An Auctioned Bride

by Aileen Adams

  Cursing, he stared into darkness, his heart pounding with fury. At her. At himself.

  The rain had eased to a light mist, though he still heard the drip of moisture falling to the ground from the trees surrounding the cave opening.

  The horses!

  He dashed out of the cave, cursing himself for not tying her up, for thinking that such a tiny woman wouldn't have the courage to attack him, nor even attempt to escape. He had seen flashes of her temper, but where did she think she could go? She was in Scotland, surrounded on three sides by the sea.

  Surely, she wouldn't be foolish enough to attempt to make her way south… surely, she couldn't possibly think that she could traverse the hundreds of miles from the northern coastal region to the border of Scotland and England to the south.

  Then again, maybe he shouldn't have underestimated her in the first place. He cursed his foolishness for taking pity on her. For feeling sorry for her. Dashing through the trees, he rounded the hillock to the side of the cave where they had taken shelter, and slapped at dripping pine branches, muttering low under his breath.

  Hugh glanced up at the clearing night sky, at the clouds drifting with the breeze, carrying the storm to the southeast. How long had he been unconscious? How far had she gone?

  He had warned her about the bogs, but she had ignored him. As he rounded two large boulders and peered into the darkness, he heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the shifting, shadowy hulks. Both the horses were there, his gelding as well as the older mare.

  Dalla probably hadn't wanted to take time to search for them, even though she would have known they were close by. She obviously wasn't an experienced horsewoman—she'd preferred to strike out on foot. Foolish, foolish female.

  Maybe she had assumed that tracking her on horseback would be easier than tracking her by foot. Even with the rain, the weight of a horse would have tracks deeper than any petite woman. Maybe she wasn't so foolish after all.

  He paused, thinking. He was tempted to take his gelding to go in search of her, but the treacherous landscape would be especially dangerous, not only because of the darkness, but because the ground was now soft, many of the peat bogs would look much the same as the ground around them.

  For all he knew, she was already at the bottom of one of those bogs. He cursed himself yet again for his foolishness. Some captain of the guards he was, allowing such a little slip of a woman to get the best of him.

  With another grunt of frustrated anger, he returned to the cave, reached for his short sword and his leather saddle bag and slinging it over his shoulder. The leather bag held not only sparse amounts of food, but two flints, a short, coiled piece of rope, and a collection of herbs in a smaller leather pouch that Sarah had insisted he take with him in case of injury or illness.

  He paused at the cave opening and reached for one of the sticks in the fire, biting back a groan of pain as his head throbbed again. He lifted the stick, its edge glowing red as he passed it just above the ground in front of the cave opening. The rain would have washed away most of her tracks already, but if he could get an indication of her direction, that's where he'd start. Muttering low under his breath, unable to quit cursing himself for his stupidity, and hers, he found one footprint a short distance from the cave opening, headed northeast.

  Northeast? She was headed back the way they had come. That confused him. Surely, she knew that no one in the village would provide her aid. She would be recognized—but no, he had given her a spare set of breeches and a tunic. While they had enveloped her diminutive size, she did look much like a ragamuffin in them. She could disguise her features with dirt, tuck that long braid of hers under the shirt, and maybe, with muddy features, she just might pass as a young boy.

  In the cities, the site of homeless urchins was nothing unusual. If she got very lucky, she might even be able to talk her way aboard a ship bound for her home country, or perhaps down south to the coast of England or even France.

  As he darted away from the cave into the damp and misty night, water still dripping from the boughs of trees overhead, he felt true concern. It wasn't just the money he had spent on her nor the horse. It wasn't even his embarrassment over her ability to overcome him in the cave and escape. It was the land itself, treacherous enough as it was in the daytime, but at night, even more so. The wet, boggy ground, the muddy quagmires, the mist hiding steep gullies, dropping away abruptly from underfoot, not to mention the animals, proved extremely dangerous.

