Her Enemy Highlander

by Nicole Locke

  ‘The Buchanan looks confused and incensed. An interesting combination for such an arresting face. Perhaps she doesn’t know?’ He reached to touch her but she raised the blade. Lowering his hand, he laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘She doesn’t know, does she?’

  ‘What do you think I doona know?’ she demanded. She hated giving him the satisfaction of being right.

  ‘Truly, dear, it’s for the best you don’t know.’ He gave another disapproving sound and a wag of his finger. ‘Might even be convenient today. Your—brother?—maybe he, too, didn’t know. But he was going to that market stall and that wasn’t a chance I could take.’

  A quick dash and the man was in front of Caird again. ‘Then you delayed me, but no more. I know you have it. It’s why you head this way and not to your laird.’ She felt Caird’s subtle adjustment. What was his plan?

  ‘You feign surprise?’ the Englishman derided. ‘Of course, people are so tiring in their predictability. I thought you were clever, Colquhoun. Clever enough to recognise what was in the dagger, to keep things silent, to cover your tracks, to think about the consequences of such a treasure. But then you headed this way. Predictable.’

  Mairead fought fear and rage. There was something the Englishman said that sent ice through her blood, something that made her realise— No, no more thought.

  She was sick of the Englishman’s condescending voice and all-knowing manner. She was sick of everyone’s arrogance. Tightening her hold on the dagger, she whirled to face him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Explanations are tedious.’ The man gave an exaggerated sigh. She wanted to imbed the blade in his heart. ‘I knew everything that would happen because a Buchanan would never trust a Colquhoun and vice versa. You were probably not entirely truthful, and he...’ he gestured to Caird ‘...probably didn’t believe you. Truly, dear, don’t move again.’

  Facing Caird, he raised his sword. ‘Now give it to me.’

  Caird moved, shielding her from the killer. ‘Nae.’

  ‘So be it.’

  It happened fast. Faster than she had anticipated even though she knew it was coming. She tightened her hold, ready to fight, and then Caird’s foot swiped under hers and she was flat on the ground.

  ‘The horse!’ he yelled. She looked around her. The men were ignoring her. In this position, she could only cut their feet, while they could slice her between breaths.

  Caird had ensured her safety and vulnerability. Scrambling, avoiding swipes of swords, feeling the cuts even so, the sting and heat of blood, she shut out everything but her survival. She saw the horse now standing near to theirs. A sign that she and Caird weren’t meant to survive.

  Once she was far enough away, she half crouched, half ran, not looking behind her, knowing Caird was near. Another flash, the Englishman suddenly in front of her, grabbing a horse, his look darker than murder as their eyes met. Would he cut her down?

  He swung up, giving a nod in her direction as if in greeting before he urged the horse to flee.

  Suddenly a man fell beside her as Caird just stopped the downward swipe of his sword.

  She blinked. Men were falling now, their vacant eyes before her. Caird was with her, but the last soldier was, too. She forced herself forward. Survive! Move!

  By some miracle, they reached their horse. Caird swung up before her, his sword sweeping again, the high ground giving him the advantage as he grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. There were no more soldiers and no sign of the Englishman.

  She wrapped her arms around him as they raced through the woods.

  Her eyes focused only on Caird, on his breath, on his strength, on the blood. There were no sounds of pursuit and her eyes and mind finally comprehended. Too much blood.

  Was that his?

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Oh, wake up, wake up, wake up!’ Mairead cried again. How long had they remained here? A few minutes? Hours? A lifetime?

  For ever. It was nighttime and the slightest noise or movement around her made her jump. Her heart would not stop a frantic beating and it beat even harder now.

  Ever since the horse had slowed and Caird—

  Caird crumpled. Slid off the horse and slumped into a puddle. Mud smeared with sweat gleamed off his body and there was blood from the wounds, from the scratches, from the slices of his skin. Blood beaded and ran in rivulets off his arms, legs, from his face. Blood that mocked her feeble attempts to care for him.

