An Outcast's Wish (Highland Heartbeats Book 3)

by Aileen Adams

  However, if she did belong around here, or in any village near the laird’s property, surely Sarah would have recognized her.

  She was able to take several more spoonfuls of the broth, and with each one, the taste of the herbs didn’t seem quite so strong. The warmth flowing down her throat and warming her belly invigorated her, but she was still too weak to even attempt to sit up on her own.

  “That’s enough for now,” Sarah said. “I have to leave for a little while, but my sister will come check on you soon. You try to sleep.”

  She nodded.

  As Sarah rose and picked up the bowl and stepped to the door, she turned toward the window over her bed. The light seemed soft, as it did at dusk, but for all she knew, it could be early morning. She’d lost all track of time and place. Even as she tried to take in her surroundings, the thought uppermost in her thoughts was her confusion. Could a bump on the head really cause her to forget everything about who she was?

  She heard voices just outside the door. A woman’s voice, probably Sarah’s, and then the voice of a man.

  Without knowing why, the sound of the man’s voice made her want to cower under the covers, but why?

  Her eyes riveted to the door, fighting the lethargy that urged her to fall back to sleep, she stared at the entrance, and then swallowed heavily when the door opened.

  A man filled the doorway.

  He was tall, with reddish-brown hair that reached his shoulders. He wore a dark green tunic under a long, open vest. His legs were long, encased in leather breeches and well-worn boots. Broad shoulders, narrow waisted, he was handsome.

  Eyebrows the same color as his hair frowned over eyes that bore deep into hers. Well-sculpted features, a smattering of pale freckles high on his cheekbones. The sharp angle of his jaw hidden behind a stubble of beard, his mouth a narrow slash, lips slightly downturned. He continued to stand in the doorway, one hand resting on the head of an axe tucked into his belt. Vague recognition swept through her. Who was this man? Why did he seem so familiar to her?

  He stepped into the room. Her eyes widened. She tried to burrow deeper into the covers.

  “Sarah tells me that you seem to have lost your memory,” he said, stopping halfway between the door and the side of the bed, arms cross over his chest, legs hip width apart. Almost threatening. His head, now tilted at an angle, as if he studied something he could not describe. “You don’t remember what you were doing out in those woods?”

  She offered a very slight shake of her head, knowing that any more than that would cause white flashes of pain throbbing anew. His eyes bore into hers. She wanted to disappear beneath that discerning gaze but had nowhere to go. She felt a myriad of emotions, she was afraid of him and not afraid at the same time. That didn’t make any sense. She felt as if he could see straight through her. What did he see? Did he know her?

  “Those woods are quite a way from any villages and happen to be along the northern boundaries of Duncan lands.”

  She didn’t respond. What could she say? It was growing obvious to her that the Duncans protected their lands and borders with fierce determination, but she could offer no explanation regarding her presence in those woods, Duncan lands or not.

  He took a step closer. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes either bespoke a man with a great sense of humor and a man who laughed often, but then again, those lines could be caused from looking into the sun. He wasn’t laughing now. His eyebrows pulled down in a frown.

  “I don’t recognize you. You’re not from around here.”

  He wasn’t helping her feel any better about her lack of memory.

  What had she been doing in the middle of those cursed woods and how had she gotten there?

  He abruptly sat down in the chair and nudged it closer to the bed, peering down at her like she was examining a bug or something.

  She frowned.

  He was close enough now that she could see his eyes were hazel, though when the light struck them just so, she saw a hint of green, and unusual color to be sure.

  “You sure you don’t remember anything?”

  The tone of his voice conveyed his doubt.

  She blinked.

  Did he think she wanted to experience this memory loss? That it wasn’t frightening her beyond belief? Did he know what it felt like to wake up and not remember anything about what made her her?

  If she had the energy, she would’ve given him a piece of her mind, but then she realized that energy was something she didn’t have at the moment. She felt the irritation, but bit back the sudden urge to snap a reply.

  Was that the kind of person she was? Temperamental? Easy to anger? She had no idea.

  He continued to stare at her, his gaze taking in every aspect of her head. Of course, buried under the covers as she was, he couldn’t see the rest of her. Just the thought of him looking at her body—she felt the heat of a flush rise in her cheeks. He noticed and frowned again, before pulling his gaze away from her cheeks and toward her hair.

  This gave her pause.

  What color was her hair or her eyes? She felt a tremor of panic bubble inside her.

  Who was she?

  She watched his gaze travel over her face, focusing on her eyes for a brief second, before moving down to look at her mouth, then back to her hair.

  What was he doing? Why was he looking her like that?

  “You tried to clobber me with a tree branch, do you remember that?”

  What?

  His comment startled her. She had attacked him? Why? Surely, she wasn’t so foolish to think she could win any battle with a seasoned warrior, and look like a warrior he did. The axe at his waist, the knife, the muscular hands and forearms… she stared into his face again, and saw the two-inch scar that traced the line of his jaw beneath his short whiskers. No, certainly she would not be so foolish as to attack a highlander… and a well-armed highlander at that.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  What else could she say? More confusion. She wanted to understand, but she had nothing to grasp onto. Not even a blur, a glimmer, nothing to hold onto. Just… blackness.

