by Amy Harmon
Gillian considered running but realizing how pointless it was, sank to the blanket, and pulled her knees to her chest.
A moment later Laird MacGregor returned with meat and dark bread. He passed her a portion and sat across from her. “Eat.”
Gillian hadn’t eaten since noon the day before and didn’t have to be told twice. She bit into the meat, some kind of fowl. The wonderful campfire taste hit her tongue, and she moaned then glanced up to find him watching her. Self-conscious, she stopped chewing. “What?”
“Ye just surprised me, lass. Ye didna cross yourself against me, nor,” he pointed to a stick nearby, “wave the elder branch over thy food, nor even pray over the fare. I hazard I am used to the superstitious lot out there.” He jerked a thumb toward the tent’s entry.
Gillian swallowed then broke off a small piece of the dry bread and popped it into her mouth. “How are they superstitious?”
The laird shrugged. “In all the ways a man can be. My men think me a warlock if I forget to stir my oats in the proper direction to ward bad spirits.” He pointed to the stick again. “I humor them in favor of peace.”
When she snorted, his brows rose. “Have I shocked you? Do you fear me the worse now?”
She chuckled and relaxed a bit more. “No. I don’t believe in warlocks.”
He smiled slightly. “Don’t you then?”
She shook her head. “I believe in evil men and women doing evil deeds but not in witches and warlocks.”
He studied her for a moment. “Now ye’ve shocked me, lass. I’ve not met a female who doesna cast wards against evil, cross herself ten times in a day, throw salt over her shoulder, and plant mugwort, foxglove, and the like. Do ye none of those things?”
She chuckled again and shook her head. “I’ve been known to salt my food on occasion, but only for the taste.”
“Hmm.” He finally applied himself to his food, and she had the chance to study him while they ate. He truly was scary to look at, savage. His brown tunic, stained at chest and hem, hit his knees when standing but now, rucked up, exposed most of his strong, bare legs. Fortunately, he looked to be wearing shorts of some kind. He also wore an animal skin vest and had wool plaid draped over one shoulder, fastened somehow. There wasn’t a kilt in sight, which she had to admit surprised her.
He met her gaze and she asked, “Have you been planning to kidnap me for long?”
It was his turn to snort. “We had no thought to take you at all. We thought you too well protected. You fell into my men’s hands like a plump partridge.”
Well, of all the rotten luck. Brows drawn together, she bent her head to hide her chagrin. “Why were your men there then?”
“Hoping for the chance to rescue their kinsman.”
“You sent them?”
“Aye.”
She finally lifted her head. “You’re very loyal to your men.”
He laughed in a humorless way. “I could but wish my men were as loyal to me.”
“What do you mean?”
He didn’t explain and resumed eating.
“What do you mean?” she asked again.
He shrugged.
Gillian sighed. “So… Scotland is nice. It’s really pretty. I’ve always wanted to come here.”
He shot her an incredulous look.
“So… who are you, anyway? What’s your name, rank, and serial number?”
He ate some bread.
“So… why are you camping in the forest? Are you related to Robin Hood?”
He gnawed the meat off a bone.
She took a breath and he threw up a hand. “Stop nattering on!”
“Then tell me why you think your men aren’t loyal!” she whispered fiercely.
He sighed. Shrugged. “’Tis no great secret. My mother is English and I did much of my training in England. When my father died, I was expected to come back and lead, which I did. But loyalty has to be earned through time and action.” He threw a handful of bones through the tent opening.
Gillian resumed eating and studied the man. While he looked and acted tough, he’d actually seen to her comfort, fed her, and put her at ease. Maybe she could do something to help him. “I once read a book called How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. It said that you need to smile, be friendly, treat people kindly, and find out their interests and try to share them.” She nodded. “You need to make people feel important and appreciated and always try and remember their names. Maybe you could try that with your men?”
He stared at her, brows raised, mouth agape, and then laughed. When she glared, he laughed harder, openmouthed, until he fell over backward.
Gillian straightened her spine and pursed her lips. When he finally sat up, his laughter subsiding to chuckles, she said, “Don’t knock it until you try it. When I was in junior high, I didn’t have any friends and my mom read the book to me. It’s good advice.”
He chuckled a few more times then shook his head and wiped at his eyes. “You’re an agreeable lass to talk to. You must keep Lord Marshall well entertained.” He studied her, and she refused to look away. “You’re also verra easy to look upon.”
She grinned. “Flatterer. You’re kind of cute too, in a barbarian-at-the-gates sort of way. A girl could feel very protected with you around.”
He actually looked down and blushed above his facial hair, and it was Gillian’s turn to laugh at him.
He glared. “Watch yourself ere I lose my patience.”
She managed not to roll her eyes. The guy was turning out to be a pussycat. “So, obviously you don’t live here in the forest. Why aren’t you home? What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
He shrugged. “The usual. Trapped between two kings who use us as puppets for their own amusement.” Gillian heard bitterness in his tone.
She studied him for a moment. “You don’t seem very happy in your chosen occupation. Couldn’t you just give it up? Stop being Laird and go back to England?”
