An Outcast's Wish

by Aileen Adams

  She desperately wished to see him one more time before she died.

  It might be too late for that already. Even before she had sent that last look over her shoulder as the McGregor clansmen propelled her out of his house, she had spied the pool of blood oozing from beneath his prone body.

  She blinked back her tears. She would not give up! She would not!

  Two more times during the night she scared the wolf away with her shouts. Exhausted, every muscle in her body screaming with pain, her eyes burning with weariness, she finally noticed a brief glimpse of dawn toward the east.

  She offered up a quick prayer of thanks that she had survived the night, but her predicament hadn’t changed.

  By the time the sun breeched eastern horizon, she knew that she had to get out of her bonds or she wouldn’t make it through the day. Her legs wobbled beneath her, so weary that they barely managed to hold her weight.

  The muscles of her arms had stiffened, not only due to her strenuous efforts in the awkward position, but from the night’s chill. She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. Hours ago, the tingling numbness had given way to no feeling at all.

  She wanted to sleep, desperately. Perhaps if she just allowed herself to sleep for a little while—no, she couldn’t. If she fell asleep, she might never wake again.

  Not sure what kept her going, acknowledging that Maccay was probably dead, she nevertheless pushed herself upward, her ankles protesting, her knees wobbling as she lifted herself further upright.

  She made a huge effort to tug against her bindings, her head lifted, leaning against the back of the tree. She watched the sky slowly brighten as she sawed her arms up and down.

  Birds sang in the trees overhead. She saw a rabbit nearby, possibly even the one from the night before, munching contentedly on some kind of nut.

  At least the wolf wasn’t around. If it were, the rabbit wouldn’t be. The birds wouldn’t be singing.

  Her arms felt as if they had been pulled from her shoulder sockets. She could barely move her elbows, but as she forced herself to tug, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes in concentration, she continued to rub the bindings against the bark. She could only move her hands couple of inches up and down, but perhaps it would be enough—

  She felt some give in the rope.

  Her heart leapt and hope burgeoned inside her. Had her hands moved further apart? Had she just imagined it? She tugged again.

  Yes!

  She felt some slack in the rope. The bindings had weakened! She began to laugh, blinking back tears of relief. She would escape. She willed it. Despite the pain, despite the stiffness and protest every muscle in her body screamed at her, she continued her efforts. Up. Down. Up. Down.

  She had no idea how much time had passed, but the sun continued to rise. Misty fog wafted between tree trunks, ebbing as more sunlight filtered through the trees, gradually offering warmth.

  Her face throbbed, her ribs hurt, and it was difficult to breathe, but she kept going. She would keep going. For Maccay. For herself.

  She would—she paused when she heard the sound.

  What was that?

  It sounded like a snort. She searched the trees and underbrush, and there, in a patch of woods between the tree to which she was bound and the small clearing in the distance, she saw a shadow of movement.

  Her heart sank and then began to pound.

  No… a wild boar. This couldn’t be happening! She’d made it through the night, managed to scare the wolf away, and now… a wild boar?

  She didn’t know what she was more afraid of—a wild boar or the wolf. Boars were extremely dangerous, outweighing a grown man by five or six times his weight, not afraid of anything, too stupid to be afraid, their tusks capable of eviscerating human flesh—

  Close to panic, she struggled against the bindings, holding back her groans of pain. She had to get loose. Now.

  The rustling, rooting sound in the trees grew louder.

  Hurry!

  Her heart pounded so hard. her ears buzzing with fear, and lightheadedness caused her vision to swim.

  No, she couldn’t faint! She wouldn’t!

  Suddenly, the boar emerged from in between the trees. It saw her and paused, it’s black eyes riveted on her. It tossed its head, snout lifted in the air, nostrils flaring. It had picked up her scent.

  Her mouth felt so dry she couldn’t swallow, could only stare wide-eyed in horror as the boar approached.

  No, no, no!

  She tugged hard against the bindings, pulling and tugging as hard as she could—

  Suddenly, her hands were free, bits of rope dangling from each wrist.

