Captured by the Highlander (9 page)

* * *

“How close were you to Angus’s sister?” she asked Duncan later that morning, after they had packed their supplies and left the glen, the rebels spreading out on horseback in
all
directions like spokes on a fan. “Gawyn told me that—” “Gawyn talks too much.” Duncan’s reply came down like a hammer.

Recognizing the note of impatience in his voice, Amelia cleared her throat and began again. “Perhaps he does, but we’re alone now, Duncan, and I would like to know more about what happened. Was Muira’s death what started this bloody rampage? Or were you known as the Butcher before that?”

He said nothing for a long time, so Amelia simply waited.

And waited.

“I don’t know who invented that name,” he said at last. “It wasn’t us. It was probably some adolescent English soldier who cowered behind a barrel when we attacked his camp.”

“Someone who lived to
tell
about it,” she added.

“And thought it clever to exaggerate.”

Feeling a swift surge of hope, she turned in the saddle to search his eyes. “Exaggerate? So it’s not
all
true?”

He paused. “More than enough of it is based on fact, lass, so don’t get your hopes up.”

They rode on. The horse’s hooves plodded leisurely over the grass while a thick mist shifted and
rolled
across the mountaintops.

“But you
still
haven’t answered my question,” she said, “about Angus’s sister. How close were you?”

His voice was quiet. “Muira was to be my wife.”

Amelia had already suspected there was more to his vengeance than mere loyalty to a friend, but to hear him admit it openly was like a punch in the chest. She could not explain it. It shouldn’t matter, but it did, especial y now when she was relaxing into the warmth of his body and feeling safe and secure in his arms.

She looked up at the low cloud cover moving across the sky and suspected it would soon blot out the sun. A blackbird soared in and out of the vapor, and again she felt as if she had entered a different world, a place of complexity and sorrow. There was so much pain here—she felt it herself in so many confusing ways—yet at the same time there was divine beauty in these majestic faraway mountains. The air was fresh and clean; the rivers and streams ran clear as glass. Everything was so drastical
l
y, oddly contradictory and profoundly stirring to her blood.

For the rest of the morning after their conversation about Muira, Amelia and Duncan said very little to each other. He seemed to withdraw into a secluded mood of disinterest, which she tried to see as a blessing, for he was her captor and she was a fool to let herself feel sympathy for his circumstances, or worse—to believe that she was becoming attracted to him. It was best if they did not talk.

Later he left her alone for a short while. They stopped by a river to water the horse and eat a few bites of stale bread and cheese. Duncan did not eat with her, and in those fleeting seconds of freedom she glanced around and considered a hasty escape, but was hindered by the fact that she knew nothing of their position on a map, or what was over the next rise.

Better the devil you know,
she told herself in the end, when she imagined darting into the mountains and finding a place to hide. What if she met up with a less hospitable band of savages? A different bunch of hooligans who might abuse her immediately? Or a vicious, hungry animal with fangs?

And so, she did not run away that afternoon. She merely sat quietly on a rock, waited for Duncan to return, and was greatly relieved to see him when he did.

* * *

That night after supper—in another glen that was very similar to the last—as Amelia lay down on the bed of fur by the slowly dying fire, she strove to stay calm by
calling
to mind happier thoughts. She remembered the raspberry tarts Cook used to make in their London house, the soft feather-down
pillow
she liked best, and the sound of her maid tiptoeing into her room early in the morning with breakfast on a tray.

She thought also of her father’s gentle, soothing voice, his deep, merry laughter in the evenings when he smoked a pipe by the fire.

A painful lump of longing rose up in her throat, but she pushed it back down, for she could not
fall
apart now. She had made it this far. She would make it the rest of the way.

Pul
l
ing the blanket up to her chin, she closed her eyes and tried to get some rest. At least Angus was not present that night. He was scouting the forest on the far side of the glen.

As for Duncan, he was seated on a stony outcropping above, just as he had been the night before, keeping an eye out for danger. Though it was far more likely that he was simply making sure she didn’t rise up in the night and bludgeon them
all
to death with a stone.

But could she actual y
kill
a man if the opportunity presented itself?

Yes,
she decided.
Yes, I could.

With that morbid idea bobbing around inside her brain, she
fell
into a restless sleep, and woke in the night to the sound of quick footsteps and whispering.

