by Aileen Adams
“You expect us to believe you?”
The voice beside the table moved closer still. Her grip on the knife tightened even more. Could they see it? Did they know she had a knife? If he took one more step, if he got close enough, she would lash out and defend herself as best she could.
“It’s the truth,” she said, surprised by the calmness of her tone, as if she had not a care in the world. “Now go. Leave Elspeth alone and get out. Neither one of us knows where Alasdair is. He’s gone, and as far as I’m concerned, he can stay gone.”
Did they know she was lying? Could they tell? Suddenly, without warning, the man by the table quickly stepped around the edge and grabbed her upper left arm. She didn’t hesitate. Her hand came up, the knife blade tilted upward. He had to be standing right in front of her; she felt his breath on her face. Mouth open in a silent scream, she stabbed him and felt the give of flesh as the knife slid deep. Warm blood oozed over her hand as the man uttered a sharp, startled cry. He fell against the table, dragging Beitris with him as he tumbled down to the floor. She landed on top of him, her left arm still held in his grip. Her hand had been wrenched away from the knife blade, but she quickly grasped it again, plunging it deeper, wanting to kill him for hurting Elspeth, for—
Shouting erupted as footsteps rushed toward her, hands grabbing at her, pulling her off her attacker. The knife handle, slick with blood, almost slipped from her grasp, but she held on to it as another man pulled her upward, lashing out with it, feeling a short-lived burst of satisfaction when she heard another cry of pain.
“Get that knife away from her!”
“I’m bleeding! Help me, I’m bleeding!”
“Grab her arm, grab it!”
All three men were shouting at once and then Beitris felt something hard strike the side of her head, so hard it took her breath away. Pain shot through her skull, propelling her down to her knees as she cried out. She heard a feeble cry from Elspeth and tried to crawl toward her friend, arm outstretched, but her hand was viciously grabbed and twisted behind her back as rough hands pulled her upward to her feet. Fingers grabbed her hair, pulled her head up, shoving it back, and then another shadow, fleeting before her eyes before she felt the strike against her cheekbone.
She twisted, kicked, tried to lash out with her arms, but her head spun, her ears rang, and the shouting, the confusion, and her terror vied with one another, each emotion stronger than the one before it. Hands grabbed at her from every direction, but she fought, and she fought hard. Elspeth! Was her friend hurt badly? Would these men kill them? Her knees grew weak. The thought of telling them where Alasdair was never entered her thoughts. She wouldn’t have blamed her friend though, if Elspeth had told them. She wasn’t a part of this. She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t—
“I said, let go!”
The deep-throated growl was immediately followed by an iron grip that grabbed her right forearm and slammed it down against the edge of the table. She cried out in pain as her hand automatically released the knife, and it clattered to the floor. The man lying on the floor continued to moan.
“I’m bleeding! Help me!”
On the floor a short distance away, Elspeth moaned and tried to speak, but Beitris knew they were now helpless against these men, outnumbered as they were. Still, she didn’t give up. She fought, trying to scratch and kick, twisting like a wild rabbit caught in a snare. Until another sharp blow against the side of her head knocked her to the floor.
Pain exploded again as her head struck the floor, and then, abruptly, complete blackness, followed by silence, overwhelmed her.
19
Over the past hours, Alasdair had grown increasingly frustrated by his condition. At least two days had passed since Beitris and Elspeth had found him at the edge of the field behind the stone house. He groaned with frustration and pain. He could barely move without precipitating teeth-clenching stabs of pain through his body. He’d been wounded before, knew the difference between a minor and a serious wound, and also knew that the stabbing injury he now endured had been very serious. Coupled with the loss of blood, he still felt incredibly weak. Just making an effort to reach for water and lift his head up enough to sip it from the bowl Beitris had left him was exhausting.
