A Captain's Heart (Highland Heartbeats Book 5)

by Aileen Adams

  She hadn’t realized the ground sloped the way it did. While it helped her move more quickly, it also meant slipping and sliding and skidding on her rear end at times.

  She scrambled to her feet, the sounds of men crashing through the underbrush behind her ringing in her ears, along with loud swearing. They were having as much difficulty as she.

  That didn’t mean she could slow down.

  She stumbled over a thick, exposed root and fell to her knees, sliding forward in spite of the way her hands scrambled for purchase on something stable. Leaves and stones slid away under her, making it impossible to stop.

  The ground finally leveled somewhat, and she was able to steady herself, still on hands and knees. Her head swiveled in both directions as she gasped for breath, mind racing. Panic was setting in, just as Derek had warned her against.

  The tree!

  She had missed the boulders, likely having slid past them, but she saw the Y-shaped tree and knew she was still moving in the right direction.

  It was enough to get her feet moving again, that and the ever-present sound of men chasing her.

  “It’ll end better for ye if ye stop now, lass!”

  The shouting echoed again and again through the open air, chilling her blood. She had to keep going.

  Where was she?

  Where was Derek?

  She wanted to scream his name, to beg him to find her, but that would only reveal her to her pursuers.

  She had to rest, if only for a moment.

  A large, thick birch tree stood only feet away. She hid behind it, pressing her back to the trunk, listening for any sign of the men following. If needed, she might be able to climb the tree and wait them out. She might even be able to see Derek or Hugh from a higher vantage point.

  She only wished she knew how to climb.

  Necessity had shown her how to do many things she hadn’t thought herself capable of.

  The snap of a twig behind her sent her heart racing again, and she bolted before she could think twice. All that mattered was getting away, and quickly.

  Horses!

  Just on the other side of a line of trees!

  She threw herself toward them, drawing in breath to scream for help, when something heavy hit her from behind and sent her slamming into a tree.

  “If you want him to live, you’ll keep yer mouth shut, lass.”

  A blade pressed against her throat, and she whimpered.

  The man who held her in place chuckled, his breath hot in her ear. “You might even live through this, too, if you’re smart.”

  32

  “I know I heard something.” Derek’s ears tuned to the sounds around him and he closed his eyes ever so briefly, holding his breath, desperate to hear again what he was almost certain he’d heard before.

  A gasp. A whimper. The sound of a collision.

  When he opened his eyes, he found Hugh looking just as concerned.

  They exchanged glances, then slid from their mounts and handed the reins to the nearest men.

  He was careful where he placed his feet, reflexes kicking in as he avoided leaves and twigs, nearly holding his breath.

  The animal sounds around him had all but ceased, even the song of the birds. They knew something was wrong, just as he did.

  Where were they? Who were they? How many were just beyond the next tree, behind the next shrub? Lying in wait…

  A twig snapped. Then another.

  He whirled in the direction of the sound, his dirk ready, every muscle tensed.

  His eyes locked with hers, his heart soaring and sinking all at once.

  She was dirty, scraped and scratched, one side of her face swelling from where she had clearly been hit. Her tunic was torn, covered in needles and bits of pinecone.

  But she was alive.

  “So. Here we are.” MacBride stood behind her, one arm tight around her shoulders and chest, crushing her to him.

  He was sweating profusely—it rolled down his face, soaking into his tunic, and his heavy breathing caused Derek to wonder if he were about to have an attack. A large man such as he, running after a tiny lass probably twice as fast as he.

  “Here we are,” Derek agreed.

  Hugh stood to his left, scanning their surroundings, likely watching for the other men whose tracks they’d followed.

  Everything was so clear, so sharp. Down to the delicate buds on the branches of the trees behind MacBride’s head.

  Derek saw everything, heard everything. The way it used to be just before battle, when his senses had focused with unnatural intensity and allowed him to be the victor.

  He could think clearly, too, which was just what he would need to do. Her life was in danger.

  It wasn’t just his life anymore. He was fighting for much more than that. He needed every bit of clarity he could get.

  “Ye know why this has to happen, don’t ye, lad?” MacBride gasped, his entire body heaving in an attempt to suck in the air it so desperately needed.

  But the blade he pressed to Margery’s delicate throat didn’t shake. Just a bit more pressure and it would break the skin.

  Derek stayed perfectly still, gauging everything around him.

  Hugh and the rest could take care of MacBride’s men. This was his fight, right here in front of him. This was the man he would kill, or likely be killed in the attempt.

  “I know,” he nodded.

  “Nobody leaves me high and dry, as you did.”

  “I never meant to mislead you.”

  “Drop the dirk,” MacBride ordered, his voice sharper than before. He was beginning to get hold of himself, which didn’t bode well.

  Derek did as he was told, and Margery’s soft whimper told him of her growing despair. To her, it would look as though he were giving in, when he was doing anything but.

  Footsteps sounded around them. MacBride’s men.

  Whoever they were, they would be no match for Hugh. They weren’t trained the way Hugh’s men were. Derek remembered those days, spending hour after hour in the field, learning to fight. Back then, it had all been in defense of the clan.