  Once in a while, a half-moon peeked from behind clouds skittering across the night sky. He glanced up, gaining his bearings as he found a constellation that told him he was headed in the right direction. Of course, the lass could have changed direction at any time, but he knew that she would be more likely to stick to a certain path, maybe using the shadowy outlines of ragged tors or other landmarks to guide her.

  He had no doubt of her intelligence. Throughout their travel during the day, he had gazed back to find her studying the landscape, occasionally looking behind her along the deer path they had followed. Not much of a path really, more like a simple direction.

  He nodded with grudging approval. While he hadn't thought of it at the time, he realized that she had not only likely been taking stock of any landmarks she could find as they ventured west away from the coast, but she had enough foresight to glance back behind her, to see what those landmarks looked like from the other direction.

  A grudging admiration nudged into his thoughts, but with every step, the jarring pain caused by the injury to his skull reminded him not to be too forgiving. He proceeded onward, his feet carefully picking their way through the marshy, mushy ground. Occasionally, when he smelled the steamy, gaseous odors erupting from a bog nearby, he moved forward more cautiously, carefully placing one foot down before putting his full weight on it. Occasionally, the clumps of grass he stepped on dipped beneath his weight.

  He moved slowly, but if she was smart, so too would she. Quagmires dotted this low valley. Dalla could not have picked a worse place to launch an escape attempt. In fact, he would be surprised—

  He heard a sound off in the distance.

  He froze, cocking his head slightly as if that would help them hear that sound better. A red deer? The cry of a wolf, or possibly the loud grunt of a boar? He waited, creeping softly forward, one hand on the handle of his short sword, tucked into his waistband, waiting for something, anything, that would give him an indication of where—or what - that sound come from. Nothing. Perhaps it had just been the sound of the wind moaning through the valley, or—

  He heard it again.

  It was not the wind, nor the distant roar of a stag. It was a human cry, one filled with fear.

  He hesitated only a moment, then cupped his hands around his mouth, filled his lungs, and shouted.

  “Dalla!”

  He waited, holding its breath as his voice echoed through the trees off to the right and bounced off the rocky outcroppings to the north, then floated down the small, narrow valley into the distance. Nothing.

  Then, dimly, to the east, he heard the cry again. He headed in that direction, resisting the urge to break into a run or hurry his steps. He had no doubt she was not far, maybe a few hundred yards at the most.

  He walked twenty paces, then paused to call out again.

  Her answering shouts sounded closer. He slightly adjusted his direction and carefully proceeded. The landscape was dotted with boulders; some small and about the size of a human head, others jutting upward, casting weird shadows into the mire. Finally, he broke into a small clearing, standing in the shadow of a large, shoulder-high rock. There, maybe twenty yards away, he saw her, struggling in a bog, sunken down to her chest, arms outstretched and trying to reach for shrubs and clumps of grass at the edges.

  “Stop!” He ordered. “Stop moving!”

  In her panic, she gazed at him, shaking her head, still struggling, as if trying to wade through the thick, cloying, slippery mud in her effort to reach the side of the bog she ha
d fallen into.

  “I said stop, you're making it worse!” he repeated, his tone harsh. “Listen to me, Dalla, or you're going to sink down even further!”

  Her wide eyes latched onto him, her mouth open in panic.

  He spoke again, softening the tone of his voice to keep her calm. “Now, don't make any sudden moves, but very slowly, lean back, like you're trying to float on the surface.”

  She stared at him a moment and then shook her head. “I can't—”

  “Do it!” he hissed. “Slowly now,” he said, stepping closer, carefully placing his feet as he did so. “Very, very slowly.”

  She gave a brief nod, saw swallowed hard, keeping her arms raised slightly above her head, then stopped struggling and leaned her shoulders back, very slowly, as he had directed, her shoulders and head ever so slowly angling toward the surface of the bog.

