Chapter Three
As the hours wore on, they continued riding north and Camille's mind grew numb, as did her bound hands and feet.
She sat across Dugald's lap upon the horse, but he never seemed to tire as she did.
When she chanced to look up at him, his eyes were as hard as jade…
and so were his muscles. Although she tried to ignore everything about him, she could not help but notice his profoundly masculine scent.
It teased at her woman's senses, maddening her, for she wanted to press her nose against his throat and inhale him, while at the same time, she dreamed of smashing his nose again.
Near midday, they stopped near a loch, thank the saints.
After dismounting, Dugald lifted her down from the saddle. She sent a caustic glare up into his eyes. He might be as handsome as the devil, but he was also just as fiendish. How could he keep her bound and gagged so long?
She glanced around, seeing only lonely verdant countryside. No villages or cottages.
"I'm going to cut the rope off your ankles," Dugald said.
She would be thankful for that, at least. Her legs were cramping and stiff from lack of movement. She nodded.
"Don't you dare kick me again," he warned. His nose looked a wee bit red where she'd kicked it earlier but not swollen. Blast! It wasn't broken.
Batting her lashes in faux flirtation, she shook her head innocently.
He narrowed his eyes. Indeed his glare was fierce, but something in her refused to fear him. Her woman's instincts told her he had a good heart beneath all the bluster. He was not the least bit like any of the murderous fiends she'd had run-ins with in the past.
She stood still while he cut the rope and didn't even attempt to kick him. She could be ladylike when she wanted.
Glancing around, she wondered if she might make a run for it and hide from them.
But where? Only a few hiding places existed on this broad moor—a grove of yellow-flowered gorse bushes, and he would find her soon enough in there.
Though Perth was far behind them and she was unsure how to find it, she would make an attempt, given the opportunity.
She would have to steal one of their mounts.
But at the moment, the horses were busy drinking.
"Do not even consider running." Dugald watched her intently. "I could catch you like that." He snapped his fingers.
Quelle brute!
So sure of himself, was he not? She glowered at him, refusing to be cowed. Even with her hands tied in front, she could crouch and grab her small dagger from the sheath on her calf, but what good would it do her? She couldn't fight nearly two dozen brawny Highlanders.
"Are you thirsty, m'lady?" he asked in a deep and rolling brogue.
Seeing an opportunity to have the gag removed, she nodded eagerly.
His look remained hard as he came closer. "'Twill do you no good to scream. No one is about for miles."
She dipped her head, trying to appear as meek and malleable as possible.
At the back of her head, he cut the tight-fitting gag from her mouth and she sighed with relief.
Rubbing the chafed corners of her lips, she frowned up at him. "Mère de Dieu, why in heaven's name did you abduct me?"
"One of the Lindsays stole my valuable dagger. I intend to exchange you for it."
"I do not even know the Lindsays, monsieur."
He scowled. "Do not lie to me, madame. I ken exactly who you are. You stayed in my castle for a sennight."
Parbleu, he was mad! "Non, I have never been to your castle. You think I am some chief's wife?"
"Aye, indeed, Lady Lindsay."
"You are mistaken. I am no one's wife. I am Camille Bouchard," she stated firmly.
He smirked. "'Tis useless to lie. I remember you—French, blond. You're Lindsay's young wife of only a few months, his third."
She held up her bound hands. "I have no wedding ring on beneath these gloves."
"That means naught. You could've easily removed it for safekeeping before your travels."
She blew out an annoyed breath. "You are a madman!"
"I'll not argue with that." He gave a humorless smile. "If your husband brings my dagger to me, you will return to him unharmed."
"And if Lindsay does not?"
Dugald shook his head. "He will. I ken well he is smitten with his beautiful new wife."
Beautiful? He thought her beautiful? At the moment, she probably looked like a hag, her loosened hair hanging halfway in her face, but she didn't care. He was to blame for her disheveled appearance.
"That is not who I am!"
