Highland Portrait (8 page)

Approaching the crest of a hill Robbie felt the vibrations of riders and was instantly cautious, moving stealthily among the trees to the top of the hill. From the north he saw a lone rider speeding across the vale below.  It was a young lad, with longish hair leaning down onto his horse flying across the meadow, riding as if pursued by the hounds of hell.  He rode his white horse with a great deal of skill, bent on escape, maintaining a good lead on his pursuers.  Robbie felt an odd tingling on his scalp and wondered if the youth was someone he knew. He looked closely again and recognized the horse as one of the Arabians he had seen earlier.  The rider sped out of sight before Robbie could see if he was familiar. Four riders all on stout ponies came into view, and were doing their best to pursue the thief, but even Robbie knew that mountain ponies would never out run an Arabian. The youth had probably stolen the horse and though normally Robbie would have joined the chase, because a horse thief was something he could not abide, this lad had stolen an English horse, and a gift for an Englishman no less, so instead of being incensed at the outrage of horse stealing, he smiled and secretly wished the lad good luck on his venture. 

He looked in the direction the youth had disappeared and wondered again who it might be but dismissed it as it was no business of his if someone stole English horses.

He turned his own horse to the west and rode another mile before he found a nice spot beside a good sized stream.  Covered in trees and promising a quiet respite from the heat, Robbie dismounted and led his horse to the water.  His dog jumped into the water and swam in circles, happy for the deliverance from heat.  Once his horse had sated himself Robbie led him to a nearby tree where he would be well hidden from intruders and tied him loosely, so he could enjoy the grass growing by the edge of the water.

Robbie stripped himself of his clothes and noted that this was a quiet place, a masterful mingling of water and woodlands, inviting contemplation and repose, ripe with thick foliage and the wistfulness of ferns growing along the banks.  He stripped himself of his clothes, throwing them into the water to rinse them, waded into the cool waters with nothing but his dirk between his teeth, and headed to the bank on the other side where the water had pooled in the stream under a heavy overhang of blossoming branches.  It was a secluded spot, a place to pause and savor the beauty of this countryside.  The pool was deep, reaching to his shoulders and Robbie immersed his body rubbing at his skin to rid himself of the foul stench of death and superstition.  He stood quietly for a moment, letting the moving water take the corruption of his morning away from him, leaving him clean and renewed, untainted by the smell of death.

His dog paddled toward him but finding no purchase for his feet turned and headed to the shallow bank.  

“Go find ye sumthin’ to eat, dog.”  The dog was happy to do so, swimming to the edge of the stream then shaking the water from his red coat, he took off looking for a rabbit or some small varmint to feed his hunger.

Robbie allowed the water to cool his hot skin, luxuriating in the slight breeze and sweet clear water.  He ducked his head into the water again rubbing his hands through his hair pressing the sweat out and shaking his head like his dog.  It felt good to be cool, to be clean and he wondered why the English hated the water so.  Mayhap they liked sweat and stink.  They were, after all, English.

He thought once again about the youth on the Arabian and wondered why he had felt an odd tremor of recognition at the sight of the boy.  If it did indeed turn out to be one of the youths of his clan he would have to have a serious talk about stealing horses, even if they were English.  He had a moment’s turn as he thought of a stolen English horse found on MacDougall lands.  That was a headache he did not need.

It was while he was thinking these very thoughts that he heard a horse’s steady trot coming from the west.  He glanced quickly at his horse to make sure he was still hidden in the trees and he noted that his dog had not started barking so he must be busy hunting somewhere further off.  It sounded like a lone rider so he was not too worried, he had his dirk, but he preferred not to challenge or be challenged as he did not want to end this respite from his morning’s troubles.  Perhaps the rider would move on quickly.  He backed up closer to the edge of the pool until he was completely covered by the overhanging foliage, putting himself at an advantage over the intruder.