  Startled for a moment, she was frozen.

  The movement had alerted the boar and, pawing the ground, it lowered its massive head and charged toward her.

  No way could she outrun a wild boar, not in her condition, and not even if she were in prime shape.

  She looked upward, saw a branch overhead, maybe four inches around. It would hold her weight. She had to make it. She would only have one chance.

  She focused on that branch, and resisting the ache and stiffness in her muscles, she refused to succumb to weakness. With every last bit of effort left in her body, she jumped, barely managed to clasp onto the branch, feet dangling a couple of inches above the ground.

  The boar caught an edge of her legging, one tusk tearing her flesh.

  She screamed. She kicked at it. Her free leg swept down, her heel slamming into its eye.

  The boar released her and shook its head, grunting.

  She hung, panicked. She couldn’t do it! She was too weak! Her eyes wide with horror, she stared as the boar lifted its head again, so close she could see the crack in one of its tusks.

  The black, brown and rust-colored rough hair on its back rippled with its bunched muscles, short legs churning at the dirt. The boar charged again.

  With a garbled cry, she pulled herself upward, lifting her legs and using the momentum to help her swing higher up off the ground.

  Move! Climb!

  She grunted with the effort, demanding her body to do what she ordered.

  She barely managed to lift her feet high enough to avoid the second charge of the boar, so intent on her legs that it slammed into the bottom of the tree, taking a glancing blow against his shoulder.

  A pine cone tumbled downward and landed next to the enraged animal.

  Blood and adrenaline race through her veins, giving her another surge of strength. She scrambled to lift her legs higher, to wrap them around the branch, now hanging like a deer trussed up after the kill.

  She heaved herself upward as the boar turned with a squeal, snorting and pounding the ground, lifting itself onto its haunches.

  Its front hooves slammed against the tree trunk.

  She couldn’t help the wild, panicked cries that escaped her mouth as she heaved herself higher, so much so that she managed to pull herself completely up, rolling onto her stomach, arms still wrapped around the branch. Frozen, but only for a moment.

  She needed more height. She managed to force herself to let go with one hand and grasp another branch over her head. Ever so carefully, she maneuvered herself upward.

  Finally, she managed to scramble up even higher, until she was maybe fifteen feet up off the ground, tightly hugging the trunk of the tree, her legs straddling another larger branch, feet dangling. Her face pressed against the rough pine bark, heart still pounding, her chest heaving with exertion and fear, she inhaled the scent of pine, felt the bark pressing against her cheek as she looked down at the wild boar, now sitting on its haunches staring up at her.

  Her pulse racing, her breath escaping her chest in wild gasps, she clamped her arms around the tree trunk and her legs around the tree branch, not daring to loosen her hold for fear of tottering and falling out of the tree.

  She finally pulled her breathing under control, but was unable to stop the trembling that shook her entire body.

  The sun slowly peeked thr
ough the tree branches, but she was nowhere close to safe. Yet.

  The boar held its ground, looking up, waiting.

  Waiting for her to fall.

  25

  Maccay continually swept his gaze along the trail they followed and into the woods on either side, seeking some sign, some indication that Alis was still alive.

  They had not found her body tossed into the brush, so that was good. He willed her to be alive, though he knew that the chances of them finding her lessened the longer it took to find her—or the McGregors.

  “She’s going to be all right.”

  He glanced at Heather, riding beside him. Jake had taken the lead, followed by Hugh, then Maccay and Heather. He said nothing.

  “Maccay, she’s strong and determined. She survived in the woods, by herself, even after they left her for dead. Don’t underestimate her. I have a feeling there’s a lot more to Alis than you think.”

  He wanted to believe that. He wanted to have a chance to get to know her better. She would never be Mairi to him. She was Alis. He loved her. He wasn’t sure when or how it happened, but he had fallen in love with her. He had fallen in love with her personality, her smile, her ability to survive against the greatest of odds. If he found her, he—

  “There!”

