Highlander’s Curse (36 page)

A
bby landed hard, pushed from her perch on her captor’s horse to the ground below. She stumbled and fell to her knees, completely ignored for the moment, as the men were greeted by their companions.

So much for all that medieval chivalry she’d read about.

“You’ll want to collect that wee weapon that dangles at her hip,” one of them pointed out as another pulled her to her feet.

Her weapon!

She grabbed for the knife too late. The man who held her twisted her wrist, breaking her hold on the weapon.

“Sir Stephen’s got the right of it on this one. Who but a fine lady would forget to use the weapon she wears for decoration, aye? It’s a fine ransom our laird will demand for her return.”

He dragged her through the waiting, jeering soldiers toward the far side of their encampment, back to a line of bedraggled and wounded men kneeling on the ground. Their arms were held high up above their heads, their wrists tied together over a rope strung between two trees. Clearly, these were the other prisoners Sir Stephen had mentioned.

“On yer lovely arse, lassie,” her captor ordered, pushing her to the ground.

“Have a care with the lady, you oaf,” the man on the ground next to her growled. “I’ll remember you well when my bindings come off.”

“Remember this,” her captor offered, sending a well-aimed foot into the prisoner’s midsection that would have doubled the man over had he not been held up by his ties.

He jerked her to her knees and roughly pulled her arms above her head, then halted his efforts, turning to call out.

“Angus! There’s no enough of her to reach the line when she kneels. Should I let her hang?”

“Bind her by one hand. It’s no like she’s much of a danger to any of us. Perhaps she’ll find use for that free hand in fending off admirers, aye?”

“Or in pleasing them,” someone else shouted, drawing another round of laughter.

“It is my order that the lady will remain unmolested.” Sir Stephen approached on foot, one man with a sword drawn on either side of him. “Your laird made quite clear his desire for captives who would bring him a healthy ransom. Despoiling her would only lessen her
value. I can’t think he would go easy on any one of you who ended up costing him silver.”

Perhaps she’d judged too soon. Maybe chivalry was only in intensive care and not completely dead after all.

“She’s spoils of war,” the one named Angus countered. “Our laird has never denied us what we claim from battle.”

Sir Stephen stared at the man, his eyes as cold and hard as they’d been when he’d stared at her and threatened to have her throat slit.

“That may be so. But until we reach Dunstaffnage and I turn her over to your laird, you’ll do as I say or I’ll skewer your hide to the nearest tree and leave you for the wolves to dine upon. Do I make myself clear enough?”

He waited for a scattered round of ayes before he spoke again. “Give her a bucket to kneel upon, but tie both her hands. Our guest is . . . spirited.” With a formal nod of his head in her direction, he turned and, along with the men on either side of him, disappeared into the small tent at the far end of the encampment.

“Arrogant English bastard,” the man holding her arm muttered as he tied her hands over the rope above her head. Then he leaned in close, his fetid breath flowing over her face. “When we reach Dunstaffnage, I’ll be having you as payment for my cousin what yer man gutted back there on the road. Just you remember Fergus, my fine lady. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”

“I’ll certainly be remembering you, Fergus,” the man next to her taunted, earning himself another kick to the stomach.

“You’ll no have an unbroken bone left in yer body if you dinna cease yer constant aggravation of these brigands.” This from farther down the line of prisoners.

“Mayhaps,” Abby’s neighbor replied after he sucked in his breath. “But bones will heal and what I intend for that man when my bindings come off will no, that much I swear.”

Fergus returned with a bucket, which he slammed to the ground beside Abby. He pushed her down to kneel on it and proceeded to tie her ankles just as the men with her had been bound. With another leering promise of what awaited her at Dunstaffnage, he left, joining his companions around a large campfire to share in the skin of drink they passed among them.

Night had arrived, bringing with it a curtain of darkness barely pierced by the sliver of moon hanging above them.

It brought desperation along with it as well.

How long had Colin lain in that road, blood seeping from the wound in his head? Hours. How could any man survive that?

They couldn’t. He couldn’t.

She was on her own. The only man she’d ever wanted, the one she’d waited and wished for her whole life, taken from her by these filthy, warmongering, piece-of-shit excuses for men.

Desperation faded into despair.

Slow, hot tears tracked down her cheeks. Once they began, there was no stopping them. Her breath caught in her throat, jerking her chest in little coughing sobs. She clenched her teeth together to hold back any sound, determined not to let her captors see how they’d
defeated her, but her pain was too great to control for long.

“Did they harm you, my lady? Where are you wounded? Are you in pain?”

Unending, horrible pain such as she’d never imagined. But she could hardly tell the man next to her it was no wound he could see, only her heart that had been torn to pieces. Not with him looking as if he’d been beaten over every inch of his body, anyway.

“I’m not. . . no wounds,” she managed at last.

“The blood on your gown?”

Abby looked down, unable to make out any but the barest markings on her gown in the dark. If her gown was bloodied, it must have come from Fergus’s cousin when she’d climbed over him to get to Colin.

“Not mine.”

The thought of Colin lying in the road brought a fresh round of pain and with it a fresh round of hot, salty tears. She couldn’t fight it any longer, it hurt too badly.

Her head lolled against her arm as she gave herself over completely to her misery. The stars twinkling above her were magnified by the prism of tears she viewed them through, as if the fates controlling her world had decided to make them extra beautiful just to mock her pain.

“You should try to get some rest. They’ll have us marching at first light.”

Rest? Tied up like this? No chance in hell. Besides, how could she sleep? Her heart hurt too much. She’d never sleep again.

