“Do I need to bind your wrists for the ride?” Her captor looked at her with challenge as he drove a musket into the saddle scabbard.
She touched the chafe marks on her wrists, still painful and raw, and shook her head. “No.”
“You get one chance to earn my trust,” he told her, “and if you disappoint me, I’ll keep you bound and gagged until I kill your beloved, which could be some time from now, considering where we’re headed.”
She glanced up at the mountaintops and shivered. “I won’t try to escape. You have my word.”
“But can you trust the word of the English?” Fergus asked, swinging himself up onto the back of his horse and adjusting the powder horn he carried at his side.
“I could say the same about you Scottish rebels,” Amelia tersely replied.
“Easy now,” the Butcher warned in her ear, sounding almost amused. “You don’t want to get into a political debate with Fergus. He’ll wipe the ground with you.”
Duncan wrapped his big hands around her waist, but Amelia slapped them away. “I know how to mount a horse,” she said. “You don’t have to toss me up like a child every time.”
He backed away in mock surrender.
As soon as he gave her enough space, she placed her foot in the stirrup and mounted. The Butcher slung his shield across his back, then swung up behind her.
“I thought proper English ladies only rode sidesaddle,” he said quietly, “because they like to keep their legs squeezed together, nice and tight.”
Why did he constantly feel inclined to say such vulgar things to her? And why did he always have to breathe every word into her ear as if it were an intimate secret between lovers?
“As you know,” she said, “my father was a colonel in the army. He might have enjoyed a son if he’d had one. Since he didn’t, I was fortunate enough to be awarded the opportunity to play ‘Dragoons’ when I was very young, much to my mother’s chagrin.”
“He taught you to ride like a soldier?”
“Among other things.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turned the horse in the opposite direction from which they had come, while Fergus and Gawyn made haste toward the east, choosing a different route to Glen Elchaig. She was not sorry to see them go, for she knew less of them than she did about the Butcher, who—to her great astonishment—had not yet harmed her, despite ample opportunity. The others she was not so sure of.
Then she looked up and saw Angus on his pale gray horse, watching them from the edge of a blunt outcropping.
He wore his tartan like a hood over his head, and the ends of his long golden hair rippled like weightless ribbons in the breeze.
“There’s your friend,” she said suspiciously.
“Aye.”
She watched Angus until he turned his horse in the other direction, disappearing over the ridge. She had the distinct impression he would not be far, however. For the duration of this journey, he would always be in the vicinity, watching from the mist, sending daggers of malice in her direction. She only hoped he was not waiting for the right moment to ride in and strangle the life out of her when the Butcher was not looking.
They rode in silence for a time, and she grew sleepy as the horse plodded along and rocked her back and forth in the saddle. Her head fell forward and she snapped it back up, shaking herself awake and fighting the urge to sleep, until the Butcher covered her forehead with his palm. It was surprisingly warm against her skin.
“Lay your head on my shoulder,” he said.
She wanted to resist but was almost dizzy from lack of sleep and decided it would be best to comply, for she could not be much good to herself in such a state of fatigue.
The next thing she knew, she was dreaming about a ballroom, filled with orchestral music and swirling candlelight as she danced across the floor. The room was rich with the scent of roses and perfume. She wore powder in her hair, but her lips were painted a garish shade of red, and she winced at the blisters on her feet, which burned like hot pokers inside her tight shoes as she danced one minuet after another.
Then suddenly she was flying through the sky like a bird, over the mountains and into the clouds. Was this death? Or heaven?
She jerked awake. Heart pounding, not knowing where she was, she sat forward and grabbed onto the strong, steady arms that kept her from toppling off the horse.
The gentle thud of hoofbeats on the path brought her back to reality. She took in the unfamiliar surroundings—the canopy of branches and leaves overhead and the bright sky beyond. They were in the forest now, trudging over the soft, mossy earth. A flock of warblers chirped noisily in the treetops. “How long was I asleep?”
“Over an hour,” the Butcher replied.
“An hour? Surely not.”
“Aye. You were moaning my name and saying, ‘ Oh, yes, Duncan, yes, yes. Again, again …’ ”
Amelia frowned over her shoulder. “You lie. I would never say that, and I barely know your name. You’re just the Butcher to me.”
“But you learned my name this morning, remember?”
“Of course I remember, but I wouldn’t have said it in my sleep, unless it was to say farewell before I shot you dead with that pistol in your belt.”
He chuckled, his body swaying back and forth with the easy movements of the horse. “You win, lassie. I confess.
You weren’t sighing my name. You were as quiet as the grave, sleeping like a corpse.”
“What a lovely image.” She hoped it was not a sign of things to come.
They rode in silence for a short while.
“Where are we?” she asked. “How much further?” They had not yet eaten, and her belly was grumbling.
“We’re halfway there, but we’ll stop soon to rest and eat.”
“You have food?” Her mouth began to water.
“Aye. I can hardly let you starve.”
«Well, thank you, I suppose.”
