by Sandy Blair
She’d just have to drink from the river when she got to it. She sidled to the right with one hand extended, her right foot tapping before her to be sure she didn’t fall off the ledge. She came to a wall of stone. No. She was sure he’d led her in this way. But then she’d been exhausted and upset by the gulls, so mayhap...
She held out her left hand and tapped her way across the ledge only to hit another wall. “No! This isna happening.”
She slapped her hands over her mouth and looked over her shoulder, peered into the darkness but couldn’t see him. She prayed she hadn’t awakened him. At least, he wasn’t looming behind her.
Frustrated, cold, and thirsty, she ran her hands over her chilled arms and realized her skin and clothing were wet. She stepped back and water splashed her shoulder. She squeaked, spun, and held up a hand. Cool water filled her palm. She drank as fast as she could.
Her thirst finally satisfied, she wrung her hands. What to do?
It was now obvious she couldn’t leave without his help. She looked into the blackness of the cave and saw a fuzzy red glow. There was no help for it.
She returned to the heat and the man.
Squatting by the remains of the fire she caught sight of a fish skeleton. She touched it with a tentative finger. What remained was flexible. It had been recently cooked and eaten. She then saw a reed packet and brought it to her eyes for closer inspection. To her delight it held a warm cooked fish. Keeping her gaze on the black mass that was the Canteran, she bit into the fish with a vengeance.
As she ate she pondered.
She hated admitting it but she needed the man lying before her. She was far from home on unknown ground, and needed his sight.
Since he wouldn’t return her, how could she find her way? Wolf had been left far behind.
Too bad this man wasn’t kind like Tinker. Her friend would gladly have taken her home. Tinker! Was there a chance she could contact Tinker? But how? She could write naught but her name. The Canteran might be able to write but he couldn’t know of Tinker. Tinker kenned the exact location of her home. The Canteran didn’t, and she had to keep it that way. He caused the yearnings.
As she pulled the last of the delectable flesh from the bones, she could see faint blocks of gray and brown within the cave and more details of Angus the Canteran, still asleep, curled on his side before her.
Who is this man? What is he? She’d spent the entire day with him and had only the impression of great size, strength, and eyes as blue as the summer sky.
She wiped her hands on the reeds, then her skirt, and inched around the fire. She came close enough to touch him, but not daring to, she sniffed. He still smelled of pine, fire smoke, and something surprisingly pleasant. Of what, she couldn’t put a name to. She leaned closer. Finding his breathing still slow and deep, her confidence grew. She inched closer still. His odd metal shirt was gone and he now wore only a tunic. The fabric was thick and looked soft. She touched his cuff with a tentative finger. Aye, it was as she imagined and of a finer weave than the kirtle she wore. Costly, if she was any judge of such things. Her gaze shifted left, over his narrow hips. Why did he not wear leggings as Tinker and the men of the village wore? She studied the grooves and rises of his heavily muscled thighs and lower legs. Hmm.
She eyed the silver hilt of the short dagger poking out from beneath one of the leather thongs wrapped around his heavy calves. To have a blade like that! She wouldn’t be in this position had she had such a sharp blade to defend herself with.
Her gaze shifted to the right, up his torso, taking measure of his hardness, of the massive amounts of sinew and muscle. He was so unlike her, so unlike Tinker. And he definitely smelled better than Tinker. She tipped her head to better examine his face and her hair fell into her eyes. With an impatient hand she raked it over her shoulder.
His jaw was dark, bristled with the shortest of dark hairs. Not something she’d want. Feeling decidedly braver than she had at the beginning—this Angus was a very sound sleeper—she fingered a lock of his shoulder length hair. Aye, it was indeed as soft as a hen’s down. She then saw his fine braids. She rolled one between her fingers. Did the secret to keeping hair braided lie not in the weave but in the volume braided? Hmm.
His brow, though badly scarred, was wide. His eyebrows were dark and arched like a hawk’s wings. His lashes were thick, lying still on high, broad cheeks. His narrow nose wasn’t straight but not so crooked as to distract. She decided she liked it. Her gaze then settled on his wide and well-formed lips.
