“The officer, too. He was the worst. Say it, lass.”
“I already did,” she replied irritably, “but I’ll say it again, if it will make you drop the subject. They were savages. The officer especial y.”
Duncan leaned back. «Well done, lassie. You’re making progress. Remember what I said to you that first day, when we stopped in the glade?”
Of course she remembered: Before I’m done with you, I’ll make you see that your English officers in their fancy red coats can be just as savage as any Scot …
After a moment, he added, “But you should know that we have rules in Scotland, too. The clans are not without them.
We follow the word of the chief.”
“And you should know that not all Englishmen are like those soldiers.”
As they rode on, she reflected upon the lesson Duncan was trying to teach her and knew he was right in many respects. One had to look deeper, beneath the layers of clothing and appearances—even beyond behavior sometimes—to truly understand a man’s heart. She had always been aware of the principle intellectually, of course, but she had never been so challenged by the actual feat of understanding a man who was not from her world.
She pondered also what she had been through over the past few days—how she had been stripped bare in front of this Highland warrior, bound and gagged, abducted by force.
She’d slept in a cave and eaten freshly killed rabbit. To top it all off, she’d almost bludgeoned him to death with a rock the night before. She had not known she was capable of any of that.
How then could she believe that she knew any man’s heart when she did not even truly understand her own?
She thought of Beth and her children and their warm, comfortable home. It was a simple, peaceful life they led, yet Beth’s elderly father had fought in many battles and lost loved ones in a brutal massacre initiated by her own countrymen.
Then final y, there was the image of Duncan—her fierce and violent captor—rising up out of a bath, dripping with glistening droplets of water. He was strong and rough and virile. A savage? Perhaps. But an impossibly handsome one, and heroic, in his own way. Intel igent, as well .
She thought again of all the evidence of his warrior life.…
“Are those scars painful?” she asked.
He paused. Turner tossed his head and shook his long black mane. “Aye. Sometimes one in particular will ache for no reason, and it will bring me back to the moment I was cut.
I know every wound by heart—where I was when I received it, what army I was fighting for, and against. I can even recall the eyes of the man who slashed me, and whether or not I killed him in defense of my own life.”
“What about the one that’s shaped like a crescent moon?”
she asked. “It looks like it must have been very deep. Where did that come from?”
He paused. “I fell down the side of a mountain when I was a lad. Tumbled and bounced like a stone.”
She turned quickly in the saddle. “My word. How terrible.”
“Aye, straight down the rocky side of a gorge. I broke my wrist, too, and had to set the bone in place myself.”
She winced painful y, just listening to the story. “How old were you?”
“Ten.”
“Good heavens. But why were you alone on a mountain?
Was there no adult nearby to watch over you, or help nurse you?”
“Nay, I was on my own.”
“But why? Did you not have a family?”
“I did, but my father believed in harsh discipline. ‘From cradle to combat,’ he always said. He’s the one who took me to the mountains and left me there to find my way home.”
Amelia did not understand this. Not at all . “Why would a father do such a thing? You could have died.”
“He meant to toughen me up, and it worked.”
“Obviously.” She faced front again and tried to imagine the Butcher as a ten-year-old boy, fending for himself in the mountains with a broken arm. “How long were you alone like that?”
“Three weeks. That’s why I climbed the mountain. I was trying to figure out where I was. But I got distracted when I heard a wolf howling at me.”
“You must have been terrified.”
“Aye, but a Scot knows how to deal with fear. We slay it, then take pride in the kill .”
“My father once said that courage is not the absence of fear,” she said. “It is how you behave when you are most afraid.”
“Aye, your father was a wise man, lassie, and brave as well . You sure he wasn’t a Scot?”
She chuckled. “I am absolutely sure.”
“Pity for him.”
Amelia slapped at a pesky midge on her neck. “What else happened to you during those three weeks when you were alone?”
“Mostly a lot of nothing. I wandered around, scrounged for food, tracked small animals, sometimes just for the mere pleasure of their company. I remember a squirrel who made things bearable for a few days. all I had was my knife, but I soon figured out how to make a spear and kill a fish, and then how to make a bow and arrow. I knew I was north of my home. That’s the one thing my father told me before he galloped off and left me. So I simply followed the sun.”
She looked up at the sky though the canopy of leaves overhead. “I wouldn’t know which way to go in such a situation.”
“Aye, you would, lass. all you need to know is that the sun rises in the east. You figure it out from there.” His body curled into hers. “But you needn’t worry about cluttering up your mind, trying to navigate by the sun,” he said. “You have me to rely on, and I know exactly where we are.”
“We are traveling to Moncrieffe,” she said, waiting curiously for his reply.
“Aye.”
She paused. «Will you release me into the earl’s protection when we arrive? Is that your plan? To confront Richard, and then let me go?”
Please, God, let him say yes.
He nuzzled her ear again. “Nay, lass, I cannot promise you that, or anything else.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know if your beloved will be there when we turn up at the gate. If not, I’ll be keeping you till we find him. Or he finds us.”
