Captured by the Highlander (5 page)

Sleep proved impossible for Amelia. The Butcher, however, slipped effortlessly into a quiet and restful slumber.

Clearly, the man’s conscience was clear. He was not fretting about the men he had
killed
during the night, or the fact that he had kidnapped the fiancée of a prominent English military officer, who was likely hunting him down like a dog at this very moment. He was not the least bit concerned that she might outwit him and escape while he slept. No, the Butcher rested peaceful y, serene and tranquil in his hidden lair, confident that his terrified prisoner would not rise up in a panic and stab him in the back if he inadvertently let go of her for even the
smallest
fraction of a second.

It was unlikely to happen, of course. He would indeed feel the slightest move on her part, for his arms were locked about her waist, pinning her against him. The mere sound of his breathing—so close, so steady and deep, like waves in the ocean—kept her riveted and
still
, for fear of waking him.

Silently, without moving a muscle, she let her gaze wander about the dimly lit cave, looking for something she could use as a weapon if an opportunity presented itself. She saw only the unlit fire and cast-iron pot, the basket of bread, some blankets, and his axe and broadsword, not far from where they lay.

Careful y she reached out to touch the axe, mostly out of curiosity, but felt the immediate, subtle
pull
of her captor’s body. His hips pushed forward, and she froze,
controlling
her breathing, for he might not be so weary after a brief nap. He might decide he did have the strength, after
all
, to do more than just lie beside her. He might choose to help himself to her virtue and do
all
the wicked, lusty things he had talked about on the horse.

Her stomach flipped over suddenly at the memory of that conversation. She could not seem to purge it from her mind.

If only she could sleep. She would need her wits about her in the coming days and could not afford to be sluggish of mind.

A sudden
thump
outside the cave entrance caused her to jump. Her heart beat in her chest like some wild, fluttering creature as she stared wide-eyed into the mist for the other Highlander, who wanted to hack her to pieces and was probably coming to do it now.

But it was only the Butcher’s big black horse, wandering freely outside the cave, his head bowed down to the ground as he tore at the grass with his teeth. Listening to the sound of the animal crunching, she let out an anxious breath and felt her captor snuggle closer, as if he sensed her unease and was urging her to relax.

A
full
hour must have passed while she lay staring with bloodshot eyes at the light outside. Then suddenly the Butcher stirred and drew in a deep breath.

“Ah, that’s better,” he groaned, tucking his knees up behind hers. “I feel good. Did you sleep, lass?”

“No,” she curtly said, feeling the stiffness of his arousal.

He leaned up on an elbow. “Why not? Was the bed not soft enough?” He paused and leaned closer, looking at her careful y. “How old are you, lass?”

“I am two-and-twenty. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

He ran his big hand over the curve of her hip and thigh, and she felt a strange
, disturbing tension in her bell
y. “A grown woman, then. Worldly and experienced…”

She
swall
owed anxiously. “A grown woman, yes. And experienced enough to know a gentleman from a savage.”

“Then you do not need any lessons from me about the difference between the two?”

“I certainly do not.”

The Butcher paused, looking down at her legs while he gathered the heavy fabric of her skirts in his fist. Inching them up, little by little, until her bare calves were exposed to the knees, he said in a low, husky whisper, “That’s too bad, lassie, because I’m an
excellent
teacher. And you
smell
very nice.”

“Do I?” She voiced the reply in a blasé tone, despite the fact that her chest felt like it might explode.

Slowly, he nuzzled her shoulder with his chin, as if he was studying her response to his touch.

Amelia lay very
still
, resting her cheek on her hands, struggling impossibly to behave as if this were nothing to her.

She would not react to his overtures, nor show fear or slap his hands away, for that might only provoke him. With any luck, a façade of boredom and indifference might douse the fires of his current inclinations—whatever they were.

“Aye, fresh as a spring daisy,” he said. “
Very
tempting in the morning.”

He continued to stroke her shoulder with his chin while her heart raced like a hunted fox.

“You, on the other hand, are
not
tempting in the least,” she said. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“Is it because of how we met? Without a proper introduction?”

She turned over to glare up at him. “You came to
kill
my betrothed, and you almost chopped off my head.”

He let out a breath. “I knew I should have worn the silk jacket. Now I’ve spoiled everything.”

Good Lord! Was he making fun of her? Or was he deranged?

“Get up,” he said, vaulting lightly over her body, rising to his feet, and belting his scabbard around his waist.

Amelia leaned up on both elbows. “Why?”

She watched him pick up the axe and walk to the cave entrance, where he put two fingers to his lips and whistled.

He then faced her—a godlike silhouette against the shifting mist, his kilt and hair wavering lightly in the breeze. “Because I intend to
follow
through with my devious and wily plot, of course.”

«Will
you send word to the fort that you are holding me captive?” she asked,
still
unsure what to make of him when he spoke like that.

He bent forward, picked up his saddlebags, stalked back into the cave, and began packing food. “Not yet. I want Bennett to worry about you for a few days.”

A few days …
Amelia examined the wounds at her wrists and remembered her frantic need to escape when she first set foot in this cave. She’d been the Butcher’s prisoner for less than six hours and felt as if she’d skirted death and disaster at every turn. How would she continue to survive for another few days—and nights, too?

