by Alisa Adams
Her best bet was to cater to him and obey his words.
It wasn’t a matter of trust.
It was a matter of survival.
5
She was feisty. He'd give her that.
It was rare that Lachlan was impressed by someone. And while he couldn't claim the girl to be skilled in combat or particularly clever in her efforts of escape, that was only what made her worthy of notice.
A fighter who knew he could outthink and outmatch every opponent who came his way could stride into battle without fear. No real bravery was needed. It was those that placed themselves in the path of bigger assailants because they had to that were the true possessors of courage, such as this girl.
The girl was tiny. He wasn't sure how old she was but assumed her to still be waiting to pass into adulthood. She was barely five feet tall and, from the look of her wrists and toes, skinny as a rail.
Her only saving grace in terms of femininity was a riotous head of curls stained a deep red. Hair like that could send a man wild with wanton desire. The need to weave it, to bury their fingers in it, and bunch the soft lengths against their palms would be almost impossible to resist—as his soldiers were currently proving.
Were the girl a little older, Lachlan might have felt his own stirrings of passion. But prepubescent nubiles had never been his interest. At thirty-two, he was too jaded to take innocent little things to bed. He had no time for it either. Virgins always wanted particular attention and romantic implications tied to a bedding. He was a busy man and needed his satisfaction with a simple and effective schedule. He tended to only get it that way if he was willing to pay out a little coin.
Such was the way of the world unless he was willing to marry, which he was not.
With her arms pinned between his hands, Lachlan tried not to notice just how slender the girl’s limbs were. Despite the heavy weave of her shirt, he could feel her shape against his palm, firm and rounded with pretty lady muscle. There was nothing much of her, but what there was had been honed. She was a sturdy little thing.
For a moment, Lachlan wondered how much of her size was to do with how much she was fed. Given the way that her companions had seen fit to throw her at the mercy of him and his men, he couldn't imagine that she was cared for a great deal.
He felt a familiar urge in his chest to protect, to see a wrong righted.
In his more teasing moods, Finlay had always liked to call Lachlan “Papa Bear.” He claimed that his older brother was as terrifying as a grizzly predator but, deep down, was a protector of men. Given how he had entered the militia to see his little brother with a roof over his head and food in his belly, he couldn't argue much with that. But Lachlan disliked the nickname all the same.
Still, he couldn’t deny that, in this particular case, he was forced to take the girl to his “cave.”
With a dismissive nod towards Harris, Lachlan lifted the girl so that only the trailing ends of her toes were permitted to skim the blades of grass beneath her steps and frog-marched her into the tent, setting her down with a thump that had her legs collapsing beneath her and her body hitting the linen floor, Lachlan was quick to pull down the door flap and seal her only means of escape. Watching as she rolled over, a look of fearful apprehension on her face, Lachlan raised a pointed finger.
"You cause me any difficulties, and I won't hesitate to see you killed," he told her. "You understand? While you are with me, you are safe. But you take that protection for granted, and I'll have you hang come the morning."
The look on her face told him that the girl didn't believe a word he said. She simply stared up at him with the look one might give to a striking adder, her hands clutching something to her chest and tightening the front of her shirt into a twisted knot.
Even if she hadn’t been wearing clothes that were five times her size, she would have looked so small.
It didn't help that she was also bruised.
The soldier that had struck her was a large man with a big hand. Not only had the flat side of his fingers struck against her temple and caused a blooming red across her cheekbone and around her eye, but the base of his palm had also caught her lip too. It was split and bleeding. Come the morning, her face would be a mottled mixture of purple and blue. As she shifted her hands in her shirt, her sleeves fell down her forearms, and he spied the rash upon her wrists where the rope bindings had rubbed her raw.
She was so delicate, even the slightest roughness would see her pale skin break.
In a bizarre moment, Lachlan actually wondered about those too-big clothes. They were poorly made and a heavy weave. His thoughts took a peculiar turn as he thought of the kinds of silks his brother's wife Merith would wear on special occasions. Silk was perhaps the only thing that should really grace this girl's skin. She was too fragile for anything else.
Annoyed at the sentimental direction his thoughts were taking him in, Lachlan held out a hand, his palm facing upwards.
"What is in your hand? Give it to me."
When all she did was shift back on her bottom a little and stare up at him warily, Lachlan was distracted by the way the light caught in her eyes. He'd never seen eyes that green.
"Girl, I have walked a very long way today. I am in no mood to wrestle it from you. Give it here, or I will make you give it to me."
His tone was harsher than he had meant it, and Lachlan immediately felt bad when her lower lip began to tremble. He took a calming breath and tried to adjust his expression into something more gentle.
Then he corrected himself.
What was he doing feeling all sappy over this girl?
She was a criminal. One who would be tried and likely imprisoned when they arrived in Scone.
He would deliver the taxes and immediately turn his horse around and head back up north. He wasn't interested in playing nice with a woman that had broken the law. The rules of the realm were meant to be followed. Pure and simple.