  Maccay saw Jake pointing to some long grass at the edge of the deer trail they followed through the woods.

  Hugh dismounted to take a closer look while Maccay urged Bruce closer. He started to dismount.

  “No, Maccay, stay where you are,” Heather cautioned. “You can see from your saddle. The more you move around, the greater the chances of you bleeding again.”

  He cast her an annoyed glance, but knew she was right. Besides, Hugh could read signs better than just about anyone in the clan.

  “Two horses. They milled around here for a bit and then headed off in that direction.” He stood, eyes narrowed as he pointed deeper into the woods. “Let me follow the trail a bit and see what’s up there.”

  The others waited, Maccay impatiently, as Hugh carefully meandered through the trees, touching a pine bough, leaning down to observe a broken twig… just before he disappeared into the undergrowth, he stood, glanced in the other direction, then at the ground, then gestured for them.

  Jake, leading Hugh’s horse, and Maccay, followed by Heather, urged their mounts deeper into the woods.

  “Look there,” Hugh pointed. “They’ve dismounted, and an imprint has been left in the pine needles.”

  Maccay glanced down and saw where a large cluster of dead pine needles had been disturbed. Scuffed boot prints in the dirt beneath them prompted him to believe that some sort of scuffle had taken place.

  “And here.”

  Maccay pulled his gaze from the ground and looked to where Hugh pointed at the base of a nearby pine tree. He tried to discern what he saw. “What is that?”

  Hugh turned to him, his frown unmistakable, his eyes taking on a darker look. “It’s blood.”

  Maccay felt like he’d taken a blow. He stared at the disturbed ground, the base of the pine tree, then swore. “The bastards!”

  “Another rider joined them here,” Hugh continued, pointing toward a trail that meandered deeper into the woods not far from the one they had taken.

  “Two men barged into my house. That third rider is probably Clyde catching up with them.”

  “But where is the other one? The one that arrived with Clyde?”

  Jake shook his head. “Maybe that one’s ridden ahead. We may have to backtrack and see if we can pick up his trail. Figure out what he’s up to.”

  Maccay swallowed the lump forming in his throat. This wasn’t good.

  The thought of those bastards laying their hands on Alis filled him with rage, but at the moment he was helpless to help her. “Do you think they took Alis with them or… or do you think they killed her and left her out here somewhere?”

  “What if we split up—”

  A noise whistled past Maccay’s ear, followed by a dull thunk as an arrow embedded into the tree trunk not far from Jake’s head, the shaft slightly vibrating.

  He reached for Heather, yanking her from her horse as he slid off Bruce, protected between their mounts. He dragged her to the ground, the horses prancing nervously around them. He covered her body with his while Jake also quickly dismounted, he and Hugh taking shelter behind nearby trees.

  “You’re not going to find her!”

  The voice came from a short distance away.

  Maccay recognized it. Rory McGregor.

  He looked at Heather. “Stay put!”

  Ignoring the pain in his side, his heart pounding with a combination of dread and a thirst for revenge, he pulled his axe from his belt and crouched, seeking the source of the voice.

  Laughter rang out in the woods, joined seconds later by another.

  Maccay cursed.

  They had walked right into a trap. A trap obviously set by the McGregors. He gestured for Heather to find shelter behind a nearby tree while he did the same, standing, his eyes scanning every shadow, every tree trunk for some type of movement.

  Moments later, they heard the sound of pounding hooves.

  “Quick! After them!”

  Maccay moved toward Bruce while Heather also scurried to grab her horse’s reins.

  Jake and Hugh had already mounted and were in pursuit.

  Maccay followed, Bruce darting his way among the trees, every jolt, every stride prompting a bolt of pain to surge through his body.

  Heather’s horse was right behind his.

  He followed a short distance behind Hugh, Jake now in the lead, hunched low over his horse’s neck.

  They had to catch them! They had to rescue Alis—

  An arrow came out of nowhere and embedded itself into the meat of Bruce’s left shoulder. Bruce neighed and stumbled, but continued to gallop after the others.