  And the worst. The worst had her kneeling, praying and pressing against him. On his left side, above his hip, a small cut—a deep cut.

  Holding a torn fragment from his tunic against it, she watched as the blood continually seeped around the fabric and her fingers.

  If only he’d wake up to demand she do something. To mock her as he gave her instruction.

  She expected the Englishman to arrive at any moment. To take the dagger and gem, and slit their throats.

  Caird’s sword, swathed in blood and mud, lay by his side but it was useless to her. Even if she had some skill, she couldn’t lift it. They were vulnerable, exposed and defenceless.

  Did Caird seem paler? His lips had parted; his breathing becoming more jagged than before. He couldn’t just go. Not here. Not like this.

  She pressed harder on the wound.

  He groaned.

  ‘Ach!’ She released her hands and watched every flutter of his eyes. They didn’t open. He was quiet again, his breathing just as shallow.

  She had to rouse him, not only because a mortal enemy was searching for them, but also because she didn’t know what to do about the wound.

  ‘You’ll hate me more for this.’ Watching his face, wincing even before she did it, she pressed hard into his side.

  He groaned again, but this time it sounded angry.

  Inhaling, preparing to scream, she leaned over his face. ‘Wake up, you lazy, arrogant Colquhoun!’

  He opened his eyes.

  Hope flipped and fluttered inside her.

  ‘Paining me,’ he whispered.

  Her heart sunk as she heard the admission and the agony in his voice.

  This wasn’t the Caird she knew. The mountain of a man, who used his size to intimidate, and his sword to back up his pride.

  Seven men. He had taken on seven men, with her as helpless as a butterfly.

  He had kept her safe.

  ‘You fell off the horse, you nae-good Scotsman. What kind of man falls off a horse?’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Safe?’

  At his voice, her heart began to beat normally. She doubted it would stay that way. ‘Nae, we’re not.’

  He turned his head, his body tensing, as if he meant to rise.

  She pressed on his chest. ‘Not like that. There’s nae one but us. The wound in your side won’t stop bleeding.’

  ‘Stitches,’ he growled.

  Maybe. ‘Do you have any thread?’

  He shook his head, his eyes closing again.

  Futility swept over her. ‘Nae! You’re going to die.’

  He whispered, ‘Fire.’

  ‘I doona care if it hurts like fire, I need help.’

  He growled again. ‘Seal it.’

  Mairead recoiled at his suggestion. Heat a blade, burn his skin, but close the wound.

  Why hadn’t she realised it before? Her panic had blinded her. She released her hands and moved his tunic. The wound was small and clean enough to use Caird’s boot blade. In her panic, she’d forgotten she had seen this done before.

  Pressing his hand on top of the makeshift dressing, she hurried to make a fire.

  Everything was wet, so she looked to the trees and was rewarded with an empty nest inside a crevice. The small fire didn’t take her long. Thrusting the blade into the flames, she waited.
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br />   Caird’s eyes remained closed. His skin was greying and sweat dripped from his brow.

  No one had pursued them and she began to fear they were in no rush because they knew he was injured. That he was a dead man and they just needed to wait.

  Pain! Yelping, she dropped the blade into the fire.

  Cursing, she scrambled to get the blade out with a stick, until her knuckles on her good hand got burned. That did it.

  ‘Why?’ she vented. ‘Why are we doing this?’ Blowing on her hand, working the blade out of the flame, she continued, ‘What could possibly be worth any of this?’

  Hand throbbing, her fingers not wanting to bend, she felt the blade. It was cooler.

  ‘No one wants the dagger. Why? It’s beautiful, the jewels sparkling and set in with decorated silver, but, nae, I’m thinking this is all about a big ugly rock.’

  Wrapping her hand this time, she thrust the blade back into the fire. She glanced at Caird. His eyes were closed and she couldn’t tell if the blackness had claimed him again.

