Highlander's Ransom (5 page)

After fastening her to the saddle, he seemed to all
but dismiss her from his mind, and went about arranging a bedroll on the forest
floor. By now, all his men had bedded down, and some were already snoring.
Alwin gave a few half-hearted tugs on the saddle, but knew it was useless. She
had kept herself going so far, she realized, by telling herself that she would
escape. She acknowledged somewhere deep inside that such a plan would never
work. She was stuck with these savage kidnappers for as long as they found her
useful. The thought frightened her, but her fear could not ward off the
hopelessness that crashed around her now. Wrapping the length of plaid tightly
around her and setting her head down on the saddle, she did her best to stifle
the sobs that shook her.

From his bedroll several feet away, Robert could hear
Alwin’s muffled crying through the cloth over her mouth. He hated women’s
tears. He never knew what to do to make them stop. And many women he had
encountered over the years used their tears to terrify and manipulate men. Such
a thought about Alwin was misplaced, though, given her current circumstances.
She was not trying to put on a show, and wasn’t asking for anything. Her grief
seemed real, and why wouldn’t it be? She had been tumbled inside a wagon, then
seen what were likely her first dead bodies, and had then been kidnapped by a
band of Highlanders.

He quickly shuttered himself from any sympathy for
her. She would be trouble, aye, but he had to admit that he admired her
courage. Even now, she attempted to put on a brave show in trying to muffle her
crying. That spirit would be put to the test in the next several days, he
thought grimly. He resisted the rising urge inside himself to protect her from
the coming challenges of their travels north. There was nothing special about
her, he told himself; it was just that he never wished to inflict pain or
discomfort on any woman. She didn’t belong out here. She would likely only slow
them down and distract him with her delicacy and that damned feminine scent,
like roses and warm skin, which emanated from her soft brown hair. Once he was
safe inside the walls of Roslin, he would think further on the matter of what
to do with her, but for now, he would continue with the plan to sell her back
to Warren. The bastard didn’t deserve such a spirited beauty, he thought as he
drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 7

“A soldier rides in, Milord! One of ours!”

Raef Warren looked up from the papers strewn across
the ornate wood desk he sat behind, a frown on his face from the loud
intrusion.

He sighed, then waved to the page at his study door to
bring the rider to him immediately. A few moments later, a mud-covered,
sweating foot soldier rushed in. With a quick bow to Raef, he said, “Milord, we
were attacked on the road from England.”

Raef, who normally didn’t trouble himself overmuch
with the lowly soldiers guarding his keep, wrinkled his brow, trying to
remember who the man in front of him was and what he was doing on the road.

Seeing his blank stare, the soldier went on. “We were
transporting the…Hewett delivery, Milord, when a band of Scottish rebels
attacked.”

Realization slammed into Raef, and he stood so quickly
that the heavy oak chair he sat in went tumbling behind him. “What? How could
you have allowed yourself to be attacked? What happened? Speak, man!”

“They surrounded us about twenty miles south of here,
Milord. They appeared out of nowhere, and it looked like…” Here the soldier
faltered, because he realized that he couldn’t tell his lord what had happened
without revealing the fact that he had turned and bolted just moments after the
attack.

Raef’s hazel eyes narrowed on the man before him.
“Were the rebels victorious in overpowering a dozen of my trained and
battle-ready soldiers?” he asked with deadly calm.

The soldier swallowed, then slowly nodded. “Aye,
Milord. From what I saw, our men went down, and the…contents of the cart should
be considered lost.”

Forcing his anger down, Raef turned his back on the
muddy soldier. At least he had brought the message here. Now he could try to
stay ahead of the news of this embarrassing loss before it traveled too far.
This was going to make him look bad. The Hewett girl was meant to be a symbolic
gesture, a sign to the English that his alliances were strong and his holding
in Scotland was secure. With a slow but steady trickle of money going missing
from England’s war cause against rebellious Scotland, there was only so much he
could blame on Scottish raiders before eyes would begin turning to him. The
thought of losing the girl’s dowry made him compress his lips in frustration.

