by Aileen Adams
She saw the frown of displeasure burgeoning on his brow, the frustration. Her heart skipped a beat.
He looked displeased. What was he going to do?
She swallowed her fear and watched him as he casually leaned against the side of the doorway. Waiting for him to continue.
For several moments, he remained silent, just staring at her.
She couldn't read his expression, other than that slight frown.
“And, given the knowledge of your circumstances, I'm beginning to think that even lingering in this area is ill-advised.”
Why was he talking like this? Was he trying to make her feel guilty? Guilty for something over which she had no control? A fit of resentment surged upward.
“So go look for your brother,” she said, feigning a lack of concern. “I'm not stopping you.”
His frown darkened.
Perhaps that wasn't the wisest comment she could've made, but he couldn't possibly blame her for the situation, could he?
“I am, obviously, in no position to stop you from doing anything you want to do,” she continued, determined not to be afraid of this man, her husband. “If you want to find your brother, find your brother.”
Why was he looking for his brother? Didn't he know where he lived? Were they close or distant? She failed to tamp down her curiosity.
He lifted an eyebrow. “And if, by some chance, whoever ordered your kidnapping, and possible murder, found out you were still alive? What then, Dalla? Would you announce to the entire northern region that you're alive and well? With your distinctive appearance, the color of your hair, the scene you caused by running away in the village? You know how villagers and sailors talk.” He shook his head. “Then again, maybe you don't. But I'll tell you now that news of your presence… the silver-haired Norwegian beauty bought by a Scottish highlander… has made its way up and down the coastline.”
He thought she was beautiful? She shook her head, not allowing her thoughts to stray in that direction.
What he said was true. If someone was looking for her, perhaps to ensure themselves of her death, news of her appearance could pose problems not only for her, but for Hugh.
Did she care? She tried to tell herself that she didn't, but she knew she would be lying to herself. Yes, they were enemies, politically at least. But he had saved her life twice now, and he treated her fairly well, and he had yet to raise a hand to her. She knew very well that she could have been much worse off. Much worse.
For an instant, and an instant only, she felt bad for him, but then her curiosity got the better of her. “Why are you looking for your brother?”
“Because I want to see him,” he answered simply, shoulders stiffening.
There was more to it than that. “How long has it been since you've seen him?”
“Why do you care?”
Now it was her turn to lift an eyebrow. “I don't, not particularly, but if you're going to blame me for not being able to seek him out, then I think I have a right to know, don't I?”
They locked eyes for several moments, and then he sighed. “It's been over ten years,” he began, his voice soft. “After my father died, my brother and I made our homes on Duncan lands, in the shadows of Ben Nevis. The Duncans are a powerful clan. My brother, Derek, wanted a different life, and I wanted to stay, to serve as a warrior, protector, of the Duncans. A few years ago, my mother passed away. Recent circumstances… well, changes actually…” He shook his head. “Anyway, I felt it was time to find him. Not only to let him know that our mother has died, but to perhaps restore the relationship we used to have.”
“What caused the rift between you two?” She had no idea why she even cared, but she did. She had always longed for a sibling, someone with whom to share her deepest secrets; secrets that she had not even shared with Megan, despite their close friendship.
“It wasn't really a rift, just that we both wanted different things, I suppose.”
“And your brother… you think he's living in one of the seaports?”
“Jake, a good friend of mine, saw him a while back, said he had started a shipping business to the north.”
“And you don't know where?”
He shook his head and shrugged. “I had planned on searching the villages along the coastline. If he's still alive and doing business, someone will surely have heard of it in one of the seaports along the coast.”
She said nothing. What could she say? While she knew it wasn't her fault that she had interrupted his search for his brother, she tried to imagine what he might be feeling. Disappointment? Resentment?
“In a few days, we will return south, to Duncan lands. I must go hunting today. A deer would provide sufficient food for most of our journey.” He pushed himself away from the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest once more. “Do I need to tie you up inside the hut, or will you promise to stay put?”
She definitely didn't want to be tied up, but could she promised to stay put? Even if she managed to escape, where could she go?
“Now answer my question. Do I need to tie you, or will you stay put?”
She scowled up at him before muttering her reply. “I'll stay put.”
He nodded in satisfaction, but as she watched him prepare for his hunt, she was forced to ask herself a question.
Would she stay put or would emotion override logic?
19
It was mid-afternoon before Hugh returned to the hut. The cool bite in the air heralded the potential for early snow, and he knew that he should start making preparations to head south sooner rather than later.
It had taken him longer than he had anticipated to track, and kill a small red deer, but it would do to sustain them for now, and he could start drying more meat for their journey. He carried the animal over his shoulders, hunched under its weight as he paused at the edge of the clearing, hovering in the shadows at its edge as he gazed toward the hut and the small meadow beyond.
He didn't see Dalla. He frowned, sensing a bad feeling. The bad feeling increased as his gaze swept the trees on the other side of the meadow and then ventured closer to the hut.
