Highlander Enchanted

by Lizzy Ford

  Lifting his head, Brian placed the goblet at his lips and poured the liquid down his throat, ensuring Cade swallowed before releasing him.

  “How is he?” she asked anxiously.

  “He will be well once Niall returns with Marie,” Brian said. “And ye?” He twisted to face her. “Laird Duncan didna hurt ye?”

  “No. He was civilized.”

  Brian snorted. “Ne’er heard him called such.”

  “He believed me worth ransoming,” she replied. “We cannot leave while Cade is ill.”

  “No we canna. But ye can,” he said and rose. “Cade would ne’er forgive me if I let ye stay here when Duncan comes.”

  “I will not leave him,” she replied. “I am his wife. This is where I belong.”

  “Ye’ll no stay.”

  “Am I not the Lady of this hold and clan now?” she demanded, squaring her shoulders.

  “Lass,” Brian said, laughing, “Ye can frown and order me as ye wish, but I fear my cousin’s wrath more than yers.”

  “Brian –”

  “Marie will cure him, and he will defeat Duncan. But if ye’re here, he will worry about ye instead of fighting.”

  She searched his gaze and then glanced towards the sleeping form of Cade. No part of her wanted to leave him before she knew for certain he was not in danger from the fever or infection.

  “Ye leave at dawn, lass,” Brian said firmly and strode towards the door. “Rest. Without Cade awake to temper the storms, it’ll be a long, wet, tiring ride.” He left.

  Isabel stood for a moment in the middle of the chamber. A gust of wind chilled her, and she crossed to the bed and climbed in at the edge, afraid to disturb Cade. Facing his sleeping form, she tried to convince herself Brian knew his cousin’s ability to fight off infection better than she did. Worry soon lost out to exhaustion. Her eyelids grew too heavy for her to keep them open any longer, and she drifted into deep sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Isabel awoke with a start, groggy and tired. Someone smashed into the table beside the bed, and the bowl she had placed there clattered to the ground. She blinked away sleep.

  If not for the clouds, the light of dawn would be shining into the room. Instead, the darkness was murky, as if she had awoken in a storm cloud. The hearth had burnt out, and the chamber outside her coverlets was chilly. The scent of rain was in the air.

  Movement came from the same direction as the table, and she twisted and squinted, expecting Brian had come to wake her so they could leave. A dark figure in a cloak was replacing the pitcher he had knocked over.

  “Brian?” she called. “Is it time to leave?”

  He froze, the opening of his hood turning towards her. “Yes,” came the response almost too quiet to hear.

  “I will dress,” she said and flung off the covers. Gathering her clothing from a trunk, she went to the corner opposite him, going through the motions to dress. When she was finished, she sat on the bench to pull on her boots.

  He ran into the trunk at the base of the bed, and she paused in her task of tying her boots.

  He had said yes instead of yea. Isabel peeked out from behind of the screen. The man in the cloak stood in the center of the chamber and look around him, as if unfamiliar with his surroundings.

  A chill ran through her. She checked the pocket to ensure the blade Cade had given her was present, finished with her boots, and braided her hair. Gripping the hilt, she left the dressing screen.

  The stranger was at the bed.

  Fear fluttered through her at the thought of him hurting Cade. “I am prepared to travel,” she called.

  The figure turned towards her and motioned her towards the door.

  She breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to know Cade was safe at least from the intruder. Isabel walked slowly, hoping the stranger would leave the chamber with enough room for her to slam and bar the door behind him.

  As if suspecting this, he stood in the doorway.

  She drew nearer, trying to see his face. His hood was deep enough that even the corridor’s torchlight did not illuminate his features. He was well armed, dressed in well worn and well tailored clothing and boots.

  Isabel stopped, heart pounding, the knife hidden behind her. “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Come with me, and I will not hurt you.” The man spoke in a low, harsh and broken voice, as if his throat had been damaged.

  “No,” she replied and backed away.

  He moved with the speed of a trained warrior. Reaching out to snatch her, he had her forearm briefly before she slashed at him with the dagger. Cursing quietly, the man glanced at the long, red mark across his arm.

  Isabel backpedaled and sucked in a deep breath, ready to scream loud enough for the guards on the wall to hear her. The intruder snatched her again, this time twisting her wrist until she released the dagger with a cry of pain. He wrapped an arm around her and clapped a hand across her mouth.

  She struggled and strained, managing to smash him in the shin with her kicks.

  “If you do not cease, I will kill him in his sleep!” the man hissed.

  Isabel froze, eyes on Cade’s sleeping form. She stopped.

  “You will leave here with me, silently, or I return for him. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, scared by the resolve of his broken voice.

  The stranger released her and took her wrist in a gloved hand, pulling her towards the door.

  With one last look over her shoulder, Isabel went.

  He raced through the keep as if he knew it, slowing at intersections and before darting across opened doorways. She saw Cade’s clansmen more than once but did not scream, terrified of someone hurting Cade when he was unable to defend himself.

  They broke free of the keep into the rain. The intruder hurried them towards the side gate facing the forest and yanked her through it. All but slinging her onto a horse, he mounted in front of her and kicked the beast into a run.

