Captured Heart (5 page)

“Are ye a witch?” Ewan’s whisper held a bit of awe.

“There is nothing but good in what I do. I have no dealings with Lucifer,” she snapped.

“I…I didn’t mean to—” Ewan stuttered.

“I need to get away from him.”

“He cannot just take ye without yer guardian’s permission,” Ewan said. “Unless ye think he would steal ye away in the middle of the night.” He gave an odd little laugh.

Meg squinted at him from her peripheral view.

“He could take ye if he was yer legal guardian,” Caden said, his voice even.

The statement hung amongst them while Meg’s stomach knotted. She wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned toward the warmth of the fire.

“Is he yer—” Ewan began.

“I think the hare is roasted through, Ewan.” Caden cut him off. “Let’s get our guest fed and to bed. We leave with the dawn.”

Meg would have retorted that she wasn’t a child, but Caden’s words stopped any further interrogation. And she was tired. Down to the bone tired. She needed to keep her wits about her and exhaustion would only work against her. Tomorrow she’d enter into the heart of Scotland, the land of rugged mountains, raw beauty, and deadly secrets.

…

The moon was high when Caden laid his head down on the mossy ground outside Meg’s tent. Perhaps her pet prowled nearby, perhaps not. Donald and four others were on the first watch and Caden had sent Ewan to sleep far away from the lass, far away from her pleasant expressions that had returned quickly after her anger cooled.

Caden watched the clouds blow across the sky, past the moon on their way north over the moors, over his home. Meg turned inside the tent, her body pushed outward against the confines of the draped blanket. He was only a few feet away. One roll and he’d be up against that warm outline.

“Bloody foolish,” he whispered and closed his eyes against the sight of her backside molded by the blanket. He would keep his distance. The lass could lure any man with those long lashes and hazel eyes, the lushness of her mouth, the silky hair that lay around her soft curves. Half his men watched her like eager pups. If she weren’t so beautiful he’d swear she was spelling them. Her strong, gentle spirit was bewitching enough. She had no need for magic.

Though Meg Boswell was not to be touched. She was a pawn to be used for a higher purpose, not a simple wench with which to dally. If she came to harm while in his protection, a peace might never be settled. And peace was more important than anything else.

Caden drifted in and out of sleep, as was his usual slumber on journeys. He was never parted from his sword and never completely unaware of those around him.

He first heard Meg’s voice vibrate along the razor’s edge of a dream.

“No, leave her alone. Let go…” she mumbled.

Caden’s eyes snapped open, his fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. Darkness still shrouded the camp. His eyes sought out the guards walking the perimeter. Nothing seemed out of place.

“Go,” Meg muttered. “Mama…don’t go. No, don’t take her away.”

The lass was dreaming. Her words pressed hard into his chest, clenching, making it more difficult to breathe. Pressure born of guilt perhaps or a need to protect the weak, whatever it was, it wrapped around him, made him ache to confront the foe in Meg’s dreams, to slay her demon.

“Caden,” she murmured on a breath.

Caden sat upright. Had she just called for him, called for him to save her?

“Help…” Her word tumbled into a whimper.

He pushed under the flap at the back of the tent. Meg lay wrapped in a binding cocoon of blanket, yet she shivered. Bloody hell, the lass was too delicate to be sleeping out on the cold ground as they traveled farther north. Thoughts of what she would be enduring if he hadn’t found her made his heart beat even heavier.

“Macbain,” she mumbled.

Caden knelt down, unsure what to do. “I’m here lass, ye’re safe,” he whispered near her ear. “Sleep. I will watch ye.”

Meg muttered something but calmed with his words. She shivered again. There was no other blanket so he reached under the tarp and grabbed the blanket that was his pallet. He covered her with it and stared. Another quake jolted under the woolen, and her face crinkled as if she were in pain.

“More night terrors,” he murmured and stretched out beside her. She rolled into his side immediately. His body radiated heat and Meg’s soft nuzzle against him fueled it even more. She whimpered. He turned toward her and pulled her against him, cradling her. “Hush, lass. I’ll chase away the bad. Dream of the good now.”

