Chapter 2 #2
Her hair fell over her shoulders in a riot of curls, framing a face that surely the very angels of heaven envied.
She moved with a lithesome grace that left his mouth suddenly and quite appallingly dry.
Well, at least she was dressed in black.
That was something he’d expected and for some reason that made him feel slightly better.
Until she extinguished her lights with a loud click.
He swore to cover what would have been a gasp of horror, crossed himself quickly, then reached out and grabbed hold of her hand.
“Wait,” she said, digging her heels in. “You didn’t let me get my shoes.”
“No time,” he said, pulling her out of her house and around the corner. “I brought a horse.”
“Do we need a horse?” she asked.
“I thought it might be useful,” he said. “He’s waiting for us just up the hill.”
“But Jamie’s is down the hill.”
Of course. Who else would come for her but a MacLeod? He squeezed her hand. “Up the hill for the horse, then down the hill,” he amended. “Hurry. We’re late.”
He pulled her after him before she could answer and quickly enough that she apparently lost her breath for any more questions.
She didn’t protest the haste or the path, though he felt things crunching under his boots and supposed those things hurt her feet.
She didn’t complain, though he heard her catch her breath a time or two.
She tripped and fell suddenly. He tried to save her, but he was not at his best and didn’t manage it. He helped her back to her feet, then swung her up into his arms. She flung her arms around his neck and one of her hands hit some part of his sword. He felt her stiffen immediately.
“Put me down,” she said in a low voice.
“Nay,” he said without hesitation. “I need you.”
She struggled, but he held her tightly and continued on.
“Do I have to draw your own stupid sword and clunk you over the head with it?” she demanded. “Put me down!”
“Be silent,” he hissed, “lest you draw every MacLeod in Scotland down upon us. I’ve no intention of hurting you. I need you.”
She stopped struggling. He knew she was glaring at him, but he ignored it. At least she wasn’t drawing a wee dirk forth from some part of her witchly costume and plunging it into his eye. She said nothing, not even when he reached his horse and let her slide to her feet.
Once there, though, she turned immediately and bolted.
He caught her quickly, because he’d expected the like. He took her by the arms and drew her out from under the eaves of the forest. The clouds were too thick to allow the moon to give much light, but he could see her well enough just the same.
She was absolutely terrified. He could see it in her eyes.
“I need your aid,” he said firmly, shaking aside the sudden pity he felt for her. “I give you my word I will return you to your hall, unharmed. Now, come. I’ve no more time to waste.”
“Who are you?”
“I have no time—”
“Tell me who you are or I don’t come.”
He looked at her sharply. Terrified though she might have been, she certainly had spine.
And she was so fair, it hurt him just to look at her.
He loosened his grip on her arms slightly, so he didn’t leave bruises. “I am Robert Francis Cameron mac Cameron,” he said impatiently. “My healer is dead and I need you to see to my brother. Now.”
She shivered, once, then she took a deep breath. “When were you born?”
“Why the bloody hell does that matter?” he asked in surprise.
“Answer my question, or I go home.”
“Do you actually think you can?” he asked. He heard the edge to his voice, but it was too late to stop it and he didn’t have time to apologize. He would try to be more respectful later, when Breac’s life wasn’t hanging in the balance.
“Actually, I do,” she said coolly, peeling his fingers off her arms.
By the saints, had he thought the woman afraid? She was passing bold and seemingly unimpressed with the peril of her current situation. He snorted at her. “Get up on the horse, wench. I’ll not answer anything.”
“Then I won’t come with you.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Actually, I think you will.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then coughed instead.
He thought it a ruse until she truly began to gasp.
She turned away from him and gestured frantically to her back.
He saw his chance to save his brother slipping through his fingers.
Damnation, what next? Fergussons, MacLeods, and now a witch who was apparently so weak-constitutioned that she couldn’t keep from choking herself to death?
He cursed, then patted her back as gently as he could.
“Harder,” she wheezed.
He obliged.
