A Highlander's Need

by Aileen Adams

  It seemed the height of cruelty to leave his father in the clutches of one who could needle and scream and berate him incessantly if given leave to do so, and yet it would be cruel to force the man into days of hard going when he was already ill.

  “Come,” Fergus said as he helped the old man from the chair. “We shall go to your chambers, where you might rest.”

  Luthais cursed them both as they made their slow way down the corridor and toward the wide, crumbling staircase.

  Not only was the house unwieldy, but it was also poorly maintained.

  “He will not give up his scheme so easily,” Tavis warned as they took one slow step at a time.

  “I am aware of this,” Fergus muttered under his breath.

  “If they find the lass, he will not allow her to escape again.”

  “I am aware of this as well.”

  “What will ye do now?” Tavis turned to him when they reached his bedchamber, a room similar to the one in which Fergus had spent the morning. With the deep hearth and a window through which the fresh southern air and sunlight might enter, it was as good a room as any in which his father might convalesce.

  “I shall go on as I have been,” Fergus shrugged. “It is all I can do. Before then, however, I will see Brice. And his wife and bairn.”

  Tavis’s eyes lit up. “I’m going to be a grandfather?”

  “Ye may very well be right now,” Fergus smiled, softening at the sight of his father’s joy.

  “A grandchild.” He shook his head, his voice soft with awe. “I never would have imagined it.”

  “Aye, it appears as though one of your sons managed to make something of his life. As one would expect, it was he and not myself.”

  Tavis’s expression hardened. “That is unfair.”

  “Unfair, perhaps, but true.” Fergus left him then, returning to his chambers to gather his things—he had not emptied his packs, seeing as how he had not intended to stay, so there was nothing to do but fetch them and carry them to the stables to secure on his horse.

  “I hope ye had your rest,” he murmured, stroking the gelding’s neck, “for we have more riding to do. Though our task is not as urgent now.”

  Just the same, he would not take his time. He knew a close escape when he was in the midst of one, and this was one of the closest he had ever experienced.

  7

  “Courage,” Moira whispered more to herself than to the gray mare she attempted to comfort. It had begun to rain not long past noon, a soaking rain which did little to make travel easier but at least covered the tracks she and the mare had left after fleeing the Reid escorts.

  It had been almost too easy, and she chuckled to herself at the memory as she warmed her hands over the small fire she’d built far enough from the mouth of the cave that she might avoid notice. She hoped for as much.

  Hope was all she had beyond her skills and daring.

  If her count was correct, five days had passed since she had eluded her escorts and made her escape. And yet the memory of them calling out for her—already at a distance, as she had wasted no time in distancing herself from them—made her giggle during quiet moments.

  She had very little other than quiet moments now.

  For four men she supposed had spent much of their lives in the saddle, likely fighting for Clan Reid along the way, they knew nothing of women. Perhaps they hadn’t had the time to become familiar.

  They’d thought nothing of her disappearing for as long as she had when she was supposed to be bathing behind a bush on the banks of the River Deveron. How long did they believe it took to perform such tasks?

  Perhaps they had not expected her to make her escape in the dark of night, thinking her afraid to be alone in the dark woods. They’d been sorely mistaken if this was the case. She had spent countless nights in the woods surrounding her father’s home, keeping the boys safe from Kin whenever he was in foul, abusive temper.

  A simple ride on horseback was akin to a pleasant dream compared to the strain of entertaining two small lads while always keeping one’s eyes and ears open to the snap of a twig, the heavy breathing of something inhuman.

  She had walked the mare part of the way downstream and downwind so as to keep from alerting the men, all of whom had sat at the campfire and fallen into conversation centered on how wonderful they were.

  Perhaps they had never used the word “wonderful,” but they may as well have. It was clear from their boasting just how wonderful they believed themselves to be. No man had ever fought more valiantly or withstood greater adversity than they.

  Of course, the circumstances which they described to each other had somehow become more dangerous and treacherous with each retelling.

  In the end, she could not think poorly of them for their bragging and boasting. It had allowed for her escape.

  Oh, the pain they must have suffered when they discovered her missing—to say nothing of the pain when it became clear there would be no locating her. Each passing day must have caused the pain to grow.

  How long before Kin found out?

  How long before Luthais Campbell did?

  And what of her intended? Like as not he was such a sorry excuse for a man that he’d relied on his marriage to be arranged for him. Fergus MacDougal was not a son of Clan Campbell, and as such there ought not to be any expectation of such an arrangement for him.

  He could not find a woman of his own, the sorry thing, still unwed at such an age. She snickered to herself while adding a handful of dry branches to the fire.

  Would that the rain might come to an end overnight. The rabbit she heated over the fire was the last of what she’d snared the previous day before taking shelter in the cave. The mare would need time in a pasture or open field soon, as the feed Moira had brought in a canvas sack for use in such situations could not last forever.

  Then, too, was the matter of moving on. She could not spend much time in one place. Regular movement would be key to her survival.

  Just where she was going, she did not know.