  “Protect Heather!”

  That shout came from Jake, just before he uttered the Duncan war cry and charged deeper into the woods.

  Maccay followed Jake’s orders, and pulled up behind a close-growing cluster of trees. Worried about Bruce, knowing that he had to protect Heather even though every part of him wanted to continue after the McGregors.

  “Bruce! He’s bleeding!”

  Maccay nodded and turned to find Heather behind him, her horse prancing nervously. She held her bow in her left hand, already nocked, her gaze quickly searching the surrounding area. “Heather, get behind the trees… deeper into the woods—”

  Her eyes suddenly narrowed. “There!”

  In a flash of movement, she lifted the bow, pulled back the bowstring and released her arrow and let it fly.

  An instant later, he heard a pained cry.

  “Stay here!” Maccay ordered.

  He urged Bruce forward, his axe at the ready. A short distance away, lying amongst a clump of brush, he saw the body.

  It was Rory McGregor, an arrow protruding from his chest. He looked dead, but just to make sure, still fighting pain and his body thrumming with bloodlust and anger, Maccay leaned down and swung his axe, burying it deep in the man’s skull with a sickening crunch.

  “Is he—”

  Heather uttered a garbled cry as she appeared behind Maccay.

  She covered her mouth with her hand and quickly turned away.

  “I told you to—”

  “We need to take care of Bruce,” she interrupted, quickly turning her horse deeper into a thicker grove of trees.

  With one last glance at the McGregor clansman, Maccay growled as he yanked his axe from the man’s crushed skull and followed Heather.

  As soon as they reached shelter, he dismounted.

  Heather had already dismounted, waiting for him.

  She peered closely at the arrow protruding from Bruce’s shoulder and then offered Maccay a comforting nod.

  “It’s not deep, Maccay. A flesh wound.” Without hesitation, she grasped the shaft of the arrow where it disappeared into Bru
ce’s flesh and pulled it out in one firm yank.

  Bruce snorted, but otherwise did not seem the worse for wear.

  Another reason for Maccay to hate the McGregors.

  He watched as Heather quickly made a poultice from some of the herbs that Sarah had given her and tended to Bruce’s wound, murmuring comforting words to the horse as she did so.

  “Someday, you’re going to be as gifted as your sister in the healing arts,” he told her.

  She turned to him with a smile. “I’ll never be as gifted as Sarah, but this, I can do.” She paused and peered in a direction that Jake and Hugh had gone in pursuit of the McGregors. “How long should we wait here?”

  He noted the worry in her eyes. He felt the same, but this time, he would do as he was ordered. He would protect Heather while at the same time praying that Alis was with the McGregors and that Jake and Hugh would rescue her.

  “We wait until they return.”

  * * *

  The sun had dipped toward mid-afternoon before Jake and Hugh returned.

  Hugh’s left tunic sleeve was torn, hanging down to his elbow, stained with blood.

  Jake sported a wound in his thigh, but whether it had been made by an arrow or a knife thrust, Maccay didn’t know.

  Heather barely stifled her cry of alarm when she saw her husband’s injury.

  “It’s all right, Heather, not serious,” Jake assured her.

  Maccay saw her concern nevertheless, the injury in Jake’s already bad leg. He had taken an axe blow on the battlefield a little over a year ago, rendering him with a permanent limp.

  Heather rushed toward her husband, and placing her hands on his injured thigh, peered closely at the wound.

  Hugh glanced at Maccay, slightly shook his head, and then gazed at Heather and Jake. “Don’t worry about me, Heather, I’m fine too.”

  That seemed to jar Heather and she quickly looked at Hugh with a look of chagrin. “Are you really, Hugh? Your wound… is it serious?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I already bandaged it myself. No need to worry about me.” He glanced at Jake and winked. “A mere scratch, really.”

  Maccay watched Jake and Hugh, his heart thudding dully in his chest. He asked the question even though he already knew the answer. “She wasn’t with them?”