She lifted her chin. “Sassenach,” she spat.
“You better be worth this hassle. We'd better get some decent coin for you. Word is we'll be returning to England soon and I have little intention of returning as a poor man.”
“My father will pay well for me. Then he will kill ye. Ye'll return to England on yer shield.”
She had little idea how he reacted to her words. With a smirk perhaps. He seemed to study her for some time and the tears had cleared from her sore, tired eyes. A thatch of fair hair, some vague features, broad shoulders and a confident stance. This was all she knew of this man.
“What is your name?”
“Ceana,” she responded but heard the tremor in her voice. The fear didn't come from the proximity of this Englishman. It was from the grief tangling around her windpipe. Her strength was waning quickly.
“Ceana, you would do well to listen to me.” He shifted closer and breath that smelled of mint leaves scuffed her cheek. “If you wish to see your family again, if you wish to be treated well, ye will cooperate. We have a three-day journey ahead and 'twill be eased by you being well-behaved, do you understand?”
“Ye wish me to make yer kidnapping of me easy?” She let out a fragile laugh. “I think ye dinnae understand Scotswomen at all.”
Silence. Aside from the hammer of her heart.
Ceana anticipated another swipe across the face but nothing came, only the harsh blow of his breaths too close to her face. There was a movement, a ripping and a rush of air across her chest. She instinctively brought her bound hands up to her chest and found her bodice torn. Before she could register what had occurred, fingers curled around her neck and pressed deep. She fought to breathe, to tear his hand from her but she might as well have been fighting against a mountain. He was immovable.
“If you do not behave yourself, I shall hand you over to my men for entertainment. I was prepared to be lenient, given your value but now I think not. I think it likely your father will pay for you, damaged or not, and we know you were lying with the barbarian Scot so you are no innocent.”
All she could do was flail and gag for air while his words rattled through her skull. He intended to let his men rape her? She couldn't let that happen. She couldn't let the memory of Blane's touch upon her skin be tainted. Her attempt to say as much was lost to his steely grip so she merely nodded.
The pressure eased and she drew in ragged breaths. Someone else's voice filtered in and she focused on the second figure. He leaned in to say something to the leader—Sir Guy, she discovered.
“Yer a knight?” she spluttered, her voice feeling harsh and painful in her throat.
“Aye.”
“I thought ye Sassenach knights held great stock in chivalry.”
He chuckled. “Chivalry does not keep a man clothed and fed.”
“I dinnae think ye likely poor enough to go hungry.”
“Mayhap.” She felt him finger where he had torn her bodice and resisted the desire to slap her hands across her chest. Likely he could well see the rise of her breasts against her chemise, perhaps even the outline of her nipples against the linen. She was exposed and vulnerable.
“We move out in but a moment. Save your spitting and your fire for then. You'll need it for this journey.”
He spun away from her and she watched his hazy outline until he was lost amongst the men around her. She spied several horses but could make out little else amongst the jumble of scenery. At least Guy had not discovered her lack of sight. It would not do for him to discover her weakness. As it was, she was vulnerable enough. Bound, in pain, at their mercy.
Yet again, a hand wrapped around her arm. Grateful for the lighter touch, she obeyed this man's tugs. Her hands were unbound momentarily. The brief moment of relief ended quickly. Her hands tingled as blood rushed back into them but her wrists were bound once more. Cold horror filled her as the man set to work tethering her to the horse. They intended for her to march along bound to the steed.
She pulled briefly against her bonds but she had little energy. The ache in her skull hammered away and made her dizzy. How she would keep up with a horse, she knew not. The first tug took her by surprise and she stumbled before being hauled up under her armpits.
“Keep up,” the man said, “or you’ll be dragged.”
Ceana had little intention of suffering the pain of being dragged but she wasn’t sure how long her legs would hold her up. Surely they had no intention of letting her be hauled along? She’d die if pulled along for too long.
The horse remained in a trot and she was able to keep pace most of the time. However, after what seemed like endless hours of walking along the uneven terrain and fighting hard to keep up and not trip over, her thighs burned and the pain in her skull had turned almost fiery. It seared behind her eyes and down the back of her neck. She could feel the crispness of dried blood in her hair which at least meant she had stopped bleeding long ago. Her limited vision kept fading, however, as utter exhaustion tore at her.
They stopped briefly and someone gave her some water. Much of it sloshed down her front and she grimaced as she imagined how much the water revealed as it soaked her chemise. Several male chuckles rang around her but someone muttered something about hands off. A small mercy, she supposed.
The break in their journey proved short. Not long enough for her to gain any strength or ward off the feeling of defeat. Blane would be disappointed in her. She wished she had more courage but without him, all seemed pointless. Perhaps it would be easier just to give up now? Let the horse drag her to her death? It would be a painful way to go to be sure but surely less painful than continuing on without him?
A light rain started up, soaking through her garments and sticking her hair to her face. It grew heavier and in the distance the rumble of thunder split the air. They would stop soon. They had to. The ground turned boggy and her boots kept sinking into the mud. Even the horse had slowed.
