by Aileen Adams
He sighed, confused, unable to make sense of it. They were in trouble, the both of them. Without him, she would die out there in the wilds, perhaps be kidnapped again, to a fate worse than he even wanted to contemplate. She could become lost and at the mercy of the wild animals. Unbidden, the memory of finding Elyse all those years ago tore through him, prompting a groan.
Even if he was to survive his injury, they were without horses, and winter was fast approaching. He had told Phillip he would return before the first snowfall. And if he didn't? He had no doubt that Phillip would send others, accompanied more than likely by Jake and Maccay, to find Hugh, but they didn't know where he was. All he had told them was that he was venturing north toward the coast. He couldn't recall if he had even mentioned to them his idea of trying to find Derek.
No, if he didn't return to Duncan lands by the first snowfall, there was little chance of his ever returning at all.
He couldn't stop the darkness from encroaching, and finally surrendered to its gentle, soothing waves, pulling him beneath the surface, easing the pain, erasing his worries, and providing him with the rest and the deadness of mind he so needed.
23
A throbbing pain woke him. After struggling several moments, he managed to open his eyes. His arms and legs felt like dead weights. He couldn't move if he wanted to. He saw nothing but darkness. Alarmed, at first he thought it was because something had gone wrong with his eyes, but then, off in the distance, he heard the hoot of an owl and realized it was night. What time, he knew not. He felt chilled, shivering, wincing with the pain that the shivers caused. Time passed, and he drifted off again.
When he next awoke, he felt as if his body burned. He had a fever. He had the presence of mind to wish that Sarah was here. She would heal him, make him a brew, a healing poultice for his leg, and in his mind, he heard her voice, softly cajoling one minute, then the next, threatening him to open his eyes and fight the pain to take some broth.
The next time he woke and opened his eyes, he was surprised to find that daylight streamed through the crevice in the rock wall. He turned his head and regretted it as everything spun crazily around him. He froze, his eyes riveted to the crevice, waiting for the world to settle around him. The throbbing in his leg had eased slightly. He still felt warm, flushed with heat and knew that he still had a fever. There was nothing he could do.
Birds chirped in the distance.
Then he heard another sound.
The sharp snap of a stick, not far away. Out of place.
He tried to sit up, alarmed that he was only able to lift himself up a few inches before collapsing back onto the ground. It was then that he realized that a blanket covered him, and his head rested on his saddle. What—
His eyes darted toward movement approaching the gash in the rock wall. He tried to reach for his knife but was damnably weak. His heart pounded, his ears ringing. He had to defend himself…
A shadow skewered the opening, and all he could do was stare, waiting for the delivery of the death blow.
Instead, his blurring vision recognized the form that crouched as it slid inside the opening and sat down cross-legged before him.
“Dalla?” he croaked. His voice sounded scratchy and dry.
A hand settled on his shoulder.
“Don't try to move, Hugh,” she said. “If your wound starts bleeding again, I may not be able to stop it this time.”
Confused, he closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Where… what have—”
“I found my way down to the hut,” she explained, speaking slowly, her eyes focused on his. “I found your horse. Agnarr and I brought back your belongings and some food—”
“Agnarr? Who is Agnarr?”
Her face flushed with color. “I named your horse.”
He stared at her a moment. “Why?”
“Because I couldn't keep calling him horse, could I? He should have a name. A good name—”
Hugh frowned, about the only movement he could muster without causing pain. “What does it mean, this Agnarr?”
“In the old language,” she began hesitantly, “In the old tongue of my country, it means… it means terror—”
“You named my horse terror?”
“No, no… No, today, the name means two things, the edge of the sword, and warrior, put together.” She straightened her back and nodded, as if proud of herself. “It is an honorable name. A proper name.”
He glanced at her clothes, her torn tunic, and then remembered her injury. “Your leg?”
“It's feeling much better, thank you,” she said formally. “The last couple of days, giving it rest—”
He frowned again. “Days?”
“Yes. This is our fourth day here.”
Stunned, he could only stare at her. “How…”
“There is a small stream nearby. I've been feeding you cold broth from those strips of dried meat that were in your hut.” She made a face. “The deer was bloated and full of flies, so it was useless. I brought back your saddle, the blankets, and the pouches that you had filled with berries and wild vegetables. We have made do.” She glanced down at his leg. “Your wound is healing, but you must careful not to move around too much. It has… I am not sure of the word. It has begun to cover itself, but I don't know what is happening inside. If you move around too much it might start leaking again.”
He had underestimated her. She was not nearly as helpless as he had thought. “You have done much. You have saved my life, and—”
“You have saved my life as well, Hugh,” she said softly. “I will be honest. I could not let you die.”
He did not ask her to explain. He knew just as well as she did that if he died, she likely would have died as well. While she had been intuitive enough to find his horse and her way back to the hut, and bring back with supplies, what would she have done if such was not the case? Besides, whoever those people were—
“Did you see any sign of—”
She nodded. “They had found the hut. I saw their tracks around it before they followed yours… or perhaps mine, after I fled. I am not sure. But it must have been after you were wounded, or you would've seen some sign of them when you came back from hunting. Is that right?”
