Chapter Six
They rode for several hours, Katrina’s bound hands going numb where she clung to the pommel, her back going tense from the way she tried to hold herself away from the warmth of MacFarlane’s bulk behind her.
It was perhaps senselessly stubborn, but she refused to take any comfort from her captor, no matter how minor.
And senseless stubbornness was all she had left.
Still, she couldn’t help the overwhelming relief that swept through her when they reached a small outpost that had MacFarlane colors prominently displayed.
A guard station, or some such place, she surmised when an armed man, who had been lounging against the wall in a patch of shade, shot to attention at the sight of the Bloodhound.
The Bloodhound paid him no mind which, given the corpse currently mouldering in the woods several hours behind them, was probably the best the other guard could hope for.
A stable boy ran over and stood waiting before the Bloodhound even dismounted. The lad took the reins of the enormous horse without pause as MacFarlane reached up and hauled Katrina down, not removing his hands until her saddle-weary legs were steady beneath her.
She found this consideration particularly irritating.
He pointed to a nearby stump.
“Sit,” he ordered, in the tone of someone who was used to being obeyed, often even before he had to speak his command.
Well, he was destined for disappointment.
“I would rather die,” Katrina told him archly. She wouldn’t, actually, but she was fairly certain that MacFarlane hadn’t dragged her hours down the road to murder her here when it would have been far easier to murder her at the inn.
He gave her an unimpressed look.
“Aye,” he said dryly. “I noticed.”
He pulled a knife from its sheath and for a heartbeat, Katrina worried that she had been wrong, that he absolutely did intend to murder her, but all he did was cut through the ropes binding her hands, then peer at the cut on her arm.
It looked hideous, particularly from a healer’s perspective.
It hadn’t been cleaned. Katrina shuddered to think of the last time the dead man had bothered to wipe down his blades and it had been bleeding sluggishly for ages, scabbing in places and then cracking open with each new movement. Her arm was a mess of gore.
She was thinking about the best way to clean off the mess—if she would even be permitted soap and water—when a glug of liquid was poured over her arm, followed by a burn that jolted her down to her bones.
With a hiss, Katrina tried to pull away, but MacFarlane held her fast and kept pouring whisky over the cut until the blood had washed away to his satisfaction.
“That hurts,” Katrina protested when the treatment continued.
For an instant, the Bloodhound flicked his gaze up to her face, something dark going through those shockingly blue eyes of his, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.
“It will hurt more if it festers,” he said, which was true, annoyingly. But his fingers were shockingly gentle as he pulled a roll of bandages from his sporran and wrapped the wound, the movements careful even though they were clearly practiced.
This went on just long enough for Katrina to wonder if she hadn’t misjudged him the tiniest bit when the gentle treatment abruptly ended. He took her newly wrapped arm, hooked her hands behind her back, and lashed them together.
Then, to her utter fury, he tied her to the hitching post. The one meant for the horses.
As a healer, Katrina had been witness to a lot of people’s lowest moments, the ones where pain loosened their tongues and heightened their tempers. She knew a lot of swears. Inventive ones, too.
Mentally, she recited them all in the direction of Blake bloody MacFarlane.
Once she was bound, he ignored her completely, entirely uncaring of the fury that had to be emanating off her in waves.
The man slumped over his horse finally began to stir, which, really, that was how long a faceful of her herbs ought to last, not however long it had taken the Bloodhound to shake them off.
Nobody paid him much mind as he pushed himself off the horse’s back and dropped to the ground in an undignified sort of slump, one of his hands clutching his head.
Ha. She hoped it ached for ages.
To his credit, the man seemed to take his new circumstances in stride. He looked around at the horse, at the Bloodhound, at the guard station. It was, in fact, only when his gaze landed upon Katrina’s bandaged arm that he went pale.
“It wasnae me, Captain,” he said, his voice scratchy from disuse. “The injury on the woman. I did as ye said, capture, nae injure. It wasnae me.”
The Bloodhound didn’t even turn from unpacking his saddlebags.
“If I thought it was ye,” he said mildly, “ye would already be dead.”
The other man went even paler and Katrina wondered if he was going to faint again. With this cheery little comment made, the Bloodhound departed, heading over to a trough of water where he began carefully washing his hands.
Groggily, the now-conscious soldier pushed to his feet, shrugging out of his heavy cloak, not needed in the warm morning sun. Katrina’s heart skipped a beat when she saw his simple clothing beneath, not a shred of MacFarlane tartan in sight.
A sellsword, then. He would be loyal to coin, not to the Bloodhound himself.