“What makes you think the
full
force of the English army isn’t already searching for me?” she
challenge
d. “How do you know Richard hasn’t uncovered your tracks or learned of this hiding place? He has reason to interrogate people now.

Surely someone
will
know this den exists.”

“That’s why we’re leaving.”

“Where
will
we go?”

“Further north. Higher into the mountains.”

She glanced past him to the mouth of the cave again.
«Will
your friends be joining us?”

“They
’ll
be close by,” he answered, “but we won’t travel together. That would make us too easy to track.”

Just then, the two Highlanders they’d met in the rainy field entered the cave. The Butcher tossed a blanket to the
tall
red-haired one with the beard and freckled skin. “We’re leaving,” he said. “Pack everything. We
’ll
meet at Glen Elchaig at dusk.”

The Highlander began to
rollup
the blanket, his green eyes intense as he scrutinized Amelia. “Is she coming with us?”

“Aye.”

He nodded at her. “I’m Gawyn.” He gestured toward the other Highlander. “And the ugly one is Fergus.”

Fergus belched and flashed a crooked, disquieting grin, which made her shrink back. “He’s just jealous of my sensual appeal.”

Deeply unsettled and striving to keep up her guard, Amelia rose to her feet and watched the rebels clear the supplies out of the den. They moved swiftly and efficiently while she stood back against the cold cave
wall
, keeping quiet, striving to avoid their attentions.

The Butcher tossed his saddlebags over his shoulder, then approached. “Time to go.” He grabbed her by the elbow and led her out of the cave.

Scurrying to keep up, Amelia breathed in the briny scent of the fog as they emerged into the morning light. The mist shifted and
rolled
across the rocky
hill
tops, and she felt its
chill
upon her skin.

The Butcher saddled his horse while the other two Highlanders stuffed supplies into sacks and saddle pouches.

Amelia studied the craggy landscape, searching for some sign of the fair-haired one named Angus, but he seemed to have vanished into the mist. They were a dubious and shifty lot, these Highland rebels.

“You
’ll
need to relieve yourself before we go,” the Butcher said. “There’s a rock there, and don’t get any ideas about running off.” He pointed toward a huge boulder, then turned away.

This is a nightmare,
Amelia thought.
If only I could wake.

A few minutes later, she finished her morning affairs and returned to where the others were waiting.

“Do I need to bind your wrists for the ride?” Her captor looked at her with
challenge
as he drove a musket into the saddle scabbard.

She touched the chafe marks on her wrists,
still
painful and raw, and shook her head. “No.”

“You get one chance to earn my trust,” he told her, “and if you disappoint me, I
’ll
keep you bound and gagged until I
kill
your beloved, which could be some time from now, considering where we’re headed.”

She glanced up at the mountaintops and shivered. “I won’t try to escape. You have my word.”

“But can you trust the word of the English?” Fergus asked, swinging himself up onto the back of his horse and adjusting the powder horn he carried at his side.

“I could say the same about you Scottish rebels,” Amelia tersely replied.

“Easy now,” the Butcher warned in her ear, sounding almost amused. “You don’t want to get into a political debate with Fergus. He
’ll
wipe the ground with you.”

Duncan wrapped his big hands around her waist, but Amelia slapped them away. “I know how to mount a horse,” she said. “You don’t have to toss me up like a child every time.”

He backed away in mock surrender.

As soon as he gave her enough space, she placed her foot in the stirrup and mounted. The Butcher slung his shield across his back, then swung up behind her.

“I thought proper English ladies only rode sidesaddle,” he said quietly, “because they like to keep their legs squeezed together, nice and tight.”

Why did he constantly feel inclined to say such vulgar things to her? And why did he always have to breathe every word into her ear as if it were an intimate secret between lovers?

“As you know,” she said, “my father was a colonel in the army. He might have enjoyed a son if he’d had one. Since he didn’t, I was fortunate enough to be awarded the opportunity to play ‘Dragoons’ when I was very young, much to my mother’s chagrin.”

“He taught you to ride like a soldier?”

“Among other things.”

“I
’ll
keep that in mind.”

He turned the horse in the opposite direction from which they had come, while Fergus and Gawyn made haste toward the east, choosing a different route to Glen Elchaig. She was not sorry to see them go, for she knew less of them than she did about the Butcher, who—to her great astonishment—had not yet harmed her, despite ample opportunity. The others she was not so sure of.

Then she looked up and saw Angus on his pale gray horse, watching them from the edge of a blunt outcropping.

He wore his tartan like a hood over his head, and the ends of his long golden hair rippled like weightless ribbons in the breeze.

“There’s your friend,” she said suspiciously.

“Aye.”

She watched Angus until he turned his horse in the other direction, disappearing over the ridge. She had the distinct impression he would not be far, however. For the duration of this journey, he would always be in the vicinity, watching from the mist, sending daggers of malice in her direction. She only hoped he was not waiting for the right moment to ride in and strangle the life out of her when the Butcher was not looking.

They rode in silence for a time, and she grew sleepy as the horse plodded along and rocked her back and forth in the saddle. Her head
fell
forward and she snapped it back up, shaking herself awake and fighting the urge to sleep, until the Butcher covered her forehead with his palm. It was surprisingly warm against her skin.