“'Tis true this town is too small to warrant much attention,” Owen replied as he put Izzy's dinner down on the writing desk. “I don' know the name of it meself, just that it's here, and sheltered, and tha's enough for us.”
“And who is this 'us' exactly?” Izzy asked.
Owen gave her a sad, crooked smile. “I cannae tell ye their names.”
“Yet you told me yours.
”He almost looked taken aback. “Aye, that I did.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I may not know th' town, but I know where we are. The garrison's a couple days ride southeast. Bloody bastards tryin' to claim lands they have no right to.”
“Is it not better for everyone to be united under one set of laws?” Izzy asked. “From what I hear your clans are too busy killing one another to adapt to more civilized ways.”
Owen's face darkened. “Ye wouldn't understand,” he said, and shut and locked the door behind him.
Izzy went back to the window. If she pressed her face against the glass, then she could see down to the roof of the stables. She didn't judge the distance to be too far to fall. If she could just think of some way to get the window open... Perhaps the chair would work. It looked sturdy enough, and she could likely split the window frame with it as well. It was just large enough that she could slip out, and provided she didn't break something in the fall she was sure she could make her way out of the village and find the road to the garrison. There would be help there. Izzy didn't need to know the name of the town to bring a hoard of regulars down upon them. It was still too light outside now, but in the morning, just before dawn, that would be when she could make her move. She would not be ransomed off to her family and allow these men the funds they needed.
That night she prepared. Her window faced west. She could see the little hamlet cramped around the base of the large house where Izzy was being held captive. There was only one road out that led up through the mountains, and plenty of shadows for her to hide in.
As the sun sank below the horizon, Izzy ripped off the already irreparably soiled fabric from the bottom of her dress to form a small sack in which to carry the food she was brought. The men fed her well, and the bread and cheese on her plate would be enough to last her a couple days if she was careful and rationed. Water would be an issue, but Alan had always told her Scotland was rife with clear streams and creeks, and if the garrison was as close as Owen implied, then the odds would be in her favour. Or so she hoped. She stashed the food sack under her bed and climbed onto the mattress.
She slept on and off through the night, too afraid that if she properly slept she wouldn't wake in time to make her escape. When the first traces of dawn began to turn the room grey, Izzy fully blinked her eyes open and slowly climbed out of bed. She dressed herself in the dim light, made sure that her sack of food was tightly tied, and placed it by the window. With barely a second thought she grabbed Owen's cloak from over the chair to take with her, then lifted the chair and balanced herself on the bed. The chair was awkward to hold, but its weight felt solid. Izzy sucked in a deep breath and prayed to God that her plan would work.
The leg of the chair burst through the glass, but her momentum of her swing carried her forward, and the ragged shards the impact had left behind scraped against her hand an arm. Even worse, the sound of breaking glass was louder than she imagined, shattering the morning silence. Izzy ignored the pain lacing her arm and swung the chair again. The thin frame separating from the panes of glass easily. More bits of broken glass spread across the bed and fell down to the roof of the stable blow. Behind Izzy, the door rattled, and then flew open. Owen crossed the room in three large strides and wrapped his strong arms around Izzy's waist, bodily pulling her off the bed and away from the window.
“Stop yer squirmin'!” he shouted loudly in her ear, then grunted as Izzy promptly elbowed him in the ribs. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough to make him let go, and Izzy found herself being manhandled across the room until Owen could wrestle her through the door and down to the lower level.
Two of his companions were on the stairs, their swords half drawn and their faces as dark as thunder. Owen shouted something at them in Gaelic that made them grumble but back off. Owen hauled Izzy into an empty room and kicked the door shut behind them.
“Let go of me!” Izzy shouted. “Let go! Let go!” It took her digging her nails into his arm to get him to drop her with a pained sound. He rubbed his arm and glared at her like a wounded puppy. Izzy crossed her arms over her chest, ignoring the stinging of her own wounds, her chest heaving as she drew in sharp breaths.