The fire just a dull glow now, Alasdair couldn’t tell whether it was daytime or nighttime. Had mere minutes or hours passed since Elspeth and Beitris had left the cave, or had it been half a day? Longer? Shadows deepened the edges of the cave and crept ever so slowly inward, convincing him that it must be either late afternoon or past dusk. As the minutes passed, he struggled to sit upright, to force himself to get stronger, to at least get off his back. He despised his weakness and the limitations of flesh and muscle. What was happening at the house? How did Beitris and Elspeth fare?
He shook his head but regretted that movement when the resulting wave of dizziness caught him by surprise, precipitating a surge of nausea that rose upward from his stomach. He was the one who should protect them, not the other way around. He didn’t like not knowing what was happening. Unfortunately, his present situation was not good, not now or into the future. He had been so certain that the rebellion would prove successful, had not given a thought, or at least not much, to the idea of failure. He hadn’t expected the English to seek revenge. It had been finished for good at Culloden, the English supremely successful, so why were they so bent on revenge? Why venture deep into Scotland, looking for those who had fought against them? Did they think they could track and hunt them down and kill every single one?
That did not bode well for him, Beitris, or his attempt to live out a peaceful life. It did not bode well for his desire to make his marriage with Beitris a success, or to give them a chance to get to know one another better and grow their increased fondness for each other into perhaps something more, something deeper and long-lasting. He wanted more. He wanted a love that would carry them through other challenges in life. He cursed his fate, knowing that he was momentarily wallowing in self-pity, but what else did he have to do, lying here in this cave as time slowly passed?
Moving carefully, he pressed his hands against the bed of pine needles and branches that Beitris and Elspeth had laid him on, covered by a rough, woolen blanket. He took a deep breath and slowly pressed his palms against the dirt. Closing his eyes, he tried to lift his head and shoulders up with the strength of his arms. If he could do that, if he worked at it slowly, taking care not to strain too hard, he might manage a sitting position. He shook his head, once again frustrated to believe that such an otherwise easy task would prove almost an unconquerable endeavor.
Incrementally, he lifted his head and his upper back off the makeshift bed, gasping at the pain racing through his body, sending hot, stabbing needles of agony through every nerve, flushing his body with heat and a near immediate sheen of sweat. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to pause, his arms trembling with his efforts. He had two choices now—to give up, lie back down, and wait for the pain to recede or continue to try to push himself upward. But not so slowly this time. Perhaps it would just be best—
He heard a sound from outside, and he paused again, but the sound was short-lived, and he couldn’t quite place it. The cry of a bird? An owl? Perhaps the bleat of a red deer off in the distance? His gaze riveted to the cave where the entrance path rounded into the main cavern, he waited, but no further sound came his way. He had just begun to think he had imagined it, or it was indeed an innocent sound of nature, when he heard it again, this time a wee bit closer, the sound like that of a wounded animal.
His heart thudding with wariness, he quickly glanced down beside the makeshift bed, looking for the dirk that Beitris had left with him upon his insistence. While he was forced to recuperate in this cave, he insisted he not be left weaponless… The sound came again, closer, followed by a thrashing in the bushes outside the cave entrance.
Uncertainty and an overabundance of caution prompted him to once again make an attempt to sit up. What if it was the English m
agistrate searching for him? Or bounty hunters? What if it was a wounded animal or a wild boar rooting around and perhaps picked up his scent, and the scent of dried blood? He cursed under his breath. Ignoring the pain of erupting flames in every muscle and nerve in his body, he forced himself upright, biting his lip against the pain, fighting against the dizziness that assailed him, reaching for the dirk and clasping it tightly in his hand. His muscles trembling with effort, he kept his eyes narrowed on the opening to this main part of the cave, only the dim light of the dying embers of the fire illuminating the space and casting shadows on the opposite wall.
Another sound, the cry of pain and gasping a wee bit louder now. It dinna sound like an animal, it sounded like—
He stared when he saw a hand in the dirt, fingers clawing for purchase in the soft, silky soil of the cave floor. His heart nearly stopped as he stared, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard now he felt the pulse throbbing in his forehand. His grip on the dirk tightened even as he realized he didn’t need it. It was a woman’s hand. His heart clenched in his chest and nearly took his breath away.