To his surprise, the youth on the stolen Arabian trotted up to the other side of the stream, obviously exhausted from his chase.  Robbie assumed that he had circled around in an effort to lose his pursuers. 

The lad slid off the horse and pulled the horse toward the stream to water him.

Robbie could count on one hand the number of times he had been truly shocked and surprised to such an extent that he, literally, stopped breathing.  Now was one of those times. He was shocked, not only to discover that the ‘lad’ was a woman, but that she was extraordinary in so many ways.  Her manner of dress was arresting, but her beauty was paralyzing.  He had seen a woman’s legs before, of course, but never had he seen them outlined in skin hugging fabric.  They were long and shapely and when she turned sideways to stroke the horse’s arched neck he could see that she was blessed with a pert round bottom that was beyond even his own fantasies.  The overly tight tunic was worn
inside
the trews and belted with a large silver buckle, nipped tightly at the waist.

Robbie was struck senseless by her physical perfection.  She was beautiful, a strange mix of lights and darks, comely features undiluted by the ravages of life.  How remarkable her skin looked.  There were no visible lesions or sores and her face was clean of the usual marks of life in the 17
th
century.  No pock marks or bruises, no scars left behind by disease or abuse, no strange lumps or cysts. Her skin seemed translucent, unreal and delicate like a flower petal.  He wanted to touch it.  He wondered if it would it feel cool and glassy like the surface of water or warm and soft like a puppy’s belly? 

Beneath her strange hat, her thick curly hair was oddly short, hanging just below her shoulders and was dark, black as the night, uncommon in its shine and luster.  She was breathtaking, even dressed as a lad.

What he saw, but did not understand, was that she was extraordinarily healthy and unmarked by the hard life of the 1600’s. She was, in a word, spectacular.

He watched as she removed her hat and was again jolted by surprise.  It was a strange broad brimmed hat slightly curled upward on each side.  An odd hat circled with white heather.  Robbie was not one to believe in old wives tales or superstition, but white heather was a rare flower and was said to be the special flower of the faerie folk.  She was exceedingly human and real and there was much about her that was strange and unexplainable, but he thought her surprisingly tall for a faerie.  If she was fae, which he very much doubted because faerie folk had no need to steal horses, then she was a Faerie Queen and he was enchanted with her.  Never had he seen such beauty or perfection in a human being before.

She led her mare downstream just a short way to tie her in a thick growth of bracken and tall brush and small trees, hiding her from English soldiers.  Making sure the mare was secure she returned to the edge of the stream, sat down and pulled off her boots.  Robbie had never seen the like of these boots and was amazed at the sheer beauty of them.  They appeared to be made of dark leather with hard soles, not overly tall, but had unusual designs stitched in red and blue thread, with what looked like rather deep wooden heels. She then took off stockings that were just wee stockings, short and very thin, pushed them inside the boots, then hid the boots under a bush along with her hat.  She had an odd knapsack strapped to her back that seemed a rather ingenious device with wide padded straps rather than thin ropes.  It was made from some material that he couldn’t identify at this distance, but he was impressed with it just the same and wondered if she might be from some foreign country. She took off the knapsack and pushed it under the bushes with her boots and hat.

Not only was she beautiful, but she seemed completely without guile, unafraid of what she had done or where she was.  His soul was touched to the very core as he felt a shiver of remembrance that assailed him from whence he knew not.  He recognized in her something that had been missing in his life.

Robbie held his breath as she plunged into the stream, diving deep and swimming closer to his hidden spot.  As she went under Robbie heard the pounding of horse’s hooves and knew that her pursuers had caught up and were closing in on her.  She may have stolen a horse but he was not going to let them have her.  He would protect her and keep her from those English bastards.  His blood pounding in his head, he dove into the direction of the Faerie Queen the urgency of the situation and the fact that she didn’t know what was happening calling for care and delicacy…and speed.  Faster than a striking snake he reached out and grabbed her around the waist with one arm and quickly put his other hand on her mouth to keep her from crying out and alerting the riders.  He pulled her back against him, knowing she was startled and moved swiftly back under the overhanging brush.  He felt her seize up, grabbing at his arms and knew she was weighing her options, which weren’t many at this point, and he quietly leaned his lips to her ears.

