Captured Heart (3 page)

“He’s checking the road and perimeter to the creek.” Ewan indicated the narrow river they’d been following behind him through the woods. “To make certain the English scampered home to lick their wounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if Girshmel brought back an English head on a stick. He is an odd one.”

Caden agreed. “Odd one,” he echoed, though his mind and gaze followed a very different odd one. The woman from the mist was unlike any lass he’d ever met. Alluring, capable, especially for an English lass. Perhaps it was the mystery shrouding her that caught at him. She shot a bow with accuracy, traveled alone through hostile countryside alongside a wolf, and although she was cautious, fear didn’t paralyze her. Diana, the goddess of ancient Greece, no. Yet there was something special about her, something unique, and Caden would figure out what it was.

…

Meg moved among the wounded men, all of them Scots. The only English she saw were dead. She spoke to Caden’s men in a mix of Gaelic and English; luckily Uncle Harold had made certain that she was schooled in Gaelic, but she rarely had chance to practice it. They seemed surprised, even wary, but eventually she won some nods. They were fierce men, large, grimy, and bloodied. She was extra careful not to reveal too much knowledge about their ailments, even though she could sense every scratch upon contact. She must seem odd enough to be wandering around in the forest alone.

Ugh! Would they give her direction away if they ran into her father? She’d have to ask their chief not to give out information about her.

The man who had lost his arm was named Hugh. Meg spent most of the day working on his stump. She washed the ragged edges of skin and applied a pungent herbal salve all over the raw end.

“Lass, that stuff smells like rancid entrails of an animal dead a fortnight,” said one young warrior. “What does it do?”

Meg chuckled at the grim description. “The salve will dry the blood at the end,” she answered slowly in his language.

She wiped a dirt-speckled arm across her damp forehead. The sun beat down on the open meadow despite the onset of autumn.

“I need to wash.” At least her hands, and some of the larger stains from her surcoat.

“I will escort ye,” the soldier offered. “I’m Hamish.”

Meg shook her head and gestured to the unconscious man. “Stay with Hugh. If he wakes, he should see a friendly face.”

An argument, to stay, darkened the warrior’s face.

“And I need some privacy.” She stepped away briskly.

Meg let the shade of the trees wash over her hot skin as she walked to the stream. Would her other aunt have any useful information for her? Her mother’s sister, Rachel, had married a Scotsman and stayed up in the wilds of the Highlands. Uncle Harold said that Rachel and Isabelle had loved each other. Meg hoped that Aunt Rachel would be as fond of her when she showed up unannounced on the woman’s doorstep with the threat of Rowland Boswell on her heels. That was if she could even find Aunt Rachel in the vast wilderness.

Follow the river that runs along the North Road until a large lake with a road around. Then head west until you pass a range of three mountains.

Meg shook her head and inhaled to stomp the edge of fear back down in her gut. She plunged blood-tinged hands under the tumbling water. She scrubbed her face, pushing back her hair.

Without a sound, large, grimy arms encircled her and yanked her off her feet. The stink of blood and sweat gagged her scream, making it come out as a squeak.

“You’re mine, wee water nymph.” The hard chest against her shoulders rumbled. Meg kicked backward but missed the man’s knees. He laughed at her impotent squirming. “Girshmel Black,” he said in English, “claims ye.”

“Release me, or…or
go stróice an diabhal thú!
” The Gaelic insult was the only one Uncle Harold had taught her.

With one thrust, the man tossed her into the air, flipping her so that she faced him. “Ye want worms to eat me?” he asked and laughed.

“Let go!” she screamed into his broad, dirty face. His toothy leer showed brown crooked teeth. His breath smelled worse than the rest of him. She could sense the rottenness at the base of those teeth. They’d fall out within a year.

“Now why would I be doing something like that?” he asked.

“Because my wolf will eat you,” she said and held two fingers to her mouth. Her whistle pierced the stillness. The man’s eyes searched the forest and grew wide as his gaze settled on the opposite side of the stream.

“Are ye a witch, lass, or a kelpie?” the man asked. His eyes narrowed.

“And if the wolf doesn’t kill you…” The Macbain chief’s deep burr brought the smelly ogre around so fast that Meg’s head whipped backward. “I will.”

