by Aileen Adams
She shuddered.
Again, money was quickly exchanged, evident from the clinking of coins.
“Cut her loose.”
She felt a brief tug on the rope at her waist, and then the jarring sensation of a knife slicing through the rope binding her wrists.
And then, without further ado, the big hand slid down her forearm and grasped her hand, firmly, and tugged.
Dalla hesitantly followed, knowing that he led the way through the crowd. She tripped over something and nearly fell before she regained her footing.
As it was, she slammed into her… her buyer's back.
He felt hard, huge and muscular.
The crowd erupted in laughter.
Instinctively it seemed, he wrapped his arm around her, catching her, keeping her on her feet while he growled to the man who had obviously attempted to trip her.
“You want to lose that foot?”
Again, the words were spoken quietly, but with such an underlying threat that once again, the boisterous group quieted.
One hand wrapped around her shoulder now, he guided her out of the tavern. She cringed at his touch, but blindfolded, allowed him to guide her outside.
Once they stepped outside and the smells of the men inside was replaced by the smells of the docks, the harbor, and the sea, she felt the blindfold being removed from her eyes.
She squinted against the brightness and ducked her face, but almost unbidden, then turned to look up at the man who had just bought her.
Their eyes locked as her head tilted upward, her head barely reaching his chest.
And then, as if suddenly realizing that she was no longer bound, she bolted.
4
For several moments, Hugh watched, bemused, as the lass lifted her tattered skirt and fled down the cobbled street, passersby staring with wide eyes as she flashed a bit of ankle and small, dainty slippers.
They looked from the fleeing woman to Hugh, the structure behind him, then either snorted, shook their heads, turned and spat, or otherwise went about their business.
Where did she think she was going to go? Who did she think was going to help her? The port town was a dangerous place for a woman, let alone an unaccompanied one. With a sigh, he turned to trail her, following the flash of her simple pale blue cote, parts of her cream-colored chemise showing through several tears in the cote's skirt as she disappeared through a narrow cut between two buildings a short distance away.
She had nerve.
He started to laugh, but then realized to the fullest what he had just done. He had bought a human being.
What had compelled him to take pity on any of those women? The Norwegians and the Scots were at war. He'd just happened to be in the tavern when they were brought in. He'd been startled at first, but then he'd seen her, a petite woman a head shorter than the rest, but standing taller than any of them.
Was it because of the way she'd lifted her chin in wordless defiance? Was it her long, blonde hair, that thick braid draping over her shoulder that reminded him so much of… or was it her beauty, which was not difficult to see beneath her dirt-smudged face, her dirty gown, nevertheless a bit finer than the plain homespun of a peasant.
He paused at the entry of the alley through which she had disappeared, picking up his pace to a slow trot. She was headed toward the pier, but she would find no help there.
Seconds later a cacophony of shouts and a broken off scream prompted him to pick up his pace.
He took a turn at the back of the alley and behind the wooden storehouses, weaving his way between stacks of crates and wooden barrels until the alley opened up into the docks by the shore. It stank of dead fish and aromas of foreign and exotic spices and dried meats from who knew where.
Two ships were docked nearby, their ropes creaking, furled sales flapping gently in the breeze coming off of the ocean. The water in the harbor was fairly calm, lapping gently at the shoreline and pier.
A short distance ahead, he saw her, captured in the arms of a sailor around her waist, two of his cronies gathering around, all reaching out to touch her hair, her face, her—
“Let me go, you filthy dogs!”
She struggled mightily, swinging her arms, her tiny hands balled into fists. One of those small fists managed to strike the nose of the man who held her, resulting in a startled shout, and a resulting burst of laughter. Her feet lashed out too, and the heel of one foot stomped down hard on top of the foot of the sailor touching her hair.
“Don't touch me, you dirty Scot!”
Hugh paused only a moment before he approached the trio of sailors. “Release her. She belongs to me.”
He spoke quietly, but firmly.
The men, and of course, his new… whatever she was, turned to stare at him.
Everyone froze for several seconds, before she started to struggle again and the sailor, arms still wrapped tightly around her waist, lifted her off her feet to avoid her kicking legs.
“Let me go!” she grunted with exertion, twisting and bucking in his grasp.
One of the other sailors laughed, stepping between his friend and Hugh. “If she belongs to you, why is she running away from you?”
“That is no matter of yours,” Hugh said. “Give her to me.”
He reached out a hand though he knew that they wouldn't relinquish their prize quite so easily. He turned his attention to the young woman, for the first time getting a good look at her.
Her eyes were ice blue, almost gray, her dark pupils dilated with furious emotion. A small nose, nostrils flared, also from emotion. Her lips slightly open, displaying white, healthy teeth. Even held tightly against her new captor, she struggled, twisting this way and that, her braid swinging with her movements. Her hands, still balled into fists, continued to strike out.
He couldn't tell how old she was, but she was a fierce little thing, and she wasn't afraid of fighting, wasn't afraid of the ramifications for doing so, he determined then and there that no matter what happened, she was going to be a handful. He took a step forward, his head slightly lowered, glaring at the man who stood between them.
