were careful to avoid his eyes as they went about the business of setting up. Alec filled buckets with water for the horses and fed them from the grain bags, as not very much grass grew where there was no sunlight.
Tyrone saw to snares for any hares and setting traps for fish in the stream. He, more than the others, seemed to be keeping space between the two of them, likely because he’d shamed Rufus by bringing up his wounded arm.
Drew took Davina away so she might take care of her needs, something which Rufus normally did but had no desire to involve himself with just then. The wench could get lost and never return. Curse him for having brought her along at all. What had he been thinking?
Vengeance. Nothing more. When a man’s thoughts were on vengeance, there was no consideration for common sense or even for planning. How would he announce her presence? What would he threaten to do to her if Ian did not face him?
If and when the man did finally show his face, what would become of Davina? What would he do with her, especially seeing as how he intended to kill him? She would still have nothing, no one. Nowhere to go.
He’d tied her around his neck as he would do with a millstone, and she was already dragging him down.
She wandered back to the fire, coming to a stop beside Clyde and holding her hands over the flames which struggled to remain lit. “It’s become rather chill, eh?” she murmured with a smile.
It did not surprise Rufus to find Clyde returning her smile. He’d developed a softness for the lass right from the start. Were it up to him, she might not be their captive at all. He would pick wildflowers for her, give her the first of their food at every meal and ensure her comfort at every turn.
The height of folly, in Rufus’s estimation.
He bit back a groan of misery as he shifted against the rough bark. Ever since Culloden, he’d suffered the pains of hell whenever a storm brewed, thanks to the near crushing of his shoulder when a horse ran out of control and knocked him to the ground under its hooves.
He knew it was fortunate that only his shoulder had fallen victim, as the blow could as easily have fallen on his head, his chest.
There were times, such as now, when he wished it had, indeed, gone that way. When he was certain that life would never mean anything but misery, grievous pain, agony. Suffering such as this had a way of turning a man’s mind from that which was real and causing him to despair.
Davina was studying him from across the fire. He met her gaze, challenging her to speak her mind yet again. Did she have the courage to do so?
She did.
“Might I suggest something ye could do to help your shoulder?” she asked.
“Ye might,” he grunted. “Though I dinna have to listen to ye.”
Clyde lowered his head, watching Rufus from beneath heavy brows. The man had a way of chastising without saying a word, a talent which brought Rufus’s mother to mind. She had been able to do the same, bringing her sons to mute terror with only the slightest look.
Davina looked uncertain, but this did not stop her from speaking. “If ye soak a cloth or bandage in water, then allow it to get hot over the fire—without burning it up, and wrap that around your shoulder, you ought to have a bit of relief. Once ye have eased the muscles with heat, ye can work them with your hands and loosen them even better.”
While he loathed her to the deepest depth of his soul, the thought of relief was too much to ignore. He eyed her up and down. “All right, then. Can ye do that for me?”
“Why should she?” Clyde muttered, standing. Towering over her, over him, over everything in the vicinity. “Why, when ye have been so cruel?”
Davina placed a hand on his arm, then shook her head. “Nay, nay, ye needn’t speak so. I can manage. It matters not what he says to, or about me, I assure ye. But I do thank ye.”
Rufus stared up at the giant, asking himself if the wench was going to bring an end to his mission before it had truly begun. She had sewn discord among the men already, and things would only get worse with time, he would wager.
Damn her forever. “I understand what ye mean,” he admitted to Clyde. “Forgive me.” Apologizing and making things right with the men was more important than pride. Discord could easily lead to a mutiny in the ranks, something he had witnessed too many times over the course of a long, disappointing war to ignore now.
Clyde favored him with a short nod—from him, this might a
s well have been a lengthy speech. He sat again, tending the fire, while Davina retrieved the linen bandages which had once wrapped her now-mostly-healed ankle. She soaked them in a bucket of water, then wrapped them around a fallen limb and held the limb over the fire at a distance.
“You’ve done this before, then?” he asked, watching her work. She did not hesitate, moving with efficiency and purpose.
“Perhaps,” she muttered, her back to him. “Perhaps I only wish to burn ye. We shall find out soon enough.”
“Your brothers?” he asked, ignoring her snide remarks in favor of indulging his curiosity.
“Who else?” Her shoulders shook when she chuckled, but it was a mirthless chuckle. “One of many things I did for them. The only woman about the place, ye ken. Remove your tunic.”
He moved slowly, removing his left arm before sliding the sleeve over his right shoulder and arm. Only gritting his teeth and reminding himself there was a woman present kept him from crying out.
Moments later, she came to him and shook the bandages off the limb. Steam rose from the linen, yet in spite of the heat, she did not hesitate to hold the bandage and wrap it tight around his shoulder and upper arm.
“Too hot?” she murmured as she worked.
“Nay, it feels good,” he admitted. The heat did indeed provide comfort, loosening his tight muscles and granting him a measure of relief. He found himself leaning back against the tree, taking slow, deep breaths, nearly weak with gratitude he could not bring himself to voice.
She seemed to understand, and did not ask him for thanks. Instead, she knelt beside him and began pressing on his shoulder with hands far stronger than he would have given her credit for.
“What happened to ye?” she murmured as she worked.
“Horse. During the war. Nearly crushed my shoulder.”
The breath she sucked in through her teeth spoke of her surprise. “And ye survived it?”
“It would appear that way.”
She snickered. “A pity it was not your skull.”