The warrior stood just inside the edge of the forest, his short sword poised, ready to fly. The intensity of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw, his flexed arms as he towered there without a shirt on, kicked her heart into a gallop. The man’s kilt fell low on his hips. Droplets of water beaded along his tanned skin and his hair dripped. He looked like a natural predator fresh from a swim.

“I’ve claimed her, Macbain.” Girshmel’s statement sounded like the whine of a child trying to woo a sweet before supper. “The lass was all alone out here just waiting to be taken.” His eyes shifted between Caden and the short sword.

“You cannot claim what is already mine,” the Macbain chief enunciated in his native language.

When had she become his?

“Release her.” The warrior tipped his wrist back, ready to strike. “Now.”

“
Cac
,” Girshmel swore and opened his arms.

Meg dropped onto the hard packed dirt. She scooted away from Girshmel’s leather-clad feet, lost her balance, and tumbled.

Cold spring water caught Meg’s scream as she splashed under the surface. Her heavy skirts twisted around and tugged her down into the swirling eddy. She couldn’t find a solid footing on the slippery rocks. Hair was suddenly everywhere, snaking around her head, tangling, gagging her. She surfaced but sucked in a mouthful of water, making her cough violently while flopping in the waist-deep water.

Warm arms, solid against the current, wrapped around her waist. Meg grabbed hold. She pawed hair off her forehead and tipped her gaze to the chief’s face. He held her securely, facing him in the water. He reached for her face. She held her breath as he touched her skin…and pulled a leaf off her cheek.

“Ye seem to attract leaves.” He pushed her hair from where it stuck against the sides of her head.

What does one say to that? “I…uh, thank you, Chief Macbain.”

“Caden.” His deep burr sent gooseflesh along her chilled skin.

She shivered. “Caden.”

“Sweet Diana!” the gallant Scotsman named Ewan called from the bank where he and several other men stood, witnessing her humiliation. “How did ye end up in the stream?”

Caden pulled Meg up against his solid, bare chest and lifted her sopping form from the water, setting her on the bank. For a brief moment her hand rested on the smoldering warmth of his chest, a light sprinkle of hair the only barrier between them. The Scottish warrior was all muscle and heat. Her healing senses told her that every part of him was toned and in perfect working order.

“Girshmel found her,” Caden answered.

“And threw her in the water?” Ewan asked, confusion crossing his face. Several of the men chuckled. Ewan elbowed one who began to cough, a wide grin splitting his beard.

Meg wanted to crawl away from the stares and hide. She turned and hiked toward the meadow. She needed to get moving again anyway before her father caught up to her. Just the thought made her heart race. How many hours had she given to these warriors? Too many.

Water drained out of her numerous layers and she huffed in frustration. The heavy material dragged the ground, gathering a pile of fallen leaves with it. Her gaze searched the meadow but only kilted warriors moved about. She needed to find Pippen, get dry and warm, and head out.

“He tried to claim her,” Caden answered behind her.

“Girshmel!” Ewan yelled for the offending man.

Meg reached the fire and splayed her hands before the flickering flames. She would need to dry first before moving on. She was impatient but not a complete goose. An autumn breeze chilled the air as the sun surrendered the horizon. Crickets chirped out to their mates in the growing dark as night settled amongst the thin tree canopy. Meg shivered as cold and exhaustion soaked into her. Uncle Harold had always said she was tougher than the faint-hearted maids in the village, but this was beyond normal. This was a nightmare.

“Garrett, a blanket,” Caden called and moved close. His heat touched her back, and then his fingers. Meg held her breath. He worked at the buttons along her spine, brushing just enough to send shivers of a different kind down her body. Was he planning to strip her right there where she stood framed by the sunset? She stepped away, but he followed.

Garrett ran up with a wool blanket, and Caden placed it over her shoulders. He turned her to him and pulled the blanket closed beneath her chin like she was a child. Fatigue from her run the night before, the day’s tending of wounds, and then the struggle at the stream, beat at her composure. She focused on the ground so he wouldn’t see her resolve dissolving.

“I need to leave soon,” she said. “Treating your men today has delayed me.”

“You need to dry first. Pull off yer wet things under the blanket. They will hang and dry while ye warm by the fire.”

