Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Once the rescue camp came into view, the girl at his side began to walk faster.
Her eyes were locked on the orderly rows of tents and the efficiency with which Darragh’s men were working.
If he were to guess, she was motivated by the savory scent of stew and fresh bread wafting from the center of the camp.
“I ken ye want to get yer meal,” he said, his hand tightening on her shoulder where it had been resting the entire walk here, “but we’ll be makin’ a quick stop to get these cuffs off of ye.”
“I can eat with them,” she argued, desperation in her eyes, her body seeming even more frail in the moment.
“It’s on the way,” he promised, already guiding her toward the blacksmith’s tent. The man had come along to lend a hand in restoring stability to the area and had the wherewithal to bring his tools along. “If these arenae off of ye within three minutes, I will let ye eat first.”
The girl didn’t answer, but the grimace that affixed itself to her lips spoke louder than any words. She was allowing this, but she would hold him to the three minutes he’d allotted.
She’s probably already countin’ them in her head.
The blacksmith worked quickly, having already pulled out the snips when he caught sight of the two of them walking forward.
His work lacked finesse, though. The solid metal pressed into her wounds, making the woman hiss with discomfort.
Notably, she didn’t complain, taking her wrists back as soon as she was free.
“Thank ye,” Darragh said before leading her away.
They attracted glances as they walked through the camp. No eyes lingered too long, all of them seeming to sense that Darragh would not allow any distractions. If they had questions, they could raise them when he wasn’t escorting an emaciated woman toward their makeshift mess hall.
“Take a seat,” he instructed her when they reached a wooden table lined with benches. “I will bring yer meal.”
She hesitated, her eyes darting to the cauldron bubbling over a fire.
He could see her weighing her options, deciding whether or not this was an argument worth having.
Finally, she relented, taking her position with a grace that suggested she wasn’t just a common woman who had been plucked from her home.
Darragh didn’t have to speak when he approached the cook. The man ladled a large helping of broth, vegetables, and meat into a bowl, topping it with a brown roll. Wordlessly, he passed it to Darragh, his eyes flitting to the girl who was now sitting tall and scanning her surroundings.
“For ye,” he said, placing the food in front of her when he reached the table.
He didn’t sit, instead choosing to stand guard over her. His survey of his men came to an abrupt halt when he heard her slurping the liquid. Almost immediately, his interest was focused on her.
The proper posture she’d maintained as she waited was gone, her back hunched and her mouth close to the bowl. She spooned bite after bite into her mouth, liquid dripping down her chin. Then, she grabbed hold of the bread, chomping down on it like a wild dog would a slab of raw meat.
How long had they been keepin’ her like that? When was the last time she ate a proper meal?
Her hands shook with the desperate intensity of her hunger.
It seemed as if whatever shame she may have had was overridden by her most basic need finally being met after weeks of denial.
By the time the first roll of bread was gone, the cook had already dropped off another along with a glass of water and a cloth, anticipating the woman’s need before she had a chance to voice it.
I should look away, give her some privacy.
He couldn’t, though. Part of his vigil was to keep her from choking. And, though he was loath to admit it to himself, something about this woman fascinated him beyond simple concern for her well-being.
After gulping down half of the mug, she slowed down. Her back straightened as she reached for the napkin, and her movements were graceful and precise when she cleaned off her hands. As she blotted her mouth demurely, Darragh fully realized that she was hiding much more than her name.
He waited for her to finish eating, noting the way her grip on the spoon became more precise as the survival panic eased.
It wasn’t until she carefully placed the utensil on the table and sopped up the dregs of her stew that he settled across from her.
When she met his gaze, the fire seemed to have only intensified, renewed now that she was properly fed.
Darragh cleared his throat, his interest in her only deepening. He’d assumed that after a proper meal, she’d be tired. Instead, she looked as if she was ready to verbally spar with him once more.
I shouldnae like the idea of that so much, yet her voice is enticin’ as all creation.
“Are ye goin’ to tell me what they call ye now?” he asked, folding his hands on the table in front of him.
“Does it matter?” she deflected, her spine getting impossibly straighter as if she was trying to make herself bigger.
“Aye,” he said easily, not allowing himself to rise to her obvious attempts at irritation. “For the obvious reasons, first of all. And for findin’ yer kin, next.”
“Ye want to find me kin?” she said, the words underlined with something hard.