Meg’s face relaxed, lips parted, the trembling ceased. Caden lay wrapped around her, listening to soft steady breaths, basking in the warm air escaping on exhales against the hollow of his throat, inhaling the sweet flower smell of her skin. He tried to close his eyes, tried to close his mind to the thought and sensation of her in his arms.

She’s a hostage, a pawn. That is all
. He said the words over and over again in the silence as he guarded her against the cold. With each repetition, the mantra turned more and more hollow until it sounded like a lie.

For four long days, Caden rode near Meg, watching her examine the journal, listening to Ewan expound on some native flora, and grumbling about the flush most of his men exhibited when she tended their injuries. And for three more nights, Caden stretched out next to her, muting the cold wind that skittered under the tent, and soothing the nightmares that tortured her. Each night he would start off with intentions of leaving once she settled into the depths of slumber. Each night he ended up wrapped around her soft, sleeping form only to disengage and roll out from under the tarp just before dawn.

Each morning his blanket was folded and laying over his horse’s saddle. She never said a word.

…

Caden rubbed his jaw and took a washing gulp of spring water. The sun set below the tree line, and several of the young Macbains he’d brought secured the horses. Meg walked gracefully between the injured. She spent some time changing Hugh’s bandages. Caden discussed the two possible routes for the next day with his scout. When he turned back, she was staring at him from before a newly lit campfire.

She didn’t turn away. He nodded before he thought better of it. Ewan conveniently appeared. Caden scowled and flexed his shoulder muscles.

Her lips seemed inclined to turn upward at him just because Ewan knew how to talk to lasses. She barely uttered a word to Caden, yet each night she turned into his warmth, his name often whispered on an exhale. That whisper alone was more enticing than a hall full of willing maids.

It would end as soon as they reached Druim Keep. One more night, perhaps two, if he decided to circumvent Munro land.

Two more nights
, he decided. No need to risk the Munros stealing back his hostage. He couldn’t push them too hard with a lady traveling with them.
Aye, two nights
. He leaned back near the fire to wait for everyone to fall asleep and the guards to walk on the far perimeter. Then he’d check to make certain his prisoner was warm enough.

Caden laid on his back with Meg snuggled into his side. His mind drifted in and out of dreams until the sound of a horse shot through his consciousness and snapped open his eyes. He didn’t move, but the fingers of his left hand found the hilt of his short sword. Had he dreamt the horse nickering outside the tent? He breathed slowly. A low growl sent his blood rushing through his limbs. Damn. Was it her bloody wolf or some other beast? He shifted away from Meg’s warmth and sat up, eyes and ears trained on the back flap of the tent.

The horse whinnied and trotted away at the same time a voice cursed from the other side. “
Cac!
”

The growl increased in volume.

“Nickum?” Meg opened sleep glazed eyes. She sat up and blinked. “Caden, what?” she started, and quickly assessed the sleeping arrangement. “Caden! You’re sleeping with me!”

What could he say? There was no time to explain.

Nickum growled and snapped outside the tent.

“Nickum!” Meg called, her voice strained. “Caden!”

“Bloody beast!” a guttural voice yelled outside and Caden leapt up, yanking the blanket flap aside.

Girshmel stood, his sword in hand as the large wolf advanced toward him.

“Girshmel, what the bloody hell are you doing here?” Caden demanded.

Caden heard Meg stand behind him.

“Ho!” Ewan called, running up to the tent with a short dirk and a torch. His hair stood up at odd angles. “What is bloody going on?”

Donald followed Ewan and froze when he saw the wolf. The two perimeter guards also emerged from the night.

The wolf’s stare moved between the men and Meg. The beast growled deep and snapped, fresh spittle flying from his muzzle. Girshmel stepped backward.

“He’ll stop snapping if you put away your weapons,” Meg advised crisply. Moonlight flickered through the moving branches. Splashes of white danced over the small crowd where they stood near the tent.

Ewan tucked his dirk in his boot and Caden tossed his sword into the tent. The guards dropped their weapons. Nickum turned to Girshmel and crouched as if preparing to pounce.