But they pushed on. Ceana trembled from cold and exertion and she hardly knew where she was putting her feet now. Even the agony in her head seemed to become distant. Her boots sucked into the mud and her wrists were jerked forward. She stumbled. Dirt filled her mouth, coated her face. The pull on her hands didn’t let up and the ground slid beneath her. Though she fought briefly to gain her feet, the darkness was too inviting. Pain didn’t even seem to exist there, even as jagged rocks skimmed her body. Perhaps if she let it take her, she’d see Blane again.
Chapter Fifteen
Blane groaned. The noise sounded far away, as though it didn’t belong to him. He did it again. That meant he was alive, did it not? A painfully loud rushing noise filled his hearing. He cracked open an eye, then the other. He became aware of his body resting upon hard rocks and water sloshing around him. He winced and peered up at the waterfall not far from where he lay. It wasn’t the one he’d gone down. The chances were, he was somewhere near the bottom of the falls where they turned into a river.
He went to sit but a sting in his side prevented him. “Hell’s teeth,” he hissed, placing a hand to his ribs. The wound wouldn’t be fatal, he didn’t think, but it was painful and likely needed sealing. He couldn’t leave it open for long.
Blane opted for rolling onto his side, and finally pushing up. Water streamed from his hair and he swiped aside the drops before coming to his feet. He climbed away from the river to the muddy bank and eyed the dark skies. From the puddles in the mud, it had been raining hard and was likely to continue to do so.
He could find shelter. Or he could pursue the English. He stopped and steadied himself as a wash of pain rolled over him. The sting in his side was nothing. It was the memory of Ceana, lying prone on the floor. Was she dead? Nay, she couldn’t be. He would know it, surely?
Would she think he had abandoned her? It had been the only way. He couldn’t risk her death and he needed to survive to come after her. He hadn’t counted on her trying to fight against her captor, though. Nor had he been sure he’d survive the fall.
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But survive it he had. And now he needed to get Ceana back.
Blane glanced at the thick, steely clouds. He lifted up his shirt and eyed the laceration. It could wait for treatment. Once he had Ceana back, he’d worry about it. For now, he tore a strip from his shirt and bound it around his waist, pulling it tight.
Drawing in a breath, he began his journey. They’d be headed toward the English encampment most likely. He hadn’t seen it himself but every Scot in the land knew where the Sassenachs had made camp for the impending battle. It would be a long journey on foot.
He offered up a silent prayer for Ceana’s safety. Was she well? Had she been gravely injured? Was she in pain?
As he made his way out of the forest and followed the river path through the hills, he pushed aside those thoughts. They would not help. His focus had to be simply getting to her. Once he was at her side, he’d worry about any injuries she’d sustained. The lass was strong enough to survive on her own with impaired sight for so long, surely she could endure a few Englishmen?
The night came far too soon. He continued as long as his legs would carry him. Shafts of pain speared him intermittently and he became aware of bruises and scratches he must have garnered from his plummet down the falls. Though he desperately wanted to catch up with Ceana as quickly as possible, he was no good to her dead or beaten down by exhaustion so he found a boulder large enough to provide some shelter should it rain. The ground was damp through his plaid, but fatigue weighted his lids and he slept fully until the next morning.
He travelled for two more days with no sign of the English. When he paused to study the barren hills, he spotted a group of travellers—lowlanders. They were armed but unlikely to pose a threat to him. The Scots often battled one another but for now they were united against but one enemy.
However, he still approached with caution, a hand to the pommel of his sword. The three men reacted similarly.
“How goes it?” one asked.
“Well, thank ye.” He darted an uneasy look around. “Have ye seen any Englishmen on yer travels?”
The man, who looked to be around a decade older than himself, nodded. “Aye, some five miles back. They outnumbered us so we avoided them. Likely readying themselves for battle.”
“Aye, is there word on Bruce and his men?”
“’Twill no’ be long before he faces the English. A fierce battle ahead, I reckon. Are ye looking to join the fight?”
“I’ve a different battle to fight,” Blane said tightly.
“Those Sassenachs?”
“Aye.”
“We heard there were English roaming the hills, causing all sorts of devastation. My sons and I are to check on the settlement not far from here.” He pointed over the brow of the hill. “Should ye need food and rest, we welcome all fellow Scots, especially those with a strong sword arm.” The older man glanced him up and down. “Ye look in need of it.”
“I thank ye but I must make haste.”
“If yer after that woman with them, I fear ye may be disappointed.” His grey eyes softened in sympathy. “I dinnae like breaking bad news but I would not see a strong man such as yerself go into battle for naught.”
“What is yer meaning?” Blane tried to ignore the way his heart gave a painful thump against his chest.
“If she’s still alive, I have my doubts she will be for much longer.” The man pressed his lips together as though debating what to tell him. “They were dragging her. Behind a horse.” He shook his head. “They finally put her over the beast but a lass cannae survive such an ordeal, surely?”
Blane swallowed hard. He felt as though a rock had replaced his heart, hard and heavy. It weighed him down and all strength seemed to dessert him. His knees gave way and he fell to them. The man patted him on the shoulder.
“No doubt ye did what ye could.”
