Chapter Five #2
Fear knifed through Marcus. “Elise?” he asked.
“Fell from her horse,” Allister managed.
“There was no body, MacGregor,” Michael reminded him. “Allister is alive, so is she.”
Marcus nodded and forced calm as he made a quick assessment of Allister's injuries. His arm had been gashed and a bruise had begun to form on his forehead, but no blood gushed from any part of his body.
“Can you move?” Marcus asked.
“My leg… broken,” he said.
Marcus nodded. “Hurts like the devil, I wager.”
Allister winced with what looked like laughter at the obvious understatement.
“Can you manage until help arrives?” he asked.
A steely glint lit the young man's eyes. “Leave me a pistol and any Campbell that comes near will die.”
“That's the spirit,” Marcus said.
“I got one.”
“What?”
“My dirk,” the boy said.
“You did well.” Marcus rose. “Michael will leave you his weapon. If I overtake the bastards, I plan to use my pistol.”
Marcus hurried back up the hill with Michael close behind.
Marcus mounted his horse. “You'll reach Brahan Seer in ten minutes. I doubt any Campbells stayed behind, but leave the boy your knife as well.” Michael nodded. Marcus gave the stallion a kick, and the beast lunged forward.
“MacGregor!” Michael shouted.
Marcus brought Alexis around in a sharp turn.
“Dinna' do anything foolish. We'll be no more than an hour behind. If—when—you find the lass, wait for us.”
“Make it forty minutes,” Marcus said, and dug his heels into the belly of his horse.
* * *
Elise blinked. The darkness around her gave way to formless shadows that shifted before her eyes. She jostled and groaned at the pain that spiked in all directions through her body.
“Awake, eh?” The male voice crashed through her head like a wave against a cliff.
She lay in the arms of the speaker, her back against a muscular chest. A distant memory hovered. “Mar—” her voice cracked. Then in a half whisper, “Marcus?”
He grunted. She went rigid. This wasn't Marcus.
Elise closed her eyes, forced back the queasy upheaval of her stomach, then opened her eyes again.
All before her looked as if she were looking through a fog.
She squinted at the blurring shadows. Slowly, images formed, and she realized she was staring down at the moving ground.
They were riding—her mind registered the horse's rhythm beneath them.
The horse's rhythm. She had been riding—hard.
The crystal-clear memory of the mare bearing down on her when she'd been thrown caused her to shudder.
Then she remembered Allister.
Tears sprang to her eyes. The young man had died because of her.
His mother—Elise choked back a sob and a wave of dizziness wrenched her stomach.
She forced her breathing to slow. At last, the nausea subsided and she shifted.
Pain lanced through her head, but she squinted at the blur that had come into view on her right until the figure of a man riding came into focus. He stared unabashedly.
Elise ignored the tremor his stare elicited and looked past him, skyward, where dim points of light showed through thin, grey clouds.
She shifted again and found herself staring up at the jut of a square jaw.
Above that, the bluish hue of moonbeams filtered through clouds.
The pain relaxed to a dull throb and her stomach settled.
The clouds parted and the moon blazed in her vision.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but registered its position and estimated the time as just past midnight.
“There's been no sign of MacGregor,” her captor said.
Marcus would have expected her to be at supper tonight. He might not notice her absence, but Allister's mother would notice his.
“The horses need rest,” the other man said. “They're spent.”
“We stop up ahead,” the man who held her said. “Leave them saddled and tether them.”
A few minutes later, they halted. Elise's captor handed her down to the man who had stared at her.
He pressed her close to his chest. The hand wrapped around her legs slipped beneath her skirt.
She thrashed. Hot spikes of pain fingered out through her body.
His hand rubbed her outer thigh. She gave a weak scream.
He laughed, lowering his head toward her mouth.
“Rory!” her original keeper shouted, and took her into his arms.
Elise fought tears as he turned and her heart lurched when she caught sight of several more riders dismounting. She kicked and slammed a fist down onto her captor's chest.
“Cease,” he growled. “Fighting will do ye no good.”
She yielded, too spent to do anything else.
He strode to a cluster of medium-sized rocks, then set her down against the rocks and returned to his horse.
Rory approached, horse's reins in hand. Elise tensed.
Their gazes remained locked until he disappeared from view behind her.