Ignoring her, he strode away.
"Wait!"
He turned back. "What is it?"
"I have a need to… visit the bushes," she said, heat rushing over her face and neck. 'Twas no lie. She had not relieved herself in hours.
Blowing out an annoyed breath, he returned to her side. "Very well." He gestured with his hand toward the bushes near the edge of the moor.
"You will have to untie my hands."
His green eyes dark, he gave her a warning look. "I will, but if you attempt fleeing, you will regret it."
She nodded, her mind whirring for an escape plan. They were only a few hours ride north of the area of Perthshire where she lived with her cousin at Draughon. If she could hide and elude him, she would find her way back home. Somehow. She had oft been called determined.
Using his lethal-looking, foot-long dirk, he cut the ropes binding her wrists.
She was glad he took care to keep the blade away from her hands.
Mayhap he was not as ruthless as he wished everyone to believe.
When she looked up into his eyes, he frowned and shoved the dirk back into the scabbard on his belt.
Determined to ignore him and his surliness, for she would soon flee far from him, she glanced around for some suitable bushes.
The yellow-flowered ones to her right looked like they'd provide good cover.
She headed toward them. Upon hearing footsteps behind her in the grass, she stopped and turned. The damnable chief was following her.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"If you think I'm letting you run off into the bushes alone, you're daft."
"I am not daft! I require privacy. Do you know nothing about women?"
He smirked. "Aye, I ken more than enough about your gender. I don't trust you to go behind the bushes alone. You'll run at the first opportunity. I can tell by the look in your eye."
She glared. How could he tell so much about her? She would have to conceal her thoughts better. "Well, I don't trust you either."
"I don't require your trust." He took her arm and guided her away. "Come, I'll find you a nice thick bush."
"Stop manhandling me." She tried to yank her arm away, unsuccessfully, while avoiding being jabbed by the prickly gorse bushes. "I'm capable of walking on my own."
Ignoring her, he kept going. Once in the grove, he pointed to one which stood by itself. "There. Go behind that bush. I can't see you, but if you run away from it I will know. And be quick about it."
Blast him! She wished she could get her hands around his thick neck.
She removed her new satin gloves and tucked them away in a hidden pocket, lest they get ruined in the wilds of Scotland, just as her blue silk dress was becoming. At least her cloak was black which would hide any mud stains.
How mortifying to have to relieve herself behind the bushes, while a couple of dozen men waited out by the loch. And Dugald, not too far away. Her warden. Despite being the leader of his clan, he was as wild, rugged and untamed as the countryside surrounding her.
Even after she'd finished, she took her own sweet time behind the bush.
This was her sole moment of freedom. If only she could slip away without him seeing.
Carefully, she peeped through the limbs of the bush and saw him waiting there, facing her.
Could he see her watching him? She had her small dagger strapped to her calf, but 'twould do her no good to use it now.
Even if she killed Dugald—which she didn't truly want to do—his guards would kill her.
He did not appear to be a murdering fiend like Pierre.
Her intuition told her, deep down, Dugald was probably a decent man, despite his idiotic kidnapping of her.
"M'lady?" he called to her, his voice gruff.
She sighed. Her moment of freedom was over. She emerged from behind the bush. "What do you want, Dugald?"
He sent her another of those humorless smiles that were starting to grate on her nerves. "'Tis time to join the others."
She moved toward his tall, broad-shouldered form.
"How would you ken my given name if you are not Lady Lindsay, as you claim?" he asked.
"Your sister called you Dugald in the common room of the inn. I saw you there, talking to her."
"Aye, of course," he said doubtfully and, with a hand around her upper arm, guided her toward the loch's edge.
At least he didn't drag her, or she would've protested.
The men, standing farther along the loch with their horses, eyed her curiously.
They were no doubt exactly like their chief—barbarians.
Willing to do whatever was required to get his precious dagger back.