“I see.” She strove to keep her emotions in check. «Well, perhaps he will be enjoying the Moncrieffe whisky so much, he’ll decide to linger awhile.”
“You should pray for it, lass.”
Suddenly Duncan’s body stiffened and Amelia’s heart flew into a panic as a spear shot past their heads and penetrated the bark of a tree.
“What’s going—?” But she didn’t have a chance to finish the thought before the horse reared up and they both toppled backwards to the ground. She landed on top of Duncan with a heavy thud that knocked the wind from her lungs. He rolled her to the side, and before she could even look up he was on his feet, standing over her with his legs braced apart, axe already in hand, as his claymore came scraping out of its scabbard with a piercing and terrifying swish.
Chapter Eleven
Amelia’s heart was still thrashing about in her chest when she spotted a small , golden-haired boy in a kilt crawling out from inside a hollow log. She glanced around to see if he was alone. He stood up and gaped at them, horror-struck.
“I thought you were the wolf!” he cried, and Amelia glanced down at the knife in his hand. His cheeks were smeared with filth, his hair matted.
Duncan slipped his sword back into the scabbard and strode forward, though he kept a tight grip on his axe. “What wolf do you speak of, lad?”
“The one who’s stalking my pa’s flock!”
Duncan stopped a few feet away from the boy. “Your father’s a drover?”
“Aye. But it’s been two days since I’ve seen him.”
Amelia rose to her feet and brushed the flecks of moss and dirt from her skirts. Was this another ten-year-old boy abandoned by his father in the Scottish wilderness to learn how to survive alone? Perhaps he was so desperate, he’d hoped
to kill them and skin them for dinner.
These Scots … She was trying to understand them, but sometimes, sometimes, she simply could not.
Al at once, the boy began to weep, and she darted forward to console him—but Duncan raised a hand to hold her back.
He slipped his axe into his belt. “Now, now, lad,” he said in a firm voice. “You did well with your aim. It was strong and true.” He knelt down on one knee.
The boy’s frail little body shuddered with sobs. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to!”
“No harm done. Now tell me what you’re doing out here.
You’re separated from your father, you say?”
The child nodded, and his chin quivered while he fought to control his voice.
“What’s your name?” Duncan asked.
“Elliott MacDonald.”
Duncan gave Elliott a moment to collect himself. He waited patiently while the boy wiped his tears and stopped crying.
“Is your father on his way to the markets?” Duncan asked.
“Aye.”
«Well, I know the drovers’ trail. It’s not far from here. We can take you to him.”
Amelia careful y approached, and this time Duncan let her pass. “Are you all right, Elliott?” She bent forward and rested her hands on her knees. “Are you hurt, or hungry?”
Elliott glanced uncertainly at Duncan.
“It’s all right, lad,” he said. “She may be English, but she’s a friend.”
“She talks funny.”
“Aye, that she does.”
Amelia felt the tension drain out of the moment and smiled. “Yes, I talk funny in this part of the world, but I promise, you have nothing to fear from me.”
The boy studied them both, his eyes darting from one to the other, then slipped his knife into his boot.
Duncan rose to his feet. “There’s some sugar biscuits in my saddlebag.” He tossed his head in the direction of his horse. Thankful y, the animal had returned after being spooked by the spear whizzing past his head. He was waiting by the tree, where the spear was still lodged in the bark.
Amelia gathered her skirts in her fists and pushed her way through the thick undergrowth of moss and ground cover.
She reached the horse and took hold of the dangling reins, then led him back to where Duncan and Elliott were waiting.
They sat down on the log while she dug into the leather pouches and withdrew the biscuits Beth had provided that morning.
“Here you are, Elliott,” she said, offering him one.
The boy gobbled it up in a flash; then he burped and wiped his mouth.
“Beggin’ your pardon,” he said. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
She handed him another biscuit, which he promptly devoured.
“A growing lad such as yourself?” Duncan said. “It’s no wonder you swallowed both those biscuits whole.”
She watched Duncan tousle Elliott’s shaggy blond hair and wondered what the boy would do if he knew he was sitting next to the famous Butcher of the Highlands. Would Elliott run away, crying in terror and screaming for his father?
Or would he be thrilled?
She compared Duncan’s current behavior to his manner on the night he’d abducted her at the fort and found it all very confusing and difficult to comprehend. Who was the real Duncan? At the moment she felt no fear of him, nor anger. In fact, she quite admired the way he talked to the boy.
“Tel me about this wolf you were tracking,” Duncan said to Elliott. “What does he look like?”
“It’s a she,” Elliott replied. “She has white markings, more than gray, which makes her hard to see. She blends in with the flock.”
“Clever wolf,” Duncan said. “Does your father know you’re lost? Did you tell him you were hunting the white wolf?”
“Aye. He didn’t want me to go at first, but I told him I’d come back with her fangs in my sporran.”
“Have you seen her today?”
“Nay. That’s the problem. I’m lost, and she’s probably feasting on my pa’s sheep right now, while I’m not there to watch over them. Me pa’s probably pissin’ mad.”