The soldier interrupted his thoughts. “Milord, I
thought I might have seen…Sinclair colors.”

Raef’s heart missed a beat as he spun back around to
face the soldier. Sinclairs! He ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair. Ever
since he had been embarrassed on the battle field four years ago by the
Sinclairs and the rest of those Scottish scum, he had held an especially black
corner of his mind for thoughts of their torture and destruction. The Sinclair
leader in particular had made him and his troops look foolish in front of
Edward I and the other noblemen he was trying to ingratiate himself to. He
would not stand for another affront to his reputation at the hands of those
savages.

Perhaps, though, he could use this disaster as an
opportunity. With a flick of his hand, he dismissed the soldier. He would have
to devise some punishment later for the coward. He righted his chair and
resumed his seat, smoothing his hands over his fine silk breaches. The Sinclair
attack could be just the spark he needed to ignite the fires of war he had so
carefully been priming for the last few years. Whether the girl lived or not
didn’t matter; she was just one woman, and the stakes were far greater than
that. Either way, he could spin it into reason enough to retaliate with a
full-fledged attack on Scotland. Even setting aside his personal vendetta
against the Sinclairs, the Scots had to be brought to heel. It was dangerous
for all Englishmen, not just those on the borders, to have barbarians roaming
nearby, raiding and looting, or worse, making alliances with the French against
English interests. The world needed order, by any means necessary. And though
war often meant chaos, ultimately he knew that bringing Scotland under England’s
control would be safer.

He pushed the missives and ledgers on his desk aside
and began crafting an outraged message to every English holding with a
reasonably sized force of soldiers he could think of. He would demand action
for this attack on his beloved bride, and call for the raising of an army to
finish what the British started and failed to complete at Roslin.

He would also need to attempt a rescue effort, he
calculated with annoyance. It wouldn’t appear as though he really cared about
the girl unless he put together his own men and acted like they were looking
for her and her captors. Wars often centered around symbolic injustice. The
loss of a beautiful English maiden to a savage Highland barbarian would
certainly raise the ire of his countrymen. His mind races as he planned his
next moves, sensing an opening for glory, riches, and perhaps even a Barony. He
would be remembered as the man who led England to victory over those Scottish
beasts. Then the entire island of Britain could be run smoothly, sanely. The
padding to his coffers only sweetened the prospect, he thought with a smile as
he set aside the message he had written and called to his page on the other
side of the door of his study.

“Tell the captain to gather thirty of his best men. We
ride north in an hour.”

Chapter 8

Alwin woke to the smell of smoke. She slowly opened
her eyes, which she could feel were puffy from crying, to the overcast sky. The
clouds obscured the sun so much that she couldn’t tell what time of day it was;
she could have been sleeping for an hour or five, and she wouldn’t have known
the difference. Luckily, she was still wrapped in Robert’s plaid, which had
kept her warm. Sitting up, she found the source of the smoke. Several feet away
from her was a dug-out fire pit with a small blaze working its way through a
few sodden logs. Robert’s men sat around it, talking quietly to each other and
chewing on dried meat and biscuits. Robert was a little way off from the fire,
in discussion with his man again. From across the fire, Robert’s eyes locked
with hers, and his gaze was intense, though she couldn’t tell if he was angry
with her.

With a few more words to his man, Robert strode over
toward her. Still tied to the saddle, she didn’t make a move, but sat and
waited for him. When he reached her, he crouched down without a word and untied
her hands. Not wanting to risk losing the opportunity, Alwin said nothing, but
yanked the gag from her mouth and rubbed her freed wrists, which were sore from
the rope and the awkward position they had been forced into. Finally, he spoke.

“You’ll be wanting to see to yourself. There is a
copse of bushes over that way, and a stream over here where you can wash your
face,” he said. His tone was emotionless and businesslike, but at least he
wasn’t glaring at her.