Her head pounded and her nose stuffed up and
still the tears flowed. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Not her years of education wasted, not the damn betraying Faeries, not even being stuck in this horrible time. Without Colin, nothing mattered anymore.

The soldiers had drifted off to their blankets, many of them well inebriated by the sound of it. Now only the sounds of snoring filled the night air, adding to her desolation. She was alone. Completely alone in this awful world.

Her shoulders ached and her shins hurt where the rim of the bucket dug into her skin. Her face stung where she’d scraped up against the tree, and every muscle in her body bore witness to her fall from her horse.

Worst of all, guilt consumed her that she could sit here cataloging her aches and pains while Colin. . .

Another round of tears ran down her cheeks, raw now from the light breeze blowing over the tear-stained skin.

Above her, her hands had gone numb and she tried straightening her back to relieve the pressure from her bindings. She glanced at her neighbor to see how the others managed to avoid cutting off their circulation.

A twinkle at her neighbor’s wrists caught her attention and she blinked several times to clear her vision. Moonlight sparkled, reflecting off something metallic.

Maybe he had something they could use to free themselves from their ropes? Freed, she could make her way back to Colin. If there was any chance he lived, any chance at all, she wasn’t about to let it pass her by.

“Hey,” she hissed, leaning his direction. “Hey, you!”

She couldn’t tell in the dark whether his eyes were open or shut, though how anyone could sleep like this was beyond her ability to imagine.

“Hey!” Louder this time.

“Lower your voice before you bring the guards down on us.”

Good. He was awake at least.

“What’s that on your arm? Is it something we could use to get loose?”

“Is she daft or just stupid?” The question floated from the other side of her neighbor.

This was not the response she’d hoped for.

“Do you honestly believe that if I had the means to cut these bindings, I’d still be hanging here next to you?”

His tone sounded just a tad snotty to her. “I was only trying to help. I want out of here as much as anyone. More, even.”

His response sounded very much like a snort.

“Think what you want. Those bastards left my husband on the road to die. I don’t know if he’s . . . I have to get back to him.” This time she willed herself to hold back the tears. She needed to fight this, not give in like some quitter. Even with her new determination, her voice still broke when she continued. “If you had something we could use, I only . . . I only wanted to point it out.”

When he answered her this time, his tone had changed completely. “It’s naught but a cross, my lady. A trinket given me by my sister meant for nothing more than protection.”

“That would be spiritual protection,” the man on his other side added. “No actual protection.”

A cross given him by his sister worn on his wrist?

According to her visions, there was only one of those out there. If this was Colin’s kinsman, she’d have an ally to assist her in trying to get back to her husband.

And Ellie had told her there were no coincidences when it came to Faerie Magic. Could it be that this was the Faerie way of trying to make up for having failed her back there on the road?

“Are you Dair Maxwell?”

Her neighbor stilled at the question. “I am. But I dinna recall having met you before, my lady. Might I ask how you come to know my name?”

“You’re my husband’s kinsman. We were searching for you when we were attacked. They smashed Colin in the head and left him bleeding, lying there in the road. I have to get back to him.”

“Colin? MacAlister? Yer claiming to be wife to Colin MacAlister?” The other voice again.

“I’m not claiming anything. I am his wife. We married at Dun Ard a few days ago and then set out to find the two of you. Assuming you’re Simeon, that is?”

Silence again.

“Aye. Simeon MacDowell, at yer service, my lady. How badly was he wounded?”

“How badly do you think?” Dair interjected before she could answer, his disembodied voice sounding bitter. “How badly would he have to be wounded to allow this lot to carry his woman away? It’s Col we’re speaking of.”

“Too bad they took the wee weapon you carried at yer waist.” Simeon spoke wistfully, as if he thought aloud.

“Too bad,” she agreed. They’d done exactly what
Ellie had predicted, overpowered her and taken the knife she had worn. All the more reason for the second. . . “Shit!”

She was an idiot. A total freaking idiot.

“I have another one. Hold on a minute.”

She scooted off the bucket, teetering dangerously when she landed on her feet. Her leg muscles screamed out in agony, shooting pains pulsing in every direction. A moment to make sure she wouldn’t tip over, and then she attempted to retrieve the little knife stuffed discreetly in her bodice.

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t reach it. Her arms were too short. She couldn’t climb up onto the bucket to get closer to the rope because of the binding around her ankles.

Someone else was going to have to retrieve her knife.

“If you were to stand, Dair, do you think your arms would be long enough that your elbow could bend over that rope?”

“Aye. If I could but get to my feet. Why do you ask?”

That was it, then, her only choice.

Shuffling bit by bit, using the limited slack available in the rope that bound her ankles, she slowly worked her way across the ground between her and Dair. Never had twelve inches felt like such a vast distance to travel.

“Balance against me and work your way up to your feet.”

“I’ll brace you on this side,” Simeon offered.

“Get to yer feet, the woman says, like it’s nothing at all to accomplish.” The last of his complaint was lost in a grunted whoosh of air as he made it to his feet. “What now, my lady? What is it you need of me?”

“There’s a knife hidden in my bodice. I can’t reach it. You’re going to have to do it for me.”

“In . . . yer . . . bodice . . .” He repeated the words slowly, as if he didn’t really believe her.

“Just do it.”

She turned her head and lifted her chin trying to clear a path. His hand was cold, eliciting an involuntary shiver the instant his fingers dipped below her neckline.

“Sorry, my lady.”