  His glance passed over the length of her, buried under the covers, and then at the fire flickering in the fireplace, before looking back at her. “It looked like you had been out there at least a couple of days, maybe more.”

  What was she supposed to say to that?

  He slowly rose, still studying her in that odd way, lips pursed, as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth or lying.

  At this point, she didn’t much care what he believed. She didn’t know what she believed. There was nothing she could do, at least at the moment, to convince him that she was telling the truth—as she knew it.

  Her eyes grew heavy.

  He sighed, and rose from the chair, turned to leave the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  She heaved a shaky, shallow sigh, all that she could manage without pain and closed her eyes, ready to sink back into that comforting blackness where fear, pain, and confusion didn’t exist.

  3

  “You didn’t bother her, did you?”

  He turned to find Heather standing in the hallway, clothing draped over her arm. He shook his head as he gestured to the close. “Those hers?”

  Heather nodded. “They’ve been washed and dried.”

  “Anything that will help determine who she is or where she came from?”

  Heather shook her head.

  Maccay nodded, and then stepped past her, heading down the hall toward the stairs that led to the great hall, his thoughts troubled. He wasn’t sure if he believed her claim that she had no memory. Brief confusion he could understand. He’d been knocked around a time or two in his life so he understood the disconcerted haze that often followed a thump on the head.

  But to lose her entire memory? Not to remember who she was or her own name? How could she not have one memory of where she came from, and most importantly, what she was doing in those woods, by herself? Ha
d she been by herself or was there someone else lurking in those woods?

  Maybe he should go back and look around.

  Maybe he could find some signs of a camp. He had seen no trail, not of horse or carriage or wagon, not even the tracks of a handcart. How had she gotten there? Where has she slept? Her clothes had been torn and dirty, much like the rest of her. She had been out there for more than a day.

  So many questions.

  None of them which he could answer.

  If she had been out in those woods for any length of time by herself, he would be impressed. She’d had no weapons. Even he, as skilled in the woods as anyone, would not venture into them without a weapon. The woods were a dangerous place for anyone, let alone a small woman like herself. She certainly hadn’t been afraid to try and attack him with that stout tree branch. She had caught him unawares. That didn’t happen often.

  When he entered the great hall, he found Phillip at the table, looking over some ledgers.

  Maccay approached the table. “I think I’ll go back to the woods where I found the lass, see if I could learn anything else.”

  Phillip looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t think she was out there alone?”

  “I don’t know what to think,” he sighed. “But until she remembers, or she decides to tell us what happened, we can’t know for sure.” He glanced toward the stairs. “I just don’t understand it. How could someone lose memory of who they are, to the point of not remembering their own name? I’m not sure I believe it.”

  “Sarah told me that such a thing can happen to someone who’s experienced something so frightening that they block it out of their memory. Don’t forget she took a nasty bump on the head.”

  “She did, but how many times have you, I, or Jake been knocked upside the head? We didn’t experience any memory loss.”

  “Maybe it’s because our skulls are thicker. Maybe we’re just more stubborn. Maybe we’re just more used to being knocked about in battle.” He shrugged, returning his attention to the ledgers. “If you go back there, take someone with you.”

  “Aye, I’ll see if I can find Hugh. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  * * *

  Maccay and Hugh left early the next morning, just after sunrise. Hugh McInnis, like Phillip and Jake, was a lifelong friend. They had grown up together on the outskirts of the village. They had been trained to join the Duncans band of warriors at a young age, maybe fourteen or so. Maccay had driven himself hard and fully invested himself in the training. It had given him the opportunity to get out of their house and away from his constantly arguing parents.

  Hugh’s father had died in battle when he was just ten years old, and had been responsible for taking care of his mother ever since.

  Maccay had helped him in any way that he could. He had liked Hugh’s mother, the complete opposite of his. Sadly, she had passed away a few years ago.

  Maccay’s parents had died soon after his eighteenth birthday. They had been fighting, as usual, while he was away training. Somehow, a lantern had been knocked over. Fire had engulfed their small home. His parents had fought together and died together.

  After that, Maccay joined the Duncan forces and had risen up the ranks. He and Hugh, along with Jake Duncan, were in charge of defending Duncan lands, the villages and scattered farmers living on their lands.

  Two years ago, due to his loyalty and service to the laird, Phillip had given him his own small house, located behind the armory, a small, one-room house but it had a small yard and stable. Who needed more?

  Hugh still lived in the home in the village that had belonged to his mother.

  They had set out just before dawn, and as they rode, Hugh pelted him with questions.

  Maccay tried to fill him in about the mysterious young woman who had been found in the woods, injured and with no memory, but he had few answers.

  Finally, Hugh sighed.

  “Well, I’m sure there’s one question you can answer.”

  “What’s that?” Maccay asked, searching the trail in front of them.

  “Is she pretty?”

  Maccay glanced at his friend. “What difference does that make?” He saw Hugh grinning and frowned. “Don’t get any ideas. And don’t you be going near her, either. She’s had enough of a scare without seeing your ugly face.”