Fear ignited in her breast. Instantly alert, she lay motionless, petrified with alarm.

“We
’ll
be heading south in the morning,” Fergus said, stretching out on the ground and
pulling
his tartan over his shoulders. “Back toward Moncrieffe.”

Moncrieffe? The earl’s residence?

She strained hard to listen.…

“But I thought Duncan wanted to bide his time,” Gawyn whispered in reply.

“He did, but Angus spotted some redcoats at the loch. We need to turn back.”

She heard Gawyn sit up. “Loch Fannich is less than half a mile away. Duncan didn’t think we should pack up right away?”

Fergus sat up, too. “Nay, Angus said there were only five of them and their bel
l
ies were
full
of rum, and they were
all
asleep.”

Gawyn lay back down.
«Well
, that’s a relief.”

“Maybe to you. But you didn’t hear Angus and Duncan fighting over what to do with the lady.” His whisper grew more hushed, and he leaned forward on an elbow. “I thought they were going to take each other’s heads off,” he said.

“Angus wants to
kill
her tonight and leave her corpse outside the English camp.”

Fear exploded in Amelia’s stomach.

Gawyn sat up again. “But she’s the daughter of a duke.”

“Shh.” Fergus paused. “We shouldn’t be talking about it.”

“What did they decide?”

“I don’t know.”

They were quiet for a moment; then Fergus settled down and drew his tartan over his head. “Either way, it’s not up to us, so stop your blathering, you cockeyed nag. I need my sleep.”

“As do I, you
smelly
arse. And it was
you
who started it.”

* * *

An hour later, Amelia ran through the darkness, panting heavily, stumbling over rocks, and leaping over patchy hol
l
ows. Her skirts whipped back and forth with each harried stride, and her heart burned with wild, crippling panic.

She prayed that Duncan had not yet noticed her absence, or that she would not bash headlong into Angus, who was scouting the woods just ahead and wanted to deliver her corpse to the English camp. It was a terrible risk she had taken, for if her captors discovered her flight before she reached the English soldiers, there was no
telling
what they might do.

Please, God, let me find the camp. I cannot die here.

Then she felt a presence.…

The sound of footsteps across the glen, stealthily approaching, swift and fluid in the night, like some kind of phantom animal. They were coming at her from behind.

Or from the side … Or at a diagonal … Perhaps they were in front of her!

Dashing forward as fast as she could, she glanced over her shoulder.

“Stop!” the voice commanded.

“No, I
will
not!”

Before she could recognize anything in the heavy gloom, something smacked sidelong into her.

Thump! S
he hit the ground and her breath sailed out of her lungs. Fire lit in her veins as she comprehended what was happening. She was trapped again beneath Duncan’s heavy body. Where had he come from? She was sure she had gotten away. Did he have eyes in the back of his head?

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked, rising up on hands and knees above her, his hair
falling
forward. He wore his shield on his back, his sword in the side scabbard, his axe tucked into his belt.

“Let me go!” she cried, more desperate than ever to escape and reach safety.

Her palm slammed down on a rock, and before she could form a single conscious thought, she had swung it through the air and struck Duncan in the side of the head.

He groaned and toppled over, cupping his temple in a hand. He
fell
onto his back. Blood oozed forth, between his fingers.

Horrified, Amelia scrambled to her feet.

He tried to move. He twisted and squirmed. Blood poured everywhere, dripping over his knuckles and down his arm.

God in heaven! What had she done?

She looked over her shoulder toward the edge of the forest, knowing the lake was not far beyond. There were English soldiers there. She could
still
reach them.

Indecision crippled her mind. She was shocked by what she had done to Duncan; she had not known she was capable of such violence. But what choice did she have?

He groaned again, then
fell
unconscious. Had she
killed
him?

Shaken, disoriented, and suddenly terrified that Angus would appear out of nowhere and make her pay for her defiance, she bolted for the woods.

She could not regret it. She had been abducted by enemy Highlanders. She’d had no choice but to save herself. At least now there was a chance she could survive and reach her own countrymen. She could see her uncle again and return to her home in England. Sleep in her own bed. Feel safe at last.