“What in the hell did ye think ye were doin'!?” Owen shouted. “Ye could 'ave broken yer leg, or worse!”
“Did you simply expect me to sit here idly by wasting the days away until you can sell me back to my family!?” Izzy yelled back, and had the satisfaction of seeing Owen flinch at her raised voice. “I am not some cattle to be bartered away! You have taken me against my will, for no good reason, and you think I'll simply let it happen? How daft can you possibly be!?”
Owen glared at her, but seconds later his expression relaxed and he sighed heavily, his broad shoulders drooping. “C'mere, lass,” he said softly. Izzy turned her nose up, her jaw tightly clenched. “Isabelle, please. Let me at least tend t'yer arm.”
The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine. Izzy remained standing where she was while Owen slowly closed the distance between them, and then touched her elbow to guide her to sit on the bed pushed up against the wall. While he tore what looked like an old shirt into strips and balled one up to use as a wet cloth, Izzy looked about the room. It was plain, but it had a familiar scent to it, and it only took Izzy half a minute longer to realize that she was sitting in Owen's room, on his bed. She felt her face warm and hated herself for it.
Owen crouched before her and held out his hand. “Let me see yer arm, eh?”
Izzy reluctantly held it out. With a tenderness she hadn't expected from the man capable of murdering her husband, and others, he washed the blood from her hand and arm. It hurt, but not because of his attentions. Her jaw tight, Izzy did her best to keep from whimpering and bore her pain as silently as she could. Owen wrapped her wounds once he had cleaned them as thoroughly as he was able, then leaned back on his heels. Izzy hugged her arm to her chest, unable to look away from his grey eyes. Was her heart pounding because of him or because of something else? She couldn't be sure.
“Tha' was a pretty stupid thing you did,” he said softly, then smiled as if it would soften his words. Surprisingly, it did.
“Why do you care?” Izzy asked.
Owen sighed, then shrugged. “This might seem... forward, but... I see a bit of meself in you. Ye're stubborn, smart...” He nodded. “Aye. Not what I was expecting from an English woman.”
“I suppose that does give me some satisfaction.” She paused and let her hands fall into her lap, where she twined her fingers together in something that closely resembled awkwardness. “Perhaps... perhaps you aren't what I expected either.”
Owen grinned a her, a genuine smile that promptly stole Izzy's breath away. She cleared her throat.
“Can I ask ye somethin'?” Owen said.
Izzy nodded.
“Do ye hate me? For what I did.”
Izzy felt her chest clench. Owen had, in a way, shown her more kindness than the others during her captivity, but what he had done...
“I don't know,” she said honestly. Owen inhaled deeply then nodded and pushed to his feet. “I'll bring ye some breakfast,” he said. He paused, looking down at her, and raised his hand to touch her chin, his thumb smoothing gently across it. Izzy caught a glimpse of something familiar in his eyes before he turned and left.
He shut the door but Izzy didn't hear it lock, nor did she hear any footsteps other than his as he went down the creaky steps. She was still sitting on his bed when he returned a few minutes later with a plate piled high with something more than just bread and cheese for once. Izzy spied
potatoes and an apple. As always, her meal was accompanied by a small beer. This time, however, Owen was carrying two plates, and he sat on the window sill and picked at what was on his own plate while he had left the fuller one on the bed near Izzy's hip. The door was half open, and Izzy could hear soft laughter and voices coming from downstairs, and smell sweet cooking meat. The latter made her mouth water, and she reached for her plate.
“Thank you,” she said between bites a moment later.
Owen simply dipped his head. “Ye're very much welcome.”
*****
Izzy lost track of the days that passed. They all blurred together into one elongated period of time, only barely broken by sleeping. To her surprise she was allowed out of her room, or Owen's room rather, provided that he remained with her. Given the broken window in her old room, he had allowed her the use of his bed, and slept on a pallet on the floor, wrapped in furs. It was certainly much warmer than it had been at the top of the house, and the bed softer. Owen would even take her out around the village, to let her stretch her legs and breathe fresh air. None of the other men ever dared lay a hand on her, not since that first smack after the initial attack. Izzy could almost forget she was a prisoner. Owen made her feel like she was someone important, much in the same way Alan had.