“Aye. I will find yer family and return ye to them.”
She scowled, an anger even greater than he’d seen in the tower washing over her features. For a moment, he thought she would run again. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, her expression steely once more.
“Ye willnae have any luck findin’ me family,” she said, each word calculated, “seein’ as I’m an orphan. I suppose ye could find the orphanage I grew up in, but I’m nae a child. They wouldnae have a place for me.”
Darragh was quiet, finding it hard to believe that someone who spoke and sat the way she did was lowborn. What he’d seen after she’d curbed the initial hunger pangs didn’t speak of someone raised in any orphanage he knew of. That didn’t necessarily mean she wasn’t telling the truth, however.
“I see,” he said, letting his gaze linger over her for another moment before glancing around the area. When he spotted his man-at-arms, he called, “Ewan. I need ye to guide this lass to a tent. Ensure she’s comfortable.”
Ach, Saints. I daenae ken what to do with her.
But, as he watched his man-at-arms lead her away, he chastised himself. He should know how to handle this. He always had before, but this girl was an anomaly.
* * *
“And here ye are,” Ewan said, pulling back the canvas flap to invite her into the tent. “It’s nae much, but ye’ll find that it’s comfortable. If ye need anythin’ at all, daenae hesitate to find me. Me tent is just over there.”
Amelia didn’t look at where he was gesturing. She didn’t need to. If she were to ask for something, that would make her reliant on these men, and she refused to be so.
It didn’t seem as though they were participants in the hunt. Setting up a camp like this just to trick her felt far too elaborate.
When he didn’t leave, still holding the fabric open for her, she stepped into the tent. Finally, he dropped it, leaving her alone in the space. Her shoulders slumped a bit, but she didn’t relax.
The tent was large, looking even bigger on the inside than it did from the outside.
Thick furs covered the ground, looking so much more inviting than the cold stone that had been her constant companion for weeks.
She settled herself on a low bed that was piled with wool blankets, her eyes landing on the sole lantern that illuminated a basin filled with water next to a pile of folded linen.
This is much better than bein’ returned home, even if this Laird Darragh does intend to take me captive.
She took the time to wash the grime from her body, her movements slow and methodical.
When she ran out of patience for the task, she threw back the blankets and lay on the mattress that was, as promised, much more comfortable than the hay.
Her eyes fluttered closed as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Sleep didn’t come, though. Each noise beyond the canvas walls of her tent made her jump. Her body was still coiled tight, ready to strike or run if she perceived a threat.
It’s because the sun’s nae set yet. Once the camp begins turnin’ in for the night, I can sleep.
For hours, her ears picked up everything. Occasionally, footsteps would pass by her, but they never stopped. She could tell that her presence wasn’t being ignored. There was a certain air of respect in the way voices lowered as they passed by.
The safety of the evening slowly began to feel suffocating. Even as the men began to settle into their own tents and the movement stopped, she felt trapped. The canvas walls surrounding her became less of a shield for her privacy and more like the stone walls that acted as her cage.
“Breathe, Amelia,” she whispered to herself, rolling over for what felt like the hundredth time.
But she couldn’t breathe. Captivity, traumatic experiences, they didn’t always announce themselves with a burst of energy. Sometimes, they began with deceptive softness.
I cannae take this anymore. I cannae trust these men to care for me. I couldnae even trust me own father.
So, slowly, she slipped from the first comfort she’d experienced in months. The furs muffled her footsteps as she shuffled to the front of the tent. Then, after opening the canvas flap and ensuring there wasn’t a soul watching, she ventured into the night.
Getting past the rows of makeshift structures was easy; the inhabitants snored rhythmically. Just at the edge, the forest surrounding them in her sights, she ducked, avoiding the eyes of the night guards patrolling the perimeter. As they retreated, she straightened.
Too easy. It is never this easy.
When she slipped into the uncertainty of the tree line, she felt a sharp sense of freedom. Despite the future being fraught with uncertainty, she would choose this over captivity any day. Her mind raced, though. Paranoia closed in.
Her breath caught as she pushed forward. She glanced over her shoulder, pulse pounding against her eardrums. The thoughts in her mind threatened to pull her under, but she gritted her teeth and pushed them away. Right now, she needed to run.
She told herself that the footsteps she heard, the gaze she felt but didn’t see, were all tricks of her imagination.