“Keep a hold of that sword, Girshmel,” Caden said lowly. “When the beast tears your throat out, it will save me the trouble of finding out why you were sneaking into Meg’s tent in the middle of the night, with a horse waiting outside.”

“What…I—” he began.

Nickum growled, ready to spring. Girshmel jumped and dropped his sword in the leaves. Nickum kept his eyes focused on him but backed up to sit beside Caden at Meg’s feet.

“I thought I heard something, someone with the lass. I just thought to make sure she was safe.” Girshmel held up both of his hands. “I didn’t know it was you, chief, in there alone with her.”

Meg gasped and ducked into the tent. “He was not invited,” she bit out. Incoherent mumblings ensued with jabs of what could be colorful insults, yet she spoke them so softly Caden couldn’t quite make them out. Caden’s balled-up blanket hit the side of his legs where he stood just outside along with the hilt of his sword.

Ewan turned toward Caden. His face was filled with shadows, flickers of torchlight, and condemnation.
Hell!

“Nickum,” Meg called from inside, and the wolf nosed his way into the tent. Caden heard the beast lower its bulk onto the ground. At least the lass would be safe and probably warm with the wolf.

“I’m thinking you two may have something to discuss.” Girshmel glanced between Ewan and Caden. The man picked up his sword and stalked out of the circle of torchlight.

“Girshmel,” Caden said, his words hard as stone. “Do not go near Meg Boswell again. Am I clear?” What was hopefully clear was the promise of death under his words.

“Aye…chief,” Girshmel said without a backward glance and disappeared into the night. Caden listened to Meg’s muffled curses until she settled.

“Donald,” Caden said. “Put a man on Girshmel…quietly.”

Donald retreated with the guards.

Caden grabbed the blanket and sword and walked toward the dying fire.

Ewan followed. “You’ve been lying with her. Bloody hell, Caden! She was a maid.”

Caden pivoted close to Ewan so that their words wouldn’t carry. “She’s still a maid.”

“You mean you’ve lain next to her these nights—”

“To keep her warm. To help her sleep,” Caden finished flatly.

“How bloody gallant of you,” Ewan answered with unveiled sarcasm. “And here I thought you just liked to scowl at her.”

Caden and Ewan stood only a breath apart, each of their faces rock hard.

“Ewan, she will hate us, all of us, when we reach Druim.”

“You even more so for making her soft on you, stealing her honor—”

“I have barely touched the lass and have definitely not stolen her honor.”

Ewan threw his arm out toward the tent. “You came from her tent where you two slept against one another! The guards, Girshmel, Donald…they all saw you.”

“I’ll make sure they understand what did not happen,” Caden gritted out.

Ewan stepped back and tossed the lit end of the torch into the fire. “No wonder the lass moons over you.”

What the hell was Ewan talking about? “She smiles at you, Ewan, not me.”

Ewan ran his hand through his hair, making it stick out even more. “Aye, but her eyes follow you, Caden,” he said low. “They search you out.”

They both watched the thin blue and red flame of the torch catch along the dry wood left in the pit. So the lass did watch him. The heat of her stare wasn’t just his imagination or the lust built by nights of inhaling her sweetness.

“She’s simply a pawn to force the peace, Ewan. Don’t get attached. She
will
hate us.”

Ewan turned toward him. “What if she doesn’t hate us?” he asked on the rush of an exhale.

Silence shrouded them, waiting, listening for a reply. The little flame snapped and crackled, flashing light against their faces as it grew.

Caden turned his head, his eyes locking with his friend’s. His voice was low, cold, unbreakable. “Then she’s mine.”

Chapter Four

1 August 1517—Hedge Woundwort: reddish in color, hairy plant that flowers in summer.

Found in shady places, hidden away from the world. There are many paths to take to find Woundwort’s ring of flowers. When in doubt, one should take the third path to the right.

Stamp the plant in vinegar and apply as a poultice to take away hard knots and inflammation. Use the leaves for healing persistent wounds.