When the girl slowly reached out, however, Lachlan felt that assessment shaken a little. Into his palm, she dropped a small stone that would (in a very tight pinch) serve as a tiny blade. Its base was rubbed smooth as if she had handled it a lot. His eyes were questioning as he looked from the rock to the redhead and back again.
"You..." He wasn't sure what he had been planning to say. His mind was jumbled.
She had had a weapon on her—all this time.
While the rock would do little against swords and shields, it would have been able to cut through rope with a little dedication. So, why had she not tried to escape?
Then there had been the way that she had thanked him. The words still went round and round in his head whenever he permitted his thoughts to drift in her direction.
Admitting himself to be curious but determined not to let it upset his intentions, Lachlan simply reached for one of the scarves that he would usually tie around his waist to keep his sheath from slipping about his legs. It was made of linen and would be softer than the coarse rope, but it would still hold her in place.
"Move over to that pole," he ordered, his chin nudging towards one of the wooden pillars that held up the tent.
The girl looked behind her and then scrambled to look back, fear in her eyes and distrust stamped across her features.
"Why?"
Lachlan felt annoyance bloom.
"I am not about to string you up and claim you like an animal. If you're looking for that, I can leave you outside with my men. I am only interested in making sure you don't slit my throat as I sleep. Now get over there."
Lachlan tried to push aside the crude images that he had managed to spark in his own imagination and watched as she inched back along the ground. The hem of her shirt caught beneath her bottom and pulled hard and tight across her frame. He was surprised to note the soft curves of breasts in the elongated front of her shirt.
Perhaps she is not so young...
When she had shifted so that her shoulder was against the pole and her hands wrapped around it, Lachlan
was quick to tie off the scarf in a way that would allow her to lie down to sleep. He then moved to a wooden basin that was rested upon his fold-out desk.
The water within was cold now, as it had been brought for his evening wash some hours before, but it would serve his intended purpose. Submerging the already damp cloth into the dish, Lachlan moved to crouch down in front of the girl. He set the bowl between her feet and drained out the cloth.
When he reached for her face, she flinched away from him. He didn't take it personally and simply hovered, waiting for her to unfurl and let him near her. Like a wounded animal, she relaxed a little, went stiff as he moved closer again, and then cooled when he stilled. It was like a little dance. One that he had to be patient in order to get steadily closer and then finally win and bring the cloth to her skin.
Almost immediately, she hissed with the cold and winced with pain. He could feel the heat of a bruise building in her face, even through the cloth.
That damn idiot struck her hard.
When her lips moved against the cloth, her words were mumbled. He couldn’t hear her, so Lachlan moved the damp compress to her brow and eye.
"What?" he asked.
"Why are you being kind to me?"
That was a very good question, Lachlan decided. So, he took his merry time answering it. Because, in all truth, he didn't really know. Perhaps it was the fact that, ever since she had appeared in that group of ambushers, she hadn't exactly fit into the classic role of a criminal—thanking him, hiding that stone. Perhaps it was how small she was sparking a natural tendency to care.
Maybe it was all that red hair, distracting as it was.
"I don't like seeing children hit," he told her. Even if that wasn't an answer, it was at least the truth.
"I am not a child," the girl argued, frowning.
Lachlan took the opportunity to press the cloth against a little cut in her brow. The blood that trickled from the knick smeared and then was rinsed from her skin.
"Oh?" He was convinced that she had barely hit puberty and was offended at his refusal to add those all-important extra months to her age. "How old are you, then? Amaze me."
"This coming summer will be my twentieth."
Lachlan went completely still.
It was rare for him to be surprised. But then, he had told her to amaze him.
"You lie," he accused, without much anger.
"I do not. I am nineteen years of age."
Her voice was nice, not frilly and breathy like some girls. There was a spikiness to it—a spirit. A maturity, he now realized. Still, he didn't like what it was doing to his inner calm.
Taking his cloth, Lachlan opened it up and then spread it across her face. She made noises of discontent, sputtering against the fabric as he rubbed at sand and dirt and grit. She hadn't bathed since he had taken her into custody, and she had already been filthy when she made her ill-conceived attempt at the tax money. The grime was thick and had hidden away the shape of her face.
"Hey!" she croaked beneath his ministrations. "I could do this"—he wiped over her mouth—"myself, if you just"—he scrubbed under her nose—"untied my hands for a moment!"
"There," Lachlan determined. "No need."
And he drew the cloth away.
What stared back at him with a fiery gaze that had forgotten to be coy was a young woman with a remarkable appearance.
Lachlan wasn't entirely sure if his eyes were bugging out of his head, but he wouldn't have been surprised.
Beneath the muck and dust were a young lady with softly rounded features, high cheekbones, and pretty sweeping brows. Her face was the shape of a heart and taped down into a pointed little chin that was now set at a jutting angle of annoyance.
Lachlan blinked.
"Alright, I believe you," he told her.
"About what?"
"About your age."
"You saying I look older now?"
He was saying that she looked delectable now.
Instead of the round moon-face of a child, he was now confronted with a visage of smooth shape and pretty angles. Instead of hair that was simply a pretty and vibrant color, he was thrown head-on into the desire to palm it, to wrap it around his hands and bind her to him. Such an image was strongest when he imagined her lying beneath him.