  He knew it was going against every instinct she had to not struggle, to trust him, to lean back rather than continue striving to reach for a clump of grass or anything to pull her out.

  He'd fallen into one of these once, many years ago, when he and his brother had first ventured into these northern highlands. He knew what to do. He slowly swung the saddle bag from over his shoulder and placed it on the ground. He reached inside for the short piece of rope. He often used it to tie his gelding to a tree or as a hobble, depending on his needs. It was a bit shorter than his own height, but perhaps it would do.

  He wrapped one end of the rope around his hand, his grip tight as he slowly made his way around the lip of the bog, again carefully placing and testing one footfall after the other, testing his weight and surface below.

  He made his way around the rim of the bog, now facing her back, her head and shoulders slightly perpendicular to the surface.

  “Dalla, I want you to reach very slowly over your head with your left hand. Slowly now.”

  Ever so slowly, she obeyed, lifting her left arm over her head, turning slightly to look at him.

  “Don't try to look at me. Don't move anything but your arm. Keep your movements very slow.”

  She followed his instructions as he uncoiled the rope, gauging the distance between his position and her outstretched hand.

  “I'm going to throw you the end of a rope. Don't reach for it. Don't lunge for it. Don't try to grab for it. I'm going to try and make it land between your head and your shoulder, draping over your chest. Do you understand?”

  “Y—yes,” she replied.

  “Remember. Don't grab for the rope if it doesn't land between your head and your outstretched arm. Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she choked out.

  He gave the rope a gentle toss, but his first throw was a bit off. The end of the rope hit her head.

  She cried out, jolted.

  He warned her again. “Try not to move. It may take a few tries, but I'm going to get you out of there.”

  She said nothing.

  He tried once more, tugging the rope back toward him, coiling it loosely again, and then made another toss. This time the rope bounced against the back of her left shoulder.

  He shook his head. He had to try to get a little bit closer. Even a few inches would help. He crouched down onto his knees, looked for a solid chunk of earth that he could brace his left hand on, bearing the weight of his upper torso, giving him the few inches forward he needed. After testing several unsuitable spots, he finally found one. His knees planted, his left hand bracing his upper body, he tried again.

  This time, the few inches he had gained proved beneficial. About six inches of rope landed between her head and her upraised arm, draping over her chest. He heard her catch her breath, a half sigh of relief escaping her throat.

  “Very slowly, Dalla. Very slowly, reach for the end of the rope with your left hand, grab onto it, and then do the same with your right hand.”

  Her garbled cries echoed loudly now. The clouds continued to clear. Even as she reached for the rope, ever so slowly as he had instructed, he saw her torso dip another inch or two deeper into the bog. She began to panic.

  “Stop!” he ordered. “Slowly, Dalla. Slowly.”

  She was weeping softly as she slowed her movements, wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the rope, then in small increments, repeated the process with her right.

  He nodded with satisfaction. “You holding on tight?”

  “Yes,” she gasped.

  “I'm going to start pulling you out. Don't fight me, don't try to help me. Just let your body relax. You understand?”

  Another gasped reply in the affirmative.

  He took a deep breath and gently tugged on the rope with his right hand, the left still braced on the ground. She couldn't see his face, couldn't see his frown. She was stuck but good.

  His head pounded, and his muscles strained as he tugged harder, trying not to jerk her body, but slowly eased her backward over the surface of the bog.

  “Let your body relax, like you're floating on the surface of the water,” he said.

  Despite what must have been intense fear, for once, she listened to him. She hung desperately to the rope, letting him do all the work. After what seemed like endless minutes, he felt the mud release its grip on her lower torso with a muffled, popping sound.

  Hugh straightened, and grasped the rope with both hands now, leaning backward, careful to keep his own movements steady, maintaining tension on the rope as he ever so slowly eased her backward. Her head nearly rested on the surface of the bog now. Every muscle in his arms and shoulders strained and tensed as he leaned further backward, twisting the rope around his hands as he gained the slack.

