Captured by the Highlander (14 page)

Amelia’s heart was
still
thrashing about in her chest when she spotted a
small
, golden-haired boy in a kilt crawling out from inside a
hollow
log. She glanced around to see if he was alone. He stood up and gaped at them, horror-struck.

“I thought you were the wolf!” he cried, and Amelia glanced down at the knife in his hand. His cheeks were smeared with filth, his hair matted.

Duncan slipped his sword back into the scabbard and strode forward, though he kept a tight grip on his axe. “What wolf do you speak of, lad?”

“The one who’s stalking my pa’s flock!”

Duncan stopped a few feet away from the boy. “Your father’s a drover?”

“Aye. But it’s been two days since I’ve seen him.”

Amelia rose to her feet and brushed the flecks of moss and dirt from her skirts. Was this another ten-year-old boy abandoned by his father in the Scottish wilderness to learn how to survive alone? Perhaps he was so desperate, he’d hoped to
kill
them and skin them for dinner.

These Scots … She was trying to understand them, but sometimes, sometimes, she simply could not.

Al at once, the boy began to weep, and she darted forward to console him—but Duncan raised a hand to hold her back.

He slipped his axe into his belt. “Now, now, lad,” he said in a firm voice. “You did
well
with your aim. It was strong and true.” He knelt down on one knee.

The boy’s frail little body shuddered with sobs. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to!”

“No harm done. Now
tell
me what you’re doing out here.

You’re separated from your father, you say?”

The child nodded, and his chin quivered while he fought to control his voice.

“What’s your name?” Duncan asked.

“
Elliott
MacDonald.”

Duncan gave
Elliott
a moment to
collect
himself. He waited patiently while the boy wiped his tears and stopped crying.

“Is your father on his way to the markets?” Duncan asked.

“Aye.”

«Well
, I know the drovers’ trail. It’s not far from here. We can take you to him.”

Amelia careful y approached, and this time Duncan let her pass. “Are you
all
right,
Elliott
?” She bent forward and rested her hands on her knees. “Are you hurt, or hungry?”

Elliott
glanced uncertainly at Duncan.

“It’s
all
right, lad,” he said. “She may be English, but she’s a friend.”

“She talks funny.”

“Aye, that she does.”

Amelia felt the tension drain out of the moment and smiled. “Yes, I talk funny in this part of the world, but I promise, you have nothing to fear from me.”

The boy studied them both, his eyes darting from one to the other, then slipped his knife into his boot.

Duncan rose to his feet. “There’s some sugar biscuits in my saddlebag.” He tossed his head in the direction of his horse. Thankful y, the animal had returned after being spooked by the spear whizzing past his head. He was waiting by the tree, where the spear was
still
lodged in the bark.

Amelia gathered her skirts in her fists and pushed her way through the thick undergrowth of moss and ground cover.

She reached the horse and took hold of the dangling reins, then led him back to where Duncan and
Elliott
were waiting.

They sat down on the log while she dug into the leather pouches and withdrew the biscuits Beth had provided that morning.

“Here you are,
Elliott
,” she said, offering him one.

The boy gobbled it up in a flash; then he burped and wiped his mouth.

“Beggin’ your pardon,” he said. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

She handed him another biscuit, which he promptly devoured.

“A growing lad such as yourself?” Duncan said. “It’s no wonder you
swall
owed both those biscuits whole.”

She watched Duncan tousle
Elliott
’s shaggy blond hair and wondered what the boy would do if he knew he was sitting next to the famous Butcher of the Highlands. Would
Elliott
run away, crying in terror and screaming for his father?

Or would he be thril
l
ed?

She compared Duncan’s current behavior to his manner on the night he’d abducted her at the fort and found it
all
very confusing and difficult to comprehend. Who was the real Duncan? At the moment she felt no fear of him, nor anger. In fact, she quite admired the way he talked to the boy.

“Tel me about this wolf you were tracking,” Duncan said to
Elliott
. “What does he look like?”

“It’s a she,”
Elliott
replied. “She has white markings, more than gray, which makes her hard to see. She blends in with the flock.”

“Clever wolf,” Duncan said. “Does your father know you’re lost? Did you
tell
him you were hunting the white wolf?”

“Aye. He didn’t want me to go at first, but I told him I’d come back with her fangs in my sporran.”

“Have you seen her today?”

“Nay. That’s the problem. I’m lost, and she’s probably feasting on my pa’s sheep right now, while I’m not there to watch over them. Me pa’s probably pissin’ mad.”

“Sounds like you need to get back to your flock.” Duncan stood. “Go help the lady mount, then get in the saddle with her. I
’ll
take you through the pass, and we
’ll
find your father.”

The boy started off toward the horse but stopped and turned. “I should thank you, mister.
will
you
tell
me your name?”

“It’s Duncan.”

“Are you a MacDonald?”

Duncan glanced briefly at Amelia and paused before he answered. “Nay, lad. I’m not a MacDonald. But I’m a friend.”

The boy smiled knowingly. “You don’t want to
tell
me, do you? Are you a fugitive?”

Duncan chuckled. “Something like that.”

In fact, it was
exactly
like that. There was more than one reward out for the Butcher’s head on a stick.

“You’re not the Butcher, are you?” the boy suddenly asked, his eyebrows flying up.

Duncan glanced at Amelia again, then calmly replied,

“Nay, El
l
iott.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, “because I’m going to join the Butcher’s band of rebels one day.”