Then, before he realized she was far cleverer than he’d given her credit for being, she had elbowed him so hard in the ribs that he doubled over with a gasp. She took his arm, backed into him, then with a mighty heave, flipped him over herself.
He landed flat on his back, looking up into rain that seemed to have begun just for him.
He lay there, stunned, for a handful of moments until he could breathe again. He heaved himself to his feet with a string of curses, then looked around him.
The witch was very fast, he would give her credit for that.
But so was he. He had to sprint to catch her, but catch her he did.
He snatched her around the waist, then slipped on the wet grass.
He rolled, taking her down to the ground with him with far more care than her treatment of him merited.
He pinned her underneath him and glared down at her until he realized he had knocked the wind out of her.
He heaved himself up and leaned over her with a hand on either side of her head.
She tried to knee him in the bollocks.
He leapt up, then stood—well away from any of her limbs— and watched her until she caught her breath. When she finally sat up, he held down his hands for her, only to have her try to sweep his legs out from under him.
“Bloody hell, woman, cease!” he bellowed, reaching out and jerking her to her feet.
“Let me go!” she shouted back at him.
He was almost surprised enough to do just that. He had never in his life had a woman speak to him so rudely.
Then again, he’d never abducted a witch before.
He hauled her into his arms and held her close where she couldn’t do him any more damage.
He tried to be gentle, truly, but he was afraid he hadn’t been.
She made no sound of distress save a squeak, but she was stiff as a sword in his arms. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for that.
He relaxed his embrace, but not overly. The wench was canny and surprisingly resourceful.
He would do well to be on his guard around her.
“Well?” she gasped finally. “Are you going to answer my question, or do you want me to leave you unable to get up this time?”
He would have smiled if he’d had it in him. By the saints, she was an audacious wench. And she smelled very good. He was distracted enough by that to find himself giving an answer he’d not planned on giving.
“1346,” he said. “Late in the autumn of that year, or so my dam claimed.”
She went still. “And what is the year now?”
“Are you testing my wits?” he asked with a frown. "’Tis Year of Our Lord’s Grace 1375, just as it was yesterday.”
She pulled away far enough to look up at him. He was dumbfounded at the look in her eye. It was mixture of equal parts horror, surprise, and resignation. She looked at him for another moment, then bowed her head.
Something akin to a sob escaped her. It was just a little one, immediately stifled. He might not have noticed it if he hadn’t had been holding her so tightly.
It was that small noise that undid him. He took his blood-caked hand and put it against the back of her head and held her close to him. He had no idea why the date should trouble her so, but perhaps there was an especial meaning to it that he couldn’t divine.
He closed his eyes. The saints pity him, he was a fool. What he should have done was knock her over the head and carry her home like a sack of grain. Instead, he stood half an hour within enemy territory and held a witch in his arms while she gasped repeatedly for breath she couldn’t seem to catch.
He realized at one point that she had put her arms around him and was holding on to him as if he were all that kept her from sliding into the yawning pit of hell.
He stroked her hair for quite a bit longer than he should have, then knew that they had to be away or they wouldn’t be able to leave. He cleared his throat. “What’s your name, lass?”
“Sunshine.”
He almost smiled. It was certainly not the name for a crone, but what did he know? Perhaps her mother had had a well-developed sense of irony. “Are you the MacLeod witch, Sunshine? ”
She let out a shuddering breath. “Aye.”
“Will you help me?”
“Aye.”
He shouldn’t have felt such a sense of relief. After all, he was the Cameron and she was but a simple MacLeod clanswoman. She would do what he wanted because he demanded it of her.
Though he couldn’t deny that the thought of her coming willingly, and without putting some sort of vile spell on him, was welcome indeed.
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s be off.”
She nodded, just once.
He pulled away, but kept her hand in his. She didn’t try to pull away or stick him or fell him again. He swung up onto his horse, then held down his hand for her. She put her foot on his, then pulled herself up behind him.
“Hold on,” he said.
“I will.”
He put his heels to his mount’s side and galloped toward home. Well, he had her.
He could only hope that the trip to fetch her would be worth the trouble.