He shrugged. “I am the MacGregor. There’s no altering that. Ye cannot change what is.”
“You’d be surprised.”
When she finished her meal, he cut an apple with his knife, gave her a piece and then grinned when she made a face at its tartness. He then cut and ate a slice himself before giving her another.
“Are you married?” she asked.
“Are ye offerin’ for me, lass?”
She looked at him. Under all the hair, he was young, probably mid-to-late twenties and might even be good-looking. He was as tall and broad through the chest as Kellen and had shown he could be kind. All in all, he sort of reminded her of Kellen. A decent man hardened by the time he lived in. “Let me ask you something. Would you take a wife without a dowry?”
“O’ course. Chances are I will. Heiresses are not thick about the ground for men such as me.”
“What about Lord Marshall? Do you think he’d take a bride without a dowry?”
“Why do ye ask? I’ve said I’ll return ye to him, and I will. So if you’re worried on that score, put your fears to rest.”
“Just answer the question.”
He shrugged. “By all accounts the man is wealthy, but you ne’er ken. Some men are ne’er satisfied but with more. You know him. What is your take on the man’s character?”
Gillian shrugged and looked down. That was the problem. She did know him. She knew how much his land and people meant to him. How responsible and practical he was. She loved him, but didn’t have the courage to tell him the truth about herself and hope he’d choose her over Edith and her money.
“So what’s it to be? Did you not fancy Lord Marshall then? Is he a cruel man? Disfigured? Would you prefer to take your chances on me? Lord Marshall would never give up your dowry, but I’d never rebuke ye for the lack.”
Startled by what sounded to be a genuine proposal, she glanced up, warmth flooding her. Would Kellen feel the same? She smiled at Laird MacGregor and gently said, “I’m afraid my heart has already been
given to another. But thank you. I’m honored.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Ye’ve crushed me, lass.”
She laughed. “Like I said. Flatterer.”
He grinned, and when she’d finished the apple, he gave her some water from some sort of bag. He stood and held out a hand. “Come, I’ll let you have privacy behind a tree, ere we get ye settled for the day.”
Embarrassed, but grateful, she was once more dragged through camp and allowed a few minutes to herself. She was thankful for the thick foliage and, after briefly considering escape, discarded the idea as foolish and impossible and returned. Wouldn’t this group of crazy men just love to chase her through the trees? The laird took her by the wrist again and led her back to the tent. She noticed the men breaking camp.
“Why are you packing up?”
He didn’t answer but simply stopped in front of his tent and shoved her inside. “You’re to stay here and keep quiet, ere my men decide you be a witch with your strange way of speaking.” He followed her in, pulled out some long cloths, took hold of her wrists, pushed her to the blanket, and knelt beside her.
She glanced up, startled. “What are you doing?”
He quickly bound her wrists together.
She tugged against his hold. “Stop it!”
He paused and gave her a fierce look. “Doona fight me. ’Tis for your own protection.”
With one hand holding her, he reached for another cloth and Gillian tugged again. “Don’t!” She fought him with all her strength, got free, and bashed him in the face with her bound wrists before he recaptured them.
Holding his nose, he laughed and swore. “Blast it, lass. Ye’d make me a fine wife. If you reconsider, the offer stands.”
“Let.” She continued to struggle. “Me.” She pulled as hard as she could. “Go!”
He released her and she fell backward onto the blanket and he held up a strip of cloth. “Is it to be the gag then?”
At the thought of that filthy material in her mouth, all the fight flowed out of her. “No. I’ll be quiet.”
“There’s a good girl.” He quickly tied her ankles together, taking time to study her athletic shoes, twisting them one way, then the other. “I’ve never seen the like. Doona let my men see them.” He finished, covered her feet with her skirt; and when he was done, looked to see her glaring at him. He grinned, reached out, put a hand on her cheek, and rubbed his thumb over her tight lips. “I truly am tempted to keep ye but my clan would likely not accept an English woman, especially one who talks and acts so strange. You’d as like be burned as a witch.”
“Thanks a lot.” He turned to leave and Gillian struggled to sit up. “Wait.” He turned back to look at her. “What will happen if Lord Marshall doesn’t come for me?”
He stared at her for a long moment then chuckled. “Oh, he’ll come for ye. Of that I have no doubt.” And with a quick grin and a wink, he was gone.
* * *
Teeth clenched and mouth tight, Kellen rode with his men deeper into Scotland. He tried not to think of what could befall Gillian in this foul place, tried to convince himself the savages wouldn’t harm a woman. If they acted on even one of the things riddling his thoughts, if they… well, he would kill them all.
Again, he couldn’t help but question her motives. What had she been doing? Why had she left the protection of the keep? What had she been thinking? None of it mattered at the moment, of course. All that mattered was getting her back safely. When he had her in his possession, then he could strangle the answers out of her at his leisure.
A new thought worried at him. What if, once they had spoken to her, looked upon her, they decided to keep her rather than ransom her? She could be headstrong and capricious but also charming and fascinating, and she was far too beautiful for her own good.
