by Aileen Adams
Because in the end, her ultimate goal was not just escape, but to learn who had betrayed her.
And why.
11
Once again Dalla sat with her back huddled against the wall of the cave while Hugh built yet another fire. Once more, he had told her to take her clothes off.
Exhausted, mentally and physically, she didn't have the strength to argue. And yet again, covered with that saddle blanket, she pulled off her muddy, wet clothes.
This time, he crouched near the fire he had rebuilt, two long sticks thrust through the legs of the breeches he had given her. He held them above the fire, trying to get them dry enough so she could put them back on. It didn't matter that they were muddy. Draped over a rock bulging from the side of the cave, her tattered gown and chemise were still drying.
She tried not to stare at his broad, naked chest nor his bulging biceps, nor the way the muscles in his back rippled every time he adjusted his position. He crouched on his haunches, his strong, long thighs limber and flexible as he shifted his balance from one leather-bound foot to another.
Occasionally, he glanced back at her. He caught her staring. She quickly dipped her head, hiding the warm flush in her cheeks.
No, she couldn't admire him. It didn't matter that he was handsome, or that he had saved her life. He had bought her! He had forced her into a farce of a marriage. She was his captive, no matter what that piece of parchment in his saddlebag said. He had bought her—owned her—as easily as he had bought the mare for her to ride.
But Dalla Jorstad was no man's possession, and she refused to—
“I don't intend to hurt you, Dalla,” he said, speaking softly. “But if you try to escape again, if you risk my life or the lives of my horses, things will not go easy on you. Do you understand?”
Those were the first words he had spoken since they'd left the bog and slowly made their way back to the cave.
She hadn't spoken either.
He stared at her and lifted an eyebrow.
She muttered her understanding but not liking it one bit. She'd been quiet and subdued, accepting, for the moment at least, her circumstances. She would wait and watch. And when the time was right—
“Don't even think about it,” he said calmly, turning back to the fire and flipping the sticks around, now drying the other side of the pants before he turned to her again. “Tomorrow evening, if we have no more delays or difficulties, we'll be at the hut where I have taken shelter. I had planned on staying for a few weeks, but under the circumstances, I might have to—”
“You mean you don't live up here?” Her curiosity had once again gotten the better of her.
One of her many not so good habits, this insatiable curiosity of hers. Her father barely tolerated it, and she'd often been teased her about it by others who told her that most women didn't bother with such trivial matters. They didn't understand. But Dalla had always been a curious individual, one constantly looking to find answers to her many questions about the world around her, about human behaviors, to understand everything.
He shook his head. “I came up here to...” He sighed and turned away. “I live further away, in the Grampian Mountains. Do you know where those are?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know any part of Scotland? The geography, the trees, how to live off the land? Do you know our animals, our people, or our clans?”
Again, she shook her head. She noted the look he gave her. Instantly, her temper rose, but she bit her lips against a sharp retort.
“Then you are a bigger fool than I thought. You will be safer with me, I can promise you that.”
He gestured with his chin toward the landscape outside of the cave. The darkness had lifted slightly, and she knew dawn was not far away.
“This is a dangerous land, Dalla. It's filled with wolves and wild boar and snakes. And those are just the animals. Many of the clans in the highlands have fought with one another for generations. There's plenty of edible plants out there, but just as many that are poisonous. How did you plan on surviving out on your own in a strange land?”
She said nothing for several moments. Of course, she had thought of that before she smashed him over the head with a stick.
She finally answered, her voice soft. “Have you ever been a captive? Sold like an animal and then told that you belong to someone else?”
He didn't answer, and she didn't expect him to.
She lifted her chin. “Of course, I tried to escape. Wouldn't you?”
He studied her for several moments and then slowly nodded. “Aye, I would,” he said firmly. “But not until I had studied the lay of the land, prepared for a journey with food, water, and a good sense of direction.”
Well then. She remained silent.
“You can accept your fate, or you can continue to fight against it. It makes no difference to me. I'm just telling you once again, that you are safer with me than you are out there on your own.”
She said nothing, knowing instinctively that what he said could very well be true. But it would never stop her from trying.
She would bide her time.
And when the time was right…
12
As Hugh had estimated, they arrived at the hut just before dark on the second day after leaving the cave. Once again, wearing the breeches and tunic he had given her—she had eschewed the torn gown and its undergarment—he had helped her off the mare and taken her inside, then bound her hands and feet, not taking any chances.
She had not said a word since they'd left the cave. He had no doubt that she was waiting and watching for another chance to escape and while he felt saddled with the burden of her care and safety, what he had said was true. She was safer with him than she would be wandering through the region on her own.
She looked exhausted, physically and emotionally, dark smudges under her eyes marring her cheeks, her face pale. She refused to eat more than a small piece of dried meat and take some water. As she sat down on the pallet he had made for himself before leaving, her back leaning against the wall, he saw a faint trembling in her hands. Whether that trembling was caused by physical exhaustion or emotional anxiety, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it would likely take a couple of days for her to recover her strength. If he had to force her, he would make sure that she ate.
