Rogue Highlander: The Lady Sparrow

by Sondra Grey

  “Thank you, but I’ll be on my way tonight.” The thought of sleeping amidst thirty men was terrifying. Isla wanted to be back in the woods, back in the thickets where she could travel unseen.

  Silence again. It stretched until she thought her nerves would fray.

  “Lass,” he said finally. “It’s a generous offer, and I suggest you take it.”

  Suggest? “I believe I made myself clear,” she said, and hated that she sounded less than firm. It was difficult to sound confident when your hand was being held prisoner. She gave it another tug. Nothing.

  “A young woman runs through the woods with no belongings, blood on her face and arms – oh yes, I spotted it beneath the plaid – hands torn to shreds, and says she’s travelling west.” He sounded thoughtful as he rattled off her less-than-desirable state. Did he know that his thumb was tracing circles against the back of her hand? “My guess is that you’ve nowhere to go, or perhaps you have somewhere to go, but there’s no one expecting you. If that lad dies, my sister will have my head on a spike. You’ll be coming with me.”

  “I won’t…”

  “You will.” His voice brooked no argument, and his hand squeezed to emphasize his will. “And I’ll honor the bargain I made, and send you to where you wish to go.”

  Isla opened her mouth to argue, but then thought better of it. If she argued with him he’d ask more questions, and she couldn’t have that. Who knew how superstitious he and his men were. If they knew what she’d been accused of, they might string her up themselves. She inclined her head. No use arguing. If this lot were as tired as she, they’d be dead asleep and wouldn’t hear her sneak out.

  “Good lass,” said Dundur, taking her silence as ascent. What a fool.

  “Eibner! Get her food and a blanket by the fire here, near Hugh.” He called to someone over her head, and then he strode off.

  CHAPTER TWO

  W hen Isla awoke, she was cold. She had purposely placed herself by the fire, uncovered by the blanket they’d given her. She knew the cold would wake her up, as if it often did when she slept near the hearth at home.

  Blinking, she sat up, slowly. Some sixth sense told her that she had a few hours before the sun rose and that, if she wanted to put some distance between herself and the camp, now was the time. She still wasn’t sure which direction to head in, but she knew that heading towards the Red Hills would take her further away from Stewart lands, and the thick forests would allow her to lose the Grant men.

  She scanned the ground for signs of anyone stirring. And she couldn’t help herself when she reached out to check on the Laird’s nephew, who lay beside her. His pulse was present, if not as strong as she might wish it. She rested a hand on his forehead. A bit warm, but that might be residual from the fire. The Laird, she saw, was sleeping only a few feet away, his snores light and consistent.

  Carefully, Isla rose and began to tiptoe towards the edge of the camp. She’d been right when she guessed the men would all be sleeping. There were two standing guard and she skirted them. They noted her, but didn’t call out, figuring (no doubt) that she was headed to relieve herself.

  Once she was out of sight of the sentries, she broke into a silent, determined run.

  Isla ran until she could run no more, and then walked for hours, sustaining her pace by reminding herself that she wouldn’t be truly safe until she was far away from Stewart lands. She kept to the edge of the road this time, knowing that the deeper she headed into the hills, the more likely she was to end up clambering over then, rather than through the valleys. She kept close to the trees in case she needed to duck in quickly.

  The Red Hills weren’t really red. Rather they looked red from a distance. At their base was an incredibly old forest, with towering trees. Once the sky began to lighten, Isla ducked back into the forest, moving deeper into the thick greenery of the wood. The forests were impressive, with massive and twisting scotch pines, and scores of thick birch, rowan, aspen and oak trees. The ground was covered with ferns and lichen, and Isla thought about how rich this forest would be with medicinal plants. But now was not the time to think about that.