“Quiet, lass, they return.” 

Chapter Five

As soon as the words were spoken Stella felt the pounding of horse’s hooves and saw them come into view.  It was, indeed, her pursuers. How could they have caught up with her so quickly on those raggedy-ass fat ponies? She pressed herself back against her captor, hoping to god that she had not jumped from the frying pan into the fire.  But he was only one, she hoped, and they were four so maybe her chances were better with this wet man that held her close.

She could not speak because he had his large hand across her mouth, but he held it gently, not in a threatening, but a protective manner.  She knew, instantly, that he covered her mouth to prevent her from screaming and giving notice to the pursuers. 

The four soldiers stopped at the stream and got down to water their horses. 

“Do ye want to be found, lass?  If ye do I’ll let ye go,” his voice was kind and firm, oddly familiar, and she knew she was no captive, but was in the hands of someone who would protect her.  She shook her head and he slowly released his hand from her mouth.  He pulled her waist tighter bringing her up against his chest. Stella reached down into the water to hold on to him and touched naked skin. Rather than grab a naked hip she reached back up to hold onto his arms. Quickly reconnoitering the situation she realized that she had come upon him bathing and had he not been here she would now be trussed and gagged, headed to a stake for burning. 

“Get behind me.  Quiet now.”  His whispered words assured her and he let her go, holding on to her arm and quickly, but quietly swung her through the water behind him.  She moved with deliberation and pressed herself against the bank of the stream.  It was deep here, past her head, but she placed one hand on the shoulder of the naked man and one hand onto a root sticking out from the bank.  He felt the pressure of her hand and backed up ever so slightly covering her from view.

Stella looked at the back of her rescuer and noted the extremely broad shoulders.  He was a powerfully muscled man, six feet or more, with hair as long as hers.  She had not seen his face yet, but she knew he had a beard because she had felt it when she was pressed against his chest.  His hair was not too dark, but it was wet so she guessed it must be darkish blonde.  It was hard to assess someone from this angle, but she supposed him to be a farmer, or soldier, or some such laborer.  She was hoping that her impression of kindness was correct and she wouldn’t find herself tonight’s entertainment.

They could barely see through the overhanging foliage but she could make out the men getting back on their ponies and arguing about which way to go.  They were obviously very poor trackers, she thought, because they didn’t even bother to check the ground for prints.  What a bunch of stooges, she thought, but they were stooges that could do her a lot of harm so she was glad to be with the Wet Man instead of at their mercy.  She also knew they were probably concerned about their own skins since losing an Arabian, which was probably a very expensive purchase, was not going to sit well with whomever the string of horses was intended.  She felt sorry for them, but reminded herself these men were already dead in the grand scheme of things and therefore she didn’t feel too guilty.

She noticed that Wet Man had a fierce looking dagger in his hand and she had a momentary thought that it might be meant for her.  He was still as death making sure no ripples came from their area of the stream and she was grateful that he had the presence of mind to keep her hidden.  She, apparently, didn’t know much about how to keep from being found and reminded herself that survival skills were not what she was best known for.  Getting to Kilmartin was going to be a little trickier than she thought.

The men split into pairs, each pair going in a different direction to find her, which was a disappointment because now she had to watch out for two sets of pursuers instead of just one.  This was becoming more complicated by the minute.  Damn that Robbie MacDougall, anyway!  She just wanted to go home, but in spite of his loving assurances of his affection he had put her in a very vulnerable situation and if she ever found him she’d kill him.  That, of course, was preposterous since he was already dead, but she would find some way of inflicting some sort of pain, or at the very least, inconvenience, on him.