by Aileen Adams
She stared up at him for several moments, her expression not difficult to read. Her look wordlessly conveyed a combination of anxiety and annoyance, her eyes narrowed, her foot tapping softly against the dirt floor, her lips pressed tightly.
Nevertheless, despite her brave and often brazen expressions, he also saw the pulse throbbing in her neck, her chest rising and falling with what he can only imagine was the fear of uncertainty.
So be it.
Slowly, he bound one of her delicate wrists with one end of the rope, then gestured with his chin outside the hut.
“Go.”
14
Dalla walked out of the hut in front of Hugh, hugging the blanket to her chest as she slid past him, her heart thudding in her chest.
When would these indignities end?
So far, Hugh had kept a respectable distance, but now, tied to him by a rope in order to bathe? How was she going to accomplish that without baring herself to his view? Could she count on him not to look? Did she dare ask?
She snickered.
Imagine, her, a captive, requesting that her captor not peek while she disrobed and bathed. She could just hear him laughing.
She followed his murmured directions as they made their way around the hut and down a short slope, at the bottom of which she now distinctly heard a low trickle of water bubbling over rocks. By the time she broke through the brush, Hugh close behind, she stared at the stream in dismay. And relief.
She hadn’t told him that she couldn’t swim. A Norwegian who didn’t know how to swim, and living right next to the fjord? He’d think her foolish—or touched in the head. Unable to learn? Would he then think that she wasn’t worth keeping, that she—
“What are you stopping for? As you can see, it's not a raging river. It will be easy to bathe in. A bit cold surely, but suitable.”
He was right. It wasn't a raging river. It wasn't much to look at, maybe half a stone's throw across, and it certainly didn't look deep. The water might come up to her knees.
She frowned.
How was she supposed to bathe in something so shallow?
She turned to him and saw him watching her with an implacable expression, arms once again crossed over his chest, one hand grasping the twisted rope. Dalla glanced between him and the water, gurgling right there beside her left foot. In a fit of pique, she decided that she would just do what she had to do and hope that Hugh did not turn into a barbarian at the side of exposed skin.
She stood staring up at him in defiance as she started to disrobe, first kicking the filthy slippers off her feet, then reaching down to unfasten the overlarge breeches.
His eyes widened in dismay as one piece of clothing after another landed at her feet.
The cool morning air brushed against her bare legs, raising goosebumps. When she reached for the tunic, prepared to pull it over her head, he stiffened and turned away.
She quickly pulled the tunic over her head and stepped into the water. Its icy coolness sent a shiver up her spine, but she sucked in a breath and quickly sat in it, legs outstretched as she quickly began to splash water over her filthy body.
Cold… so cold!
She clamped her jaw tight to prevent her teeth from chattering. Despite the frigid temperature, however, she felt grateful to wash the days and weeks of dirt and mud from her body. Ridding herself of the memory of the ship's hold as the grime disappeared from beneath her fingernails and the stench of the tar and oil from the keel was scrubbed away.
Her back was to him, but she felt the gentle tug on the rope tied around her wrist as she moved her left arm, dipping into the water, splashing it on herself, then rubbing a handful of sand that she'd scooped from the creek bed to scrub harder at her skin. Quickly she washed until soon her flesh was pink and riddled with goosebumps, her teeth chattering. Her fingers grew numb with the cold, but she still had to wash her hair. Lifting her knees, she held her breath and dunked her head forward, her scalp tingling and shrinking as she began to scrub at her scalp, her hair growing hopelessly tangled as it flowed downstream. She came up for air once, then repeated the process one more time before she couldn't take it anymore. Her entire lower body felt numb. Above the waterline, she shivered violently. Her fingers ice cold, her face nearly frozen, she finally lifted her torso upward with a gasp, hair hanging down over her face.
Suddenly, she felt arms around her, lifting her from the water. She immediately began to struggle, but then realized that she was encased in the blanket, held against Hugh's strong, warm body.
She couldn't see his face, her dripping hair covering her face and draping over her breasts. She could only pray that he hadn't gotten much of a glimpse of her either. But she did have to admit, even to herself, that his warmth, his stature, and the inescapable feeling of support that she gained from him was pleasant. He tightened the blanket around her and then, much to her dismay, she found herself lifted into his arms as he quickly strode back to the hut.
He said nothing as he entered and lowered her to the ground in front of her sleeping pallet. The loss of his warmth made her feel suddenly cold, and alone. She shivered violently as she knelt on the ground, huddled into a small ball.
Grasping the edges of the blanket close to her, she repositioned herself, her legs folded to the side. She lifted her head and snaked one hand upward from under the blankets to separate her hair from her face. She watched as he quickly built a fire, not looking at her, not saying a word. Soon, a fire blazed in the fire pit that he had dug the night before.
Only then did he look at her.
“Move closer to the fire. Open the blanket to warm your skin.”
She was about to object when he made a slashing motion with his hand in the air.
Her words stilled in her mouth as he stood on the other side of the fire, hands on hips, his expression severe.