“Sounds like you need to get back to your flock.” Duncan stood. “Go help the lady mount, then get in the saddle with her. I’ll take you through the pass, and we’ll find your father.”
The boy started off toward the horse but stopped and turned. “I should thank you, mister. will you tell me your name?”
“It’s Duncan.”
“Are you a MacDonald?”
Duncan glanced briefly at Amelia and paused before he answered. “Nay, lad. I’m not a MacDonald. But I’m a friend.”
The boy smiled knowingly. “You don’t want to tell me, do you? Are you a fugitive?”
Duncan chuckled. “Something like that.”
In fact, it was exactly like that. There was more than one reward out for the Butcher’s head on a stick.
“You’re not the Butcher, are you?” the boy suddenly asked, his eyebrows flying up.
Duncan glanced at Amelia again, then calmly replied,
“Nay, Elliott.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, “because I’m going to join the Butcher’s band of rebels one day.”
Duncan merely shrugged and spread his arms wide, in an expansive gesture, as if to apologize for being a nobody.
«Well, even so,” Elliott said, turning back toward the horse.
“I won’t tell anyone I met you.” He yanked his spear out of the tree. “And I’m glad my aim was off.”
Cheerful y he waited for Amelia to collect the saddle pouches; then he offered his gentlemanly assistance when it came time to mount.
* * *
It took them two hours to reach the shepherd and his flock, which was passing through a fertile green glen under the glorious heat of the August sun. Hazy beams of sunlight burned down from the sky, illuminating hundreds of white, cottony sheep while thick pearly clouds with heavenly linings sailed over the tall mountain peaks. A bird of prey soared weightlessly downward and shouted a call to another while dogs barked rowdily and bounded about on the valley floor, pushing the flock toward the noisy river.
The vast, emerald beauty of it all was almost too much for Amelia to comprehend. It aroused her sense of wonder and sparked her imagination as she breathed deeply the fresh aroma of the earth and vegetation, gleaming wetly under the brilliant sun. If she were an artist, she would preserve this scene on canvas, so that it would live forever in her memory.
An odd thought, real y, under the circumstances.
Nevertheless, she studied every detail, determined to never forget what she had seen and how she had felt, beholding such heavenly splendor.
Elliott hopped to the ground and started running.
“Pa! Pa!”
The barking dogs alerted their arrival and came sprinting across the glen to greet Elliott.
The shepherd spotted them, too, and began to run.
Duncan—on foot, still leading the horse—stopped and watched the man drop to his knees and hug his son.
Amelia’s heart warmed at the sight of the boy reunited with his father. Yet at the same time her joy mingled with a deep and painful melancholy as she thought of her own father and how she mourned the loss of him. What she would not give to dash across a Scottish glen right now and run into his safe, loving arms.
The fantasy caused a lump to rise up in her throat, but she fought to push it down and keep the unwelcome tears at bay.
They would do her no good. Not here, and certainly not now.
The drover hugged his boy, then raised his long shepherd’s hook to wave at them. Duncan started forward again, the horse followed, and Amelia swept aside all thoughts of her father. She turned her attention to Duncan instead, for she was, quite frankly, struck by the person he appeared to be at this moment—caring, helpful, and forthcoming. A kind and trustworthy man. One you would seek out if you needed assistance. Someone you could depend upon.
T
his was not the fearsome and brutal Butcher who had materialized out of her nightmares a few nights ago and abducted her into darkness. This was someone else entirely—which was a most bewildering thought.
“Good day to you!” the drover called out from across the distance. He wore a kilt, a quarter-length brown jacket, and a plaid bonnet with a feather stuck in it. “Elliott tells me he almost maimed you with his spear!”
“Aye,” Duncan replied. “The lad is highly skilled. We’re lucky to be alive to tell the tale.”
The drover approached, stood face-to-face with Duncan, and spoke in a quieter voice. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing him back to me. That lad is my life. He has no mother.”
Duncan nodded. «Well, you ought to be proud of him,” he said. “He’s a brave one, no doubt about it.”
The drover turned and looked over his shoulder at Elliott, who was laughing and chasing the dogs around. “Mm. He wants to fight. He’ll not stand for any oppression, even from a wolf who’s only looking for her next meal.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” Duncan offered. “Elliott described her to me. She has white markings.”
“Aye, but I warn you, she’s slick as muck, and she can sneak up on you. I’ve never seen such a clever creature, not in all my days as a drover.”
“I’ll remember your advice. Good luck with your flock, MacDonald.”
Duncan began to turn the horse around, and Amelia nodded at the man, whose eyes were warm and friendly.
“Good day to you, lassie,” he said, touching the brim of his bonnet as he looked up at her, sitting high in the saddle.
She decided it would be best to keep quiet and conceal her English accent. He couldn’t help her anyway. If he knew who she was, he would most likely side with the Butcher—
like everyone else north of the border.
“Good luck, Elliott!” Duncan called out over his shoulder.
“I’m sure you’ll catch her!”
“I will !” the boy replied. “And thank you for the biscuits!”
Captured by the Highlander Page 12