He told her to stay put, to sleep, and then he turned and left the hut. He entered the woods with his bow and quiver of arrows, thinking to kill a couple of rabbits to make do with the few potatoes he had bought in the coastal town. He’d bought the supplies before he stopped for that ill-fated mug of ale, and the supplies would not last long, sharing them between two people.
If he planned on staying here more than a few days, he would have to venture deeper into the woods, kill a deer, perhaps gather some berries, and dig for roots to provide for the both of them.
He paused just inside the tree line, and then turned to watch the hut for several minutes. He heard no sound from inside, saw no indication that she was going to try to escape, but even with bound hands and feet, he wasn’t taking any more chances with her. He wouldn't put it past her.
He shook his head, wondering what Phillip and Maccay would say when he rode back to Duncan Manor with this spirited, somewhat reckless, and defiant young Norwegian bride in tow.
He sighed, turning his back on the hut and venturing a short distance into the woods.
Squirrels darted up ahead, gathering seeds and scampering about. He paused, gazing up at one, nibbling on a pine cone, tail twitching, as if daring him to shoot it. He wouldn't. He didn't like squirrel meat. He barely tolerated rabbit, but he would take what he could get this close to the hut.
In a relatively and surprisingly short period of time, he headed back to the hut, grasping the hind legs of two fat hares. In less than an hour, he would have them skinned, cleaned, and spitted, roasting over the fire pit with two potatoes buried in the ashes to bake.
At the structure, he paused outside the door, dropping the a
nimals into the dirt by the threshold. He stepped inside to find Dalla sound asleep on her side, hands tucked under her cheek.
She looked like a child, huddled up like that, knees pulled up toward her chest. He studied her features, thinking at first that she was just pretending to sleep. After marking the steady rise and fall of her chest, her relaxed fingers, he realized she was indeed asleep.
She was lucky that he had been the one to purchase her. He would not hurt her. He had no idea what he was going to do with her, but for the moment, she was safe from harm. He had heard about the fates of other female captives from other lands; the rough, hard, and often painful existence they were forced to live with some Scottish clans as well as captains of ships who would take the women on board, use them, share them with the sailors, and then more often than not, toss them overboard when they were done with them.
With a quiet sigh, he stepped outside, skinned and cleaned the rabbits, then settled to prepare their supper. He built up the fire, created a spit, and soon the aroma of roasting rabbit meat and potatoes filled the interior of the hut. Both his gelding and the mare were hobbled outside under the trees, but he would bring them in before nightfall. Dalla could have the pallet he’d made up on the far wall, and he would make do with a blanket in front of the doorway on the floor. For his own safety and peace of mind, he would continue to tie her up at night.
Without thought, he lifted his hand and gingerly touched the lump and the cut on his forehead, shaking his head, already hearing Maccay’s laughter as he related how he'd gotten the cut, which would certainly scar. He had underestimated the girl… his captive… his wife, but he wouldn't do so again.
Occasionally, he tore off a small piece of roasting meat to test its doneness, finally satisfied that it was edible. He glanced toward Dalla to wake her up, but found her lying as she had been, though her eyes were wide, alert, and watchful. Her expression was blank, no indication of what she might be thinking as she stared at the roasting rabbits. Her nostrils flared slightly, and then he heard the loud rumble of her stomach.
“I'm going to untie you,” he said quietly. “And you are going to eat. You are not going to run. Understood?”
She stared at him a moment, then, slowly sitting up and leaning against the side of the hut, she nodded. He was pleased, but didn't react. Maybe she wasn't as foolish as she appeared. Then again…
They ate in silence, both assessing one another. He knew she was tired and not just physically, but emotionally. Truth be told, so was he. He wasn't used to being responsible for someone else, at least not like this. It felt exhausting.
How could Phillip, Jake, and Maccay actually want such a personal, interconnected, and responsible relationship with someone? He had no issues with protecting the people of Duncan Manor, nor the inhabitants of the nearby village or the lands surrounding the Duncan lands. That was his duty. He'd been doing it for years.
But having to be constantly watchful, concerned, or trying to anticipate what Dalla was going to do from one minute to the next was overwhelming, almost to the point where he found himself growing increasingly agitated and irritable. Not only at himself, but at her. And then, just when his emotions reached the brink of outright anger, he looked at her, at the color of her hair, its length, her features, and once again caught a vague resemblance to his Elyse.
He brooded in silence, not wanting to compare the two women. Elyse had been special. Very special. He had given her his heart, the only woman he had ever felt affection for. Elyse had been a gentle soul, almost shy around others, but when they were alone, or with friends like Maccay, she was more herself, laughing often, her eyes sparkling with excitement and enthusiasm for what the day might bring.
Maybe that's why he had bought Dalla. Imagining Elyse in such a horrific situation had made him feel sick to his stomach. Maybe it was the surge of protectiveness that he had always felt for Elyse that had prompted him to plunk down his precious coin for this obstinate, stubborn, and foolishly courageous young woman.