His death still stung her, but Izzy was surprised to find herself on better terms with Owen than she would have thought possible considering the circumstances. While his friends seemed rough and uncouth and every bit the lawless outlaws the English claimed they were, Owen had never been anything but a complete and total gentleman, and his kindness and respect often left Izzy speechless. She had even heard a rather loud argument between him and one of the other men, where he was accused of having a soft spot for "the wench" as she was called, that resulted in what sounded like a scuffle and the injured party storming out of the house.
He was terribly handsome as well, Izzy noticed. It wasn't that she hadn't when they first met, but she had been so pre-occupied with what had happened to her and to Alan that she hadn't quite registered just how attractive Owen was. All of her feelings swirled around in her mind until Izzy was hardly sure she could tell the difference between up and down. She was so caught up in him and in trying to make sense of what she was feeling that when the reply to her captors' ransom note finally arrived she was thrown completely off-balance.
Owen was the one who brought it to her. Izzy would have thought he'd have been happy to get her out of his hair and not have to play the babysitter any longer, but there was a deep sadness in his eyes, and his voice was soft when he spoke, handing the letter over for Izzy to read.
"A meeting place has been set," he said, leaning against the wall by the window. "The ransom will be delivered, and ye'll be safely returned to the arms of the British."
"You could sound happier," Izzy replied. "Was this not the ultimate goal? To wheedle money out of my family in return for my release so that you might fund further escapades?"
"Ye could sound happier as well," Owen said. "Or is that reluctance I see in yer eyes?"
Izzy looked away. She couldn't be sure what she was feeling. The tightness in her chest was something close to anxiety, but should she not be excited? She thought, at first, that perhaps she was simply worried the Scots would not keep their word, but that theory was quickly dismissed. She was just another mouth to feed, and a useless one at that. These men only wanted to get their money and be rid of her. They had nothing to gain from betrayal. So then, what was it? She looked up at Owen, who had turned to gaze out the window, and suddenly it all became clear.
He was the reason for her reluctance. He, who had murdered her husband but showed remorse and regret for his actions as well as the actions of his companions, whereas the others had only looked at her with scorn and disdain when they looked at her at all. He, who was as handsome and as much of a gentleman as her late husband had always been. Was it possible to fall in love with someone so quickly? Or was it simply guilt that she had been unable to prevent Alan's fall, or attachment to a captor who had made her feel like a person?
"When is the exchange to happen?" she asked.
"Tomorrow," Owen said, "at noon. Two men from each side will meet, the money will change hands, and ye'll go back to yer kin."
"I see," Izzy said. She folded the letter in her hands. "I wish to be alone, please."
Owen's gaze was laced with concern, but he nodded and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Izzy sighed and sagged, passing a hand over her eyes. A month ago everything had been so simple, and now she didn't know what to do or what to think. She was doubting everything. Had she truly loved Alan, or had she only had affection for him because he was comely and well-off, and a proper gentleman? He had been nice to her, but it was clear that his duty to the regiment came first. Thinking back on what she could remember of their conversations, Izzy was struck with the distinct feeling that he had seen her as nothing more than an ornament and a way to further his line. That did not in any way mean that he had not cared for her in some way, but what had their relationship truly been?
And what was her relationship with Owen? If they had met under different circumstances, would she still feel the same way? Would she have fallen in love with him? All night she stewed, her dinner going untouched when Owen brought it. He didn't properly return to the room until late in the evening, his shirt untucked and loose and stinking of beer, a small sway in his step. Izzy was already tucked up in bed, but she couldn't sleep. How could she, when her mind was full to bursting?
