Alien Mate

by Gloria Martin

  They were still travelling when the sun began to sink below the horizon. Izzy was growing cold, her cloak left back in her horse's bags, wherever the beast was now. The sleeves of her dress had been ripped almost to shreds by the bushes, and the skin beneath was riddled with small scratches under a layer of goose pimples. She was begrudgingly grateful for the warmth of her captor's body behind her, and even more-so when it appeared they were making camp for the night.

  The russet-haired Scot slipped off the back of his horse and lifted Izzy into his arms as easily as if she weighed nothing more than a child. She struggled, briefly, but barely had time to move before he put her down on her feet again. She quickly looked around in the rapidly encroaching darkness. They were in a small clearing, sheltered on one side by a high outcropping of rocks. One of the men of the party was digging a hole for a fire near it.

  Suddenly there were hands moving towards her face. Izzy jerked her head away and glared at her captor. He stopped.

  “I only wish to remove tha' gag, if ye promise me ye willna' scream.”

  Izzy worked her jaw, but there was little she could do with her hands bound as they were, and she had little wish to taste the back of someone's hand again. She nodded, and her captor slowly lifted his hands again and tugged the gag out of her mouth. Izzy licked dry lips, then shut them tightly, glaring at the tall man in front of her. She only just came up to his shoulder, and had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. In the dying light they looked almost silver.

  “What're ye called?”

  “You will call me Lady Wharton,” Izzy said in as strong a voice as she could muster. “And you will tell me who you are and untie me.”

  He chuckled. “I'll tell ye who I am, but I cannae let ye loose. I'm sorry.”

  “What is your name then?” Izzy asked.

  “Owen Chester.” And he did untie her, but only to bind her hands in front of her and lead her over to where the small fire was being coaxed to life.

  “Chester is an English name,” Izzy said.

  “Aye,” Owen replied, “and I'll thank ye not to remind me o' that.”

  Izzy had no wish to risk his ire, and so she sat on a low stone and edged as close to the fire as she could. Owen lowered himself down next to her and from his pack procured rations, which he split with Izzy. She felt like a fool eating with her hands tied so, but there was no other choice. The food was bland and hard and nothing like the feast Izzy had been expecting when she and Alan arrived at their home, but it was better than nothing, and her stomach was happy for it.

  The men around the fire looked at her, then turned their backs and began conversing in low tones. Izzy strained to hear them, but what little she could make out was in a language she wasn't familiar with. Beside her, Owen leaned back against the rocks and gaily ate his own dinner, his easy posture speaking volumes about his confidence that Izzy wouldn't try to run.

  And he was right, at least for now. Izzy wasn't stupid enough to think she could run away in the pitch black from a group of armed men who clearly knew the lay of the land better than she did.

  “Here,” Owen said, and held out another biscuit to her. Izzy was tempted to turn it aside, but her hunger was too great, surprising considering her trauma. She accepted it reluctantly and nibbled on the edge.

  Soon she could see no farther than the edge of the campfire's glow, and with the night came the cold. Izzy wrapped her arms around herself and tried not to draw attention to the fact that she was shivering. The men around her all had their cloaks and their kilts and tall boots, and they were crowded around the fire. All save for Owen, who remained sitting at her side, and looked considerably warmer than Izzy was despite it. The rock she was sitting on was uncomfortable and her tears were still threatening to overwhelm her.

  She should be in her new home. It didn't matter that it was so far north it was practically in Scotland. It was supposed to be hers, and Alan's, and the start of their new life together. And instead she was here, cold and hungry, surrounded by men who planned on doing God knows what with her. She hugged herself tighter and sucked in a breath of chilly air through her teeth.

  Next to her Owen stirred. The light from the fire brought out streaks of gold and bronze in his hair and turned his eyes from grey to black. Izzy turned her head away from him and stared at a spot on the ground. She heard the rustle of clothing, and then felt a heavy cloak drape over her shoulders. Her head shot up, eyes locking directly onto Owen's.