The thought of daring to strike him before running off into the night and then nearly losing her life in the bog prompted him to shake his head in consternation. This one had a strong instinct for survival. He just hoped that such instinct would not prove to be not only her undoing, but his.
He glanced up, not really surprised to notice that she also watched him, as if looking for signs of something; weakness maybe? Weariness? The possibility of him letting his guard down? That he would not do, even if he had to sleep with one eye open. She had already tried to escape from him twice, and he was sure that she would try again. At the same time, he knew that he couldn't keep her bound hand and foot the entire way back to Duncan Manor—unless he had to.
And that was another thing. He'd come up here to be by himself, to put his thoughts in order, to seek out his estranged brother, to… it didn't matter anymore. He couldn't stay up here in the wilderness very long. Their supplies wouldn't last, the weather would grow colder, and he couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to not only to take care of himself as the weather grew worse—and he would not have difficulty doing that—but a female as well. This hut, though acceptable for him, would not be for long, and especially not for a woman still recovering from whatever it was she had been through.
Even now, a chill breeze made its way through the chinks in the stones and down from the hastily repaired roof, causing the flames of the fire to dance, leap higher one moment, burn low to the ground the next. In a couple of weeks, maybe even sooner, snow might fall, and then what?
He didn't want to take the chance of being stuck so far with a woman, and a captive, unwilling bride at that. Travel would be just about impossible as the mountain passes grew choked with snow, dangerous with sleet-filled rainstorms that would loosen boulders and rocks from high above, sending them crashing into the gullies, ravines, and gorges below.
He finished eating.
Dalla plucked the last bit of meat from the leg bone of the rabbit he had given her, served up on a small slab of bark from one of the trees near the hut. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded and her shoulders sagged. She was filthy, as was he, but in the morning, they could both bathe in the river. They could take turns, and she could wash her dirty, mud-streaked clothing as well. They would spend a couple of days here, resting, recuperating, and filling their belly, and then he would head south.
Back to Duncan Manor.
13
Early the following morning, before the sun had made its way half past the eastern horizon, Hugh woke Dalla and told her to take off her muddy clothes. He held a blanket in one hand and gestured behind the hut as he told her about the small creek there, where she could bathe and wash her clothes.
She stared at him, as if unable to comprehend.
He explained again, slowly. “Your clothes are filthy. So are you. Go down to the creek, dunk yourself in a couple of times, and clean yourself, and your clothes.”
She frowned. “You want me to bathe in my clothes?”
He shrugged and lifted an eyebrow. “If you want to, you can, but I wouldn't recommend it,” he said, fighting back a tone of weary sarcasm.
“You want me to take my clothes off?” She shook her head in refusal. “I can't… I won’t undress in front of you—”
He held back a sigh. “Fine. Then you can bathe with your clothes on.”
“But that would be silly,” she said. “Neither I nor the clothes would get clean doing it that way.”
He said nothing for several moments. His patience was wearing thin. Was everything with her going to be a debate or an argument? He had to bathe as well, and he had plenty of things he needed to accomplish today.
He gestured toward the northwest. “There's another storm coming. It's going to get colder as the day progresses. It might even snow.” It probably wouldn’t, she couldn't know that. “Either you bathe now, or you can remain in those dirty clothes, your skin covered with bog mud, and the bugs that dwell in it.”
“Bugs?” She gl
anced down at her arm, pushing back the dirt-smudged sleeve, staring at her skin, caked with smears of dried mud. She looked up at him, her expression uncertain. “Bugs in the mud?”
He nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. There weren't any bugs that lived in the mud. How could they? They wouldn't be able to breathe or survive. But then, she didn't know that. “They are like the bugs that bother animals, make them scratch,” he shrugged. “Just stay well away from me and my horses.”
With that, he turned his back, preparing to toss the blanket onto the floor.
“Wait!” She said, quickly rising to her feet and snatching at the blanket, eyeing him first, and then the small meadow beyond the open doorway. “I will bathe. Do you have to watch me?”
“You will have your privacy, but you won't be free.” With that, he stooped and picked up the length of rope that he'd used to pull her from the bog. It wasn't very long, maybe the height of two men, maybe three, but he wasn't taking any more chances. “I will tie you—”
Hands now on her hips, the blanket dragging on the dirt floor, she looked up at him, frowning. “How am I supposed to bathe with my hands tied?”
He growled, the sound moving upward from the base of his stomach. His head hurt. He strove for patience, cursing under his breath. “I will tie only one hand. I will hold onto the other end, standing with my back turned. You will bathe, but I will not take a chance on you running from me again.”
“I won't, I—”
“I do not trust you, Dalla, to keep your word. And until I do, which is questionable in the near future, you will do as I say. If you do not like being tied up every time we go outside or while you are sleeping, I would suggest that you accept your situation, take what I offer with gratitude and dignity, and don't make my life any more difficult than it already is.”