His eyes were out of his control as he glanced once more to the open neck of her shirt and thought about those breasts. Those sweet little arches that had hinted at unbound softness beneath.
Frustrated and more than a little aroused, Lachlan rubbed a hand down his face with angry friction.
He needed to get a grip.
And then perhaps a woman.
Clearly, it had been too long since his last dalliance. He needed a release of some sort.
Turning his back on the girl, he reached over his head and pulled off his tunic. He heard a squeak of reaction from behind him, but he ignored it.
"Lay down," he told her, reaching for his belt. "I'm going to sleep, and you're not to disturb me ‘til morning."
He slipped the belt and its accompanying weapons from about his waist and settled the blade beside his cot. He toed off his boots and reached for the hem of his kilt.
On second thought, he corrected himself.
Keeping the garment on, Lachlan moved to secure the tent flap, blew out the oil lamp and candles, and then pulled back the sheets of his bed. Despite the months moving into spring, it was still cold for this time of year, and he slept with a few different blankets. One, he disentangled from the others and threw behind him. It landed with a flop over the girl's legs.
"Go to sleep," he told her.
And then, still avoiding her gaze, he slipped into bed himself and promptly failed to obey his own command for most of the night.
6
Aoide slept that night.
By all rights, she shouldn’t have.
She was tied up, held prisoner as she had been for the last week, and within a few feet of a bear of a man that could break her in half with a single violent touch.
There were other things too. The ground beneath the tent’s flooring was hard; a rock jabbed into her hip. Halfway through the night, a gale caught up outside, rushing against the sides of the tent and causing all kinds of thunderous howls.
And yet, she had slept.
Aoide wasn’t sure if her ability to cling to dreamless slumber amongst such terrors was a sign of her strength or the waning of it. So, she attributed her hours of sleep to the commander’s kindness. In letting her be tied so she could lie down, Aoide was able to rest her back for the first time in nearly ten days. The earth could rise to meet her, cushioning her shoulders and realigning her spine. It helped ease her tension and saw her connected to something again, not merely batted about from this way to that, like a twig in a bubbling stream.
The softness of the sashes about her wrists helped too. They weren’t as itchy as the rope.
By the time Aoide awakened again, sunlight was beginning to stream in beneath the sheeted walls of the tent. It sliced through in a wedge of brightness, an inch thick, and crept across the floor as the sun rose higher. Curled on her side, her head resting on her arm, Aoide blinked in the sunshine as it reached her face.
Deep in forgotten dreams, she was forced to blink long and slow, her mind still drowsy, and her lashes fused together. When her conscious thoughts finally found traction in her head, Aoide was a whirl of motion.
In a heartbeat, she was sitting bolt upright, crimson ringlets bouncing about her face and falling into her eyes. She reached up to push the locks back, though they had no real home and continued to fall any which way.
It was only as she was sighing and rubbing that same hand down her face that Aoide was struck dumb by the realization that her wrist was not bound.
She was using her hand freely!
Scuttling around, Aoide’s burst of vibrant hope sputtered into feeble cries of disappointment. The commander’s scarf that had fused her wrists together had been replaced with
a band of iron around a single wrist. The chain that saw it fastened around the pillar rattled as she tested its strength.
Her foot brushed against something cool, and she looked down. A metal plate of bread and dried meats had been placed beside the blanket she had worn, now entangled about her legs.
There was a dull and imposing sense of hollowness about the space that morning. With a single glance towards the cot in the corner, Aoide knew that she was alone, and she remained that way throughout the day.
No soldier came to collect her and see her once more bound to the other prisoners ready to trek the winding pathways to Scone. The tent was not dismantled or packed up for the journey.
In fact, if it hadn’t been for the calls and voices of men, the soft footfalls, and the occasional passing silhouettes upon the sheet walls, Aoide might have feared that the encampment had moved on without her.
Despite moving near enough to cast shadows upon the walls, none of the men came inside. And none of the shadows themselves seemed large enough to belong to the captain.
After several hours of wondering, Aoide rationalized that no one was going to explain things to a prisoner.
She was better off making the most of the quiet.
After scarfing the food in a way that sent crumbs scattering and the oily residue of the meats smeared across every finger, Aoide turned her attention to the iron on her wrist. She knew she could never break herself free from it, but perhaps she could untie the chain from the pole end?
Careful to be quiet, Aoide attempted yanking, kicking, scratching, and even digging the pole from the ground. She could not reach her rock, but she tried using the metal plate as a shovel and then as a saw. Twisting her wrist in the shackle, she even attempted to use the protruding edges of the shackles itself to scrape at the wood and see if she couldn't loosen it from its moorings.
By the time she finally threw up her hands and gave in, Aoide was out of breath, with blackened hands, and her hair was tracked through with dirt. And she was no closer to escape. The pole and the earth around it looked as if it had been attacked by a rabid dog, but they remained mercilessly bound to one another. And the pole itself was no closer to breaking or yielding the chain.