“Move.”
The sailor didn't, and in the next moment, found himself lying flat on his back, gasping for breath as Hugh stood over him, one foot now placed on the center of his chest.
He glared at the other sailor, who quickly shrugged and headed in the opposite direction. Hugh then focused his attention on the man who held the woman, both eyeing him warily.
“You really want to do this?”
The man opened his mouth to speak, but just then, the wildcat of the girl lifted her arm, elbow bent, and smacked the back of her fist into his face.
His lip split open. With an angry growl, the sailor flung her to the ground and swung back his foot to kick her.
Like his companion, he soon found himself on the ground as well, although this time Hugh crouched, pressing a knee into the center of his back, his other hand grabbing a handful of dirty, grimy hair. He was prepared to smash his face into the rough planks of the dock, but paused when he saw the flash of color darting past his vision.
With a sigh, he quickly released the sailor and once again found himself in pursuit of the lass, who didn't seem to know when to give up.
Admirable, but he was growing impatient.
She darted around the side of a building. He rounded the corner seconds later and halted.
She stood a mere twenty feet away as she turned to face him. She was in a dead-end alley.
He calmly watched her, his legs slightly wider than hip-width apart, arms crossed over his chest. He said nothing, but merely lifted an eyebrow.
She’d spoken English, but with an accent, so he knew that she would understand him. He didn't necessarily want to frighten her more than she already was, but the day was advancing, and he had things to do. He had already purchased supplies, loaded them onto his horse, and then had decided to enter the tavern for a mug of ale before he left the village.
“Come,” he said
simply. “Or I will leave you to the sailors.” Of course, he wouldn't, especially since he had spent nearly all of his money, but she didn't know that. But he wasn't about to keep chasing her. “You have nowhere to go. No one will help you here.”
She stared at him, chest heaving with exertion, a myriad of emotions crossing her features; anger, wariness, and for certain, fear. Her features pale, her hands still clenched into fists, she appeared indecisive.
He could only imagine what she felt. He had questions of his own. Who was she? Where did she come from? How had she ended up on a ship as a captive to be sold to the Scots? Despite the animosity between the Scots and the Norwegians, he nevertheless felt a small surge of pity for her. What must it be like to be kidnapped from your homeland and carted off to—
It struck him that was exactly what Phillip, the Laird of the Duncan clan, had done with his Sarah, now his wife. If they hadn't fallen in love and ultimately married, what would have become of her?
“I'm not going to hurt you, lass, but I'm not going to stand here all day, either. Make up your mind.”
Finally, after several more minutes of staring at one another, the woman heaved a sigh and took a few steps forward.
Hugh extended his hand, palm up, indicating that he wasn't going to hurt her.
She approached the ignored the hand, glaring up at him, her hands held at her sides, though still fisted. She looked like she would bolt at any sudden move.
“You run away again, and you'll regret it.” He spoke softly, and hoped that she wouldn't force his hand. He had never laid a hand on a woman, and he wasn't about to start now, but then again, she didn't know that.
Abruptly, she offered one stiff nod and crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to break eye contact.
He was amused.
She was not.
“What is your name?”
She remained silent.
Having had enough, he reached for her arm.
She tried to turn away, but he warned her once again. “Come with me.”
He tugged on her wrist, and she unfolded her arms, reluctantly following as he led them out of the alley. The sailors were gone. While he didn't exactly have to drag her, she was resisting. He gave her that. She was a tiny thing, her head barely reaching his chest, but he knew she was going to be a handful. Why had he bought her? No use worrying about that now.
“What's your name?” he repeated.
Again, she refused to answer. No matter. He wanted to get out of the village and back to the mountains, although what he was going to do with her then, he had no idea. Still, he couldn't just sit by and watch her be sold off into slavery, prostitution, and who knew what else. There was something about her that had sparked his interest, his sympathy, and his compassion.
He led the way past numerous buildings, past gawking eyes, more than a few snickers, and one man, who took one look at her and spat.
It wasn't until they neared the edge of the village that she seemed to notice the small structure with a cross on top of it.
She dug in her heels and tugged.
“Where are we going?”
Her voice was soft now, tinged with hesitance.
He gestured with his free hand. “Up to the church.”
“Why?” she asked, frowning up at him.
“To get married,” he said simply.
He'd made the decision as they emerged from the alley. All he'd wanted was to come north, to spend some time by himself, to maybe find his brother. To get away, if just for a little while, from newlyweds and the flurry of activity regarding the impending birth of the laird's firstborn child. How had he ended up saddled with this small yet fire-spirited Norwegian lass, let alone decide to marry her?
“I'm not marrying you!” she snapped, trying to jerk her arm from his grasp. “I'm not marrying any filthy Scotsman—”
“Your mine now,” he reminded her. “Your shelter, your food, and your safety are up to me. And when we go back to the highlands, you can either come as my wife or my slave. Which is it?”
5
Dalla stared up at the rough-looking man, for the first time noticing his hazel eyes, flecked with specks of gold, the laugh lines at their edges, the way the sun glinted off his long brown hair.