“Don’t be thanking me, lass. I only want to keep you alive because you’re my bait.”
They ducked their heads to pass through a dense thicket.
Twigs and sticks snapped under the horse’s heavy hooves, and the Butcher used his arms to shield Amelia’s face and push back the branches.
«Will you answer a question for me, lassie?” he said as they emerged into a clearing.
“I suppose.”
“How long have you known your fiancé?”
She breathed deeply, thinking back to those dreamy and idyl ic days, so unlike what she was living now. “I met him a year ago in July, at a ball in London. He was serving under my father and they had both come home on leave. They couldn’t linger long, however, because of the rebel ion here in Scotland. all the troops had to return to their posts.”
“So it’s Scotland’s fault your courtship was cut short?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Perhaps if you’d spent more time with your beloved, you wouldn’t be marrying him.”
Amelia turned slightly in the saddle to speak over her shoulder. “Let me make it clear to you, sir—I spent more than enough time with Richard Bennett, and I know exactly what I am doing. It is you who are ignorant of the man you deem your enemy, for he is a great war hero. He saved my father’s life in battle, and were it not for the mortal wound he suffered in the spring, because he was shot by a Jacobite rebel like you…” She stopped for a moment, unable to go on. “For all I know, maybe it was you who killed him.”
Duncan spoke with anger. “No, lass. I assure you it wasn’t.”
The vehemence of his denial was more than enough to convince her, so she let the matter drop. “At least he had one final, happy Christmas at home,” she added, “knowing that I would be taken care of—that Richard would protect me.”
She full y expected the Butcher to again point out that Richard had failed in the task of protecting her, but he said something else entirely.
“You were fortunate to have such a man as your f
ather.”
She turned quickly in the saddle. “Why would you say that?
Had you ever met him?”
She couldn’t explain it, but she felt an almost desperate need for some connection or link between this brutal savage and her father. She wanted to feel that her father was here with her, in some shape or form, wielding even the smallest influence over her captor.
But there was nothing extraordinary in the Butcher’s expression. He remained cool and impassive. “I told you I fought at Sheriffmuir, so I know your father was a brilliant soldier and an honorable leader of men. It was a fair fight, despite the outcome that did not favor us.” He paused, and his voice grew more serene. “I also know that after he recovered from his wounds, after the Christmas he spent with you, he returned to his post and tried to negotiate with the Scottish nobles in order to give them a second chance to accept the Union and agree to peace.”
Her brow pulled together in surprise. “You know of his meetings and negotiations with the Earl of Moncrieffe?”
“Aye.”
“How would you know about that?”
He laughed at her. “Highlanders talk to each other, lass, and so do the clans. We don’t all live in caves, and we’re not all ill iterate brutes.”
She faced forward in the saddle again. “No, of course not.
My father spoke very highly of the Earl of Moncrieffe, who was a Highlander, like you. He said he was a passionate collector of Italian art, and described him as a harsh but fair man. He said his home was like a palace.” She turned in the saddle again. “Have you ever met the earl?”
“Aye,” the Butcher replied. “But things aren’t as simple as you think. Here in Scotland, nothing is black and white. Your father might have judged the earl to be fair and civilized—a gentleman, according to your lofty definitions—but because he negotiates with the English and keeps his garden clipped and manicured like a puffed-up English estate, he has his share of enemies. Many Scots—the ones who want to fight for a Stuart king—view him as a coward and a traitor. They believe he only seeks to increase his landholdings, and there is likely some truth in that.”
“What do you believe?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I believe every man has his reasons for doing what he does, for choosing one path, and not another. And no one can know what truly lives in another man’s heart. You can judge him all you want from afar, but you’ll never know why he does what he does, unless he trusts you enough to let you know it.”
“So you don’t think Moncrieffe is a traitor to Scotland? You think he has valid reasons to negotiate with the English?”
“I did not say that.”
“So you don’t real y know the earl. Not like that.”
He said nothing for a long time while the horse plodded through the clearing. “I don’t think anyone real y knows him.”
And does anyone really know you? she wondered suddenly.
“Let’s rest for a bit,” he said.
They reached a shallow burn, and the Butcher steered his horse to where the water ran fast and clear. He waited until Turner finished drinking before he dismounted, then held his arms out to Amelia. She hesitated before accepting his assistance.
“Don’t be stubborn, lass.”
“I am not being stubborn.”
“Then put your hands on me. I won’t eat you alive, nor will I be overcome by my savage desire to deflower you.”
Reluctantly, she laid her hands on the tops of his broad shoulders and slid smoothly down the solid mass of his body until her feet touched the ground. She stood for a few seconds, looking up at his face—al sharp planes and perfect angles. His lips were full and soft, and his eyes glimmered with unusual flecks of silver she hadn’t noticed before.
“I don’t suppose you ever rode astride with your beloved?”
Duncan asked, his hands still resting on her hips.