When she reached the trees, she skidded to a halt. It was pitch-black inside the forest. How would she ever find her way?

Her heart hammered in her chest; then suddenly she was racing blindly, whipping through the tangle of branches and leaves and sharp pine boughs that cut across her face. She
fell
so many times, she lost count, but each time she hit the ground she somehow managed to rise and keep going.

Panting, gasping for air, she refused to give up. She wrestled her way through the dark until she saw traces of moonlight through the trees. Mist on water. Sparkling ripples.

She flew out of the bush and
collapsed
onto her hands and knees on the grass. A campfire burned like a beacon on the beach. It was not far. There was a tent. There were horses and a wagon. Barrels. A mule. Sacks of grain …

Stil on her hands and knees, she touched her forehead to the ground.
Sweet Lord, thank you.

Amelia rose to her feet. She limped across the grass to the pebbly beach. This was victory. She had reached safety.

Weak and exhausted, she strode toward the English camp and tried not to think of the man she had left behind, unconscious and bleeding to death in the glen. She would try not to think of his pain, or the shock in his eyes when he realized what she had done to him. She would purge
all
thoughts of him from her mind. He was her enemy. She would think of him no more.

Five soldiers were asleep in their bedrol
l
s inside the tent, and Amelia—holding the flap open with one hand—had to clear her throat twice before three of them startled awake.

They leaped up in a disorderly fashion, and the next thing she knew she was staring from one pistol to another, three in total,
all
cocking simultaneously.

She gasped and shouted, “I’m English!”

The three on their feet took a wobbly moment to comprehend her words while the other two groaned in their beds.

“What’s going on?” one of them asked, squinting at Amelia, who stood at the tent door next to a lantern.

“I am in urgent need of your assistance and protection,”

she told them. “I am the fiancée of Richard Bennett, lieutenant-colonel of the Ninth Dragoons. I was abducted out of Fort
William
by the Butcher of the Highlands.”

“The Butcher?” The soldier at the far corner fought to untangle himself from his bedrol
l
and groped around for a weapon he could not seem to find. “Bloody
hell
!”

God help them. God help them all.

“Please,” she said. “I think it would be best if we left here as quickly as possible. I see you have horses.…”

“Damn right we do,” one of them said, dashing for the door and shoving her out of the way. “Where the
hell
is my horse?”

The distinct odor of rum on his breath wafted to her nostrils as he staggered onto the moonlit beach.

This was not good. She had imagined a disciplined brigade of fearless English heroes, on guard with arms at the ready, who would rise to the
challenge
of rescuing an aristocratic lady from the clutches of a known Jacobite rebel and enemy of the Crown. What she appeared to have stumbled upon, however, was an incompetent group of cowards and drunkards.

“Quiet, you imbeciles,” another said from inside the tent as he lowered his weapon to his side. “The Butcher is a fairy tale. It’s just a story invented by the MacLeans to keep us off their lands, and everyone knows the MacLeans are nothing but sheep stealers.”

“I heard it was the MacDonalds.”

“Well,
I
heard it was
all
true,” said another. He was
still
lying in his
bedroll
but leaned up on an elbow to reach for a bottle behind his
pillow
. He tipped it upside down and shook it, but nothing came out. “My cousin saw him once. He was camped with the regulars outside of Edinburgh, and said the Butcher
killed
ten men single-handedly, then chopped off the head of the officer in charge and fed it to his horse.”

One of them scoffed while a second one ran out of the tent and nearly knocked Amelia over as he passed by. She
followed
him onto the beach, where the fire was
still
burning.

The first soldier was already
galloping
away.

“Wait!” she shouted, running after him.

“Oh, for the love of God,” another said, emerging from the tent and swinging his pistol around. “Gutless fool. He
’ll
ride straight into a tree.”

Amelia turned to face him. “Who’s in charge here?” she demanded to know. “Is it you, sir?”

“Yes.” He staggered slightly and seemed to have trouble focusing on her face.

“What is your name and rank?”

He slowly blinked. “I am Major Curtis, at your service.”

“I never took you for a poet, Jack,” one of them said, tossing a handful of pebbles at him.

Frustrated beyond measure, Amelia spoke harshly. “I assure you, sir, the Butcher is true flesh and blood, and I believe…” She paused, looking back in the other direction. “I believe I may have
killed
him.”

