Captured by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  Amelia looked up at him and shook her head. “And I’ll say it a hundred times if I have to. The answer is still no.”

  Chapter Two

  Amelia would never forget the gut-wrenching sound of the fabric ripping in two, not as long as she lived. The torn garment dropped to the floor, and the chilly night air assaulted her bared flesh. She quickly hugged herself to cover her breasts.

  “You should’ve done what I asked,” he said, glancing briefly at her state of undress as he picked up the torn fabric, placed it between his teeth, and ripped it to shreds before her eyes.

  He moved behind her and gagged her with a torn strip of linen, then tied a knot at the back of her head. His warm hands came to rest on the tops of her shoulders, and he spoke reassuringly in her ear. “I’ll not harm you, lass, as long as you do as you’re told. Can you do that for me?”

  Clinging to the small suggestion of clemency she thought she heard in his voice, she nodded.

  He crossed to the wardrobe, pulled out a clean shift, and handed it to her. “Now put this on, unless you want me to haul you out of here naked.”

  This time she obeyed. She quickly pulled the shift on over her head, then stepped into the drawers and donned the stays. Without a word, the Butcher stood behind her and laced her up tight.

  After she pulled on a skirt and bodice, he used the strips of her torn shift to bind her wrists behind her back. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, glancing about the room.

  She tossed her head to gesture at the far wall, where she had placed them before retiring for the night. Under the portrait of King George.

  The Butcher went to fetch them, glanced briefly up at the picture, then returned and knelt down before her. Setting his axe on the floor at her feet, he reached under her skirt and cupped her bare calf. The shocking warmth of his hand on her leg made her lose her balance, and she had to lean on his shoulder.

  He lifted her leg and slid her foot into the shoe, then took hold of her other ankle and slipped the second shoe on, grabbed his axe, and stood. It all happened very quickly, without a single thought for stockings, and it left her shaken and distressed. She had never been naked in front of a man before, nor had a man ever put his hands under her skirt.

  She looked up at him and sucked at the linen gag.

  “I know it’s tight,” he said, as if reading her mind. “But I need you to be very quiet.”

  He bent forward, wrapped his muscular arm around her backside, and hoisted her up over his shoulder. The sudden movement stole the breath from her lungs, and she said a silent prayer that someone would see them on their way out and foil the escape, or that she would find an opportunity to alert a guard.

  With his axe in one hand, the Butcher opened the door and moved noiselessly into the corridor, where Amelia found herself looking down at a dead soldier on the floor outside her chamber.

  Stunned into silence, she stared numbly at the poor soul on the floor before she was carried down the stairs and through another dark corridor, past two more dead soldiers on the floor, and final y to a door at the rear of the barracks.

  She had not even been aware of its existence. How had this rebel known of it? Who had told him how to find Richard’s bedchamber, and how had he learned that Richard was supposed to be here in the first place? It was only a last-minute call to arms that had resulted in his unexpected departure and the insistence that Amelia take his room to ensure her safety. A lot of good that had done.

  Outside the barracks, a thick mist enveloped them. The Butcher carried her, kicking and struggling, up the grassy rampart toward the outer wall . When he set her down, she noticed a four-pronged hook embedded in the earth at her feet, with a rope tied to it. The next thing she knew, she was sliding down the wall on the Butcher’s back, while grunting a number of unladylike protests.

  Her feet touched ground, and she turned to look up at a prime piece of horseflesh, his shiny coat as black as night.

  He nickered softly and tossed his head. The breath from his nostrils shot out in white puffs of steam against the dark sky, and only then did Amelia realize that her captor was untying the binds at her wrists. He shoved his axe into a saddle scabbard and swung himself up onto the horse’s back.

  “Give me your hand,” the Butcher said, holding out his own.

  She shook her head angrily and bit down on the gag, which pressed sickeningly on the back of her tongue.