  Her anger and frowns were wasted on him. ‘That rock had better be important and when you wake, you best tell me why.’

  Even through her wrapping, she felt the blade’s heat. It had to be enough. Trying not to think what she was about to do, she removed his hand covering the wound. As she bent over, Caird’s eyes flew open.

  His gaze was distant and she knew he wasn’t truly awake, wasn’t truly looking at her. But this close, his eyes were clear and mesmerising. She didn’t, couldn’t, break her gaze. She was lost in the vastness of grey.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  Startled, hands jerking, Mairead burned his flesh.

  * * *

  Even after blackness claimed Caird again, Mairead’s hands trembled, making cleaning the wound with the spare water difficult. Too fearful to leave his side, too terrified to find an enemy, she didn’t dare go to the streams for more.

  She laughed a harsh release. There was so much blood and mud, and she couldn’t move him. Couldn’t even make him comfortable except to prop his head up with his rolled cloak, so he didn’t drown in the puddle he had fallen in.

  For him to have fallen, the wound had to be worse than it looked, and even though she had sealed it, he could still die.

  Fierceness and desperation sliced through her. This huge indomitable man was now helpless and dependant on her. She wouldn’t let him die.

  She recognised that now would be her best chance to take the dagger and gem and escape. A quick ride and she’d be safe, could find food and maybe reach her home.

  But she stayed.

  All her life, when there was trouble, she’d always just done whatever needed to be done. No thinking. Thinking and consequences she avoided. Sitting here, she couldn’t help but think and there were many, many consequences to her thinking.

  Soon there would be no sun, no warmth; the ground was sodden and her gown was soaked in blood and mud. She was cold, hungry, uncomfortable and at any moment the Englishman could come and kill her.

  But she stayed, and his words kept whispering to her.

  Beautiful.

  Had she done enough to save him? His skin was red, bruised, blackened and blistered from the burn, but no more blood seeped out.

  Still, she worried. Worried that she hadn’t sealed it right, had, in fact, made it worse. She didn’t want to make it worse, she wanted him better. Better because...because she needed to repay him.

  He had kidnapped her, risked her life and yet she realised she was alive with barely a scratch from their danger. He had protected her all along.

  When you fled me, I followed you.

  When she’d confronted the thief in the hallway, when she’d fled on the horse, when the flood had swept her away, when the rain and wind had whipped against her, he had protected her.

  And her kneeling next to him, gently wiping away the worst of the mud caking to him, tending his injuries, was her response to all he had done for her.

  Something in her chest tightened and her hands stopped trembling as she breathed in deep.

  This vigilant, protective feeling washing over her was beyond what he made her feel with his words and touch. She had no doubt about it now. A part of her...cared for him.

  He was unkind to her, called her cruel names and had opposed her at every opportunity. It was a mistake to care for him. A mistake. She refused to care for him. It had to be worry and desperation and hunger making her feel this way. Making her—

  The sound of twigs snapping underfoot. The horse was in the woods. Probably trying to find food to make it feel well. Another worry.

  Sighing, she chastised herself for her contemplations. They wouldn’t help her predicament.

  Caird had collapsed, but the horse, who she thought was getting better, had only got worse. She’d have to find mint or else it wouldn’t be capable of carrying them.

  For now, she wouldn’t leave Caird. Not when his face was pinched with pain and his skin was slick with sweat. She gave in to her worry, and when she looked up it was too late.

  ‘Thank you for building a fire for me, my dear.’ The Englishman emerged from the woods. ‘I was beginning to doubt my finding you.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The pain in Caird’s head was excruciating. His side burned, stinging pinpricks needled him along his arms and legs letting him know he suffered from many wounds. He knew they could be ignored. But he couldn’t ignore the tight grip on his arm, or Mairead shouting at him.

  He forced his eyes open. Her face was close. He could feel the fan of her breath, see the frantic worry in her eyes.