They’d muffled her cry and hid the tongue that had licked her, tasted her. And why? He hadn’t bothered to take a bite out of her. He’d eaten fish instead. Had he found her not to his liking? Sour or bitter? For some reason, she felt insulted. Did he taste any better?
Birdi leaned ever closer, and Angus held his breath.
He’d awakened when she’d gasped, apparently realizing with whom she laid, and had readied to catch her if she tried to bolt but she hadn’t. She’d simply explored, drunk, eaten, and then to his amazement decided to explore him. As he watched through slitted eyes, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning as her beautiful face kept shifting from surprise to puzzlement and then back again as she gently touched and sniffed. You’d have thought she’d never been so close to a man as she fingered his hair and studied him inch by inch. When her gaze shifted to his face he was forced to close his eyes. He could feel her breath on his cheek and desperately wanted to see what she thought. Was she frowning or smiling? And more than anything in the world he wished to feel her mouth on his.
Her lips caressed his with no more pressure than a butterfly could muster. He held his breath wondering what she’d do next. To his utter amazement her tongue grazed his lips. He groaned.
As if by its own accord, his left hand slid to the back of her neck. He pressed her closer, parting her lips further. She gasped, and he swept in to discover she was more pliant and delicious than he—even in his most lustful of moments—had imagined.
With heart and blood racing with expectation, he slipped his free hand about her waist. Before he could execute a roll, could get her beneath him, her hands slammed into his chest. Startled, his eyes flew open. The fear in her eyes made him set her free.
She scampered back, a hand on her lips.
Shit.
Sorely disappointed, Angus rocked up onto his knees. “Dinna fash, Birdi. I told ye I’ll not harm ye, and I’m a man of my word.” He sighed, gave himself a shake, and pointed at the remains of her fish. “Are ye still hungry, lass?”
She shook her head hard and came to her feet, one hand coming to rest at her waist.
“How is yer wound?” She moved with ease and hadn’t felt feverish when she’d kissed him, but then he’d been distracted.
“Fair. I dinna bleed anymore.”
He rose and stretched, his hands pressing the cave’s roof. “Good. We’ve a good distance to travel today if we’re to make Beal by tomorrow’s gloaming.” And they’d be lucky to make it even then.
She wrung her hands and backed away. “I dinna want to go to Beal. I want ye to take me back to the glen.”
“I ken ye do, lass, but I can’t.” The Macarthur was out for his blood, and even if the bastard wasn’t, Angus hadn’t the luxury of time.
Looking crest-fallen, Birdi nodded. “They fear me.”
He scowled, was about to ask what she meant, and noticed she was quaking like a birch in a high wind. “Ack, are ye cold again?” He shook out his breacan feile and handed it to her. “Here. Wrap this about ye.”
She hesitated but finally took it. He reached into his sporran, withdrew the salve the Macarthur woman had given him, and handed it to her. “I’ll go out and give ye a bit of privacy so ye can dress yer wound.” With the sweet taste of Birdi still lingering in his mouth, he didn’t need to be seeing her half naked. He’d likely tup her where she stood.
He turned to leave, and her nails dug into his right hand. Her eyes, as light as the wa
ter at her back, were wide. “Ye willna leave without me?”
He pried her fingers loose and patted her hand. “Lass, I promise I’ll not leave.” Humph! In the last day she’d tried to kick his teeth in, run from him, and kiss him, had pleaded for her release, and now she was begging him not to leave without her. Women! He’d never understand them, which was another reason he’d never wanted a wife. Ack!
Laden down with his saddle and mail, he strode between the boulders and out from behind the waterfall and down to the river, to Rampage.
Birdi, heart beating like a frightened rabbit’s—praying he’d keep his promise, praying he wouldn’t leave her to perish in this damp world behind a wall of water—remained rooted in place long after Angus the Canteran had disappeared into the shadows.
There is nothing I wouldna give to be able to move about as he does. Nothing.
