Chapter Nineteen #2
‘Of course,’ she said without hesitation, and watched him pull out a small axe from one of the leather bundles lying on the ground close to the firepit.
While retrieving twigs, dried leaves, and anything crisp enough to catch fire, Helene stole furtive glances at Lachlan.
He searched for fallen branches and used the axe with gusto to chop wood for the fire.
Since embarking on their journey today, conversation between them had been sparse, with no real substance.
A comment here and there about Scotland’s flora and fauna, Lachlan explaining what to expect of weather conditions during their journey for this time of year.
Something weighed heavy on Lachlan’s mind. Helene could see it in his furrowed brow, in the grim set of his mouth, and she’d lost count of the number of times since their departure he’d rubbed the back of his neck as if beset by worry.
The only conclusion she drew about the cause of his distraction was his concern and regret over leaving his family without their laird.
She was a burden to him, for sure. Helene consoled herself in knowing he did have a choice.
He could have outright refused to travel solo with her to London, despite her desperate plea.
He could have insisted they wait for a retinue of soldiers and a carriage to convey her, and him, back to London.
Instead, the appendage between his legs and her offer of him taking her virginity had won out. That decision was on him. Not her.
In a battle of wills, Helene had succeeded, and if it meant the difference between ensuring Prudence’s survival and well-being or mourning her death, then so be it.
Besides, the Highlands might be experiencing turbulent times, but Lachlan had an impenetrable stone fortress in which to keep his family safe.
He had Cuthbert and councilmen to make strategic decisions for the welfare of their clan in Lachlan’s absence, and he had an army of clansmen.
Trained fierce warriors to guard, to protect, to fight and die for his family and livelihood.
Helene had herself. Herself! She was her sister’s only devout protector, and she refused to feel any guilt over seeing the laird of Clan MacLanoch struggle with any internal war he waged with his personal decisions.
She laid down what she’d collected beside the firepit and watched as Lachlan carefully arranged layers of chunked wood, twigs, and kindling in the hollowed-out ground.
Attached to his belt was a leather pouch, from which he retrieved a small round tin.
He flipped the lid with his thumb and took out a steel striker, a piece of sharp flint, and a two-inch length of cordage, which he teased into a bird’s nest and placed amongst the fire fuel.
With practised ease, he set sparks to the cordage.
It caught alight, followed by the kindling.
His gentle breath gave greater life to the flames.
Next, he produced a large blanket pin from the same pouch, through which he threaded thin sturdy sticks to form a makeshift tripod over the fire.
Within the space of half an hour, Lachlan had suspended from the tripod a small pot.
Its boiling contents included stream water and root vegetables from their rations.
Helene took the initiative to retrieve portions of food and smoked venison from the parcels Cook had packaged for them, and before long, she and Lachlan sat down to a satisfying and belly-filling meal.
Helene swallowed her last mouthful. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
Helene gestured with a sweep of her hand to the fire and to their empty bowls. ‘For all this. You make survival in the wild seem so simple.’
‘Survival in the wild is not just about keeping warm or satisfying one’s hunger.
’ His gaze went to the small weapon concealed inside her boot.
‘’Tis time ye learned a thing or two about using that sgian-dubh to defend yersel’, but first we’ll clean up here and pack away the remaining food else it attracts animals while we sleep.
We also best prepare our bedding by the fire before it gets too dark. ’
They worked together in the waning light, and Helene followed Lachlan’s lead in foraging moss-like ground cover pulled from the woodland floor. This served as a soft mattress over which she laid the sheepskin from her saddle.
Lachlan explained, ‘I ken ’tis primitive bedding compared to what ye’re used to, but it helps ye stay warm and prevents the earth from sapping ye of body heat. When ye’re wrapped in yer plaid blanket, ye’ll be plenty warm. Now then, if ye’ll follow me.’
He took several long strides away from their fire. Helene did as he asked and followed.
‘Take yer sgian-dubh in hand,’ he said.
Helene bent to the weapon tucked in her sock and unsheathed the sharp, single-edged blade. Her palm closed around the intricately carved antler horn handle, and an ominous shudder ran right through her. ‘Sgian-dubh. What does it mean?’
‘In Gaelic it roughly translates to “black dagger”. Sgian, meaning knife or dagger, and dubh, meaning “black”. Dubh’s secondary meaning is “hidden”, for obvious reasons.’