  “Give me your hand, woman, or I’ll come down there and thrash you senseless.” He took hold of her arm and tossed her up onto the horse behind him, then kicked in his heels.

  The horse galloped forward, and Amelia had no choice but to wrap her arms around her captor’s firm, muscular torso and hang on for dear life, or go tumbling over the side into the cold, dark depths of the river.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the Butcher’s torso was very muscular indeed, solid as a rock, and Amelia was both troubled and preoccupied by his inconceivable strength. Nevertheless, she managed to stay somewhat focused and monitor their journey. She took note of all the landmarks along the way—the small grove of oak saplings, the stone bridge they’d crossed a mile back, and the long field with five haystacks, spaced evenly apart.

  They must have traveled through the predawn darkness and drizzle for a full half hour before he spoke, and when he did she found it difficult to focus on anything other than the deep timbre of his voice and the way his long hair brushed up against her cheek when he turned his head to the side.

  “You’ve been quiet, lass. Are you alive back there?”

  Al she could do was grunt with exasperation through the tight gag that was pressing down on her tongue.

  “Aye, I know.” He nodded, as if he had understood every word. “I was thinking about removing it, but something tells me you’ve been working up a mountain of complaints, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll wait till we’re somewhere more remote before I release that mouth of yours, so no one will hear your screeching.”

  “I won’t screech,” she tried to say, but it came out as a muffled grumble.

  “What was that? You think I’m very wise? Aye, I think so, too.”

  She was tempted to punch him in the arm or pummel his back with both fists but decided against it, for he was a ruthless killer with an axe.

  They rode through a grove of conifers and emerged onto another open field. Amelia glanced through the mist and spotted a tiny light in the distance. A lantern in a crofter’s window perhaps? Or a company of English soldiers?

  The possibility of escape screamed in her mind, and before she had a chance to strategize she was tugging at the foul-tasting gag. The fabric stretched just enough to slide down over her chin, and with a plan that went no further than swinging her leg over the back of the horse and dropping to the ground while they were still moving, she soon found herself dashing across the drizzly field toward the light.

  “Help! Please!”

  She was aware, of course, that the Butcher would pursue her but clung to the unlikely hope that he might topple off his horse and crack his skull open on a rock.

  The sound of his feet hitting the ground reached her ears, her heart exploded with panic, and seconds later he overtook her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and threw her down.

  The next instant, he was straddling her. She was pinned on her back with her arms up over her head.

  “Let me go!”

  She kicked and screamed and refused to yield. She kneed him in the stomach, struggled wildly for her freedom, and spit in his face.

  The Butcher grunted and dropped his full weight upon her, holding her down with the stifling power of his arms and hips and legs. She could feel his tremendous masculine form—

  too close, too tight, too overwhelming. Hysteria spun through her mind, and she shouted with anger, “Get off me, you brute! I will not go willingly! ”

  The drizzle turned to rain, chilling her skin and soaking her hair while she fought with all her might. She blinked against the
silvery drops that pooled on her eyelashes. Cool water sluiced over her bare thighs, for she had kicked her skirts up during the struggle. She continued to fight, punch, and slap at him.

  It was not long, however, before her muscles grew weak against the uncompromising stamina of his brawn. She was perspiring heavily, breathless with exhaustion. She had nothing left.

  The sky grew brighter. Morning was upon them.

  “Please…,” she begged, hating that he had reduced her to this. If only she were stronger.

  “You can’t fight me forever, lass, though I admire your efforts to try.”

  She squirmed harder, but he had her arms pinned at her sides and at some point he’d curled a big leg around hers.

  They were both soaking wet, drenched beneath the unforgiving rain. She looked up at his face and felt his warm breath on her lips. His dark-lashed blue eyes held her captive in some kind of persuasive dream. He was unbelievably handsome, and she could have wept at the unfairness of it all —that a devil like him could be blessed with such perfection. Clearly there was no justice in the world.

  She was doomed.