  A crack of thunder caused her to jump and sent the mare into a frantic dance from front to rear hooves, neighing in protest. She crooned softly to calm the sweet-natured beast, stroking the mare’s muzzle as she normally enjoyed.

  Bit by bit, the breathing of both slowed to a natural rhythm.

  Until the snap of a limb outside the cave destroyed any attempt at calm.

  In one smooth movement, she slid the dirk from its place in her belt and held it low, slightly behind her leg. Her chest rose and fell in short, quick movements while sour bile threatened to work its way into her throat.

  If they took her, she would only escape again.

  Unless they bound her, threw her over her saddle, or—worst of all—forced her to ride with one of them.

  “Whoa, lad.” A young man murmured to his soaked horse—chestnut, she thought, though it was difficult to tell in the faint light from the fire. The man shook water from his hair, which curled about his head in dark brown tendrils and dripped onto his muscular shoulders.

  He was quite large, in height and build. He might believe he could overpower her.

  It was only after he’d shaken as much of the water from himself as he could that the man regarded her. “I wondered if I might share your fire in order to dry myself,” he explained with an easy smile and the musical lilt of a Highlander.

  She did not speak at first, too concerned with studying him to offer a reply. Several packs hung from his saddle. Both he and the gelding were sturdy of build, well-nourished and all but glowing with health.

  He was not a cutthroat or thief who wandered the wood, but not well-dressed as a guard or noble.

  “Do ye speak?” he asked after the silence became too much for him.

  “Are you in the habit of entering caves in which there is a fire without so much as a dirk in hand?” She tossed the hair which she’d let loose that they might dry over one shoulder, raising her chin.

  “As ye can see, my wea
pon is close at hand.” He gestured to the dirk at his waist, its well-worn handle telling her all she needed to know about his experience in using the thing.

  “You must think highly of your reflexes, then, if you believe you’d have the time to draw the dirk before it was too late.”

  “Ye make a fair point, and are correct,” he added with a roguish smile. “What will it be, then? Will ye send us out into the storm to drown, or perhaps be felled by a bolt of lightning? What would ye be thinking if ye came across our burned corpses out in the woods?”

  She snorted. “What is it about men that makes them believe their charm will be enough to win over any woman’s heart?”

  “I was not trying to win your heart, lass. Only a seat at your fire.”

  She spied the meager rabbit sitting at the edge of the flames. “If you would be so kind as to share some of what you might have eaten for supper, I believe we can come to an agreement.”

  “I am more than happy to.” He was quick to loosen one of the packs and unroll the canvas, revealing dried meat which looked as though the rain had not yet gotten through. “Would that I had more time to hunt,” he explained in an apologetic tone, “but I only just left Ben Macdui early this morning and have been on the road ever since.”

  She paused in the act of replacing her dirk. He’d come from Ben Macdui. She was less than a day’s ride from the home of Luthais Campbell. Damn the rain—she’d thought herself further away than that, having taken the long route around the northern edges of the Cairngorms to avoid detection.

  It had taken longer than she’d expected. She was still in danger.

  “You are a Campbell, then?” she asked, holding her breath while awaiting his response.

  He shook his head, busy rolling his pack and securing it once again. “Nay, I cannot say that I am. Partly, at most, though I have never aligned myself with them.”

  This meant nothing. If Campbell blood flowed through his veins, it was like as not Luthais had called upon him for the search. She imagined dozens of men combing the woods, the countryside, the banks of rivers and streams in search of her.

  Careful to affect a casual air, she tucked her skirts between her legs and wrapped her arms around her shins, drawing them close to her chest. If he made a move as to attack or overpower her, she would kick out as hard as she could and hope to hit something vital.

  “If you are not aligned with them, what brought you to them?”

  “What makes ye so curious?” He glanced at her through the wet hair which hung in front of his eyes before handing over a strip of meat.

  She reached for it slowly, again anticipating a trap. He might grasp her wrist when it was near enough to reach. He waited without sign of impatience—and released the meat without incident.

  “There is little better to do than ask questions, unless the sound of a driving rainstorm is enough for you. As for me, I’ve heard more than enough rain today.”

  He chuckled, his eyes twinkling. She could not tell the color in the flickering firelight, but they were warm eyes. She had seen enough coldness from a man’s eyes to make the difference easy to notice. “You make a fair point. I was visiting the Campbells, but my visit was cut short. Is that enough for ye?”

  She did not reply, merely chewing the meat while considering her options.

  He could very well be telling the truth, and their meeting might be nothing more than coincidence, but then again, if he had only left that morning, he’d be certain to know the story of her escape. Word must have traveled to Ben Macdui after five days.

  Would he recognize her as the woman in question?

  “What of yourself?” he asked, stirring the fire back to life before holding his hands out to warm them. The rain had brought a decidedly chill wind along with it.

  “What of me?”

  “What brings ye here, to this cave? A nice lass such as yourself, one who speaks well and knows how to snare and skin a rabbit as ye do.”

  “I was riding through the woods when the storm struck and found the cave.” She pulled another mouthful of stringy, dry meat from the strip and engaged in loud chewing so as to discourage further questions.