Duncan merely shrugged and spread his arms wide, in an expansive gesture, as if to apologize for being a nobody.

«Well
, even so,”
Elliott
said, turning back toward the horse.

“I won’t
tell
anyone I met you.” He yanked his spear out of the tree. “And I’m glad my aim was off.”

Cheerful y he waited for Amelia to col
l
ect the saddle pouches; then he offered his gentlemanly assistance when it came time to mount.

* * *

It took them two hours to reach the shepherd and his flock, which was passing through a fertile green glen under the glorious heat of the August sun. Hazy beams of sunlight burned down from the sky,
ill
uminating hundreds of white, cottony sheep while thick pearly clouds with heavenly linings sailed over the
tall
mountain peaks. A bird of prey soared weightlessly downward and shouted a
call
to another while dogs barked rowdily and bounded about on the val
l
ey floor, pushing the flock toward the noisy river.

The vast, emerald beauty of it
all
was almost too much for Amelia to comprehend. It aroused her sense of wonder and sparked her imagination as she breathed deeply the fresh aroma of the earth and vegetation, gleaming wetly under the
brilliant
sun. If she were an artist, she would preserve this scene on canvas, so that it would live forever in her memory.

An odd thought, real y, under the circumstances.

Nevertheless, she studied every detail, determined to never forget what she had seen and how she had felt, beholding such heavenly splendor.

El
l
iott hopped to the ground and started running.

“Pa! Pa!”

The barking dogs alerted their arrival and came sprinting across the glen to greet
Elliott
.

The shepherd spotted them, too, and began to run.

Duncan—on foot,
still
leading the horse—stopped and watched the man drop to his knees and hug his son.

Amelia’s heart warmed at the sight of the boy reunited with his father. Yet at the same time her joy mingled with a deep and painful melancholy as she thought of her own father and how she mourned the loss of him. What she would not give to dash across a Scottish glen right now and run into his safe, loving arms.

The fantasy caused a lump to rise up in her throat, but she fought to push it down and keep the unwelcome tears at bay.

They would do her no good. Not here, and certainly not now.

The drover hugged his boy, then raised his long shepherd’s hook to wave at them. Duncan started forward again, the horse
followed
, and Amelia swept aside
all
thoughts of her father. She turned her attention to Duncan instead, for she was, quite frankly, struck by the person he appeared to be at this moment—caring, helpful, and forthcoming. A kind and trustworthy man. One you would seek out if you needed assistance. Someone you could depend upon.

This was not the fearsome and brutal Butcher who had materialized out of her nightmares a few nights ago and abducted her into darkness. This was someone else entirely—which was a most bewildering thought.

“Good day to you!” the drover
called
out from across the distance. He wore a kilt, a quarter-length brown jacket, and a plaid bonnet with a feather stuck in it. “El
l
iott
tells
me he almost maimed you with his spear!”

“Aye,” Duncan replied. “The lad is highly skil
l
ed. We’re lucky to be alive to
tell
the tale.”

The drover approached, stood face-to-face with Duncan, and spoke in a quieter voice. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing him back to me. That lad is my life. He has no mother.”

Duncan nodded.
«Well
, you ought to be proud of him,” he said. “He’s a brave one, no doubt about it.”

The drover turned and looked over his shoulder at El
l
iott, who was laughing and chasing the dogs around. “Mm. He wants to fight. He
’ll
not stand for any oppression, even from a wolf who’s only looking for her next meal.”

“I
’ll
keep an eye out for her,” Duncan offered. “E
ll
iott described her to me. She has white markings.”

“Aye, but I warn you, she’s slick as muck, and she can sneak up on you. I’ve never seen such a clever creature, not in
all
my days as a drover.”

“I
’ll
remember your advice. Good luck with your flock, MacDonald.”

Duncan began to turn the horse around, and Amelia nodded at the man, whose eyes were warm and friendly.

“Good day to you, lassie,” he said, touching the brim of his bonnet as he looked up at her, sitting high in the saddle.

She decided it would be best to keep quiet and conceal her English accent. He couldn’t help her anyway. If he knew who she was, he would most likely side with the Butcher—

like everyone else north of the border.

“Good luck, El
l
iott!” Duncan
called
out over his shoulder.

“I’m sure you
’ll
catch her!”

“I
will
!” the boy replied. “And thank you for the biscuits!”

Duncan walked the horse for a few minutes, then stopped.

“Push forward, lassie,” he said to her. “It’s time I joined you.”

He slid a boot into the stirrup and swung up behind her, then gathered the reins in both hands.

Amelia had mixed feelings about his close proximity in the saddle with her again—with those strong hands gripping the leather reins and resting on her thighs.

They would move faster now, she told herself, trying to ignore his distinctive male scent as he kicked in his heels and urged the horse into a gal op. They would reach Moncrieffe sooner, and she would be one step closer to safety and the return of her freedom.

That was
all
she wanted. To be safe and free. To that end, she would continue doing what she’d been doing
all
along.

She would stay close to Duncan in order to reach Moncrieffe Castle and find a way home. She would be brave until the moment when he final y let her go. And she would not think too much about his masculine appeal, or his maddening arrogance, or his teasing, tantalizing flirtations. Nor would she reflect upon how kind he had been to the boy and the drover, or how he had saved her, most heroical
l
y, from those horrid English soldiers on the beach.

No, she would not think of any of that. She would push those thoughts away. They were heading toward Moncrieffe Castle. That was
all
that mattered.