  Finally, with a last gurgling slurp, the bog released her and most of her torso now floated on the surface. Moving faster, keeping the tension on the rope, he stood and continued to pull her closer to the lip of the bog, hand over hand.

  Finally, she was close enough to reach down and grab her.

  He wrapped his hand around her small wrist.

  The moment his hand touched her arm, she began to sob.

  Seconds later, he pulled her out, dragging her onto the clumps of grass at the lip of the bog, her chest heaving as soft, mewling sounds escaped her throat.

  10

  Exhausted and gasping, Dalla heaved a groan of relief as she emerged from the muddy bog. She felt two firm hands grip her upper arms and lift her upward.

  Relieved, glad to be alive, surprised that she hadn't sunk below the surface, thinking that she was doomed to die, lucky that he had even found her, she flung herself at Hugh and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.

  Though chagrined, humiliated, no—mortified—she couldn't help it. He had saved her life. He could've just let her flounder, watched calmly from a distance as she sank ever slower beneath the surface.

  He stiffened.

  It was then that she realized to the fullest what she had just done. She stepped back with a gasp, face upturned.

  He stared down at her without any expression whatsoever. Then, without warning, he stooped slightly, clasped his hands around her waist and lifted her upward.

  She found herself hanging upside down over his shoulder, his muscular arms clasping her legs to his chest, just behind her knees, her upper torso dangling down over his back.

  She pounded her fists against his rock-hard buttocks. Her gratitude forgotten, she felt only a surge of humiliation.

  “Put me down! Put me down, I say!”

  She felt a harsh slap, heard the smacking sound, and gasped in dismay. He had just spanked her!

  “You insufferable oaf!” she cursed in her native language. “You—”

  “You will hold still, or you'll find yourself back on your arse,” he threatened.

  Her momentary appreciation for his saving her life had rapidly ebbed, and along with it so too did her hopes of escape. Her heart thudding with the remnants of panic and her near escape from sure death, and the reality that she was once again a captive, and that her chances of escaping
again were slim, tore through her, leaving her shocked and uncertain.

  “You're a fool, racing headlong into the night like that,” he said, his English accented heavily with his Scottish brogue. “You were less than ten minutes from dying, from drowning in that bog, do you understand that?”

  Again, she said nothing, bouncing harshly against his broad shoulder, every step he took prompted a gasp of air to escape her chest. She grit her teeth and tried to lift herself up by bracing her hand against his lower back. Again, she felt the smack of his hand against her bottom.

  “You hold still,” he said again, his tone now filled with more anger than before. “I'm not going to warn you again.”

  “I was just trying to balance myself—”

  “I told you to stop moving, and I told you for a reason. Do you want to send us both toppling into another bog?”

  She said nothing, but reluctantly allowed herself to sag, arms hanging down, her now tear-streaked face turned to the side as she watched the ground pass beneath his feet.

  The rain had stopped, the night darkened still more, broken only occasionally by a quick glimpse of a half-moon, a cool breeze wafting over the grasslands. The chill tore through the now mud-caked clothes she wore, sending ripples over her skin. Maybe she had been foolish, but certainly, he couldn't blame her for trying, could he?

  And she did realize how close she had come to dying. The moment the ground had given way beneath her, that moment when she cringed, expecting to bounce harshly against the ground only to feel herself sinking, had filled her with despair. Her hopes of escape dashed, she had struggled mightily to right herself, to try and make her way to the edges of that bog, because she desperately wanted to live. Despite her situation, despite her captivity, and despite the knowledge of the betrayal that had carried her to this land in the first place, she wanted to live. Fiercely wanted to live.

  She also realized that if her captor—Hugh—hadn't found her when he did, she would be gone by now, no trace of her left to mark her short existence. The idea infuriated her. She resolved at that moment, slung roughly over her captor's—her husband's—shoulder, that she would do what she had to do to survive.