  Relaxing her body and unclenching her fists, Amelia expel ed a breath into the chilly dawn air. She had no choice but to surrender to him, at least for now.

  He relaxed, too, and his nose brushed against her cheek.

  “Wise decision, lass.”

  She all owed the fight to drain out of her body, then felt the Highlander’s erection, pressing against her pelvic bone. The shock of it nearly choked her, and her blood began to race.

  She knew it would come to this sooner or later, but not now … not yet.…

  “Please,” she said.

  “Please what, lass?”

  His lips swept across her mouth, and she made a small involuntary whimper.

  “You’re going to have to soften to me eventual y,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier and more pleasant for us both if you did it now?”

  “I will never soften to you,” she replied, wishing she felt more in control.

  He slid his hand down the side of her thigh, pulled his body closer to hers, and her insides began to burn. “Stop touching me like that,” she said.

  “Like what? Is there another way you would prefer?”

  “I would prefer it not at all .”

  With those disarming blue eyes, he looked down at her in the dawn light. She wished she could escape his gaze, but again she was trapped in it. He was too much for her.

  “That’s better,” he said as he began to lay soft kisses across her cheek.

  “I don’t know what you want from me.” She closed her eyes at the touch of his lips.

  “I just want you to yield.”

  Feeling helpless and defeated, she turned her head to the side and suddenly found herself gaping at a pair of animal-hide boots, less than two feet away from her face.

  Startled out of her wits, she blinked through the rain to try to decipher if she was imagining things, but she was not.

  She was indeed looking at two hairy legs with wool stockings falling down around the tops of the boots, and a green plaid kilt reaching to the knees.

  “God in heaven!” she shouted as the unexpected Highlander’s raucous laughter disturbed the quiet dawn. She was completely done for now. all hope was gone.

  The Butcher rose to his feet, and she was at least grateful to feel the crushing weight of his body come away from her, so that she could breathe again and get her mind out of that dangerous cloud of sensation.

  “Should’ve known you’d be shaggin’ some wench in a field,” the new arrival said, “when you’re supposed to be gettin’ your arse in and out of Fort William.” He looked up at the rainy sky. “Not much of a night for shaggin’, though.”

  Still on her back, pressing the heels of her hands to her forehead, Amelia looked up through the driving rain at the second Highlander and, to her utter dismay, found herself looking at not one but two Scots, who were shoving the Butcher back and forth between them like a couple of schoolyard bullies.

  “Get your fookin’ hands off me,” he growled.

  God help them all, there was going to be a bloodbath.

  She glanced uneasily at his axe in the saddle scabbard, twenty feet away. Perhaps she could get to it.…

  Amelia sat up on her knees, but when she looked back at the three brawling brutes—and saw that the other two both carried pistols and claymores—she knew there was no chance that she could win an axe fight against them. They were warriors. It would be suicide.

  «Well, did you get in and out, ye horny bugger?” the second Highlander asked. He stood at least six feet tall , with freckles, a red beard, and a shaggy mane of hair, which might have made him appear less threatening were it not for the diagonal scar that slashed across his face from eyebrow to nose. His eyes gleamed like two green marbles in the morning light.

  Still laughing, he staggered away from the Butcher and withdrew a pewter flask from his sporran. He tipped it up, took a drink, and held it out.

  The Butcher accepted it and guzzled deeply. “You referring to the wench or the fort, Gawyn?” he asked. “If it’s the latter, I was in and out quick enough. Wasn’t so quick with the lady, though.”

  He handed the flask back, swiped a hand across his mouth, and strode to where Amelia still sat in the grass, trying to assess the situation. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet. “And she isn’t just any wench,” he told them. “She’s a prize worth her weight in gold.”

  Amelia tried to pry his hand off her arm, but his grip was forged of steel. “Let me go,” she ground out.

  The first Highlander—a short, stocky, fair-haired Scot with the face of a bulldog—pulled a flask from his sporran as well .