  ‘Danger?’ he whispered. ‘Where?’

  His eyes searched and could see nothing but her.

  He moved to sit up. Searing pain pulled at his skin. Mairead pushed him down; she was telling him something, her words fast.

  Blood rushed to his ears as he tried to roll to his side. He stopped, unsure if he’d black out or be sick. When he could control both, he opened his eyes again.

  Mairead had moved with him. He tried to focus on her words.

  Horse, something about a horse. He had fallen from it. Safe.

  Pulling up his tunic, he could see his flesh cut, red, burnt...crooked. He prodded it with his fingers. Sore, but no blood. The wound was sealed.

  They were safe, alive, but she was gesturing as if they were not. He focused.

  ‘—Horse!’ she said, her breath coming in pants, but there was a look of pride in her eyes.

  He dropped his shaking arm to his side. ‘My head...hurts.’

  ‘Have you heard anything I’ve said?’ she asked, her tone strident.

  Looking around, he didn’t see their horse. ‘Where’s the horse?’ he said.

  ‘Sick!’ she said. ‘Oh, I’m so relieved. I thought you’d be angry. But now you understand?’

  Not a word. Why would she be this proud over a sick horse? They rode it hard, maybe it was worse. He rolled on to his back and almost blacked out. ‘How?’

  ‘Enough to slow him down, which is why—’

  He raised his hand to stop her. He needed facts now. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Are you following what I’m saying?’ she asked pointedly.

  She was frustrated with him and desperate. He didn’t understand or like her desperation.

  He needed an explanation. Just now, he didn’t want to jump to assumptions, didn’t want to think he’d been asleep for days and left her alone and vulnerable. ‘Need to know.’

  She raised her arms in frustration. ‘Ach! You’ve been asleep all night. It’s the middle of the day now. I’ve been trying to tell you, but you’re not listening. You blacked out. I couldn’t do anything to wake you. We were left out in the op
en and there was that fire.’

  Mairead looked at him, as if waiting for a response. He rubbed his forehead, trying to alleviate the pain, but it didn’t help. In this condition, he couldn’t travel on foot.

  ‘Where’s the horse?’ he asked.

  She waved to her right.

  He peered into the trees. ‘That’s not my horse.’

  Exhaling, she said, ‘That’s what I’ve been telling you. We have to hurry.’

  He closed his eyes, became dizzy and opened them again. His vision did not clear. It was not his horse. What had happened to his horse? He’d been asleep and it was day again. He feared the answer. ‘Where did that horse come from?’

  She crossed her arms, but her teeth drew in her lips. She was irritated and unsure. ‘You’ve been asleep. He came. There was nothing else I could do. You doona look well.’

  He came. ‘The Englishman?’ Rage, and something akin to fear, swept through his weakened body.

  ‘Of course the Englishman! It’s not as if you’d killed them all before we fled.’

  He only had the strength to clench the mud beneath him, when all he wanted to do was shake her. ‘Are you hurt?’

  She released her arms and leaned over him. ‘Nae, nae, I’m unharmed. But you’re awake now, and we need to make haste if we are to catch up with him.’

  Incredulousness caused a slight slackening to his jaw, but did nothing to stop the foreboding building within him. Then the stark realisation of her meaning slid down his spine like ice water, fast, cold, shocking. Everything was lost.

  While he had lain defenceless, the Englishman had come and relieved them of the jewel and all the promise it represented. Devastation and dizziness almost overpowered him and he struggled to stay awake.

  ‘The gem,’ he said. ‘He has the gem.’

  ‘Aye, he has the gem,’ Mairead said, impatience lacing every word. ‘You look pale. You’re too poorly. I doona think we can go after him.’

  ‘Are you saying—?’ Black spots were before his eyes. ‘Are you saying,’ he repeated, ‘that the jewel is gone?’

  She lifted her chin a bit more. ‘I did the best I could under the circumstances. I thought you’d understand by now.’