  That training had served him well against the Norwegians. A trio of sailors should seem like a practice exercise in comparison.

  But then again, there was that blade, and that precious throat.

  Somehow, even the sight of an advancing Viking hoard hadn’t stirred his blood the way a glint of sunlight off that blade did.

  “I’ve brought with me a contract,” MacBride explained. “And on it, I want your mark. It states the ships are mine, lad, to do with as I wish. No questions, no provisions. Very simple.”

  He had expected this from the moment it became clear MacBride had trailed them from Kirkcaldy. “I suppose I’m to expect no payment in return?”

  MacBride snorted, jerking the arm which held Margery in place. “This isn’t enough for you? This ripe young thing? Don’t worry—we didn’t spoil her for ye. Though I can’t say we wouldn’t have if she hadn’t run when she did. A feisty thing.”

  He leaned in over her shoulder, a bead of sweat dripping from his chin and hitting her shoulder where the tunic had torn.

  She shuddered, turning her face away. That slight movement caused the blade to press even deeper into her flesh.

  She winced, gritting her teeth, and a thin trickle of blood ran slowly over her white skin.

  Derek’s nostrils flared, his fists clenching instinctively.

  He had harmed her.

  “Well? What’s it to be, lad? Your mark, or her life.”

  “You wouldn’t kill a defenseless woman,” he murmured, allowing himself to look at her for the briefest moment, trying to reassure her.

  “Wouldn’t I?” The man’s laugh was harsh, dangerous. It told of many terrible stories, many deeds far more violent and nasty than the one currently unfolding.

  He had to get Margery away. He now understood what depths MacBride was willing to sink to. It would take nothing at all for him to slit her throat, to to
ss her aside like a piece of garbage and allow her to bleed to death under a canopy of tree branches.

  She was staring at him, eyes wide, face deathly white.

  He met her eyes, then looked down. Met them, then looked down.

  At MacBride’s feet.

  Again and again.

  The slight nod of her head told him she understood.

  He met MacBride’s gaze again. The man’s confusion was evident.

  Derek drew a deep breath. This could go one of two ways. Either the man would release her, or he’d slice into her. The odds favored release, but there was simply no telling. He hoped she was smart and fast enough to get away from him in time.

  “Now!” he ordered.

  Margery lifted her leg and slammed her heel down with all her might, grunting from the effort.

  Something snapped in MacBride’s foot, and he bellowed like a wounded steer, his arms going slack.

  “Find cover!” Derek shouted, and Margery ducked and ran with one hand over her throat.

  He was already in the act of throwing himself at the oversized man, catching him off-guard and sending the two of them sprawling in the dirt.

  “Derek! The knife!” Margery screamed, and he caught sight of the gleaming blade just in time to throw his arm up in defense before MacBride could bring it home. It went flying, skittering somewhere in the brush.

  “I’ll kill you!” MacBride grunted, closing his hands around Derek’s throat.

  He brought his arms together between MacBride’s and forced them apart, then closed his fist and smashed it against the man’s nose.

  The sight of Margery’s trickling blood flashed around the forefront of his mind just before he pummeled the man once again.

  The sounds of fighting filled his head, telling him Hugh and the others were battling MacBride’s men.

  Margery screamed.

  When Derek turned to see what had caused it, MacBride used the opportunity to pick of a large rock and smash it against the side of his head.

  Gray spots danced in front of his eyes which he tried to blink away. Something warm ran down the side of his face which he knew was blood before the smell of it hit his nostrils, but it mattered little.

  He blocked a second blow before MacBride had the chance to deliver it, getting to his feet drawing back one leg to deliver a kick to the man’s ribs.

  MacBride rolled to his side, curling into a ball to defend himself. Then, something must have caught his eye; he scrambled on his hands and knees, scurrying toward something.

  The dirk!

  Derek ran after him, throwing his body over that of the larger man just before he could reach the weapon.

  A flash of movement caught his eye, and he realized too late that Margery, too, had understood what was happening. She’d run for the dirk and was just reaching for it when MacBride grasped her ankle, bringing her down.

  “Bastard!” Derek roared, rolling the man over to deliver yet another blow.

  Sharp, almost blinding pain struck his side, and he realized—again, too late—that MacBride had managed to reach the dirk after causing Margery to fall. And that dirk was currently deep in his flesh.

  An ear-splitting cry pierced the air.

  “No!” Margery shrieked, throwing herself over the both of them and pummeling MacBride with both fists about the head and shoulders, screaming obscenities in between ragged sobs.

  MacBride cried out in surprise, raising his arms to fend her off.

  Releasing the dirk.

  There was no choice.

  Derek grasped the handle and withdrew the blade, dripping with his own blood.

  Only to plunge it into MacBride’s chest.

  The man seized, eyes opening wide, mouth gaping in pain and shock. He began to tremble, shaking from head to toe, gasping for air which would never save him.

  It was over in a matter of seconds.

  He went limp, eyes still staring up at the clear sky.

  33

  “Oh, Derek!” She threw her arms around his shoulders when it was all over.