  As she walked, she fretted. What had she done to offend God that he would allow her to be cast away from her home and her friends? Was it her pride? She was proud of her looks, proud of her skills as a healer. Was it because she’d allowed Gavin to kiss her, to caress her breasts through her dress even before they were wed? Isla had always thought the priests were exaggerating when they spoke of sin. She knew plenty of women who done more than kissed before they were wed, and they were happily married and safe in their homes. And pride? Joss Stewart was one of the proudest men she knew, and he had a whole keep to himself. Vanity? His wife’s vanity put Isla’s to shame, and yet she was a wealthy lady, with jewels and fine clothes.

  No Isla, love, she said to herself, hearing her father’s voice clearly. Some things just are. And when you fall hard, you’ve got be like one of the acrobats in The Stewart’s hall. You’ve got to roll back onto your feet.

  Oh, but her feet were so sore. And the side of her head ached fiercely from where the rock had hit her.

  Isla stopped a moment before a large log, wondering if it was worth climbing over or if she’d have to walk around it. That was when she heard the other footsteps. They were a way back, soft but audible in the quiet of the wood, insistent in their measured pace.

  Isla’s heart began to slam in her chest. There weren’t many places about to hide. The land had begun to incline, the woods were sparser, the trees large aspens, which made climbing into the branches near impossible.

  Run.

  Isla ran, picking up her skirts and moving swiftly. She needed cover – someplace she might lose herself. With any luck the stranger in the woods wasn’t looking for her.

  No such luck. She could hear the footsteps quickening, the sounds of the forest amplifying the noise of feet on fallen branches and crushed leaves. Isla cut right, heading deeper into the woods, praying for some sort of copse, or low branched tree she might climb.

  There. Boulders set into a hillside. She could climb up and hide amongst them. Isla scrambled up the side of the hill, using her hands to propel her quickly up the steep rock, breaking nails in the process. She flung herself into a space between two boulders and waited.

  The footsteps approached from the east. Minutes she waited, and they seemed to get closer, then fade, and then circle. Whoever was out here was searching for her. At one point the steps seemed nearly beneath her. She held her breath and didn’t dare look out. From her position between the rocks, she was near impossible to see and even more impossible to reach.

  Her wait was interminable. She didn’t hear the footsteps again, but she didn’t hear anything else that suggested someone was nearby. Carefully, Isla slid from between her boulder perch and out into the midday light.

  “I had a hunch you were in there.”

  Isla shrieked. An iron hand reached out and shackled her wrist, spinning her in a brutal move until she was face to face with the Wolf of Dundur, his eyes bright with the thrill of the catch, but mouth flat and angry.

  Isla didn’t think. She acted. She swung wildly with her free hand, and the laird cursed, and fell back. But he didn’t let go. She tugged with her captured hand, swung again with her free one, and this time the laird caught it, and twisted it behind her back so that she gasped in unexpected pain. She kicked, landing a hard blow to his shin. He cursed and pivoted, and the next thing Isla knew she was on the ground, all fifteen stone of him crushing the air from her lungs.

  Stunned, Isla lay still, but was aware of her arms being jerked behind her, her wrists tied together with a rough cord.

  “Hellion,” Dundur muttered as Isla worked to get her breath back. She would not cry she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t. “Go on then, get up.” His tone was furious. He reached out and grabbed her by her shoulders, hauling her up to standing and turning her so that they were face to face. His hair had come loose from its tie and spilled to
his shoulders in rich, dark waves. He’d found another shirt, which had come undone from his plaid. One side hung loose.

  “Go ahead,” he said, and she was pleased to see he was also breathless from their fight. “Explain yourself.”

  There were many things Isla wanted to say, but because he wanted to hear them it seemed in her best interest to stay silent. She raised an imperious brow at him instead. Silence stretched and Dundur cursed, turned her around with a rough hand, and marched her through the woods.

  It took all of Isla’s iron will to keep her mouth shut, and not demand to know where they were going. The answer was clear soon enough. It took them about a half hour, but they got to the road where he’d tied his horse to a tree. Isla looked at the horse with dismay. How was she supposed to mount it with her hands tied?