Another man followed, then the next and the next, and she realized the horses were being tethered near where she lay.
Her keeper approached carrying a tartan and a small pouch.
He stopped beside her, shook out the tartan, and squatted, settling the blanket over her.
He regarded her. “We left MacGregor land long ago.
You are in Campbell territory and wouldn't have a chance in hell in these hills.
You cannot see, but 'tis barren country. Nothing for miles.”
“Why—” she stopped, seeing the implacable set of his jaw.
He reached into the pouch and produced a biscuit.
He handed it to her. Elise took the food and watched him stride to where his comrades sat huddled on smaller rocks.
She looked at the biscuit, then sniffed it.
To her surprise, she detected no mold. A small nibble and her stomach rumbled.
She pulled her knees up and reached for her foot.
She unlaced one boot, took it off, then did the same with the other.
She arranged the boots beside her and took another bite of the biscuit, while edging herself into a more prone position. She took another, larger bite.
“We should bind her hands.” Rory's voice abruptly broke the silence.
“Touch her and I'll kill you,” her captor said through a mouthful of food.
A pause followed, and Elise shivered as much from the threat as the cold. She pulled the tartan up over her shoulders, closing her eyes.
“You wouldn't be wanting her for yourself, would you, William?” Rory demanded.
“She isn't yours, Rory.”
“What if she escapes?”
“She was knocked half senseless,” William replied. “She couldn't manage it.”
“I know women who could,” Rory retorted.
“She wouldn't know which way was home.” William paused. “She's asleep.”
“Easy pickings,” Rory commented.
Grunts of approval from the men sitting in the group sounded.
“Mayhap not so easy.” William shifted, the sword strapped to his hip scraping against rock.
Elise shrank beneath the tartan and ate the last bit of biscuit.
Finally, the men's voices quieted. A moment later, she heard a nearby rustling.
She peered past a corner of her tartan and discerned the forms of men lowering themselves to the ground.
She recognized William, still sitting with his back to her.
A close snigger told her Rory was among the men bedding down nearby.
Her stomach wrenched. She glanced heavenward.
Dawn was no more than four hours away. MacGregor territory lay southeast of Campbell land.
They had ridden approximately fifteen hours.
She could reach Brahan Seer by tomorrow afternoon.
Marcus might not welcome her back, but she had to make sure he knew who was responsible for Allister's death.
She thought of the wedding band sewed to the lining of her shift.
She had planned to go from Michael's to Glasgow and catch the first ship away from Scotland.
But Allister deserved recompense just as much as Amelia and Steven.
When snores at last told Elise the men had fallen asleep, she crawled from beneath her blanket. The biscuit had settled her stomach, but the trembling deep within persisted.
“Where are ye going?”
She stopped at the sound of William's voice and twisted to look over her shoulder. He still sat on the rock, back to her.
“I-I need a moment of privacy.”
“There are guards,” he said.
“What?”
“Out there.” He motioned with his head to the blackness beyond their camp.
Her blood chilled, but she forced her body into motion and crawled around the rock.
* * *
Marcus tensed at sight of a figure moving in the shadows where the Campbell horses were tethered. “Did you notice any of the guards returning to camp?” he demanded of Michael, who squatted beside him on the hill from which they watched.
“Nae,” Michael whispered.
Marcus strained to make out the figure's form in the moonlight, but the hill cast too dark a shadow on the valley. “God damn it,” he muttered. “If anyone has given away our presence—” The loud neigh of a horse broke the quiet. “What the bloody hell?”
“The horses,” Michael hissed as the Campbell horses bolted.
Shouts rose, and the Campbells sprang up and after their mounts.
“What are they up to?” Marcus yanked his gaze back onto the figure in the shadows near the horses. He leaned forward in the saddle and was riding to the left of the camp.
“Take two men and bring back that rider,” Marcus said. “Be careful not to alert the others to our presence.”
Marcus turned his attention onto the Campbell men running through the trees in an effort to retrieve their scattered horses. Then waited.
The light sound of a boot treading close came from the darkness and Marcus jerked his head around.
“Laird,” one of his men said, “come quick. We have the rider.”
He pulled his breacan close and backed away from the crest of the hill, jumped to his feet, then hurried downhill at a near run. At the bottom, he broke through the circle of his men, hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Nae! Laird, stop!” came a chorus of low voices.