  “Be a long night if ye're cold,” he said. “My clothes are warm enough.” He touched her chin with the side of his finger and pad of his thumb. His hands were rough but his touch was anything but and she looked away.

  Izzy bit back on the thank you that automatically landed on the tip of her tongue, but she was far too cold to reject the gift she'd been given. Owen's hand fell away. She gripped the edges of the cloak and pulled them tighter around her body. It reeked of Owen, but it was thick and warm and Izzy found her shivering soon stopped.

  A few of the men settled down to sleep, wrapped up in their cloaks and using their packs as pillows. One stood and wandered off into the dark. When he didn't return, Izzy assumed he was the one set to keep watch. Owen was still awake as well. No doubt to watch her.

  She wriggled around, trying to find a comfortable way to sit, and eventually settled for curling up on the cold ground, as tucked into herself as she could get. At least with the cloak she was warm enough to sleep, even if her mind was still running long after the men around the fire began to snore.

  *****

  Sleep came, but it was spotty and restless, and in her dreams she saw Alan's body fall over and over again. She was woken by Owen in the grey of early dawn. His mates were already up and moving about, scuffing out their fire and readying the horses for the next leg of the journey. There wasn't a part of Izzy's body that didn't ache from spending the night on the ground. Owen's hands were gentle as he helped her to her feet, but she shrugged them off as soon as she was able.

  He made no move to take the cloak from her and didn't touch her again until it was time to mount up. Izzy prepared to have him lift her into the saddle, but instead he drew his dirk from its sheath at his belt and sliced through the rope that bound her wrists. He crouched and made a cup with his hands, looking up at her through long lashes and a fringe of red hair.

  Izzy grabbed the saddle and used his hands to boost herself up into it. Owen swung up behind her and wrapped her in his arms. Once the rest of the band had mounted up they started on their way.

  Izzy rubbed at the skin of her wrists. The bonds hadn't been tight, but her struggles and her movement during the night had made the rope chafe against them, and her flesh was pink and raw. She wondered why Owen had seen fit to untie her. Not that she was complaining, far from it, but it seemed like his companions would rather she be bound and silent. Her aching cheek reminded her of what insolence had gotten her.

  The men clearly knew where they were going, but Izzy couldn't see any clearly marked path. Perhaps it was some overgrown hunting or game trail. Alan had said there were many of those in the area, for the deer population was strong and healthy. If these lands had once belonged to the Scots, then it made sense that some would still possess knowledge of how they lay, especially if bands of insurgents had been operating in the area. Izzy was right to wait and play along with her captors' desires, no matter how much she railed against them. She would be lost in moments if she tried to navigate these woods, even if she could get the start of a bearing from the sun. The men would track her down and then she would find herself trussed up and thrown over a saddle.

  She tried not to lean back into Owen, even when her spine began to hurt from sitting so straight. The less she touched him the better. He had the blood of her husband on his hands, and there was no forgiving something like that. Alan had been innocent, all of those men had been innocent. What had they ever done to hurt these men? Nothing, save wear the wrong color uniform. Izzy hastily brushed away a stray tea
r, then gripped the saddle horn to hide how her hands trembled. For another day it was much of the same; trees and, at time, stretches of mercifully open fields. Perhaps it was too much for Izzy to hope that they would stumble upon a Regular patrol. At least she had Owen's cloak to keep her warm at night.

  At some time around midday the next day on the trees thinned and parted, and for a time it was nothing but green fields until the land began to rise into the steep hills and cliffs of the famous Scottish Highlands. The band fell into line along a rocky road that wound up into the hills.

  Izzy pulled her borrowed cloak closer. At least in the forest the trees had been a buffer against the wind. Out in the open it was fierce and cold and seemed to sneak into every gap in Izzy's clothing. She prayed that their destination was close, and that it would mean a house at the very least, and a bed. Surely these men wouldn't be so cruel as to force her to sleep on the ground again.