Her chin jerked up. “Strip my clothes off? Out here in front of you?”

“Under the blanket.”

“Under this blanket?”

“Unless ye prefer to undress away from the fire.”

Meg pursed her lips. Did she really have another choice? The fire gave warmth, light, and safety. She glanced around at the men moving around the camp. None seemed to be watching. Where had that Girshmel gotten to?

She turned back to glare at Caden. Was this to be a war of wills, then? She stood a long moment trying to figure a way to win this first battle, but there was no way around this if she wanted to get dry and stay warm.

She huffed and let the sodden surcoat drop around her ankles. She peeled the clingy sleeves from her arms and let them drop, as well as the tied pocket. Meg lifted her foot to peel a stocking down and wobbled. Caden tried to grab her elbow through the heavy blanket but grazed her breast instead.

She jumped at the contact and glared at Caden, though he stared at a point somewhere in the distance. She frowned but continued to disrobe.

“I’m finished,” Meg murmured and took a large side step over the mound of dress.

Caden glanced down and then back to her face. “Yer kirtle.”

“Will stay on my body.”

“The kirtle will dry quicker off yer body.”

“I would be naked beneath,” Meg snapped.

“No one will take yer blanket.”

They stared at one another over Meg’s tight fist where she held the wool closed at her chin. Even as she glared at him, she couldn’t help but admire the strong length of his neck. A Celtic cross hung from a cord and rested on his well-muscled chest, a chest she knew radiated heat. Meg swallowed hard.

Caden stepped up to her on the other side of her clothes. “Ye are safe here now.” His words were low. “I claimed ye. No one will harm what is mine.”

“I am not yours,” Meg retorted a bit breathlessly. Panic warred with her courage. How had she gotten into this mess?

He raised one eyebrow. “Would ye rather be claimed by Girshmel, then?”

“I would rather be claimed by no man.” Meg tipped her chin higher as if she didn’t stand there nearly naked draped in a borrowed blanket.

“’Tis safer to be claimed.” He frowned, but something in his eye made her think that he wasn’t too annoyed. “Yer kirtle,” he said as if ending the discussion.

Damn! He was winning this battle, too! He was offering protection and she needed to get dry as fast as possible. Ugh! She ducked beneath the blanket and peeled off the thin, sodden material. With one hand she stuck it up through the hole and then followed it with her head.

“Garrett, hang these to dry for…” Caden said and waited.

She smiled bitterly. “Mistress Diana.”

She moved to the other side of the fire where she sat down, cocooned in the scratchy wool. She wasn’t about to tell these men her real name. Allowing her discovery was terrible enough. If they knew her name they could possibly give her away to her father. Fear and determination weighed on her shoulders as her mind replayed the frantic words of her mother’s letter. She wouldn’t let her mother’s warning be for naught. She must escape Rowland Boswell.

Meg stared at two rabbits on roasting sticks above the fire. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all day.

Caden turned to a young warrior. “Donald, make sure Mistress Diana receives some food.” He glanced at her, his frown back in place. “For payment for helping my men.” He stalked away.

Meg watched the muscles between the chief’s shoulders. Their long lines flexed down through his waist to his narrow hips, barely concealed by the hastily draped kilt. She tore her gaze away.
Ridiculous!
Her life was balanced on the thin edge of disaster. She didn’t have time to admire the contours of a Scotsman’s muscled, solid, warm body. She swallowed hard.

“Me name’s Donald Black, Miss,” the young warrior said slowly in a thickly coated brogue over his English. He squatted on the other side of the fire and turned the rabbits on the spit. “I’m sorry for grinning back there by the stream. There is nothing humorous about a lass almost drowning.”

Her face heated. “No offense taken.” Her stomach growled rudely.

“The rabbit should be roasted right shortly.”

She huddled down in the blanket, trying to forget the fact that she was stark naked beneath it while talking to strangers. Maybe she should rest, then start out again during the night. Her father probably wouldn’t pursue her in the dark.

“For Mistress Diana,” Donald said and presented the juicy meat off the spit. He also handed over a bannock, some cheese, and a bladder of fresh water.

“Thank you.” She bit into the smoky, roasted meat with barely contained joy. “This is delicious.” She swallowed and took a bite of the bannock. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so ravenous.”