  He was still sitting astride the now dead man, blood flowing down the side of his face and from the wound in his side.

  “Och, lass,” he gasped, patting her arm with a bloody hand. “You did well, my love.”

  “What did I do?” she asked, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

  It was as though she wasn’t in control of her actions. Everything was a haze of terror and blood.

  He winced when he tried to raise himself off the dead man’s stomach. “I’m afraid he stuck me deep.”

  “I know! I thought I would die when I saw it,” she whispered, looking down at the spreading red patch on his blue tunic, turning the cloth purple. “My love, my love…”

  “I’m proud of you,” he murmured, kissing her briefly before grunting from the effort of getting to his feet. He staggered a bit, as though he were dizzy.

  She slid an arm around his waist and draped his arm over her shoulders in an effort to help him walk, and he did lean against her as they moved slowly away from the scene of the fight.

  “Derek!” Hugh crashed through the trees, his tunic streaked with blood which didn’t appear to be his, as he was unwounded.

  In one practiced glance, he sized up the situation and immediately took Margery’s place at his brother’s side. He was much more of a help than she could ever be at that moment.

  A thought struck her, sending her darting back to where the dead man waited. It took both hands and all the strength left in her, but she managed to pull the dirk from his chest with a grunt. There was no telling whether the weapon could be linked with the McInnis brothers—she knew nothing of how such things worked—but had the instinctive belief that the fewer clues as to who had killed him, the better things would go for Derek.

  When she caught up to them, Hugh was helping Derek sit on a mossy tree trunk. “Get the supplies,” he barked, using the hole already in his brother’s tunic to tear it further until the wound was exposed.

  One of his men brought over a bag, which Hugh opened and unpacked with haste.

  “Where are the others? MacBride’s men?” Derek asked.

  “We took care of them.” That was all the explanation offered, and all that was needed. Hugh called out to another of his men. “Go back to Broc, bring him here. I should have this treated by then. We’ll need to move, get away from this area. And the sooner we’re back at the manor house, the better.”

  Margery knelt at Derek’s side. “Can I help?”

  “Aye, lass. You can clean that wound on his head.” Hugh nodded to the horses. “Fetch a flask of water.”

  She did as she was asked, washing the wound and the side of Derek’s beloved face until most of the blood was cleaned away. The wound itself didn’t seem to be bleeding much anymore—only oozing, and slowly at that—so she felt a measure of confidence.

  It was the wound to his side which caused her nauseating panic.

  “We have to get you to Sarah, quickly,” Hugh muttered, pressing a wadded-up strip of linen to it. “She’ll know better than I what to do.”

  “So tired…”

  Margery noted the way Derek’s color had changed, turned gray. She bit her lip to hold back a cry of dismay.

  “I know it, brother.” Hugh patted Derek’s knee, exchanging a worried glance with Margery.

  “Perhaps we should rest here for now,” she suggested. “To give him time to recover his strength. If he eats and drinks and sleeps—with the rest of us watching him carefully—he may be able to ride by the morning.”

  “It’s only late afternoon now,” Hugh muttered, lifting the linen to examine the condition of the wound.

  “I know that,” she said, more than a little frustrated. “I cared for my mother for years. She was ill for a very long time. Nothing like this, of course, but I learned that food, drink, and sleep were the three most important things in the world when it came to recovering one’s strength. So long as the wound is c
lean now, there is nothing more we can do.”

  “She’s right about that,” Derek whispered, a faint smile playing along his lips. “A smart lass I chose, is she not?”

  “Aye,” Hugh grinned. He looked at Margery. “You’re right. It’s at least another day’s ride to the manor. If we continue now, he might bleed to death.”

  She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. “We can’t go now.”

  “But we can’t stay here,” Derek murmured, opening his eyes to look at his brother. “We must get clear of this place.”

  Margery’s mind raced. “What if your men carried him, while you and Broc and I led the horses? One of the saddle blankets might support his weight—or two, layered together. They could each take a corner and carry him that way. We might be able to walk for an hour, maybe two, before they tire and it becomes too dark to travel any further.”

  Hugh nodded. “And they could always take turns with Broc and me, once they were too tired,” he agreed. “All right. That’s what we’ll do.” He had Margery hold the linen pad in place while he wound more around his brother’s waist to secure their makeshift bandage.

  Broc arrived minutes later, immediately going to Derek’s side. “They told me you were injured.”

  “Aye, but I didn’t get it nearly as badly as that bastard.”

  “Good work.” He patted his friend on the back before turning to Margery. “I’m sorry, I should’ve been there to protect you. I heard you handled yourself well.”

  She attempted a smile. “Did I? I hardly remember, honestly.”

  “You’ll remember in time,” Hugh predicted. “It’ll come back to you in a day or two, in bits and pieces.”

  She wasn’t sure she ever wanted that time to come.

  34

  Their camp that night was far different from the one the night before.

  Derek rested against a fallen log, his head and shoulders propped up against it while his body stretched out in front of him.

  Margery took pains to ensure his warmth and comfort, placing a saddle over the log and beneath his head to give him something more forgiving than rough bark to sleep on.