Meg noted the subtle changes to the countryside as they traveled northward. Gently rolling meadows turned to coarse, mossy fields erupting with steps of jagged rock. They’d left the North Road two days before for another road that had dwindled to nothing but a pebbly path. Deciduous trees flapped their brightly colored leaves amid soaring pines under a crystal blue sky.

Meg let Pippen follow Donald as they wound their way along the edges of cliffs and down through autumn-colored valleys. Here snow already touched the tops of the mountains, and she kept her borrowed wool blanket tucked tightly around her. More than once she sent a prayer of thanksgiving that she wasn’t alone, starving, freezing, and most likely lost. Or worse, prisoner of those dishonorable English soldiers.

Although she didn’t speak about her thankfulness because she was still furious over Caden’s trespass and embarrassed by everyone’s knowledge of it. For they surely must know, even though no one said as much. How could they not know that their chief had bedded down with her? Meg was fairly certain that she was still a maid. If Caden had taken liberties with her body, she would have woken up. Wouldn’t she? Just how much of her dreams about the Macbain chief was truth?

No one talked about the disappearance of that ogre, Girshmel, either. Donald had said that the man was a mercenary who’d been living amongst the Macbains for a couple months. Since he’d obviously offended the chief, he’d left. Because the man had taken his horse, it didn’t appear that Caden had murdered him or Nickum eaten him. He’d simply left the morning after the incident.

Meg wondered what Donald would say if she asked him about the horrible drama of the other night. If only this long trip could be over. She could start over with her aunt’s clan, where no one knew of her humiliation.

Donald held one finger against his lips. “Quiet now, lass,” he whispered. “Dangerous terrain here.” He pointed up to a line of trees above them. “Ambush territory.”

Meg glanced around her. She drew her bow across her lap and nocked an arrow. Her gaze moved between the narrow path and the tree line above. She hadn’t thought about enemies other than her father after they’d crossed into Scotland. Of course there were enemies even within one’s own country. She just hadn’t considered it so close to the Macbain border. Whose lands were they traversing?

After an eternity of watchful silence, the winding trail along the side of the mountain gave way to a moor filled with late blooming wildflowers and purple heather. The men pushed their mounts into a run across the sun-washed expanse.

Donald pulled back beside Meg. “We’re almost home, lass.” He pointed ahead. “Just past those boulders is Macbain land. No need to keep quiet now.”

He kicked his horse into a gallop.

Meg twisted around as the men raced past her on both sides, smiles cracking along their dirty, fuzzy faces. She tapped Pippen and raced after them. The relief of almost being at her aunt’s, the fresh wash of mountain air along her skin, the surge of her horse after days of sedate walking. The speed was more than her frown could take. She beamed widely. Halfway across, she glanced over one shoulder and her heart leapt high. Caden rode behind, restraining his charger to match Pippen’s pace.

The sun beat down. The wind tugged at her loose braid, pulling several locks free to fly behind like errant ribbons. Meg’s blood pumped under her skin, warming her as she bent forward along Pippen’s neck and kicked lightly, giving him freedom to run.

Caden’s mount surged up next to Pippen. He rode with the ease of someone raised on the back of a horse, much like herself. She narrowed her eyes and quirked the grin into a challenge.

“
Siuthad!
” she yelled to Pippen, urging him to stretch his legs against the speed of Caden’s charger. Pippen flew across the wildflowers, hooves tossing chunks of soft peat behind him. Meg laughed and lay low over Pippen’s neck. She glanced to the side. Caden leaned across his charger’s mane, his eyes sparked with appreciation and suppressed laughter.

“Slow down, lass!” he warned.

“Ha!” She laughed and steered Pippen around the boulders out into another meadow that led to the shores of a large lake.

“Ye’ll break yer bonny neck.”

Meg flew past the other Macbains who’d already reached the second meadow. Pippen reached the lake in a splashing of hooves and she pulled back on his reins. She laughed and stroked her hand along his sweating neck. Her horse pranced in the shallows and then lowered his head to drink.

Caden’s horse splashed to a halt next to her and she tried not to look at him. The world was too beautiful, the air too clear to frown with anger and justified embarrassment. Instead, she absorbed the wild glory of the landscape.