Saying it aloud made her feel sick to her stomach.

Another soldier emerged from the tent, drinking straight from a bottle. “This is a joke,” he said. “Someone is having it on with us. Look at the dirty wench. She’s no officer’s bride.

She’s as grimy as a fishwife. I say we have some fun with her.”

“It’s no joke,” she declared. “I was abducted out of Fort
William
. I am engaged to Richard Bennett, lieutenant-colonel of the Ninth Dragoons, and the Butcher and his band of rebels are not far from here. We must make haste to escape and report what has occurred.”

The one with the bottle staggered repulsively toward her.

“Come here, darlin’. Give me a kiss.”

“Keep your putrid hands off me!” She backed up and stole a glance over her shoulder, looking for a way to escape. It occurred to her only then that she should have stolen the axe out of Duncan’s belt. Why hadn’t she? “Stay where you are, sir.”

He charged fast, however, before she could even brace herself. His hands closed roughly around her upper arms, and his mushy lips attached themselves to her cheek. He sucked on her face, his wet tongue probing and licking. The
smell
of his breath and body was sickeningly foul, and she grew wild with anger.

She swung her arms and tried to punch at him, but his grip was uncompromising. He was a large, heavyset man who could easily overpower her, even while intoxicated.

The others came out of the tent and began to whoop and cheer and applaud, entertained and goaded by Amelia’s kicking and scratching.

“Let me go!” she ground out, but the next thing she knew she was flat on her back, struggling and shoving with
all
her might, while the vile, disgusting creature pressed his heavy body to hers.

“I’m next,” she heard one of the others say, and then there was a dizzying, high-pitched ringing in her ears, drowning out everything but the sound of her own frantic heartbeats and the ferocity of her screams as she fought.

There were noises
all
around her, groans and crashes and terrible thudding sounds, and then the flabby heap of flesh on top of her took to the air. She watched him fly upward in an arc and land in the lake with a resounding splash.

She sat up, and there was Duncan, standing over her, feet braced apart, axe in hand, his broad chest heaving, his teeth bared like an animal. Their eyes met and locked, and he stared down at her in a crazed frenzy of murderous rage.

His hair was matted with blood, and his face was drenched with it, like a hideous mask of war paint.
all
she saw was the whites of his eyes, and her insides seized with shock.

The sound of splashing water drew her attention toward the lake.

With his claymore swinging in the side scabbard, Duncan strode to the water’s edge. He waded into the dark moonlit waves, stalking after the soldier who had attacked her.

The man began to sob. “No, please, no!” He tripped backwards and plunged beneath the surface, then scrambled up and started swimming in the other direction, away from shore, kicking and flailing desperately in the waves.

Duncan pushed his way in deeper, not held back in the slightest by the resistance of the water. He raised his axe over his head.

Amelia rose to her feet in horror. She could not watch. She couldn’t bear to witness the vicious slaughter of a man in cold blood, right there in front of her eyes, despite what he’d almost done to her just now.

“No, Duncan!” she shouted, taking an anxious step forward.

Her voice seemed to arrest him on the spot, and he looked down at his kilt floating in the water
all
around him. It was as if she had
pulled
him out of a trance.

He turned around, waded out of the lake, and whistled for his horse. Turner came trotting out of the trees without saddle or reins. Duncan slipped the axe into his belt and mounted the great black beast. He rode bareback to where Amelia stood in front of the tent, surrounded by three dead soldiers.

He looked down at her and held out his hand.

She hesitated.

Then one of the soldiers moaned and
rolled
over behind her. She jumped and turned. Another began to drag himself across the beach, away from the camp, as if he were crawling toward safety in the bushes.

So they were not dead after
all
—although their leader, Major Curtis, was
still
thrashing about in the lake and would probably drown in the next few minutes.

“Come with me now,” Duncan growled, “or take your chances with these men.”

The one closest to her was rising up on his hands and knees, and the next thing she knew she had taken hold of Duncan’s arm and was bounding up onto the back of his horse.

Duncan
pulled
the shield off over his head and handed it to her. “Put this on. Strap it to your back.”

She did as he instructed, wrapped her arms around his waist, and they
galloped
out of the English camp toward the trees.