  It did not work.

  He nodded slowly. “What is your name?”

  This was it. This was when he intended to capture her. He had heard of her and knew the horse she rode and her general description and was bound to bring her to Luthais Campbell—to say nothing of her betrothed.

  “Elspeth,” she replied without further hesitation. Her mother’s name.

  “Thank ye for sharing this fire with me, Elspeth—and with my horse,” he added, smiling up at the beautiful creature.

  “Might I know your name as well?” she dared ask.

  He turned his smile in her direction, momentarily lighting up the dark cave before replying, “Fergus. Fergus MacDougal.”

  Her stomach dropped. She swallowed, but there was no helping the sudden dryness in her mouth. A cold sweat beaded on her brow, on the back of her neck.

  She clenched her teeth, willing back the scream which threatened to burst forth. He was merely toying with her, having blocked her way from the cave with his broad-shouldered body, forcing her to behave nicely toward him when they both knew what he was there for.

  Did he enjoy this? Judging from the easy way he tried to stir her to the conversation and the way he offered another piece of meat, it appeared so.

  And yet…

  She had seen malice in another’s eyes. Many, many times. Her father’s, to be precise.

  There was no malice in Fergus MacDougal’s eyes, in the set of his sharp jaw, in his voice. Unless he was a gifted liar with a flair for putting others at their ease before attacking, his actions were sincere.

  “Where do you plan to go now, Fergus MacDougal?” She heard the tension in her voice and hoped he did not take it for what it was.

  If he made mention, she would simply bring to light the fact of being alone in a cave with a strange man who had hardly asked permission to join her.

  Instead of questioning her, however, he merely shrugged. “I am not certain yet.”

  “Why not? You have no family waiting for you?” Perhaps not the kindest question, knowing more about him than he did about her, but she could not help it.

  While she’d forever needled the twins over their devilishness, there was no denying a touch of the same in herself.

  He shook his head. “I prefer it that way.”

  “I did not ask whether you did, only whether you had one waiting.”

  “Aye, but that question is almost never merely an innocent question.”

  “It was this time.” So much bitterness. So much defensiveness.

  He eyed her up. “And yourself?”

  “I am alone.” She linked her arms around her shins again, though she felt less of a need to protect herself than previously. She sensed little danger from him.

  “A lass such as yourself, alone in the woods?”

  “I live in the woods.” She tossed her hair again, fixing him with a defiant look. “What of it?”

  He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. “I merely find it surprising.”

  “I suspect you would find many things about me quite surprising,” she muttered as she stirred the fire. She was not entirely convinced that flinging hot embers into his snide face wouldn’t be the best course of action.

  Poor Fergus MacDougal, unaware that he danced on the edge of the thin blade of her temper.

  “Aye,” he grinned, rubbing a large, calloused hand over the side of his face. “I suppose I would at that.”

  Rather than look at him, which was far too easy to do—he was the first man who wished to converse with her, whose conversation did not involve abusive threats—she turned her attention to the cave’s mouth.

  To call it a mouth was to give the cave more credit than it was due, she supposed, as the cave was more a deep crevice in the side of a rocky hill than anything else. Looking out, she noted the slowing of
the rain.

  In fact, it hardly rained at all. Water dripped down in front of the opening, still tricking down the hillside, and from the ash trees just outside.

  “It appears as though the rain has slowed,” she observed.

  “Aye, it does that.”

  She looked at him. Blinked. When he did not catch her meaning, she prompted. “I suppose you should be on your way, then.”

  He began to smile, until it was clear, she did not jest.

  She rarely did. He was unaware of this.

  “I see.” He stood, brushed the leaves and dirt from the back of his legs. “I was on the verge of asking whether there was a way I could help ye.”

  “Help me?”

  “Aye. Is that so strange to ye? That someone would wish to offer ye help?”

  She shrugged. “It is rare that I have ever been in such need, Fergus MacDougal. Those who know me know I am not one to require it. I can fend for myself quite nicely.”

  “Aye, ye seem to be doing well at it,” he sneered, looking around the cave.

  She stood to face him, wishing more than she ever had that she might have grown taller. Often were the times she’d wished just such a thing when Kin Reid beat her, just once she would have liked to give him back everything he gave. And then some.

  Would that she could stare down the man standing before her then, but it was not easy to do so when one had to look up to meet their adversary’s gaze.

  “My cave was good enough for you when you needed shelter from the rain,” she was quick to remind him, her face burning. Oh, what she would not give to hit him just once, the sort of blow he would never forget.

  “I would not set up house here,” he snickered.

  She stomped her foot. “I never said I planned to! I suppose you feel you must save me from this, eh? Is that what you mean?”

  He cleared his throat with a frown. “I never said that, lass.”

  “You meant it. You wish to assist me. I do not need your assistance. You may go now.” She pointed to the opening.

  He muttered oaths she’d never heard before as he went to his horse, taking it by the reins and bringing it about. “Remember that I offered when ye find yourself facing starvation, lass.”