  After another half hour or so and they came upon a small village nestled in a valley with the hills sheltering it from the worst of the elements. It was the sort of place that would be easy to pass by, the kind of place that didn't merit so much as a dot on a map.

  “Where are we?” Izzy asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. Besides, there was little she would be able to do with a name. She would be hard pressed to point out Edinburgh and Glasgow on a map, let alone a place so small.

  “Somewhere safe,” Owen said. “Safe for you, perhaps,” Izzy said.

  “Safe for ye as well,” Owen replied.

  “You call this safe?” Izzy said. “My husband is murdered and I have been taken captive by his killer. There is nothing safe about any of this.”

  Owen had no reply to that. Izzy felt his arms stiffen around her.

  The little hamlet was already awake, its inhabitants no doubt up with the sun. They paid little mind to the riders passing them down the main street, towards the far edge where the largest house in the village waited at the back of a small courtyard.

  Two young boys came out to fetch the horses. Owen helped Izzy from the saddle then motioned for her to walk towards the house. She couldn't help but wonder if this was what her place in Longtown looked like, and if she ever stood a chance of seeing it.

  “Upstairs,” Owen said.

  Izzy obeyed. The stairs were sturdy. The entire house seemed to be as much, and the interior, or what little Izzy glanced as she was herded to the top floor, was well-decorated and warm. It had the trappings of a home, but Izzy knew it was to be her prison. At the top of the house was a small room to which Owen escorted her. There was a bed, as well as a single chair and small writing desk, and a chamber pot, but little else. A small window was the sole source of light. Izzy slowly walked to the chair and sat in it, folding her hands in her lap.

  Owen looked at her with sad eyes. “Food will be brough' up t' ye shortly,” he said, and then ran a hand through his hair before bracing it on his hip. “I am sorry it has to be this way.”

  “Sorry does not change what you did,” Izzy said.

  Owen sighed. “No. I suppose it doesn't.” And then he left.

  Izzy heard the click of a lock sliding into place and listened to the thump of his footsteps receding, the creaking of the stairs under his weight, and then there was silence, and a terrible, terrible feeling of solitude. She was still wearing his cloak. Izzy shoved it off her shoulders as violently as if it were on fire and sprung from the chair, hugging herself and pacing to the window. She was above the stable, and had a pretty view, if a limited one. At least her prison was a warm one.

  As Owen had said, food was shortly brought to her, but it wasn't him who served it. It wasn't any of the men who had been with the band that had attacked her and Alan, but one of the boys who had helped with the horses. He wouldn't look at her, only came in, set a plate of bread and cheese on the table with a tankard of small beer and left, locking the door behind him once more. Izzy sipped at the beer, but ignored the food. She had no appetite, and the knot of tension in her stomach made her fear she would only lose anything she tried to eat.

  Occasionally she heard laughter rise up from below, but for the most part she was alone in the silence with nothing to occupy her mind. She paced the room. She tried the door, though she knew it was a futile attempt. She tried to find a latch on the window, but there wasn't one. Eventually the growling in her stomach grew too much and she reluctantly picked at the food she had been brought until there was almost nothing left. Still no one had come to speak to her. She curled up on the bed, facing the wall, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  The tears finally came. Her chest felt as though someone had shoved a hand between her ribs and wrapped their fingers around her heart in a vise-like grip. She could barely breathe so passionate were her sobs. She muffled them as best she could in her pillow, not wanting to risk anyone lurking outside the door hearing. She cried until her throat and eyes were raw and there were no tears left. The sun had risen high into the sky, filling the room with bright light. Izzy lay there, unmoving, until the door rattled and opened. She glanced over her shoulder to see Owen filling the doorway, a book in his hand.

  “I thought ye migh' like something t' read,” he said, and put the book down on the writing desk. “And... I thought ye migh' want t' know what we're plannin' on doin' with ye.”

  Izzy didn't answer.