  “She’s feisty, I’ll give her that.”

  “Aye, but she’s quivering like a skinned rabbit,” the other one said. “What’d you do to her?”

  “I did nothing,” the Butcher replied. “She’s cold and wet, that’s all .”

  «Well, she shouldn’t have been rolling around in the wet grass,” the tall one said. “Is she dim-witted?”

  The Butcher led her back to the horse without answering.

  “Why don’t you just drag me by the hair?” she suggested irritably, still working to pry his fingers from her arm while her body shivered and her teeth began to chatter. “Isn’t that what you barbarians usual y do?”

  The other two looked at each other and burst into a chorus of laughter, but the Butcher didn’t crack a smile.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said. “It’ll be full daylight soon, and there are English patrols just beyond the forest.” He lifted her into the saddle again, and looked up at her with clever eyes.

  “But don’t get any ideas, lassie. One peep out of you and you will be skinned alive. I’ll be more than happy to do the honors myself.”

  Just then, the thunder of approaching hoofbeats cut through the drizzly dawn. A fourth Highlander rode up and hopped off a pale gray horse while the animal was still trotting at a quick pace.

  This latest addition to the unruly crew had long golden hair, and his eyes were two turquoise pools of malicious tenacity.

  He, too, was tall , enormous, and beastlike. “Did you kill him?”

  he asked, striding fast toward them.

  The Butcher glanced at him briefly. “Nay. He wasn’t there.”

  “Wasn’t there?” The golden-haired Scot looked up at Amelia. She sat high in the saddle looking down at him while the Butcher wrapped a thin, coarse twine around her wrists and tied it tight. “Who’s this, then?”

  “She’s Bennett’s betrothed.”

  The rebel’s brow pulled together in a disbelieving frown.

  “His betrothed? He has a woman? Bluidy hell, Duncan, why didn’t you slit her throat?”

  Amelia shuddered at the Highlander’s unimaginable callousness while taking note of the fact that the Butcher had a name. It was Duncan.

  “I though
t better of it.” He swung himself up into the saddle behind her.

  A hostile antagonism sparked in the other man’s voice.

  “You should’ve done it and left her head to rot in a box.

  What’s wrong with you?”

  The Butcher reached around Amelia to gather the reins in his fists. “You should know better than to doubt me, Angus.

  You know I do not falter. Nor will I, not as long as that English devil is breathing our Scottish air.”

  “Or any air.” Angus stepped out of the way as the horse reared up skittishly.

  “We should separate,” the Butcher said, his voice a heavy blade that cut through the tension. “Keep your wits about you, lads, and I’ll see you at the camp.” He urged the horse into a gal op, and they darted forward, leaving the others behind.

  They galloped for a short time across the sodden field, then trotted toward the shadowy fringes of the forest. The rain had softened, and the sky gave off an eerie pink glow.

  Soaked to the bone, Amelia shivered. Without speaking, the Butcher wrapped his tartan around the both of them. She breathed in his rough, manly scent on the wool and felt the heat from the wide expanse of his chest at her back. She was thankful for that at least, despite the fact that this whole situation had her reeling with fear.

  “What is it about you Highlanders?” she asked bitterly, her teeth chattering. “Al you want to do is chop off heads and put them in boxes. Is it some kind of Scottish tradition?”

  “It’s none of your concern,” her captor replied, “and I’ll thank you not to ask that question again.”

  She was quiet for a few minutes while the warmth from the tartan slowly began to ease the chill in her bones.

  “He called you Duncan,” she said. “I heard him. Aren’t you worried I’ll tell someone your name and the true identity of the Highland Butcher will be discovered?”

  “There are hundreds of Duncans in the Highlands, lass—so no, I’ll not lose any sleep over it. And since you’re asking more questions, are you not worried I’ll change my mind and slit your throat after all ?” He paused. “Since you know my name.”