Camille had hoped to find a brawny Highlander of her own, but she had been in Scotland since the autumn before and had not managed to snare a handsome man's attention.
Although her captor might have an attractive face and a body hard with muscle, he was far too loathsome.
Besides, he might already be married. Oh, if he was, his poor wife.
He probably treated her like a lowly servant.
"Give her some of your wine, Owen," Dugald called to a guard a short distance away.
"Aye, m'laird." The man proceeded toward her, carrying a wineskin.
"Watch her. Do not let her run." Dugald strode away.
Once she'd washed her hands in the icy, peat-tinged water of the loch, she stood, eyeing the man Dugald had set to guard her. Owen was large and solid as an ox with a head that was near bald.
"Where does he think I would run to?" she asked him.
Owen shrugged and handed her the skin of wine. Ugh. It looked horrid but she was indeed thirsty. Her only other option was the murky water of the loch where the horses had just drunk. She took a tentative sip of the wine. When she discovered the taste wasn't too bad, she took another swallow.
"Tell your chief I am hungry, too," she said. "He nabbed me before I broke my fast and it is now near to noon."
Owen faced the other men. "Chief MacKerrick," he called.
"What is it now?" Dugald snarled from fifty feet away.
"The lady says she is hungry."
"We're all hungry. She'll just have to wait until we find some food. We have none with us."
MacKerrick? She had never heard of this clan. They must live far from Draughon.
Owen whistled and the chestnut-colored horse trotted toward him. He dug into his saddlebag, pulled out something enfolded in a cloth and offered it to her.
"What is this?" she asked, unwrapping it. "A bannock?"
"Aye, m'lady." Owen smiled, putting her at ease somewhat. He seemed genuinely friendly.
The oatcake looked clean enough, and she bit into it. It was growing stale but she could tolerate it. Her stomach was grumbling something fierce. "Merci beaucoup, Owen. You are a gentleman. Dugald is not."
Blushing, he lifted his brows and cast a cautious glance at Dugald, no doubt surprised she would call his illustrious chief by his given name and insult him so.
"Is he as savage as he appears?" Camille asked.
Owen shook his head. "He's a strong and just chief. We're very loyal to him."
"Hmph. I have no idea why. How could he simply snatch up a woman and ride off with her? Without even asking who she is?"
Looking troubled, Owen shrugged.
"His poor wife—how I pity the woman," she said between bites.
"The chief is nay married, m'lady."
Unbidden, a tiny thrill of excitement spun through her. Camille did not know why she was happy to hear Dugald was a bachelor. Had being abducted made her a prime candidate for Bedlam? "I can see why. He has not the least bit of charm."
Owen cut another nervous glance toward the area where his chief had disappeared.
Nonchalantly, Camille regarded Owen's horse, a tall gelding, and the empty saddle, a plan forming in her mind.
The horse was taller and brawnier than the mares she usually rode, but in France, she had ridden all types and sizes of horses.
She did indeed love riding, and knew she had above average skill at it.
After quickly devouring the last bite of bannock, she drank from the wineskin again. Two sips and it was empty… all part of her plan.
"Do you think one of the other men might have more wine?" she asked.
Owen frowned. "You drank all of mine?"
"Oui, I fear I did. I hope you can forgive me, but there wasn't much of it."
He glanced about, then headed toward his comrade several yards away.
This was her chance to escape the ruffians.
The boost of excitement making her bold, Camille grasped the saddle with both hands, put her foot in the stirrup and dragged herself astride the massive chestnut gelding.
Taking the reins loosely in hand, she kicked the horse into motion.
He neighed and took off at a swift gallop.
Her heart pounding madly as she raced across the moor, she lowered herself over his blowing mane.
How she loved the feel of the wind in her face.
Freedom! Some of her earliest memories involved racing her pony across the sunny, green pastures of France.
Oui! She was in her element now and flying from Dugald's grasping hold.
Yells echoed behind her. She glanced back. Sacrebleu! Dugald was leaping onto his stallion.