So intent was her focus on the blade, and the potential damage such a small knife could inflict, that Helene did not notice Lachlan approach and position himself close behind her.
Only when his right hand suddenly closed around hers holding the knife did she react with a start like that of a victim caught by surprise.
‘Shh,’ he soothed.
His warm breath caressed her ear. Awareness of him at her back frayed her nerves and set her heart aflutter.
‘Out here in the wild, we’re nae different to any animal, bird, or insect. One preys on the other. Yer senses must always be on high alert,’ he warned.
Right now, desire was her only sense on high alert.
‘Everything, anything, and anyone can present a danger, and ye must have eyes in the back of yer head. Now, listen carefully. When attacking with a sgian-dubh, ’tis best to do so using the underhand.’
Without warning, his hand on hers thrust forward and upward in a stabbing motion. He repeated the frenzied, jerky movement several more times, and Helene’s stomach lurched at the imagined sound of steel puncturing flesh. Desire dissolved into stark reality, and she gave Lachlan her full attention.
He brought his free arm around her left side and used both his hands to reposition her grip on the knife so that its tip pointed down. He then braced his left hand on her upper left arm.
‘If someone surges up to attack ye, or if ye need to come down with a hefty blow on someone, then use overhand.’
Helene squeezed her eyes shut against her imaginary victim when Lachlan’s hand on hers forced a merciless downward thrust. Once. Twice. Thrice.
Pray God she’d never have to put theory into practice.
‘Do ye ken where on the body ye’ll do lethal damage?’
Did she really need to know? Yes, she reasoned, because surely Lachlan would not be so cruel as to shock her with tactical violence simply for the sport of it. She shook her head in answer to his question.
He let go of her hand and pressed his fingers against her lower back. ‘Focus on my touch.’
It was impossible not to.
Through her coat, she felt his fingers locate and trace the underside of her ribs. ‘Here,’ he said as he pressed. ‘Beneath the last rib. Thrust the blade upwards and into the kidney.’
His hands fell away from her. ‘Turn around.’
When she did, it was to see him tug his shirt from his breeches.
Helene swallowed and gave him a wide-eyed stare. Was that it? Lesson over? Why was he undressing? Did he plan to take her here? Now? On the stream’s embankment?
He raised the garment high enough to expose the left side of his chest. Helene fought the urge to lift her free hand and touch the dusting of dark hair over the expanse of hard muscle.
On his stomach she saw a thick, ragged white scar the length of her middle finger.
Was it the only scar to blemish what she perceived to be the most perfect specimen of a man?
Perversely, she longed to explore and examine every inch of his body, and to press a kiss to each healed wound that might have once caused him untold pain. She startled at the sound of his voice.
‘Should ye find yersel’ face-to-face with yer attacker, then plunge yer blade into his heart. Aim here.’ He pointed beneath the breastbone. ‘Remember to thrust forward and up, ye ken?’
She gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘Do it,’ he said.
Her gaze flew to his. ‘Do what?’
‘Attack me with the knife.’
She took a step back, deeply disturbed by the macabre order. ‘I’ll do no such thing!’
‘’Tis merely to practise yer skill with the sgian-dubh.’ He took a step forward. ‘Do it.’
Helene looked down at the knife in her hand, then back at Lachlan. If only to appease him, she gave the knife no more than a gentle, half-hearted nudge.
‘Pathetic. Do it again.’
Her second attempt was no better than the first.
Lachlan exhaled on an exasperated grunt. ‘I willnae break, lass. Again!’
His voice was sharper than the knife’s tip, and she flinched at the scowl he gave her. He made her feel weak and hopeless.
‘Christ, lass!’ he said on her third go. ‘Ye’d not hurt a butterfly with so feeble an attempt. Try again. With conviction,’ he insisted.
Anger over his condescending tone gave power to the driving thrust of her knife. His hand shot out with lightning speed and captured her wrist.
‘Too high.’ He let go of her hand. ‘Do it again.’
She did, and again he caught her hand before the tip of the blade touched him.
‘Take the knife in yer other hand.’
Helene complied. He then took her dominant hand in his and pressed her fingertips to his body. ‘Aim here,’ he said. ‘Below the ribs. The heart lies beneath the ribcage, and that’s what yer aiming for.’
With her next attempt, Lachlan made no move to catch her hand, and so her fingers stabbed muscle as hard as the steel blade.
‘Spot on, lass, but use more force.’