Mountains, some low and some soaring, encircled the valley basin where they stood. Snow-tipped green pines and trees of gold, red, and orange covered the mountain slopes. If God was the artist, He’d taken vegetable dye and delicately enhanced each tree up the hillside. The sun sparkled along the choppy waves in the lake and the wind blew fresh against Meg’s skin. She breathed in a full gulp, letting it cleanse her.

Caden maneuvered his charger next to Pippen.

“God lives here,” she said, her words edged with whispered awe.

Caden’s voice was also hushed. “Aye, ’tis more than just beauty in it. There’s spirit and courage and strength.” He dismounted into the knee-high water and led Pippen and his charger out to dry ground. “’Tis why men fight for her,” he said.

“You mean fight for
it
,” she said and stared down into his eyes. Clear air and sunshine filled her. Alive! She was more alive here than ever before. He reached up for her and before she could react, he plucked her off Pippen and set her on the ground.

She would have gasped but there wasn’t time. Pippen was now at her back and Caden stood tall as a mountain before her. She glanced down and then straight before her. Both positions seemed awkward. She finally tipped her head way back until her gaze met his again.

“You mean fight for
it
, the land, the mountains,” Meg corrected.

“Aye.” He stepped back and pulled Meg away from the horses. He pointed toward one mountain.

“Druim Beinn,” he said.

“Ridge Mountain,” Meg translated.

“Druim Keep, my home, sits at its base.”

“You own all this land?” she asked. “Up to that mountain?”

Caden’s finger traced along three mountains to the east and west. “From there to there, all the way to where we stand, lass, belongs to the Macbains.”

Meg’s eyes roamed the vastness. “And which way are the Munros?”

When she turned to him, his face resembled stone, his eyes dark.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Much.”

He touched her hair and the space between them seemed to dissolve as he moved closer. A shiver ran through her that had little to do with the cool wind.

“There are things ye must be told and I will tell ye, Meg.”

He touched her back and she instantly registered his rushing blood, his contracting biceps, and his tight muscles. The vessels in his head flexed with tension. He must have an ache in his head.

Meg concentrated on his physical parameters instead of the way his fingers threaded down to the ends of her hair. She should move away. She should breathe. Meg drew in a breath as he cupped her cheek in a warm palm.

“First…” he trailed off as his lips lowered.

Good Lord, what is he doing?

Meg’s heart pounded as his breath touched hers. His lips followed. Warm and powerful, Caden’s mouth moved gently over hers. She inhaled his piney masculine scent. Twisting bubbles tickled inside her stomach. Her head slanted on its own, unknowingly allowing the kiss to deepen. She sensed the energy filling his body, blood rushing even faster, heart thumping in rhythm with hers.

Good Lord, what am I doing
back
?

Caden growled low and lifted her into the shelter of his body. Meg’s fingers moved up to the soft waves of his hair, the same waves she’d been staring at for days. Giddy excitement, mixed with something far deeper, ran through her body like a poison, spreading to the ends of every extremity. She all but clung to him as her legs wobbled like a freshly born colt. She breathed and kissed and tasted while a tingling ache grew heavy in her abdomen. What new malady was this? Madness and necessity all wrapped together.

Pulling back, Caden rested his forehead against hers. She breathed in his essence, not wanting to let go.

“Meg,” he said, his lips so close to hers that they brushed them in a feather-light kiss. He was talking again. She tried to pay attention. “There are things ye need to know—”

Nickum howled. The warning snapped Meg out of her fog and into alert.

“Nickum?” She pulled out of Caden’s arms. Something was wrong. Nickum stood at the crest of the hill near the tree line. Her wolf wouldn’t expose himself in daylight and wouldn’t call out unless under dire circumstances.

Meg took two steps away from Caden and turned at the same time Ewan’s voice rang out through the glade.

“Macbains! Batail!” His tone poured ice water through Meg’s flushed body.

“Meg!” Caden shouted at the same instance she heard an arrow
zing
through the air. A small patch of meadow grass beside her leapt into the air as the arrow punctured the serene hillside.