And what on earth had possessed her to place her mouth on his? To taste him? Had it been the need? Her palms had itched. More surprising than her doing it was discovering his lips pleasingly pliant. She did as he had done, took a wee taste with her tongue and encountered his tongue, as soft as antler velvet, as sweet as any berry. A heartbeat later—before she could pull away—he’d taken control, held her firmly in place and his tongue had stroked hers. It caused heat to sear a path to her middle, swirl as his tongue did, then settle between her thighs. ‘Twas only then did she recognize what he was doing...summoning the yearnings.
Yearnings far stronger, fiercer, than her dream had summoned.
She’d reared back in shock, her fingers flying to tingling lips, her mother’s words echoing in her head. The yearnings are evil, Birdi. They scramble yer mind and make yer wode.
Aye, Minnie. Wode.
She had to leave...had to go before it happened again. Before what happened to her mother happened to her.
The lesson learned: he took control. Quickly.
She pulled the plug on the jar of poultice and sniffed. It smelled of black currant, juniper, and willow. It would do for now.
She stripped the dressing from her waist. The gash hurt as a burn might, but that was to be expected. She applied the poultice, redressed her wound, and was struggling with the plaid, trying to re-drape it about her, when she heard footfalls behind her. She spun and clouted Angus the Canteran smack in the nose.
Oh, Goddess!
Hissing, he grabbed her hands in one calloused fist. “Lass, if ye dinna stop jumping every time I come up on ye, I’ll be forced to truss ye up like a Michaelmas goose.” He blew in obvious annoyance and hauled her toward the light. Pondering what a Michaelmas goose might be, she tripped. He stopped and eyed her from top to bottom.
“No wonder. Ye have the plaid on wrong, lass. ‘Tis worn like this.” He took it from her shoulders, made fast pleats of the middle, wrapped one end around her waist, had to do it again to take up more length, and then draped the remainder over her shoulder. “See? ‘Tis easy.” He then slipped the wide belt from his waist and carefully wrapped it around hers—twice—and still a half-length was left hanging. “Well, it will have to do. At least, ye’ll stay warm.”
He took her hand and led her out of the cave and into brilliant sunshine, into a day warmer than expected. He waved toward her right. “There, lass, there’s a privacy bush, but be quick.”
He turned away, and Birdi was left on her own to stumble over river rock in the direction he pointed. Why he was behaving so out of sorts was beyond kenning. She’d been the one attacked. She huffed, tripped, and her hair fell over her face. Muttering, she pushed it out of her eyes, took another step, and stumbled again. Grinding her teeth, she grabbed her skirt and the plaid with both hands and, keeping her gaze locked on the slippery stones beneath her feet, she walked without further stumbling.
Straight into an elderberry bush.
Angus poked through the neck of his chain mail in time to see Birdi collide with the bush. He shook his head as she muttered and turned. A heartbeat later her head jerked back with such force he was surprised she didn’t lose her footing. Before he could take a step, she reached back, wrenched a thick lock of hair free of a branch, and marched on again. Birdi Shame had to be the most accident-prone female he’d ever laid eyes on. Another reason the sooner he got her back to her clan the better.
When she made it behind the bush without further incident, he finished donning his armor and turned his attention to Rampage. The beast snorted and blew out his stomach as Angus tried to tighten the saddle girth. “Ack, lad, ye ken I’ll win in the end, so why do ye put me through this aggravation every time I saddle ye?”
Angus looked over his shoulder and found Birdi at the churning river’s edge washing her hands. “Birdi, get away from there! I dinna want to be fishing ye out of—
Too late.
The current-weakened earth beneath her suddenly gave way and she fell into the river with a surprised screech, hands over her head.
Cursing and with his gaze locked on the place where she’d disappeared, he ran. A foot from where she fell in, his right leg sank into sucking mud up to his shin. He windmilled his arms to keep from getting both legs trapped and landed on his rear. God’s teeth!
He pulled free just as Birdi broke the surface, sputtering and flailing, a good ten yards down stream.
His heart thudding, her cries for help only escalating his alarm, he ran along the bank. Good God, he hadn’t realized how fast the current was here.
She swam, thrashed really, but in the wrong direction. He brought his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Birdi! This way. Come this way!”