He shook his head. “Nay—” His voice fractured.
“I’d lend ye my sword arm but...”
Blane didn’t even look up at the man. “’Twas my fight.” He drew in a breath. “Still is.”
“Well, good luck to ye.”
The three men walked away. Blane felt the burn of tears in his eyes and the weight of grief in his body, as though he was under the waterfall again, being battered against the rocks by the fall of water.
He tried to imagine Ceana surviving such a thing. She was a strong lass in will, aye, but in body, not so much. There was too little of her. She’d been going without for too long. How could she possibly have survived being dragged behind a horse?
Bile burned up his throat and pressed his palms to the damp grass as he retched a little. He took a deep breath and forced himself back to his feet. Sitting here wouldn’t help her. If she was dead, he had further revenge to seek and if she was alive, he had to get to her.
Blane sprinted. It didn’t matter that his side burned or that his breaths rasped in his chest. He was no young man anymore but the aches and pains meant nothing. Though he had to slow his pace, when he climbed the rise of a hill, giant grey stones forcing him to take a winding path, his determination did not wane. He had to be close.
He was.
Blane crouched and eyed the large encampment. Trails of smoke rose from between white tents. Men milled about but it was quiet for such a big camp. Many of the soldiers would be on the battlefield, mayhap. He considered his fellow countrymen and offered up a prayer for their victory. Depending on what had happened to Ceana, he would join them if he could. His life would not be worth much if she was truly gone anyway.
He remained there until dusk. The grey light slipped over the landscape like a sheet. Clouds remained coated the skies and for that, he was grateful. He would have a better chance of slipping in unnoticed without any stars or the moon to highlight him. The glow of the fires revealed the position of the tents. From his observations, he’d not been able to spot Ceana. If she was alive, she’d be hidden away mayhap, until ransom could be demanded.
He needed to search the tents.
Blane slipped his blade out of his belt, eyed it with a nod. He would spill more English blood this day. Mayhap his would join them and soak into the lush Scottish land. He had only two aims. Find Ceana, seek revenge. If she was dead, let him join her.
Slotting his sword back into his belt, he made his way down the mountain toward the camp. A few men roamed the perimeter but they wouldn’t be looking for a single man. They’d expect Bruce and his army to steal in mayhap, but not a warrior alone. It was easy for him to slip between the tents and follow the corridors the fabric walls created. He paused to listen for word of Ceana but there were none so he moved on.
Blane continued like this, stealing a peek in when he could, listening for word of her until he came upon a tent with a man stationed outside. He recognised him from the falls. Crouching, he lifted the edge of the material and his heart stilled.
Without hesitation, he stood and drew out his dagger. He carved a slice in the fabric large enough for him to slip through.
Too late. Bitterness burned the back of his throat and he dropped to his knees next to her body. Too late. Ashen face, limp body. Beaten and bruised. Dried blood coated one side of her face. He thrust aside his dagger and blade so as to press his hands beneath her. His eyes grew hot, and he scooped her up to bury his face against her. Her body was cold and lifeless in his arms.
“Forgive me,” he rasped.
Blane lifted his head away to eye her face and her still lashes against her skin. He went to kiss her. Something hauled him back.
Someone.
Another man joined him. He fought them briefly but his strength had deserted him. They had him bound and dragged out of the tent before he was even able to kick out. All he could do was continue to mutter, “Forgive me.”
They bound him to a wooden pole, muttering curses in English that he hardly took the time to understand. His arms pulled tight above him until his shoulders burned. The Englishmen spat words at him but he didn’t take them in. He eyed
the tent that held Ceana’s body and prayed for forgiveness. Mayhap her family would gain revenge for her.
The fists came next. He hardly felt the blows. The gash on his side split open and blood seeped into his shirt. Even in the firelight he saw it blossom into an ugly red stain. That was good. He’d join her soon enough.
A crack across his face and he tasted the metallic tang of blood.
“You should have stayed away, Scot.”
It was only then, he recognised the man doing the beating as the one who had stuck his blade in him.
“If ye want to kill me, then kill me, ye coward,” Blane managed to spit through swollen lips.
The man shook his head. “Nay. You killed many of our men. Now, I do not have to share the rewards, which is well enough, and really I should be thanking you for that, but I am a man of honour and I must ensure my fellow countrymen are avenged.” He stepped close. “I am sure you understand as much.” A glint in his eye told Blane this man knew exactly how much he longed to slaughter them all to avenge Ceana. “You’ll die slowly and painfully.”
Another blow to his gut cut off any response. Then the Englishman drew out a knife.
Chapter Sixteen
Something cold startled Ceana awake. She jolted upright and cried out as pain wracked her body. A hand clamped over her mouth and she screamed against it.
“Shhhh.”
The fingers over her mouth slowly eased away and she brushed the water from her face. The front of her gown was soaked and the lad who’d been holding her sheepishly dropped the bucket of water he’d just thrown over her. She vaguely recognised him as the lad who’d brought her food upon her arrival but she’d been unable to eat it in her delirious state. The light inside the tent told her it was daytime. She had lost at least a day by her reckoning.
I Left My Heart in Scotland Page 29