She took a hasty step back, unnerved by his flirtatious tone. “Of course not. As I said, Richard is a gentleman. He would never suggest such a thing.” She watched the Butcher tug the saddlebags from the back of the horse. “I wish you would believe me about that.”
He pulled a jug of wine and some bread from the leather bag and sat down on a fall en log next to a weeping willow.
“At least you’re loyal.”
“I have good reason to be, and I’ll not stop working to convince you of that.”
Her captor used his teeth to pull the cork out of the jug, then turned his head to the side and spit it out. “So that I’ll let you go?”
“So that you will stop hunting Richard,” she clarified, watching him drink. “He is a good man, Duncan. He saved my father’s life.”
It was the first time she’d used the Butcher’s given name, and it did not go unnoticed. Something flickered in his eyes, and he frowned. “This discussion is beginning to grate on my nerves.”
He tipped the jug of wine back and guzzled deeply, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. His expression burned with something wild and angry as he held the wine out for her to take. He stared at her, waiting.
After a moment, she reached for the jug. The stoneware was cold in her hands. She meant to take only a small sip, but when the full -bodied Scottish wine flowed over her lips and tongue she realized just how terribly thirsty she was and gave in to gulping and guzzling, just as he had done.
Never in her life had she drank anything so crudely from a bottle, but good manners had no place here, she supposed.
Not with this man, who sat on a fell ed tree in a forest, looking like he wanted to either strangle her or wrestle her to the ground and have his way with her.
“Before I’m done with you,” he said with grim resolve, “I’ll make you see that your English officers in their fancy red coats can be just as savage as any Scot in a kilt.”
She was taken aback, shaken by such an image, but the sound of approaching hooves interrupted any further discussion. She lowered the jug and spotted Gawyn and Fergus galloping across the glade toward them.
The Butcher stood, seized the wine from her hands, and walked toward them. “I thought you’d never get here,” he said broodingly. “I need to take a piss.”
With that, he shouldered past her, heading toward a dense grove of conifers.
“What do you want us to do with her?” Fergus shouted after him.
“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” the Butcher replied, not bothering to look back before he disappeared into the curtain of branches.
Fergus leaped off his horse and smiled crookedly. Gawyn dismounted and stood behind her. She felt completely surrounded.
Suddenly it was quiet. Too quiet. Even the leaves in the trees seemed to be holding their collective breaths.
Wishing the Butcher had not chosen this, of all moments, to leave her alone, she turned to face the others. And then, as if matters weren’t already unpleasant enough, Angus came thundering out of the bush at a full gal op. He swung himself to the ground, quickly recovering from the momentum of his charge with a few heavy, pounding footsteps across the grass, which brought him face-to-face with Amelia.
Hands clenched into fists at her sides, she did her best to be brave while the three fierce Highlanders surrounded her. It was not an easy task, however, when two of them looked like they wanted to eat her alive and the third looked ready to slice her in half.
Chapter Five
Duncan sat down on a boulder at the water’s edge, took another sip of wine, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Head bowed down, he wished there were enough booze left in the jug to get thoroughly soused, but even if there were, it would do him no good. There was no escaping what plagued him.
He’d thought it would all be over by now and that today he would return to that quietness he’d once known, before this war began. It was an internal calm he had taken for granted and perhaps never full y appreciated.
But life didn’t always proceed according to plan, he had discovered. If it did, he
would not be sitting on this cold rock with a half-empty jug of wine in his hand, his hair hanging loose in his face, while he struggled over what to do with a stubborn and impossibly beautiful woman who was devoted to his mortal enemy.
No, not just devoted. She was in love with him.
God, how he hated her for defending that monster. Yet when he woke up in the cave that morning, his desire for her was considerable, and for the second time he had had to crush the urge to flip her over onto her back and simply take her. He’d wanted to bury himself in her depths and prove that she was no longer his enemy’s property. She was his now, because he had stolen her away.
But that violent need to conquer and possess was more than a little disturbing to him—for his contempt of men who used such force upon women was the very reason he was hunting Richard Bennett in the first place.
Duncan took another swig of the wine and watched the water flow cleanly around the rocks in the stream.
Perhaps this vile hurricane of wrath inside him was a fate he would never escape. He was, after all , the bastard son of a whore, and his father had been a cruel brute. Fierce passions and uncontrollable vengeance ran in his blood.
He had never questioned it before, but everything was more complicated today—because he had never had such trouble resisting a woman. Most Scottish lassies were fair game, and if anything, he was the one fighting them off. But this haughty, infuriating Englishwoman who despised him—and rightly so—reminded him that he was a man with hearty sexual desires. Politics and vengeance had nothing to do with it.
At least the others had arrived in time just now; otherwise he might not be sitting here sipping wine and watching the water flow. He might instead be back in the clearing, shaking some sense into the lady, spelling out, word for word, the gruesome details about her precious beloved. Giving her a lesson or two about villains and heroes.
He tipped the jug back and drank thirstily, then rubbed the heel of his hand in small circles over his chest to ease the ache that had suddenly lodged itself there.
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