He was muscular and burly with chiseled features, a wide nose, and strong jaw. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly, either. At the moment, his lips were frowning.
She wanted to bolt again, but he had threatened to leave her in the village, and she was smart enough to know that she had nowhere to go, no one to turn to, no one who would protect her. He had followed her after she'd run from him at the tavern, and he had confronted those disgusting, stinking sailors who had temporarily captured her. But who was going to protect her against him?
He hadn't hurt her, yet. But… but marry him? She shook her head. “Why? Why would you want to marry me?”
“I don't, not really, but the decision is yours. You come with me as my wife or as my slave.” He offered a slight shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”
“But… but you don't even know me! I don't know you! I'm Norwegian. Your Scottish. We're at war! It's not proper—”
He chuckled then, a deep, rumbling sound that started deep in his chest.
“Proper? Take a look around you, lass. You're a captive, sold into slavery by your captors. I bought you. You are mine to do with as I see fit. I'm giving you the opportunity to come with me as a decently married woman, one with the rights that marriage—”
“Pshaw!” she snapped. “Women have no rights, whether through marriage or not!” She pulled her arm from his grasp but remained rooted to the spot, arms akimbo, fists balanced on her hips now. “I may be a captive, but I am no fool!”
He stared at her. She stared back. What was he thinking? His features offered no hint as to his thoughts. As yet, he had not harmed her, but based on her experience, men only had so much patience. She could tell this one was running out of it. Still, her stubborn streak showed itself.
“I would not marry you if you were the last—”
“Fine then,” he interrupted, once again snatching at her wrist. His big hand enveloped her wrist and then some. “You belong to me anyway.”
She tried to resist his tug, tried to dig in her heels, to prevent him from turning and striding back toward the village. Panic engulfed her. She cast a quick gaze down at the village, the sea beyond, the uncertainty, the fear swelling inside her. What to do? What to do!
“No! Wait!” she stalled, trying to think.
He had to give her a minute to think! Since the moment that she'd been struck on the jaw, a burlap bag yanked over her head, then tossed over her kidnapper's shoulder, she had not been given a choice. About anything. Now she was. Not a good choice, but nevertheless a choice.
He stared at her, his gaze unwavering, waiting.
“A moment,” she sighed. “Please.”
Should she choose marriage to this complete stranger, this Scotsman, or slavery? Weren't they the same thing? She had never had a serious beau, had never experienced feelings of love, had never experienced true affection other than to Megan.
She had known women who'd gotten married. They were treated as less than men, to do what men wanted them to do without any say so. To her, marriage meant nothing more than a miserable life spent in close proximity to someone that you could not agree with, could not even respect. And yet what was her recourse? Slavery.
“What's the difference?” she grumbled.
His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”
“Both of the choices you just gave me result in the same, at least as far as I am concerned,” she said, perhaps foolishly, but she was fast gaining the impression that he would not hurt her as long as she didn't push back too hard. At least not yet. Maybe, if she made his life miserable, he would choose to let her go. Maybe choosing to go wherever it was he was going as a slave would be a better option than being legally tied to him in marriage forever.
“Make your decision, woman,” he said, calmly.
He was growing impatient. Then again, she was a good Christian girl. The thought of going anywhere with a man, much less as a slave, to do whatever he chose with her—but he would have rights to do as he pleased if she became his wife as well. She grew frustrated and shook her head. “You are not giving me any choice!” she said, stomping her foot against the ground.
He lifted an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what other option would you suggest, considering that I purchased you legally, and I have a bill of sale stating such?”
She didn't know whether it was his amusement or if he was genuine, but what would it hurt to throw in a third option? “Perhaps we can make a deal?”
He grinned. “And what would you propose?”
Her mind went blank. She hadn't really considered… that he would actually even consider another option. What could she broach as a bargain? She was without rights, without a homeland, without any means of survival. What if—
“You're coming with me, whether you come as a slave or a wife,” he finally said. “It makes no difference to me. Either way, you belong to me, and you have nothing with which to bargain.”
“Oh, but I do!” she said, an idea forming in her head. “I come from…” She paused.
Maybe it wasn't a good idea to tell him about her history, her link to the Royal Norwegian family. Maybe such knowledge would not bode her well after all. In fact, he might use it against her—
“Well?”
She sighed. She had no options. Nothing with which to bargain. As a slave or as a wife, she would be subject to his whims, no matter what they were. He could abuse her, take her to his bed, treat her in any manner he saw fit, and it wouldn't make a difference. Not only that, but she had no way of contacting her family in Norway. As far as they were concerned, she had probably been kidnapped and killed. It didn't matter that she had been on her way to—
“Come along then,” he said.
Once again, his hand wrapped around her wrist. Not too tightly, but enough to prevent her from attempting to once again bolt. With heavy steps, her heart thumping dully in her chest, she followed him up to the small church on the rise. Maybe she should tell him the truth. But that probably wouldn’t sway him, either. He had paid for her, probably with what little coin he had.