“You will not argue with me. You will dry yourself off quickly.” With that, he rummaged in his belongings, pulled out the sorry looking gown she had worn on the ship and tossed it over his shoulder.
She stared up at him, taking in the dark expression that came over his face.
“I will go bathe and quickly wash the clothes. You will not run.”
She stared after him in dismay as he disappeared out the opening of the hut, scrambling as close to the fire as she dared. Keeping one eye on the doorway, she opened the blanket, holding it open around the side of the fire, inviting the warmth of the flames to warm her body. Gradually, her shivering eased.
His last comment annoyed her. Where did he think she was going to run without any clothes? Foolish man. Stupid highlander…
Unbidden, she recalled the feeling of hard, sinewy muscles of his chest and abdomen pressed up against hers, the strength she had felt in his arms, the unmistakable bulge of muscles as he held her close, carrying her back to the hut.
He was neither foolish nor stupid. He had saved her life, twice now, once when he had purchased her, and then when he'd saved her from the bog. Despite her circumstances, despite the knowledge that she was a captive with no will of her own, she did realize that her life could be much worse than it was at the moment.
As to what would happen in the future, only time would tell.
15
Two days had passed since they arrived at his hut in the middle of nowhere. The craggy, intimidating and dangerous looking landscape around them dampened Dalla's urge to attempt another escape—at least not yet. Where would she go? It wasn't just her fear of the bogs that caused her to hesitate. She didn't feel like she was surrendering as much as she was cautioning herself to wait. To watch. She knew now that to escape without a weapon and supplies would be foolish. She needed to learn more about these wild lands and the people inhabiting them. Hugh’s knife, rope, and horrible-tasting yet sustaining, dried meat would also be necessary. The problem was that he carried his weapons with him or kept them nearby at all times. The rope was typically wrapped loosely around his waist throughout the day, tying the horses at night.
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She could probably make do without the rope, but not without at least one weapon and some food. She had no idea what types of plants in these northern climes of Scotland were edible and which were poisonous. Most of the berries from the shrubs had been plucked by native animals in preparation for the oncoming winter. Hugh had dug up some wild onions from the ground in the near woods last evening, but she couldn't sustain herself on wild onions.
With a sigh, she sat on a portion of a fallen tree trunk near the edge of the meadow before the hut, the sunshine warming her face. She found that she much preferred wearing the tunic and breeches over her gown, not only for movement's sake, but for comfort's sake. Her gown was horribly stained and torn. Not yet in tatters, but filled with holes and a few ragged seams. Eventually, something would give, and the dress would fall apart. Besides, the breeches and tunic Hugh had given her were warmer.
Hugh was nearby, she was sure of it.
At the moment, she was not tied up.
He'd stepped into the trees only moments ago, ordering her to stay put. He had his bow and quiver of arrows with him, and his ax, tucked into his waistband on one side, his knife on the other. He had all the weapons, and she had nothing.
The land was wild and intimidating, but oddly beautiful at the same time. The rich scent of pine, spruce, and shrubs filled her senses. Birds chattered high above in the trees. A squirrel scampered down a nearby tree trunk, nearly upside down, its tail flicking as it looked at her. It edged a little closer and then began to chatter.
Despite her worries, despite her uncertainties of the future, she smiled at the squirrel, making a short chattering noise with her tongue in reply.
The squirrel froze, then flicked its tail, turned its head slightly, its eye watching her carefully as it chattered again.
She offered another soft clicking of her tongue in response.
Ever so slowly, she turned her head and glanced at the ground, saw some type of a nut nestled into the pine needles at her feet. She reached down at with agonizing slowness to pick it up, and then slowly extended her hand, palm upward.
She leaned down slightly so that her hand hovered a short distance from the ground.
In idle curiosity, she waited, unmoving, to see what the squirrel would do.
They chattered softly with one another for several moments.
Finally, the squirrel edged downward toward the base of the tree, and ever so slowly, pausing every few steps to sit up, look at her and twitch its tail, approached. Much to her delight, the squirrel neared her hand, placing one of its small paws on her fingers. In a flash, the squirrel plucked the nut from her palm, tucked it between its teeth, flicked its tail once, then raced back up the tree.
Dalla laughed softly, watching as it climbed ever higher into the branches until it found a suitable one beyond her reach upon which it could sit back, then began nibbling on the nut, tail flicking.
Smiling, she turned from the tree, startled to find Hugh on the opposite side of the small clearing, watching her.
They stared at one another for several moments.
He was an enigma to her, this strange highlander, showing kindness one moment and harsh annoyance the next. Yet not once, not since the moment he had purchased her, had he raised his hand against her. She still wasn't sure what to make of that, and truth be told, was waiting for something to happen. He appeared to not have any interest in her, other than watching. He had not made any advances toward her. Yet. What she had expected when she'd been sold was quite a bit different than she was experiencing now, but how long would the reprieve last? Sooner or later, like all men, he would do as he wanted, and she would have nothing to say about it. She had no doubt of it.
Like her father.