She turned, her face as white as the churning water surrounding her, and started thrashing, blessedly in the right direction, but the current still hauled her downstream, farther away from him. Realizing he couldn’t outrun her and praying she could stay afloat, he whistled.
As he tore off his mail, Rampage pounded up behind him. He mounted and kicked Rampage into a canter. As they raced along the bank and around boulders, Birdi made some small progress toward shore but even more progress toward Loch Purdith. And, God help her, the traitorous waterfall that emptied into it. “Birdi! Keep swimming lass! I’m coming!”
God, please get me to her before she exhausts herself and drowns or falls over that precipice. She willna survive it.
As he raced to catch her, the fast-flowing river hauled her at breakneck speed over and between boulders. Ack, the abuse she had to be taking. He could only pray she wouldn’t hit her limit or hit her head before he reached her.
The river swung left and he lost sight of her for several painful seconds. He vaulted over trees brought down by floods and rounded the bend. He released his breath. She was alive. Her arms still churned, though not with her past determination. Not good, not good.
He spotted a partially submerged, felled tree some fifty feet before her. “The tree, Birdi! Try to grab hold of the tree!”
Her right arm reached up and out but to the left.
“To yer right, Birdi, to yer right!” God, the woman would be the death of him.
To his monumental relief the current spun her and put her in direct line with the tree. He raced past her at a full canter, came abreast of the tree, and reined in. Rampage snorted and stomped as Angus slid to the ground and raced for the log. Heart slamming against his ribs, his arms extended for balance, he ran along the slippery bark until it disappeared below water. He dropped to his knees and then straddled it. His elation—in getting ahead and in direct line with her—evaporated as he saw the huge whirlpool churning between them. Praying it wouldn’t take her in the opposite direction, he stretched out and bellowed, “Birdi! Reach for me! Here!”
Birdi’s heart leapt. Angus the Canteran was before her, somewhere, telling her to grab hold of his hand. Choking on frothing water, she raised a weary arm, and was suddenly jerked from below. She screeched. Her skirt—once billowing about her waist—was now wound tight about her legs. She couldn’t kick or right herself as she spun. She bucked and clawed at the water
pulling her down.
Goddess, help! Please, I’ll be drowned!
Arms thrashing, she slid beneath the surface.
Chapter 5
Birdi awoke to the sounds of hissing Gael, to the feel of large hands pressing on her stomach. Ah, ‘tis him, the Canteran, Angus Mac...she couldn’t remember his other name. He pulled on her arms, up, down, up, down, pushed again on her stomach, and then spun her onto her face. Numb with cold, too tired to breath, she didn’t care. She’d never see her home again so what did it matter? The saddest part of this journey, apart from not seeing colored glass, was kenning that no one would grieve, would miss her.
He pressed on her back, up, down, up, down. He was squeezing the life out of her. Why? She was flipped again; the sun’s glare now bore against her eyelids. It felt good. Warm. He pressed on her stomach again, this time it hurt, and suddenly she was choking, vomiting, and gasping.
Good Goddess, he was trying to kill her!
She tried to defend herself but found her arms were weighted down. Already breathless, she started coughing again. This time it tore, racked, inside her chest.
And he wouldn’t stop pounding on her back. Pound, pound, pound. If she had a rock and the strength she’d cosh him a good one. On the head.
Merciful Goddess, please. Please, make him stop.
“Birdi, lass, are ye alright? Can ye hear me?”
He hauled her onto his lap, raked the hair off her face, and ran a calloused hand over her mouth, wiping the spittle from her lips. He then cradled her to his powerful, heaving chest and began rocking.
Above the sound of his thudding heart, she heard, “Lass, ye scared the shit out of me.”
Sheet? She would have to ask the meaning, later, when she had the breath. Panting and shivering, she had only enough strength to marvel at the heat pouring off the wet man who held her so close, his hands scrubbing her limbs and back in an effort to warm her.
She’d nearly drowned and he’d saved her. He and hale Mary. Another thing she need remember to ask about when her teeth stopped chattering, when she could speak without her throat feeling like she’d swallowed hot coals.