This might be an opportunity.
She waited until he touched his head again, then tried to paste a contrite expression on her face.
“Is your head hurting ye verra badly?” she asked in her sweetest voice. “I am sorry for knocking ye unconscious. I swear that it willnae do ye any lasting damage.”
He ignored her, but not in the way that the Bloodhound ignored her. He treated Katrina as though he hadn’t even heard her. The sellsword ignored her by pointely looking in the other direction.
She suppressed a smile. This reaction was far better than no reaction at all.
“Drink some cool water if ye can,” she said encouragingly. “It will help ye feel better more quickly.”
The mercenary turned to her with a sneer before he could think better of it. “Ach, what grand advice,” he sniped. “Water. Ye are practically a witch, then, aye?”
Katrina gave him a regretful little frown, shrugging her shoulders, hoping it made her look helpless and feminine and pitiable. It probably helped that she was covered in mud and blood.
“I would say that a headache powder would do ye better,” she admitted, “but I dinnae have any with me and even if I did, I dinnae think ye would accept it, after…”
She trailed off, chancing a tiny smile. To her utter joy, the man pressed his lips together, like he was fighting off a smile.
“Aye, I suppose I wouldnae,” he allowed.
Katrina seized the opportunity, meager though it might have been. She shifted in her bonds, wincing. She didn’t have to manufacture the gesture. The ropes hurt. Everything hurt.
“Could ye…” She trailed off, like she was too bashful to ask, then looked up at the man through her lashes.
She hoped it didn’t make her look ridiculous.
Perhaps she should have spent more time practicing flirting, but really, how was she meant to know that she’d be abducted and would need to use her wiles to get out of it?
“Do ye think that ye could loosen the ropes? Just a little,” she added hastily when his expression shuttered.
“I dinnae want ye to get in trouble, I just… My arms are aching dreadfully.”
She tried not to look too hopeful as the mercenary visibly considered her question. She practically held her breath when he shot a nervous glance over at MacFarlane, who was still facing the trough, now talking to another one of the guards.
“Fine,” the sellsword hissed. “But ye cannae say anything.”
She shook her head eagerly in a silent promise.
He moved behind her, his eyes on the Bloodhound the whole time, and she scarcely dared to breathe as her bonds slackened.
Quickly, she gathered some of the rope in her fist so that she would have even more room to move once he retied her.
He was distracted enough by his fear of MacFarlane that he didn’t notice.
Before Katrina could think of the next step in her plan to escape, the door to the station burst open and a guard emerged, a laughing woman on his arm.
The lady was very pretty, though it was plain to see that she wasn’t wealthy; her dress was made from a rough homespun wool that had clearly been hemmed more than once.
She distracted from what she lacked in finery with a riotous mane of golden hair, which she’d left unbound, streaming around her shoulders as she clung to the soldier’s arm.
The Bloodhound turned at the sound of their approach, his eyes going narrow. He walked back toward them, lazily studying the lass, who stood up straight under his attention, and Katrina felt a spasm of dread go through her.
“Dinnae hurt her,” she cried. “She didnae do anything to ye!”
MacFarlane turned to Katrina, dark amusement on his face. “Hurt her?” he laughed. “Why should I do such a thing? She’s quite willing, are ye nae, lassie?”
He held out an arm to her and the woman unwrapped herself from the first soldier to tuck herself securely under MacFarlane’s hold.
“Of course, Captain,” she purred, arching her back so that her breasts were shoved quite forcefully against his side. “I would happily… serve ye however ye wish tonight.”
Katrina felt her mouth drop open in shock as irritation and… something else hot and unpleasant twisted in her chest. She glanced back to MacFarlane only to see him looking at her, not the woman currently plastered to him, something dark and interested in his gaze.
She turned away, jerking her chin up. Let him have his lewd displays. What did she care? If he was distracted by this other woman, that was just more opportunity for her to plan her escape.
As soon as Katrina looked away, however, MacFarlane unceremoniously shoved the woman aside, not roughly, but with an insulting lack of care.
“I only need one thing from ye,” he said, speaking to the woman but still looking at Katrina. She could feel his eyes upon her.
Then, he crossed to her side and cut through her bonds. If he noticed how loose they had become in the past few minutes, he didn’t let on. Instead, he just gripped Katrina by the uninjured arm and led her inside, the other woman following meekly behind.
Only when the two women were in the quiet room, the door shut behind them, did he drop his hold on Katrina.
“Go on then,” he told her, mockery thick in his words. “Undress.”