While they had never had a particularly close relationship, Dalla had gotten an increasing feeling over the years that her father wanted nothing to do with her. Her obstinacy and refusal to marry his choices had only worsened their tenuous relationship. It was for that reason that he had told her she would be going to the convent, not that she particularly minded. Men were all the same, doing what they pleased, when they pleased, and as they pleased. Women had very little say in what happened to them.
She was married now, to a Scottish highlander, with little say in the matter. Men had always controlled her life, but only to the point where her existence served their ends. Her father's insistence that she marry a man of his choice—and it seemed any man would do—was not for her sake, but for his and the dowry he would receive. The connections. The power. She mattered naught to him, nor it seemed, to other members of the family, not one of whom had stepped in to provide her with options.
She watched as Hugh turned and once again disappeared into the woods. This Scottish highlander... would he be different than other men? A noise escaped her throat. All men were the same. All of them taking and rarely giving. At least in her experience.
She sighed, continued to sit on her log, the sun rising ever so slowly, occasionally disappearing behind clouds gathering once again from the northwest.
She shivered.
It seemed as if rain, thunder, and lightning were a constant presence up here in these wild lands.
She missed the fjords of her homeland.
Would she ever see them again?
16
Hugh had retreated into the woods, but still kept his eye on Dalla. The way she sat there, her serene expression hiding her true thoughts, reminded him so much of Elyse.
He scowled. She wasn't Elyse, and she never would be. He had watched with interest as she seemed to have communicated with the squirrel that crept ever closer.
And then, much to his amazement, a young red deer emerged into the small clearing a short distance away. It was a young male, the barest of antler nubs jutting up from his skull. This one was young indeed, not nearly the size of a full adult, which could grow as large as a young pony. It must've come down to graze because of the recent bad weather.
He watched as the young buck twitched its ears toward Dalla, frozen in place. He moved only his eyes, standing in the shadows of a spruce pine, watching her. She and the deer stared at each other for several moments.
Hugh remained frozen. It would have been the perfect opportunity for him to notch an arrow into his bow. That deer could feed them for several days. But he would not do that. Not after watching her with that squirrel first, and now that deer. Not only would doing so likely trigger animosity, but knowing her stubbornness, she would probably refuse to eat any of the meat.
After a few minutes, the deer calmly walked away, flicking its tail, ears twitching as it disappeared back into the woods.
Dalla stared after it for a moment and then looked up into the sky, a forlorn expression on her face. He had intended to go hunting, but now that she was in a reflective, if not pensive mood, maybe it would be a good time to approach, perhaps encourage her to talk about herself and how she had ended up as a captive bound for Scotland.
Slowly, he emerged from the tree line. After a moment, she noticed and stiffened, turning to stare, as wary of him as the deer had been of her.
He noted the change in her demeanor, hands folded in her lap, the softness disappearing from her face, uncertain now.
Her only movement as he neared her was a definite swallow, an indication of her sense of unease.
He couldn't read her expression as he stopped in front of her, watching, wondering if she would bolt or stay put.
She sighed and stayed put, looking up at him, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
“I have some questions.”
She said nothing, but continued to stare up at him.
“I know your name, Dalla Jorstad, but I know nothing about you or how you ended up here. You will tell me.”
She said nothing for several moments, and then finally replied. “Does it matter?”
He frowned. “You are my wife now. It matters.”
She made a face and turned away, but otherwise didn't move.
He
abruptly sat down on the log beside her.
She stiffened more, glanced askance at him, the frown deepening, but didn't move. She was stubborn and willful, but he could be stubborn too.
He looked up at the sky. Not yet noon. “I will remain here, and so will you, until you tell me.”
And so, they sat. The minutes, and then the hours passed. The sun had reached its zenith and dipped toward mid-afternoon before she finally huffed a disgruntled sigh, and turned to stare at him.
“Don't you have anything to do?”
He shook his head. “I'm still waiting.”
He caught the uncertainty on her face. Likely asking herself why she should tell him anything, why it even mattered. He wasn't quite sure himself, but they were married now, for good or naught, and he wanted to know. He and Elyse, after they had gotten to know one another a little better, had shared much together. He witnessed the camaraderie between Phillip and Sarah, and Jake and Heather. Even though Maccay's marriage was still new, there was kinship between them as well. He admitted to himself that he wanted that. He wanted that sense of companionship, of knowledge, of trust with his new if unwilling bride. Due to their circumstances, he couldn't expect her to trust him completely, but maybe in time, she would.
Finally, she relented. She started hesitantly, pausing for brief periods of time between short bursts of information.
“You know my name. My… my mother died a long time ago, when I was a young child. My father seemed to resent me for that.”
He bit back the urge to ask questions. He would let her tell her story first.
“He has mostly ignored me for most of my life, until this past year. Several months ago, he told me that he had arranged a marriage for me. I refused. He was not pleased. Eventually, he informed me he would send me away, to a convent in France.”
Her tone was cool, detached, but as Hugh glanced at her hands, he saw she clasped them so hard in her lap that her knuckles had grown white with tension. It was obvious to him that she was holding back her true emotions. A convent? Her father had threatened to send her to a convent?