“God’s teeth!” she swore on a gasp.

“Get down!” Caden ordered.

Zing!

The sharp pain ripped through Meg’s shoulder, slamming into her with enough force to yank her body to the ground. She flew off her feet and into the lake.

Icy mountain lake water filled her mouth as she gasped, clogging her airways. Bubbles and splashing filled her ears. Red water swirled before her eyes as she blinked into the murk.

“Nay! Meg!” Caden’s voice sounded far away even when his arms lifted her. The weight of the water in her hair pulled her head backward and the heavy clothes anchored her limbs. She couldn’t move, couldn’t open her eyes, could hardly draw a breath. Her self-defense surfaced enough to make her cough, lake water sputtering up and out. Caden turned her gently in his arms.

“Bloody hell!” he cursed. He ran then, with her cradled against his chest.

The jarring hurt, but she couldn’t respond above a whimper. She was too heavy, too cold. Nickum’s whine seemed near and far at the same time. Was this really happening?
Please be a nightmare!
Although while everything else seemed fuzzy, the pain was very real.

Caden lowered her to the ground, the heaviness of a blanket anchoring her. “Stay with her,” he said. Nickum’s fur brushed her face. “Let no one touch her.” His warm lips touched her forehead and he was gone.

Meg tried to open her eyes but they were too heavy. She fought for consciousness. At least her ears worked. Steel slid and clattered against steel. Men yelled curses in Gaelic, their words slurring into each other in a cacophony of anger and retaliation. A malevolent storm of human angst, hatred mixed with the desperate need to survive, judge, and execute. Hot tears leaked out of her eyes.

“There she is,” a rough, familiar voice called. Nickum growled and moved over the top of her, his back foot against Meg’s cheek. “
Cac!
That wolf is guarding her.”

Girshmel. It was Girshmel! He’d joined the enemy, whoever that was.

“I’m not going near it,” another voice said in fast Gaelic. “That’s the largest damned wolf I’ve ever seen.”

Nickum rubbed against her as he sat back on his haunches, preparing to leap. A silent scream.
No, Nickum, they’ll hurt you! Run!
Nickum growled and snapped, making one man yelp.

“Bloody coward,” Girshmel snarled. “The chief will want her. She’s Meg Boswell, the Munro’s niece. Valuable and a sweet little tidbit at that.”

“Then you get her,” the other voice said.

“You idiot, give me your bow,” Girshmel said.

No! Nickum, run!
Her words trickled out on a whimper. Nickum stood his ground over her, growling and snapping. She heard the bowstring pluck and the arrow rip into Nickum. Nickum cried out but didn’t move, just leaned into her. She choked on a straggled breath as she detected the torn flesh and muscles with her unnatural abilities. Blood surged through her friend with energy to fight or run.

“There now, he’s weak. See his eyes? He’s stunned. Pull the lass out by her feet,” Girshmel said. “Hurry, Macbain might come back.”

Nickum didn’t growl. He didn’t do anything when rough hands grasped her ankles.
Oh, Nickum. What have they done
? The man pulled. She focused on her leg muscles to kick at the man, but blood was flowing out of her too fast to give her muscles the energy they needed to fight. Oh, God, she was losing too much blood!

Nickum’s muscles contracted, and he sprang away. The man dropped her ankles. She tried to block out the sound of teeth and ripping flesh. She tried to roll, pull herself away from the carnage, but her blood-starved body wouldn’t cooperate. Fresh tears leaked from her closed eyes.

“Shite!” Girshmel yelled over the gurgling sound of blood and screams. She heard him fire another arrow. Nickum’s cry rent the air. Meg couldn’t even flinch, let alone try to help her friend.

“Damn, he’s coming!” Girshmel poured out a string of obscenities, and she heard his feet pound away. The other man’s screams died with his breath and Nickum’s bulk collapsed beside her leg. Meg lay there trapped in agony, unable to move. The numbness that blanketed her body moved higher until she could barely contain the glimmer of consciousness. Perhaps it would be better to surrender.