  She hung onto him, soon drenched and shivering. The stranger found the trail through the forest and moved the horse to a quick walk. The forest lightened around them as dawn shifted to early morning.

  Isabel tried to lean around him, to make out something about the person who captured her. He did not speak like a Highlander, and his voice was almost too low and quiet for her to make out anything else about it. She had feared him to be there on behalf of Richard at first, but the smug lord would not have sneaked her out. He would hire or bring his own army to claim her, since he believed her to be rightfully his.

  Her captor did not speak, even to his horse, or acknowledge her in any way. The muddy path slowed them at several points, before he pressed on in a pace as fast as the horse and mud would allow.

  Fearful of who had taken her, Isabel began to devise a plan to escape, if she had the chance. If she could take his horse and run, he could never catch her. The paths through the forest were few and … this was Cade’s forest. His magic could find her, if she were able to break free.

  If he lived, she added. With a pang of hurt and guilt, she realized she had not been able to reassure herself he was alive before leaving.

  She had not been in the forest this direction, and its sudden cessation surprised her. The moment they broke free, the stranger kneed the horse into a lope, leaving any sign of road or trail or path for the vibrant green hills of the Highlands.

  They rode for hours, until the light of day began to fade and a chill crept into the air. He never came close enough to any road or travelers or church or keep for her to cry out for help and instead, continued on a path only he truly understood. Across the moors, around hills of great size, beyond ancient ruins left by people long since passed. The breathtaking mix of verdant hills and moody skies left her in awe of the wild lands.

  When she caught sight of the grey ocean, she guessed they had headed northwest from Cade’s small keep. The flavorful scent of the sea was brought to them on a cold, sharp breeze, one that made her grateful not to have to face it
full on. Her captor bore the brunt of it, and she hunkered down behind him. England grew cold, but the Highlands were somehow far cooler than she was accustomed to.

  Night began to descend. Her captor maneuvered the horse towards the ocean. Darkness robbed the world from her vision, and she leaned around him once more to see where he was headed.

  Warm light glowed from the windows of a tiny cottage tucked between bluffs overlooking the sea. Shaking from cold and wet by the time they reached it, she sat stiffly on the horse when he dismounted. He took the horse’s reins and led it to a tiny stables big enough for a stall and one horse.

  Isabel dismounted and looked back into the hilly, dark night.

  There was nowhere to run. With some unease, she realized how isolated this place was, how far from anyone who could help her.

  The man breezed by her and took her arm as he did so, moving to the cottage made of stone with a thatched roof. He entered, forcing her to accompany him.

  Warm and smelling of food, the cottage was cramped but functional with two bed pallets, a sitting and cooking area before the hearth and trunks for belongings along one wall. One window was in each wall. Her captor released her closed the door, barring it, before he went to shutter all the windows to block the ocean chill.

  As far as they had ridden, it was not possible for him to have started the fire or prepared the food before he left. She saw no one else in the cottage or anywhere near it, though.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  She did so and knelt near the fire. Its heat warmed her quickly, and she shed the soaked cloak she wore and spread out her skirts around her to dry.

  Her captor went to the trunks and tossed his daggers into one before peeling off the cloak and stretching it over another to dry. When he faced her, she gasped. He wore a covering over his face that had slits for his eyes and mouth. It completely blocked his features. Built like a warrior, he had a pronounced limp, a shoulder that slumped unnaturally and fingers missing from each hand.

  “Who are you?” she asked quietly.

  He ignored her. Her captor ladled stew from a pot in the fire into two bowls and handed one to her before seating himself and drinking his down.

  Perplexed by the man who kidnapped her, Isabel watched him and sipped her stew. The meat in it was tough, the root vegetables soft and the flavor hearty. This was not one of Richard’s men, not a Highlander.

  “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

  “I do not wish you to speak.”

  She forbade herself from shivering at his sinister tone. His voice was not fully human, and she began to wonder if there were more than seillie in the Highlands.

  “I wish for you to speak,” she replied. “You brought me here, against my will. If you will not tell me who you are or why, then I-”

  He gave a muffled roar and rose, slapping the bowl out of her hands as he did so.

  She went still, recalling too often what followed when Richard reacted thusly. Ducking her head, she hunched her shoulders and lifted her hands in what defense they could offer and rarely did.

  Aware of his every breath and movement, terrified to move and draw his ire, Isabel braced her body for the inevitable.

  Her captor released his breath and started towards her.

  “Did that heathen hurt you?” he demanded.

  She shrank away. “N…no. Never.”

  “Who?”

  Isabel said nothing, still not certain this was not one of Richard’s men. If so, she was not about to speak ill of him.

  When she did not respond, her captor went to the door and flung it open, striding out. Seconds later, she heard the whinny of his horse and the sound of hoof beats as he raced away.

  Only when assured he was gone did she move. Opening her eyes, she stood and closed the door against the ocean wind. Isabel cleaned up the mess made when he hit the bowl and searched for some sign of who he was in the trunks and saddlebags. He had locked the trunk with the weapons.