He frowned again. “Of course. There were no tracks around the hut when I returned from the hunt.” This was not good. They were searching for her. He knew it. “Have you heard…” Had they tracked her back here? Had they found his horse? Would they—
“I have hidden Agnarr in the shelter of rocks surrounded by trees. They should not find him. I have covered my tracks between the stream and this cave. Yesterday morning, I did hear some shouts, but no one has ventured close.” She paused. “I believe the storm washed away most, if not all of our trail. But they are still out there, searching.” She lowered her head, then looked at him. “I am positive they are looking for me.”
He nodded. “And they have enlisted some clansmen to help,” he finished. “Word travels fast. If they are offering a reward for you, there will be more involved.” He paused, thinking, trying to come up with a plan.
After several moments, he nodded. “As soon as I can travel, we will go north. To the coast. We will never make it back to Duncan lands traveling over land. We will go by sea.”
She frowned, confused. “By sea? But how—”
Derek. “We will find my brother. He owns—or did, anyway—some ships. He can take us through the channels, between the coastline and the Orkney Islands, and then down through the North Minch along the western coastline. We can make landfall at any of the points along the northwestern coastline and make our way to Duncan lands from that direction. Those hunting you will not expect that.”
“But how will we find your brother?”
That was the only flaw in his plan. How indeed.
Finally, he spoke. “He will find us.”
But would he help?
24
Dalla wasn't at all sure about Hugh’s plan. While she understood his con
cerns about somebody looking for them, or her rather, the thought of returning to the coast filled her with misgivings. She wasn't sure why.
Surely, along the coastline, she might have a better chance of escaping and finding a way to get back to her native Norway. Then again, should she, or would she, be willing to take such a chance?
She glanced down at Hugh, sleeping now, still recovering from his wound. She had something else to consider. Her growing fondness for him. Out here in the wilderness, just the two of them, they were forced to rely on one another. And he had saved her life, and she had saved his. That put them on equal footing, didn't it? And while she was still his captive, and his somewhat unwilling wife, she didn't want to see him get hurt again, or worse, at least not for her sake.
Nevertheless, she couldn't help but worry. What if his brother refused to help them? As far as she knew, Hugh didn't have a lot of money, perhaps a few coins left tucked into that leather pouch tucked away among his belongings. She had lifted it and surmised that he had very little, without even peeking inside. While the thought had briefly—very briefly—flitted through her mind that she could use that money to bribe someone to help her, she had to be realistic. No one was going to help her. And even if she did manage to get back home, what then?
If his brother didn't help, would that coin be enough to hire someone else to take them by sea to the western coastline, where they would still have to trek inland to reach Duncan lands?
Questions ran rampant through her mind, over and over again. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that her kidnapping had not been a random act. Someone wanted her to disappear. Had that someone been her father or her uncle? Someone else? She didn't know.
She sighed and pushed her disparaging thoughts from her mind.
It was mid-afternoon, the sun was shining, and they needed food. She decided to go down to the stream she had found a couple of days ago, around the rocky cliff face and perhaps a quarter of a league distant. Maybe, if she were fortunate, she would catch a fish. She had found a fishing string in Hugh's belongings, which she had rifled through at one point when he was unconscious, not feeling the least bit guilty about doing so. It had a finely wrought hook attached to one end. The string and hook might be rudimentary, but they would suit her purpose. As far as bait, well, maybe she could dig up some worms along the bank. She had fished much of her life, and had no doubts that she could catch something. While she wasn't particularly fond of eating raw fish, she knew that they could do so, and it wouldn't make them sick as long as she cleaned the fish properly.
Before leaving the opening in the cave, she carefully peered around at the landscape. The underbrush nearby remained still. The trees growing in solitary places along the base of the cliffs and those dotting the slopes moved only with the gentle afternoon breeze. Nearby, a butterfly floated and fluttered about, looking for pollen. A bit further on, near the base of an elm, a squirrel dug for a tasty morsel near the base, occasionally stopping to glance around, flick its tail, then return to its task. Other than the slight breeze, the air was still. No hint of wood smoke from distant campfires, no voices echoing against the rocks—just stillness.
She carefully made her way down to the stream, ever conscious and alert to the sound of horses or voices. Nothing but the twittering of birds, an occasional scolding from a squirrel and the nearby gurgling of the stream met her ears. The sun shone warmly on her back, soaking into the depth of her muscles, easing the strain she had felt over the past days caring for Hugh, worrying that he wasn't going to survive.
She felt so tired, not only physically, but emotionally. Her slumber had been understandably fitful, constantly waking to make sure Hugh was breathing, and no footsteps were approaching their hiding place. Last night, it had gotten chilly enough that, while he slept deeply, she had lain close to him, soaking in his warmth. Despite the saddle blanket and the one other blanket she had brought back from the hut, the lack of a fire kept them both chilled to the bone.