  Owen took a deep breath and continued. “We'll be sending a ransom note, to yer family. So... that bein' how it is... I'll be needing to know yer full name.”

  Izzy closed her eyes and bit back a sigh. “Isabelle Wharton nee Granger. My parents reside in London.”

  “Aye,” Owen said. He cleared his throat. “Very well. Thank ye.”

  “Of course,” Izzy muttered with a bite of sarcasm in her tone. She heard Owen pick up her plate. “Tell me,” she said before he could close the door behind him, “how does a man with an English father end up fighting with a band of barbarians?”

  Owen's reply was delayed and tense when it came. “The kind of man whose mother was violated by a man in a red uniform,” he said, and shut the door behind him so hard that it rattled in the frame. Izzy curled into herself, suddenly struck by regret. Hers had been a low blow. No one asked to be born who they were. Still, that didn't excuse what he had done. She would have no sympathy for a murderer and an outlaw.

  *****

  No one came to see her again until dinnertime. Izzy's stomach was growling by then and she was grateful when fresh food and drink were brought, even though it was Owen who brought it to her. She hadn't touched the book he had delivered earlier. In fact, she had barely noticed the passing of time. It was only the creaking of the door that brought her out of her almost trance-like state. She rolled over to watch Owen set down her dinner. The light in the room had dimmed, yet still there were no candles. It looked like she would be spending the evening in the complete dark.

  Izzy could see the tension in Owen's broad shoulders. Another wave of guilt rolled over her. She sat up and wrapped her fingers around the edge of the bed.

  “I'm sorry, for what I said earlier,” she said. “You must understand...” Her words failed her.

  Owen sighed softly and scratched at his beard. It made him look older than Izzy suspected he really was.

  “Ye need t' try and understand as well,” he said. “We have no choice. It's our freedom on the line.” His eyes, black in the low light, met hers. “I woulda thought a woman would sympathize with such things.”

  Izzy had nothing to say to him. Instead she cleared her throat and picked at the end of her braid with her fingers.

  “How long am I to be prisoner here?”

  “Until we receive a reply from yer family. T'won't be long. I imagine they're eager t' have ye back.” He tried to smile, but it fell flat. “Try t' rest.” He left her alone once more.

  Izzy ate and drank and stared out the window until the room was almost too black for her to see before struggling out of her dress. It wasn't easy to manage all her laces, but he
r travelling clothes at least were far simpler than her normal fare, and soon were a pile on the floor. She slipped into the bed and pulled the thin blanket over herself.

  She woke in the middle of the night shivering, and by the moonlight that came through her window she found where she had discarded Owen's cloak. She spread it out on top of herself and the blanket and pulled it up close to her chin, burying her face in the warm fur. She tried to convince herself that the pleasant scent that still clung to it wasn't part of why she fell asleep so quickly, or why she didn't have dreams that night.

  ***

  The days following were much the same. Sometimes it was Owen who brought her food, other times it was not, but no one spoke to her and she spent most of her time in solitude mourning her husband and wondering what her parents would say and do once they received the ransom note. Owen was the only one who seemed to see her as something more than a pawn to be bargained with. Maybe he really did feel some remorse for what he had done. After all, he hardly could have known what Alan had been to her. Likely he had no idea Izzy would be there at all. It was clear they had been striking a move against what they had thought to be an important man on his way to the garrison.

  Izzy scoffed at herself. They had slaughtered innocent men. They were monsters and weren't at all deserving of her remorse. Still, she read the book Owen had brought her, an adventure story that was simple and predictable but passed the time easily enough, and waited, and waited, and waited. By the time Owen brought her dinner that night she was bored stiff and looking once more for some way to open the single, little window that was her only source of light.

  “I hope yer not tryin' to escape,” Owen said from behind her. Izzy almost flinched away from the window but she squared her shoulders and climbed off the bed to stand and face him.

  “And where would I go? I don't know where I am, and from what I can tell the only way out of this room is through that door, which is always kept locked.”