  A shriek was out of her mouth before she could finish the thought. She was slung across the horse’s neck, the saddle digging painfully into her stomach. She tried to rear up, but the Laird had mounted behind her and placed a palm in the center of her back. With a sharp tsking sound the horse kicked into a trot, and Isla found herself jostled painfully.

  “You’re hurting me!” she growled.

  “She speaks,” he replied, sounding smug, and Isla was upright in a moment, sitting sidesaddle before him, held immobile to his chest by one muscular, powerful arm. “Now, are you going to explain yourself?”

  At the risk of being returned to a prone position, Isla responded. “I don’t have to explain myself to you! Are you kidnapping me? Where on earth are you taking me!?”

  “We’re following my men to Dundur, where you can continue to see to my nephew’s health. We’ll reach it by nightfall”

  “You cannot keep me there.”

  “In fact,” he said, his voice low in her ear. Goosebumps rose along her spine, “I can. Unless you’re willing to produce a champion to defend you, you’re at my mercy, Thomasina. You’ll see to my nephew until he is well, then I will compensate you for your services and have you escorted to Haughs, or wherever it is you wish to go. If you’d accepted my offer last night, you’d have saved us both a good deal of time.” But he didn’t seem angry anymore. Instead, he seemed pleased with himself. Like a dog, she thought unkindly, who just uncovered a bone.

  Isla said nothing. Her mind was racing over every possible attempt to get away, but she was coming up with nothing. It was clear that this Laird meant to keep her prisoner until he was through with her. She’d be lucky if, after all was said and done, he kept his promise and let her go.

  After about a half hour of silent riding, she’d reached the end of her patience. “Kindly untie my hands. This is extremely uncomfortable.” Her voice carried an authoritative snap that would have sent any of the young men at home running.

  The Laird only snorted derisively, and the expulsion of air ruffled her hair. “You speak with the authority of one nobly born Thomasina, but your clothes and your skills speak otherwise. Did your mother never teach you deference?”

  Isla simmered. No. Deirdre was her own force, and she bowed to no one. Deirdre walked through the crofts and cottages as if she were a lady on her own lands. She commanded her patients with an authority a lord reserves for his tenants, and Isla had picked up her ways, finding they were most useful in getting what she wanted. It was her imperiousness that had put so many of the village boys off, and it was that same imperiousness that had attracted the well-born, soft spoken Gavin.

  “Please,” she ground out, “untie my hands. I’m losing feelings in my fingers.”

  “Please, my laird of Dundur,” the man corrected. Was he having fun at her expense?

  Isla refused. She’d let her fingers fall off.

  Dundur chuckled. “Proud little thing.”

  Isla sat stiffly, not wanting to rest against the warm expanse of his broad chest. William Graham had called her the same thing when she slapped him, only he hadn’t been amused. He’d raised his hand to slap her back but hadn’t let the blow fly. Instead he’d sneered at her, voice dripping with vitriol, “You’re a proud little thing, Isla MacLeay and you need to be kicked from that pedestal you’ve place yourself on. You’ll not do better than me, and you’ll rue your refusal. Mark me.” She could see him now, see his sneer as she’d run from the village, his eyes blazing with glee, freckled face twisted with happy malice, the word “witch” turning his lips up in a smile. She shuddered.

  She felt the laird’s hands then, untying the rope that bound her wrists, but her freedom was only momentary. He secured her hands again, in his, dropping the reigns and steering the horse with his knees. Pulling her hands in front of her, he retied them. “In case you were thinking of striking me again,” he said, wryly. “We don’t want you falling from the horse and breaking your neck.”

  He bade her shift her seat, urging her to swing her legs across the horse’s withers. When she resisted, he slid his hand up her thigh and she gasped, her shock allowing him to juggle her into a position astride. Isla was glad she was facing away from him, for she could feel a hot flush rising up into her cheeks. She’d no chemise on and her skirt was pulled up to her knees.