“Beitris?” he croaked, his throat dry, filled with fear and dread.
All he received in response was a soft groan, another hand reaching forward, clawing at the dirt, trying to pull herself deeper into the cave’s interior. Pushing back the agony that threatened to tug him viciously back into black oblivion, Alasdair rolled to his side and tried to get his knees beneath him. He needed to crawl toward the pathetic figure trying so desperately to get inside the cave.
It seemed to take forever to do so, but he finally managed to get onto his hands and knees, favoring his bad side, teeth gritted against the pain, sweat now coursing down his face as he crawled forward at the same, slow, and measurably painful pace as… Was it Beitris or Elspeth? It was one of the two, he knew it. He stifled the groan that threatened to rumble upward from his chest as the woman’s head and upper shoulders appeared.
“Elspeth!”
All thoughts of his own injuries now pushed to the back of his mind, Alasdair forced himself forward as Elspeth, with one last, massive effort, surged inside, collapsed onto her side, and rolled over onto her back. Alasdair stared in dumb amazement for several seconds, his gaze scanning her blood-drenched hair, her ripped clothing, her swollen eye and cheekbone, her bruised eyes, broken nose, and swollen and bleeding lips.
“Elspeth!” He stared at her injuries, confusion, anger, and not a little panic racing up his spine. What had happened? And where was Beitris?
“Elspeth,” he said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. She winced and then her eyes flew open, filled with fear. Her eyes slowly cleared and locked on to his face, her fear turning anguished, her mouth opening as she tried to speak.
He needed to help her but didn’t know how. He could barely move himself, relying on the kindness and loyalty of Beitris and Elspeth to aid his recovery from his wounds. Elspeth looked seriously injured. And Beitris? What of Beitris? He wanted to know, desperately. If Elspeth was in this condition, what could he expect with Beitris? Who had done this to Elspeth? Had she been accosted on the road to the village? Had the English magistrate or those brutish Scottish outlaws returned to the stone house to demand the women reveal his whereabouts? Or had she simply fallen from a horse or had an accident?
“Elspeth,” he said, firmly, striving to gain an answer. “Elspeth, tell me. What happened?”
Elspeth’s face crumpled a moment before she gathered herself, fighting through her own pain. She tried to speak through her swollen lips, coughed once, then winced, and opened her good eye again. Her hand clutched at Alasdair’s tunic.
“Beitris…”
Alasdair closed his eyes and then opened them, a sensation of his head swimming, the cave rocking, the pain nearly overtaking him from his physical efforts. He clamped his lips shut, prayed for strength, and stared down at Elspeth, his throat dry, a heavy sensation of dread settling in the middle of his chest.
“Men came… wanted to know… where ye were…”
She had difficulty forming the words, slurring some. He swore again. He had brought this on these two women. This was his fault. “What of Beitris,” he asked softly, wanting an answer and not wanting it at the same time.
“I woke up… gone…”
Gone. What did she mean by gone? “Is she dead?” he managed to choke out.
“Don’t know… she’s gone…” She swallowed, blinked several times, and then made another effort. “Tried to ride… to the village,” she gasped. “Horse took me here…”
His horse brought her here? How did she get onto his horse in her condition? She and Beitris had told him that the horse was hidden in the woods behind the house. She had made it from the house to the edge of the woods with those injuries? A humbling pride over her determination replaced, if even momentarily, his anger that those men, cowards all, had accosted two helpless women, one of them blind— He couldn’t focus on that right now. He had to get help. Not only for Elspeth, but also for Beitris.
“They took her?” he asked her, his voice rougher than he intended, fear and uncertainty gnawing at the edges of his brain.
“… think so…” she said, and then her eyes closed, her body sagged, and she lapsed into unconsciousness.