She sat down on the banks of the stream, hidden in the underbrush growing close to its banks. The stream was maybe two stone throws wide, but it didn't look deep. Its surface was smooth, glistening with brilliant spots of sunlight. A few rocks in its center caused low eddies that rippled gently around them, and tiny waves rhythmically lapped onto the shore.
Here, the landscape was filled with underbrush, but as the slopes rose, towering close growing and towering pines overshadowed the steep slopes of the mountains and the granite spires hovering along the hillsides. In the distance, to the east and north, she saw another mountain range, only the tips of the mountains now glowing an orange-red color with the late afternoon sunlight. The rest of the valley spread away, wreathed in shadow.
Relieved that all seemed calm, she ventured close to the water, digging her hands into the soft soil where the water lapped at the silt. To her pleasure, she did find an earthworm and quickly stabbed it onto her fishing hook, then tossed the string and hook as far as she could into the water. She wished she could venture into the stream itself. It didn't look to be particularly fast running, but she was afraid to expose herself, not only to the cold waters, but to anyone lurking up in the higher elevations who might see her.
For a time, she relaxed, soaking in the warmth, closing her eyes and just listening to the sounds of nature around her. She felt a tug on the string and gently snapped it toward her. She felt the tug again, then slowly pulled it in, a smile lifting her lips as she pulled a medium-sized fish from the water.
She grabbed the slippery fish, pulled the hook from its mouth, then, cringing, slammed the fish down hard on the dirt beside her to quickly kill it.
She dug for another worm, slid it onto the hook, and tossed the string in again. And waited. The sounds reminded her of home, and a surge of painful homesickness rose inside her. She opened her eyes and shook the memories away. Had those fjords ever been home? Truly home? A place to live, certainly, but her ideas of home were now forever jaded. The same was true of—
She heard a sharp snap of a stick in the near distance and froze.
An animal?
Her heart thumping, she quickly tugged in her string and pulled in her legs, quickly backing into a thicker growth of shrubs by the bank, careful not to rustle or shake them. She couldn't see much, but her ears strained for another sound. For several moments, she heard nothing. Had that been a stag stepping on a stick, coming down to the river to drink? A branch falling off of a tree? It could have been.
She hadn't seen—
She caught a whiff of something in the air, frowned, and then recognized it.
Wood smoke.
Where was it coming from?
Ever so carefully, she inched forward, hoping she would be able to peer through the leafy branches of the undergrowth without causing too much of a disturbance. She moved in increments, careful to watch where she placed her hands and knees.
Finally, she was able to creep low enough to the ground to slide forward on her belly. Barely peeking her head past the growth, she first looked downstream, then up, every movement slow so as not to garner attention.
There!
Just before the river rounded a bend to the north, perhaps a half a league in the distance, she saw movement. Two men, dressed in rough clothing and leathers. One of them led a foursome of horses down to the stream to drink. Her eyes widened in dismay as she recognized the mare that Hugh had bought in the village.
It was them!
Somehow, out of coincidence or by following their sign, they had figured out the direction that she and Hugh had escaped.
The man with the horses was joined shortly by another, and then another. At that moment she realized it was the same group of people—three men wearing rougher clothing, native Scotsmen, and there, standing near the edge of the trees, gazing down at the water, stood the other man, dressed in nicer clothes.
They were too far away for her to recognize any of them, but when the man wearing the town clothes moved, strid
ing toward the water, she recognized his walk. She felt nausea rise in her throat as her heart thumped in dismay.
A myriad of emotions swept through her.
Uncle Amund!
No doubt about it. It was her uncle.
Anger—anger such as she had never felt before, surged like a hot fire deep in her belly. The kidnapping had elicited emotions of fear, uncertainty, and the terror of impending death. The voyage in the ship had also evoked an emotional maelstrom, but the anger that she felt at this moment bordered beyond hatred.
Her hands closed into fists. She fought the urge to stand up and confront her uncle, knowing that to do so would be the epitome of foolishness. Doing so would likely mean her impending death, and Hugh's.
She closed her eyes, trying to gain control of her breathing, trying to soothe her shattered spirit, to tamp down that fury that threatened to overcome her better judgment.
Now she knew. No question, no uncertainties, no lingering doubts. The only question that remained was whether her father was involved. Uncle Amund rarely did anything without consulting her father. But this? Then again, her father had never been especially close to her, nor concerned about her welfare as long as she stayed out of his way.
She shut down her mind, not even wanting to contemplate the two of them coming up with this horrid plan to get rid of her.
The convent. Had that even been true or just a ploy to take her away from the estate without triggering her or anyone else's alarm? She shook her head and then looked away from the now despicable and stomach-churning sight of her uncle and ever so slowly, eased her way back into the underbrush.
Dalla constantly looked behind her, watched where she placed her feet before she slithered back further. She snatched the fish she had caught and continued to ease away from the shoreline. It took quite some time to make her way back up the slope and finally gain the shelter of a nearby boulder. Only then did she realize she had left marks on the ground. Her heart still pounded. She had no way to erase those marks she had made. Any slight noise might be heard above the bubbling of the water and garner their attention. Would they find her trail?