He noticed that the woods were quiet, more than they would normally be from his simple and brief passage. No birds chirped in the trees, no squirrels scampering and frolicking, looking for morsels or nuts strewn on the forest floor, as was usual this time of day.
He remained just inside the tree line, searching the shadows, looking for anything out of place. Nothing. A very gentle breeze barely drifted through the long grass in the meadow, and the tree stump upon which he and Dalla had sat before was now empty.
After several minutes, he decided nothing was lurking in the trees beyond and ventured toward the hut.
He peered inside, then cursed softly when he saw that the horses were gone.
Gone!
He quickly glanced down, saw the imprint of horse hooves in the dirt surrounding the doorway. The deer slid off his shoulders and landed with a dull thud in the dirt by the doorway. Had she really done it? Had Dalla really left, taking his horses with her?
In disbelief, he quickly walked around the hut and down to the banks of the small stream, searching up and down, but saw no sign of her, nor any recent indication of her passing. Nor those of his horses.
He returned to the hut, following the prints of his horses as they headed around the other side of the hut and into the woods.
His confusion grew.
Two possibilities existed. The first that, for some reason that he couldn't fathom, she had taken the horses out of the hut, perhaps to allow them to graze in the small meadow and they had gotten loose, and she had chased after them.
The other possibility, and the more likely, was that she had actually left and taken his horses with her.
If that was the case, chances were that one of the animals would have been let go. Was she an experienced enough rider to take one and hang onto the tether of the other? Had she pretended to be an inexperienced rider on their journey, to confound
him at a later time, when she made good on an escape attempt?
His anger growing, he ducked inside the hut and saw that his saddle and the saddle blankets were still inside. His confusion only grew. At that point, he was leaning toward the first possibility, but again, it made no sense. She didn't go near the horses. Especially his. His gelding was skittish around anyone but hi and would never allow her to ride him.
His heart began to pound as his temper roiled. He shouldn't have trusted her enough to leave her alone, unbound. He should've tied her up.
He stood outside of the hut for several moments, his gaze once again sweeping through the trees. Then, in an ever-increasing arc, he followed the tracks of his horses deeper into the tree line. He saw no human prints. As he studied the tracks and ventured deeper into the woods, he noticed something else. The horses were separated by a short distance, and while they were both heading in generally the same direction, they weren't traveling together. That either meant that she was riding one and had let the other go, or the horses had been released, perhaps spooked to run off.
More questions.
A short distance further, the horses separated, one of them heading higher into the hills, the other toward the east. Gauging by the size of the hoof prints, his gelding had headed east, downslope rather than higher into the foothills. While chances were that if Dalla chose to ride one of the horses, it would be the older mare, he also knew that time was of the essence. His horse wouldn't go far.
Hugh began to trot, weaving his way among the trees, slapping branches out of his way, his gaze continually scanning the ground, following the trail of his horse.
Perhaps an hour later, he reached the top of a hillock, crowded on all sides by pine, alder and yew trees, hampered in his efforts to follow a trail by thick growths of sweetbriar, creeping willow, and gorse. He looked down into a small and narrow valley, the gray slopes of the mountain rising to the north, a field of scattered boulders below, the valley floor gradually dropping away to the south that would eventually meet the bogs. His heart thumped in dread at the thought of his horse becoming mired in a bog, to eventually succumb and drown.
The thought infuriated him, and his anger with Dalla grew.
Grumbling, he noticed a slight indication of movement to the north, near the base of the mountain. He peered more closely into the shadows cast by the mountainside and felt a huge surge of relief when he saw his horse grazing near the base of a tall, finger-like boulder canted at an angle into the ground.
He quickly made his way down the hillside, whistling softly. His horse heard his whistle, lifted its head from grazing, ears flicking forward, tails swishing, and then with a soft neigh, trotted toward him.
His concern for his horse was alleviated, and he sighed and chuckled as his gelding lowered its head and brushed its muzzle against his chest.
Hugh took a few moments to scratch behind the gelding’s ears and pat its neck. Then, grasping a handful of the gelding’s mane, he leaped onto his back.
He would backtrack and follow the mare’s trail until he caught up with Dalla. He had no doubt whatsoever that he would. She was no match for the highlands, but he and his horse were. And when he caught up with her…
In less than half the time it had taken him to find his horse, he found the trail where the mare had separated from his gelding.
Overhead, thunderclouds were building, fast and dark. Why would she head up rather than down? Especially with the weather turning? It seemed an unnatural direction for the mare to go, north and higher into the hills rather than following the gelding downslope.
He slowed down his pace, carefully following the trail, which grew sparser the higher he climbed, and the rockier the slopes became. What had compelled Dalla to go this way? Before he could determine an answer, he saw a sign; a definite scuff mark of hoof against stone. Had the mare slipped? Had Dalla fallen off?
He stopped his horse, dismounted, and carefully looked around. There, near the base of a tree trunk, a splotch of blood on the base of the pine tree, staining the bark a darker color. Not a lot, but enough. She’d fallen off. Standing close to the trunk of the tree, he gazed around, seeking any movement, listening for any noise.