She nodded and began to push herself to her feet. Pain
stabbed through her right knee and hip where she knew bruises had formed from
her crash in the cart.  The bruises were made even more stiff from all the
horseback riding and contorted sleeping. She inhaled sharply and stumbled,
nearly falling, but Robert’s hands scooped her upright. He frowned at her as he
held her steady for a moment, then said, “Tend to yourself. Then we will see
about your injuries.”

Alwin walked stiffly toward the bushes he had pointed
out, sensing that although he gave her privacy, he wasn’t far off. When she was
done, she went to the stream he had indicated on the other side of their little
camp. She first scrubbed her hands in the frigid water, then cupped them to
splash water onto her face and swollen eyes. She even made time to quickly
re-braid her disheveled hair. By the time she was done, she felt surprisingly
refreshed.

Turning back toward camp, she nearly ran into Robert,
whom she hadn’t noticed looming behind her. Avoiding contact with him, she
skirted around him and walked back to their makeshift camp with as much dignity
as she could manage. Not knowing where else to go or what else to do, she sat
down on the saddle she had been strapped to a few feet away from the other men.
Robert trailed her, and crouched down in front of her when she was settled on
the saddle. Before he could speak, however, his man approached.

“I have not introduced myself yet, my lady. I am Burke
Sinclair,” he said with an inclination of his brown-haired head to her. She
eyed his politeness with a touch of suspicion. So far, all she had been met
with was hostility, or curtness at best. This Burke seemed a bit more relaxed
than his leader, though, and certainly more kind. Although he was a battle-hewn
warrior just like the rest, a hint of softness touched his dark blue eyes.

“Are you a relative of his?” she asked, inclining her
head toward Robert.

He quirked his lips, seeming to find her brusqueness
and refusal to use Robert’s title amusing. “Aye, I am a distant cousin of the
Laird’s.”

“I am glad to know your name, Burke,” she said
grudgingly, granting him a sliver of politeness in return.

Just then, Robert reached for the hem of her skirt and
started to lift it. Shocked, Alwin let out a screech and yanked her hem down,
tucking her legs under her.

“Calm down, lass,” he said, his voice full of
irritation. “I mean you no harm. I just want to see what is causing you to limp
so badly, and see if I can do anything about it.”

Staring wide-eyed at him, it took her a moment to
register what he was saying. She glanced at Burke, who gave her a little smile
of encouragement and said in a soft voice, “Laird Sinclair has tended to many a
wound on the battlefield, my lady. You can trust him to look after any injuries
you might have.”

Alwin locked eyes with Robert again. His cool blue
gaze seemed to penetrate her, but she couldn’t quite read it. She slowly
nodded, not breaking their look, and untucked her legs. This time, he paused
after taking her hem in his large hands, seeming to wait to see if she would
protest again. When she didn’t, he raised it slowly up her left leg, exposing
first her stockinged ankle, then her calf to the wintery air. When her hem
brushed her left knee, he stopped, letting go of the material. He glanced down
at her exposed leg, scrutinizing it. She didn’t realize it, but she had been
holding her breath, and she let out a shaky sigh as he inspected her. She
looked down too, but didn’t see anything amiss with her leg.

“Remove your stocking…please,” Robert bit out through
clenched teeth. Alwin hesitated, afraid of this powerful and, she admitted
inwardly, handsome warrior’s gaze on her naked leg.

“Turn away,” she said, her voice sounding a bit
strained to her ears. Glancing over Robert’s shoulder, she noticed that all of his
men had suddenly become absorbed in looking at the trees, the sky, anything in
the opposite direction of where she sat. Burke, too, without hesitation, turned
on his heels and gave her his back. Robert alone kept looking at her, his eyes
like blue fire. She thought he was angry with her for her girlish modesty, but
perhaps she read something else in him? Ever so slowly, he stood to his full
height. From her seat only a few inches off the ground on the saddle, his height
and battle-honed breadth seemed even more intimidating. He crossed his large
forearms in front of his chest, and she could see his muscles straining against
the cloth of his shirt. Finally, he broke their stare and turned around.