Or what if that were the true purpose for which she’d been taken? Not as a prisoner to ransom or exchange, but as a bride. The Scottish savages were known for kidnapping brides. It was no doubt the only way they could get them. Had Gillian been kidnapped by a man looking for a wife? Kellen’s hands clenched and unclenched on the reins. Had she been brought before a priest? Handfasted? What if—
“My lord, look ahead,” Tristan yelled and pointed to a man in dirty plaid coming out of a grove of trees. His hair, braided, uncombed, and wild, looked a good place for nesting creatures.
Kellen pulled up and the man rode forward, his teeth flashing straight and white.
“Out for a ride in our fine woods?”
“Where is she?”
“Where be our men?”
Kellen stilled and the tension in his body lowered a notch. Was this simply to be a trade then? Were they to willingly give her back? “We have them with us. Who are you?”
“You may call me Sir Ian.” The man smiled at the claim of gentry. “I’m to take you to The MacGregor.
“I will you Sir Horse’s Arse. Lead the way.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “We thought you wasna comin’. ’Tis been hours since the lass was snatched.”
Kellen had no intention of telling the oaf he had not known his own bride was missing. While he had been mooning over ways to win her favor.
“We thought perhaps you’d changed your mind about your English bride. That mayhap you dinna want the lassie after all.” He raised a brow. “She is a handful.”
Had that given them reason to believe they could hurt her?
Kellen’s muscles clenched and his horse moved under him skittishly until he tightened the reins. Kellen could feel heat rising in his body. Through clenched teeth, he grated, “If she has been hurt, you will all pay with your lives.”
“They would not dare to harm her, my lord,” said Owen. “They know if they do they die.”
Ian snorted. “She was aright when last I saw her.”
If he lost her, if she was gone from him… he pushed the thought aside. If they failed to give her up, he’d kill them. If he could not find her, he would call in every ally he possessed if needs be, and he would find the culprits and kill them. If they hurt her—
He swallowed. She was delicate, but fearless. Always wandering about without protection. What if they accidentally killed her?
He found himself sweating as they followed Ian MacGreagor.
* * *
“What if the English don’t come for her?”
Gillian hugged her knees to her chest and listened to the group of men. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. For all their attempts at whispering, they either weren’t very good at it, or the clear Scottish afternoon air easily carried sound through the tent.
Anyway, she shared their concern. What if Kellen didn’t come? What if she had to spend the night there? She shivered at the thought of being surrounded by these men overnight but didn’t so much as move otherwise. She didn’t want to draw their attention.
“Perhaps the plaid tied to a tree wasna enough of a message?”
“Everyone knows the English are slow-witted. Mayhap we should deliver a note?”
“But then another of our men might be captured.”
“Perhaps they rode in the wrong direction and never met up with Ian?”
“Nay, we left a trail a half-wit could follow.”
“Mayhap they killed Hamish and Donald? Mayhap they have naught left to bargain with.”
“They are not dead!” A man bellowed. Gillian heard footsteps stomp to the tent and a corner was pulled back to reveal a bushy, red-bearded face. “Girl!” Gillian jumped. “Be our men murdered by your lord?”
Gillian swallowed. “Nope. Last I heard they were doing just fine.”
“See. They are well.” The tent flap fell again and Gillian breathed a sigh of relief. She knew a mob mentality when she heard one and didn’t want them reminded she was there.
It was quiet for a while. “’Tis said he killed his first wife. Perhaps he willna be fashed should this one disappear, as well?”
“She’s comely enough and has plenty enough atop to please a man.
Her hips seem shapely, as well.”
“And she’s young.”
“Still, mayhap she could be infertile?”
“Nay, not with those hips. Perhaps he hopes to find a wealthier bride?”
“If he doesna want her, I’ll take her.”
Gillian took a breath and decided that keeping quiet might not be such a good strategy after all. “I can hear you.” She called out through the tent. “I’m right here.”
The men were silent a moment, then she heard more whispering before another man approached the tent. “Does your lord care for you, lass?”
“He likes me just fine.”
“His first wife died and you were left to wander. Mayhap he seeks to rid himself of encumbrances? Think you he will come for you?”
“Yes.” She tried to infuse confidence in her voice. “He will come for me. In fact, you’d better treat me well or I’ll tell him that you didn’t.”
She could hear more whispering as the man went back to the group.
“I’ve heard he can cleave a man’s head off without breaking a sweat.”
One man scoffed. “No he canna.”
“’Tis true. ’Tis said he has the eyes of a warlock and he can freeze a man so as to split his head without hindrance. ’Tis said he’s not lost a fight. If he comes after nightfall, we will all be killed!”
“Mayhap his bride is a witch, as well!”
This was getting out of hand. “I’m not a witch.”
“Witches are paid in gold. Her ring looks to be worth a fortune. Mayhap we should take it ere we trade her for our men.”
“It doesna come off! I tried to pull it from her finger and ’tis stuck as if by magic!”
Gillian heard a gasp or two and rolled her eyes.
“If someone cut off her finger—”
She took a breath, determined to show no sign of weakness. “Yeah. I dare you to. My betrothed, Lord Marshall, surely won’t notice my finger missing or me bleeding all over the place. I’m sure Mr. MacGregor will be pleased, as well.”