Alasdair stared down at her for several moments. Was she dead? He placed his fingers on her neck and felt a weak, slow pulse. Fighting against the pain racking his own body, he lowered his head toward hers and placed his ear close to her mouth. She still breathed. It took him quite some time, and nearly exhausted him to the point of passing out himself, but he managed to drag her closer to the fire, placed two small branches on it and watched as the flames licked greedily, brightening the interior of the cave. He took a closer look at her injuries. She had been brutally attacked, more than likely protecting Beitris. A deep gash on the side of her head, already swollen, the edges gaping. She’d lost a lot of blood. He knew that head wounds bled a lot, which would account for bloodstained hair and clothing. She also had an alarmingly large bump on the back of her head, swollen and tender. Was her skull cracked? He couldn’t know. She had taken several severe blows or… or perhaps her head had been slammed into the floorboards in the house.
He wanted to shout his rage, but he bit it back, focused on doing what he could for her. He wouldna let this woman die, couldna, not after everything she had sacrificed for his wife. She said that the horse had brought her here. If he could manage it, he had to get outside, mount his horse, and make his way to the village to get help for Elspeth. He did what he could for her at the moment, using the water left for him, some folded cloths used to tend to his own wounds, and bathed her head wounds. One of them still bled, but not profusely, so he applied gentle pressure to it for several minutes, all the while fighting his own weakness, every muscle in his body trembling from fatigue. He fought the urge to lie down and rest. He couldn’t though he felt torn. Ride to the stone house and try to follow the men who had taken Beitris, or ride into the village to get help for Elspeth and…
Would anyone help him? With a price on his head, would he be riding to his own death? Would he even have a chance to tell anyone about Elspeth lying in the cave, seriously injured? And what of Beitris? What if they killed him before he could tell them she had been kidnapped, or, heaven forbid, dragged from the house, killed, and left in the woods for the wild animals to tear apart? He felt increasingly sick to his stomach. The surge of nausea caused by dreadful thoughts racing through his mind. What Beitris was going through at this moment, what they had done to Elspeth.
Beitris had risked her life to hide him, to take care of him, putting herself in great danger, and he couldna ignore that. Why had she done it? In the back of his mind, logic told him the reason, but he found it hard to accept. They had been making some progress in their relationship, and she was his wife, and he was her husband, but still… Had she done so out of a sense of duty, of obligation, or something else? He couldn’t imagine anyone who didn’t care
for somebody taking such chances. At that moment, realization struck him with a force that nearly took the air from his lungs. Did she love him? Could she?
The need for revenge invigorated him. Though still weak and barely able to move on his own, he felt desperate to find her. He had to. He would risk capture and possibly death, maybe probable death, when he left the cave to search for her, but he wasn’t thinking about himself now. He thought of Beitris. Because the realization had struck him as well. He was falling in love with Beitris, with her kind, gentle heart, her determination to adjust to constant changes in her life. A woman who did not allow her lack of sight to make her less of a woman. He’d never met anyone so brave and courageous, and as he glanced down at Elspeth, he knew that the two of them were stronger in mental determination than many a soldier he had met on the battlefield.
“I’m going to get help, Elspeth,” he said. “Ye rest. And ye don’t ye dare die on me, or Beitris will have my hide.”
With that, Alasdair left her beside the fire. He slowly stood, leaning slightly to the left as dizziness assailed him, but he gazed down at her, her pale features, her face now cleaned of blood, the bruises and the swelling from the beating she had taken even more apparent on her white, slightly freckled skin. A brave woman. One who had not asked for any of this, but who, out of loyalty to Beitris, had taken on her troubles as if they were her own. It dinna matter whether Elspeth helped him because she cared about him, or she did so for her friend. Alasdair was determined to seek revenge for what those bloody cowards had done to Elspeth. If he could get his hands on them, he would also punish them for what they had done, or were doing, to Beitris at this moment.