Nothing.
The fact that it was so quiet didn’t bode well. It meant either a predatory animal or humans.
Pulling his ax from his belt with one hand, reaching for his knife with the other, he crept slowly forward, his gaze scanning the dried pine needle and leaf-strewn ground around him, then he lifted his gaze to scan through the trees, rocks, and so many other possible hiding places.
He placed his feet carefully, trying to avoid the dryer leaves and pine cones.
Where was she? Where was the mare? After studying the area for several moments, he slid his ax back into his belt and reached for his horse’s reins.
Guiding him, walking slowly, he ventured deeper into the forest, pausing every few steps to listen. Was she injured? How badly? What if she—
A noise prompted him to freeze.
It only lasted a brief moment, and he couldn't identify what it was or from where it had come. The only thing he recognized was that it was different. It didn’t belong in a forest. It came from a higher level than that upon which he stood.
Ever so slowly, he inspected every rock, every tree that grew on the slope rising above him. Huge, tilting boulders interspersed with hardy birch and pine-dotted the slope. Undergrowth, wild-growing ferns, and briars grew interspersed with one another. He scanned even higher toward the trees, the seemingly solid rock walls of the mountain rising above, and decided she couldn't possibly have gone there.
So where was—
He heard the noise again, so soft it could have been a short breath of wind, the sound of a pine bough brushing against another high above, audible one moment, gone the next.
Once again, he eyed the boulders and the growth of brush interspersed among them. His gaze riveted on the briars, knowing that if it were he, the briars would be the most unlikely, the most uncomfortable, and therefore the best place to hide. But a hiding place for who? Dalla or a wild animal? Perhaps even a boar?
He glanced back at his horse, watching him, not appearing alarmed. If his horse had caught the scent of boar or bear, his ears would have been pointed forward, his muscles shivering with the anxiety of a hunt.
He took a chance.
“Dalla,” he said, softly, keeping his voice low so as not to carry and echo off the rocks above.
Nothing.
He pur away his knife, and tied his horse to a low tree branch and proceeded further, his ax held at mid-level, ready to use, while his left hand reached once again for the knife.
“Dalla” he hissed a little louder.
He heard another noise and this time was able to identify it as coming from the briars, its branches trembling ever so slightly. He quickly rushed forward, still keeping an eye on the landscape around him and spoke again.
“Dalla, you come out of there right now.”
He didn't raise his voice, purposely kept it calm, tamping down his anger and frustration. First things, first. She needed to get out of there.
“I can't.”
He couldn't fathom the relief that swept through him upon hearing that short, soft answer. It was at that moment that he realized she could have been gone forever, lost in this wilderness, dying slowly of starvation and exposure. Even worse, she could have been dead, falling off her mare, striking her head on a rock, or falling over the edge of a precipice.
And then his mind assessed the tone of her voice. Fear. Pain.
“Are you hurt?”
“I'm stuck.”
His emotions askew, he peered deeper into dog rose shrubs, seeking her. Wild roses in the highlands were no doubt beautiful, most appearing with small pink flowers, sending their lovely aroma downslope, but up here, they grew wild, tangled among themselves, creating thickets on the hillsides that could be difficult to penetrate.
It was a good hiding place,
if one didn't mind getting scraped up by their sharp thorns. He couldn't see her.
He crouched down and tried to make openings in the long, branching vine-like protuberances, many of them curving back on themselves and forming circles or arches.
Unfortunately, the majority of the stems contained sharp, wickedly curved, reddish-brown thorns, effective in protecting its delicate flowers from rummaging animals. Not only that, but the thorns enabled the plant to grasp onto the most unlikely surfaces including rock and tree trunks, attaching themselves as they gripped, their stems climbing ever upward.
“Hugh, I can't get out. You're going to have to help me.”
He paused and located the source of her voice, just beyond an unusual growth of a deeper red rose, small and puckered in the cooler air. He would—
“These wicked thorns have captured my clothes, and I can't—ouch!—can't get myself loose.”
He heard shuffling in the midst of the tangled growth.
“Just hold still,” he muttered, his irritation with her now growing.
She was alive.
Now he could be angry.
He began to hack at a few of the branches with his ax and soon managed to create a small hole down near the ground. He saw a foot. A bare, white, foot with a wicked looking scratch along its outer edge. He cursed. What had prompted her to go running off with his horses like this? He should punish within an inch of her life. He should—
“I didn't run away, Hugh.”
He grabbed her ankle, and she muttered a soft yelp as his hand easily encompassed the joint.
“Cover your face,” he ordered.
He heard nothing for several moments.
“Is it covered?”
A muffled response.
“Hold your arms as close to your body as you can. The only way I'm going to get you out is to pull you out. You're going to get scratched. Keep your face covered.”
Another sound, again muffled.
He found and grasped her other ankle, then positioned himself to pull.