  Disappointed not to find what she sought, she debated what to do, until she heard the sound of hooves clattering against rock. Fear seized her once more. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her then lay down on the pallet with her back to the door, praying he would leave her alone, if he thought her asleep.

  Holding her breath, she kept her eyes closed despite her concern and listened to him enter and close the door. There was a pause, as if he were trying to discern if she were asleep, before he went to the hearth and sat.

  He ate again, and she stayed where she was, staring at the stone wall before her eyes. Not long after returning, he, too, stretched out on the other bed to sleep. His breathing soon grew deep and regular.

  Isabel relaxed and shifted onto her other side. She was unable to sleep in such a circumstance, especially not knowing if Cade had lived through the night let alone survived Laird Duncan attacking.

  Her captor slept in his mask.

  She sat up silently, mind on the horse in the stables and escaping. It wouldn’t matter where she went, so long as she was far from him. With one hand focused to quieting her skirts and the other balancing her against the wall, she tiptoed towards the door, paused to ensure he had not moved, then rested her hand on the bar.

  Isabel glanced over her shoulder.

  Her captor had shifted onto his back, though he remained slumbering. She started to turn away when she caught the glint of firelight off a silver chain around his neck. A dangling silver medallion had fallen from his chest to the side of his neck.

  Isabel touched the medallion she wore, and stepped forward, wanting to know who had captured her before she left. She knelt and turned over the medallion.

  She stared, dropping it in alarm.

  The medallion was identical to hers. They had been gifts given to her brother and her by their father before her brother rode off to the Holy Lands. It was not possible for this to be her brother; he would never hide from her or treat her this way. By all accounts, he was dead.

  Anger filled her at the alternative, that this man had stolen her brother’s necklace. This, too, seemed unlikely when she asked herself why he had come to the Highlands let alone sought and captured her.

  Bristling with agitation and confusion, Isabel snatched the tip of his hood and yanked it off.

  Her captor’s eyes flew open, and he gazed at her before shoving her away and grabbing the hood back.

  She caught herself against the wall, a cry of shock stuck in her throat. The scarred, mangled face beneath the mask stuck in her mind, but it was the striking green eyes – mirrors of her father’s – that left her reeling.

  “John,” she breathed.

  He sat with his back to her, shoulders hunched and masked head bowed.

  “My god. John!” She approached him.

  “Stay away!” he said and rose, fending her off with one arm extended.

  “But … why? I thought you were dead!” She kept her distance, wringing her hands, her heart flipping over in her chest.

  “There is nothing left of the man I was.”

  His broken voice, scarred features, limp … tears of relief and pity filled her eyes. “Oh, John,” she whispered. “My sweet brother.”

  She took a step towards him once more, shaking with emotion, and pushed his arm down. He made no move to stop her this time, and she slid an arm around him before shifting afore him.

  His head was bowed, his eyes closed, as if her touch hurt him.

  Isabel wrapped her arms around him and rested her cheek against his chest, silently praying in gratitude for her brother being alive.

  John sank to his knees, trembling. She went with him, unwilling to let him go after discovering him again.

  “You must tell me what has happened,” she whispered in a quaking voice. “Where you have been. Why you did not return to me.”

  “Return? How could I return when I look like this?”

  Tears filled her eyes at his pain. Isabel wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him hard then leane
d away. She tugged at the mask covering his face. He leaned back and twisted his head away.

  She persisted and stretched forward. He tensed without pushing at her, and she gently peeled off the mask.

  There was little resemblance of the man before her to her brother. John’s eyes were squeezed close and he was braced as if he feared her reaction. Knotted, thick scars covered his features. A cleft in his lip had healed unevenly, and half of one eyebrow had never grown back.

  She rested her hands on his knotted cheeks, and felt the tears spill down hers. “I will always love you, John,” she whispered. “How did you not know how much I love you? How little I would care for your scars?”

  Her brother did not speak, barely seemed to breathe. Isabel wrapped her arms around his neck again and pulled him into her body. Gradually, he began to relax, and his arms circled her. He let her hold him as he never had before, and she rocked gently, not wanting to disturb him with more questions despite her burning curiosity. He clutched the material of her dress, his breathing deep and even.

  “I wanted to tell you,” he said in his broken voice. “After father died, I wanted to see you.”

  “Do not dwell on the past,” she murmured. “You are here with me now. All will be well.”

  “Your heart was always so pure.” He lifted his head enough to touch the pink charm dangling on her chest next to the medallion that matched his. “This is seillie magic.”

  “Yes.” Isabel shifted to remove the charm, recalling its powers. She draped it over John’s head, suspecting he needed it more than she did. “It will heal the pain inside you.”

  “Cade already has healed what could be healed.”

  She held her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “He took away my madness and made it his own. ‘Twas how he earned the name Black Cade. It was stronger than he thought it was, and it nearly claimed him as it tried to claim me. He wanted to save me, and I destroyed us both.”

  “No, John,” she said, hugging him harder. “You are alive, and so is he.”

  “I saw what he did in the Great Hall. He unleashed the madness and forced you to wed him.”

  “He is a tempest, oft-times too distant to reach you and oft-times, overhead. He forced me to wed but he never hurt me, ever, in the time I have known him.”