  As they climbed higher, following the road as it led into the Red Hills, Isla sat rigidly against the Laird of Dundur, who seemed just as intent to forget she was there. When the early afternoon clouds covered the sky, casting the landscape in a drowsy haze of gray, Isla’s fatigue got the better of her, and she felt her spine melt against the Laird’s chest as she drifted slowly to sleep.

  Isla woke feeling wonderfully warm. Her cheek was pillowed against something both hard and soft, her plaid was wrapped cozily around her, and there was a gentle rocking. Someone held her close, like her father had when she was a young girl riding atop a horse with him, on their way to the Stewart’s castle. For a moment, she was eight again. Her mother and father were alive, she was safe, and care-free, and loved. She looked up, expecting to see her father’s patient eyes, his short-shorn black hair.

  Instead she gazed into the shadowed plains of a stranger’s face. She stifled a gasp, the events of the last few days coming back to her in a rush. She must have made some noise though, for the Wolf of Dundur looked down at her, quirked a dark, questioning brow, and then looked back to the path. Isla struggled to throw off the thick haze of sleep. She shifted, trying to sit up, but the Laird’s arm firmed around her and he said, “Be still, we’re nearly there.”

  Isla drifted for the next hour and came fully awake when the horse stopped. She sat up, expecting to be handed down, but the Laird hauled her into his arms and swung from the horse with her clutched to his chest. She realized that her hands were untied only when she automatically grasped his shoulders. When he planted her feet on the ground, he held her till she steadied.

  “You’re back a bit late, Calum,” said the man who’d come to take the horse. Isla blinked, looking off towards the dark, towering keep ahead of her. They were in the Red Hills, she realized. Then the name came to her. So Dundur was a Castle in the Red Hills. Calum the Black was Malcolm Grant, the Grant chieftain in the Red Hills. She’d heard his name spoken before but hadn’t connected Malcolm Grant to the Calum the Black of song. Just then, the song she’d been searching for came clearly into her head. It was about the battle between the Chattans and McPhersons. The Grants had fought with the McPhersons, but none as brawly as Calum the Black, The Wolf of Dundur. Isla was tired enough that when the tune floated through her head, she almost hummed it.

  “She was carrying two,” said Calum, patting the side of the horse, who snorted and swung its head. Malcolm was a nice name, Isla thought. There was a Malcolm in Elleric – the weaver’s apprentice.

  “…and my nephew?” Isla realized she was drifting, but word of her patient brought her mind back to the task at hand.

  “Feverish. I’m glad you were able to find the lass. Perhaps she can help him.”

  “Take her inside then, Allan. Tell Maggie to put her next to Hugh.”

  Allan nodded, and murmured tha
t he’d return. As Isla watched him go, she realized he was same gentleman who’d found her in the woods. What was he? A retainer? A relative? A stable hand?

  “If he’s feverish, he needs Devil’s Bit,” Isla said suddenly. “Do you keep anything here?”

  “There’s a village an hours ride north,” said Dundur. “And Inverness isn’t far, should you need anything special. But there’s nothing in the keep.”

  It would have to wait until morning then.

  “Listen girl.” He reached down and grabbed her chin, and Isla resisted the urge to kick him. “No running. I will treat you as a guest here and offer you all the niceties that title affords. But if you run again, I’ll keep you in the cellar and hold you personally responsible for the well-being of my nephew. Do you understand?”

  Isla was too tired to fight him, to do anything but stare as he tugged her chin to bob her head up and down. “Good. Go with Allan.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A ngry as she was about being kidnapped, Isla had to admit that she’d never slept in a room so fine. After her father died, Isla and her mother had shared a bed in their small cottage just outside of the village square. This room was neat and rectangular, with a beautifully carved wooden bed and a feather mattress that was large enough to fit at least two people. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, side tables, a large armoire, and a basin for washing.

  Isla fell asleep in a matter of seconds and was awoken all too soon by someone shaking her shoulder.