Owen must have thought she was sleeping, however, for he tugged his shirt off over his head, and in the light from the candle burning on the window ledge Izzy could see the cut of his muscles and the patch of coarse hair on his chest, and the scars that life had given him. One in particular caught her eye, a fairly narrow but long line that stretched from his ribs down to his navel, curving gently along the shape of his body.
She squeezed her thighs together against the sudden pressure that bloomed between them. She waited for it to go, like it had her first night with Alan, but it persisted as Owen set about undressing and preparing his bed for the night. With a heavy grunt he lay down and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders. Izzy waited to hear him snoring, but instead he kept moving around, sighing and grunting and grumbling under his breath. Izzy had never thought he'd had trouble falling asleep, and perhaps it was just the alcohol, but maybe she had simply fallen asleep too early to notice.
After a particularly heavy sigh, Izzy felt inclined to speak up. "Is something the matter?" she asked.
"Floor is damn uncomfortable," Owen growled and shifted about once more, "but I'm not about t' let a lady sleep on it."
Izzy swallowed hard, words tumbling around in her brain and falling out of her mouth before she could stop them. "There is room up here for us both, I think," she said. "It would be warmer as well, to share. It would not be the first time."
"That ye've shared yer bed?" Owen asked. "Or shared it with a man, for they are two different creatures."
"Both," Izzy said. She lifted the blanket and scooted back towards the wall. "There is room for you here, if you would take it."
She couldn't see Owen but she could feel him looking at her. He sighed again, then grunted as he sat up and crawled onto the mattress. It creaked and sagged under his weight. Izzy pushed herself further back to be sure he would fit, and found herself rather comfortably pinned between him and the wall behind her, the blankets cushioning her against the cool stone.
Owen let out a deep, content hum. "Oh, aye, tha' is much better. Ye've quite a lot o' warmth for someone so small."
Izzy made no reply. Owen wriggled about for a few seconds until he was presumably comfortable enough to settle down. Izzy closed her eyes and tried to ignore how every part of her body that touched his burned with more than just body heat.
"Ye kno'," Owen continued, "I'll be rightly sad t' see ye go. Cannae say why."
"I will be
as well," Izzy said honestly. "And I can't put a reason to it any more than you can." She took a deep breath. "I think, however, that it is you to blame, Mr. Chester."
"Don' call me tha'," Owen said, not harshly. He moved his shoulders about. "Do ye speak true?"
"I do," Izzy replied.
She heard Owen scratch at his beard and wondered what it would feel like to kiss him and have it rub against her jaw, if it would be prickly and unpleasant or a gentle sort of scratching. It seemed Owen could read her mind as well, for he turned onto his side to face her. Izzy's eyes had long adjusted to the darkness, and the candle provided more than enough light for her to see his face. He raised a large hand and touched her cheek.
"Has anyone ever told ye how beautiful ye are?" he asked.
Izzy felt her breath leave her lungs. "Perhaps not in the same way you just have," she replied.
Owen inched closer. He was naked, Izzy realized. Of course he was naked. She herself was only in her shift, and it was so thin she may as well have been wearing nothing. Any other man would have just kissed her, even Alan. Any other man would have simply taken what it was he wanted. But it was growing increasingly clear that Owen was not like any other man. There was almost not an inch of their bodies that wasn't touching, and it would be so easy for him to simply take... but instead he asked.
"I want t' kiss ye. May I?"
His thumb touched her chin again, fingers splaying out along her cheek, just as gentle as all the other times he had done so. Far from what she had expected from a rugged Highlander. This time, he didn't move his hand away.
Izzy nearly melted into him. "Please," she whispered, and was startled by how lost and breathless her voice was.
Her permission given, Owen wasted no time in covering her mouth with his in a kiss that held more passion than all of her kisses with Alan wrapped up into one. The scratch of his beard against her was yet another reminder, as rough and brusque as she had hoped. Izzy's body arched along his until her front was pressed completely against his chest and legs. Though she and Alan had only coupled a handful of times, she was familiar with the workings of a man's body, yet in spite of what she thought she knew she was surprised to find that he was already hard and ready.
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