  Hugh glanced at him, still grinning. “You’ve already staked a claim on her, haven’t you?”

  Maccay frowned. “I’ve done no such thing, but the lass is confused, and she’s hurt, and—”

  “And you held her in her arms the entire way back to the manor house didn’t you. I can imagine you found that quite a pleasant experience, seeing as women don’t tend to want you getting so familiar when they’re awake,” he guffawed.

  Maccay scowled. So, he had been rebuffed a time or two. So had Hugh. “Look who’s talking.”

  He eyed the landscape around them, trying to distract himself from thoughts of Alis… or whatever her name was. She was a pretty lass, no doubt about that, and fierce.

  The fact that she had tried to take a swing at him didn’t anger him, but rather invoked a sense of admiration. More than likely she had hoped to knock him unconscious so she could steal his horse.

  Little did she know that Bruce would tolerate no riders on his back beside himself. He had taken the brunt of teasing about naming his horse, but both horse and man usually got even.

  Not even Hugh, his best friend, could ride Bruce. He’d tried, three times— each sending him flying through the air and landing hard. He’d given up after that.

  Any unfamiliar arse that settled in the saddle, and his gelding protested, and violently—bucking, rearing, and twisting. No one even dared try anymore.

  They traveled much the way he had ridden two mornings ago. The sun was a little warmer today, the flowers open and soaking in the warm spring sunshine. The air smelled rich and fresh and he inhaled deeply, intensely satisfied. Nothing like being outdoors in good weather, riding his horse, away from civilization.

  By midmorning, Maccay recognized the area and pointed to the thick growth of trees at the base of a slope.

  Hugh looked around, a slight frown crossing his brow.

  “Here?” he asked, turning to Maccay. “You found her here?”

  Maccay nodded as he again looked over the terrain, seeing no sign of man nor village. “It’s the middle of nowhere.” He shrugged as he turned to his friend. “What was she doing out here? How did she get here?”

  Neither of them had an answer.

  He led the way down to the tree line where they both dismounted, tying their horses to low-lying tree branches. He then carefully picked his way through the trees, pointing out the path that he’d left behind in his pursuit of the shadowy figure, still visible. No one, man nor beast, had disturbed his footprints.

  He located the spot where she had tried to attack him with the tree branch, pointed it out to Hugh.

  Hugh bent down and picked up the stout piece of wood, clasping it easily in his hand and swinging it idly back and forth.

  “If she wasn’t injured, she might have gotten in a better blow.”

  Hugh’s comment gave him pause. She had been injured, but still she had been brave—or foolish—enough to circle around and try to knock him unconscious, or worse.

  Maccay frowned. “I’ve a feeling there’s more to this lass than we should assume. She was able to sneak up behind me. No easy task, I assure you.”

  Hugh agreed.

  They moved slowly through the trees, continually looking for any sign of others.

  Nothing.

  In a matter of moments, he came to the spot where he had tackled the lass and pointed. “Here’s where I caught up to her.”

  Hugh nodded, carefully gazing through the trees. “Let’s split up and see what we can see. Maybe we can find where she took shelter. Anything that might help figure this out.”

  Maccay nodded and the two of them separated, he taking to the trees to t
he east of the spot, Hugh taking the west.

  He wandered among the brush, winding his way through the trees, but he saw nothing unusual. Squirrels peered down at him from the tree branches. He startled a rabbit and it skipped away.

  Once in a while, he caught brief glimpses of Hugh and heard his movement among the brush a short distance away. He looked for anything to indicate that the lass had spent more than a short while in these woods.

  Nothing.

  Maybe she had been riding and her horse had thrown her. Maybe that’s how she had taken that severe bump to the head. But where had she ridden from? There were no villages on these borders, too close to enemy clans. Then again, maybe someone had abandoned her here. But why? What if—

  “Maccay! Over here!”

  Maccay turned up the sound of Hugh’s voice and quickly made his way through the underbrush toward him. He wound his way among the trees, slapping aside pine branches until he came to the edge of a slope, or a shallow trough actually, running through the middle of heavy tree growth.

  Hugh stood on the far side, gesturing.

  Maccay turned to look where Hugh pointed and spied a makeshift lean-to of sorts. Pine branches and shrub branches laid over a fallen tree maybe four feet off the ground. He stepped closer and saw that the branches have been interwoven.

  Clever.

  “No one would go to that much trouble for an overnight stay,” Maccay commented, examining the edges. “These weren’t cut by a knife or an axe. While it’s been cool, we haven’t had any bad weather, just the rain the other day, so this probably sufficed to keep her protected from the brunt of it.”

  Hugh agreed and then pointed. “That fire pit has ashes from more than one fire.” He glanced around, frowning, looking up into the trees and then into the deeper forest. “How long was she out here?”

  Maccay shrugged. “I have no idea.” He squatted on his haunches and peered into the shelter. Near the back, he saw a leather pouch, half-buried in leaves and dried pine needles. He pulled it out by its strap and opened the flap. He dumped it upside down. A dress spilled out. So did something else. He reached for it and lifted it from between the folds of fabric.