Chapter 29 #2
Heavy pine branches lashed brutally against Claire's heavy skirts as the horse plunged deeper and deeper into the wilderness.
She fought every single stride of the journey.
The massive man holding her swore violently beneath his breath as she twisted in the saddle, driving her sharp elbow backward into his ribs for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Hold still," he growled, entirely out of breath.
"I will do nae such thing!" Claire shouted back, slamming the hard heel of her boot directly into his shin.
He grunted in pain, and the massive warhorse stumbled over the uneven ground before barely recovering its footing.
"Blast the woman," he cursed angrily.
Claire seized the momentary distraction, throwing her weight sideways in a desperate attempt to unbalance both rider and horse. Instead, his iron-thick arm locked even tighter around her waist, squeezing until the cold air rushed painfully from her burning lungs.
"Dinnae make me tie ye," he warned darkly.
"Then let me go!" Claire demanded, clawing fiercely at his forearm.
"Nay," he answered flatly, barely reacting as she dug her fingernails through the coarse wool of his sleeve.
She shifted her weight slightly, pretending to finally sag against the man restraining her in complete exhaustion.
His punishing grip loosened just a fraction, but it was enough.
With lightning speed, Claire snatched the sharp dagger tucked casually into his thick leather belt.
She had the blade halfway free before he even realized what was happening.
"What the…" he began, but Claire swung her arm violently backward.
The sharp steel sliced deeply across his forearm. The man roared in sudden pain, his grip failing completely as the bloody dagger tumbled into the dense undergrowth.
"Ye little devil!" he shouted, his heavy hand striking her wrist hard enough to send a sickening jolt of pain shooting all the way up her arm.
Another rider riding parallel to them laughed loudly at the spectacle. "I told ye she would fight," the man chuckled.
"Aye," another answered in amusement. "She is more Highland than English."
Claire ignored their taunts, staring instead at the bright crimson blood trickling steadily down her captor's torn sleeve. He bleeds, she thought fiercely. Good. The realization gave her a renewed surge of strength.
"If ye are finished admiring yer work," the wounded man growled in her ear, "I will nae be so gentle next time."
"Gentle?" Claire laughed bitterly, her voice ringing with defiance. "Is this what ye call gentle? Dragging women from their carriages like common thieves?"
No one answered her. The heavy, oppressive silence unsettled her far more than any cruel insults would have.
Time slipped strangely as they rode beneath the dense, suffocating canopy of the pines.
The pale sun eventually disappeared behind gathering storm clouds, leaving only thin, grey shafts of light filtering through the ancient branches.
Eventually, the riders slowed their punishing pace.
The wounded man behind her adjusted his hold, and she felt him glance toward the leader riding confidently ahead of the pack.
"We will rest soon," the man stated quietly.
The leader gave a single, short nod, but did not bother to look back. Claire studied him carefully through the gloom. Unlike the rough men surrounding her, he rode with a quiet, undeniable confidence.
"How far?" the leader finally asked.
"Another mile," one of the scouts answered.
The leader considered it for a moment. "Nay," his voice rang out calmly. "We stop when I say."
No one dared to argue with him, and Claire filed that crucial piece of information away.
Even these hardened, violent men obeyed him without a single question.
Who was he? What did he truly want with her?
If this were simply about a ransom, surely they would have said so by now to keep her compliant.
The exhausted horse carrying her finally slowed to a steady walk, and the leader turned around in his leather saddle.
For the very first time, Claire caught a proper glimpse of him.
He was much younger than she had expected, perhaps only a few years older than herself.
He had dark, intelligent eyes and a striking, pale scar running cleanly from his temple to his jaw.
His dark red hair stirred in the biting wind. There was deep intelligence in his gaze, but not the wild madness or casual cruelty she had expected. Instead, she found something far colder, absolute, and unyielding bitterness.
He studied her in heavy silence, and Claire met his intimidating stare without flinching once. "If ye expect me to beg," she stated firmly, "ye will be disappointed."
One corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smirk. "I never thought ye would."
"Then tell me who ye are," she demanded.
Again, he said absolutely nothing. The silence stretched between them until even the exhausted horses seemed to quiet their breathing.
At last, he urged his mount closer, so close she could hear the stiff leather of his saddle creaking in the cold air.
When he finally spoke, his voice was pitched low enough that only she could hear the venom in his words.
"Yer husband may nae remember me..." Callum began softly.
Claire frowned deeply, completely thrown by the words. My husband? The bizarre title struck her before the true meaning could. She was not married to Finn. Surely he did not think...
"...but I remember him well," the man finished, his eyes burning with a dark fire.
A terrifying chill crept slowly through her blood.
This violent abduction had never been about her at all; it had always been about Finn MacRae.
She searched his scarred face desperately.
Had they met before? Was this stranger one of the rival clansmen Finn had spoken of?
Someone left over from the bloody border wars? Someone seeking vengeance?
"What do ye mean?" Claire breathed.
The stranger only looked at her for another long, calculating moment before turning his horse forward once more. "Keep riding," he commanded the men.
The others obeyed immediately, spurring their mounts forward. Claire twisted frantically in her saddle to look back at him.
"Answer me!" she yelled.
No reply came. Ahead of them, the ancient forest thickened until even the fading afternoon light struggled to reach the mossy ground, and the riders disappeared completely into the gathering mist. Claire's pulse hammered violently against her ribs.
Whoever this man was, he knew Finn, and somehow, she feared that reality was far worse than not knowing him at all.
Darkness settled over the Highlands far sooner beneath the dense tree canopy.
By the time the riders finally slowed their mounts, the last faint traces of daylight had vanished completely into a thick blanket of freezing mist that clung low to the forest floor.
The scarred man leading them raised a heavily gloved hand.
"We stop here," he announced.
The horses gradually came to a halt in a small clearing.
Claire's legs trembled violently as she was pulled roughly from the saddle.
The hours of grueling riding had left every single muscle in her body aching, but she stubbornly refused to let these men see her pain.
She landed hard on her feet, barely keeping her balance.
One of the men reached out to steady her, but she jerked away from him fiercely.
"I can stand," she snapped.
A few of the men exchanged amused, arrogant glances. "Feisty thing," one noted.
"Aye," another chuckled darkly. "I almost pity MacRae."
Claire completely ignored their taunts, her attention remaining entirely fixed on the scarred leader. He was already issuing quiet, efficient orders to his band.
"Nae fire bigger than necessary," he instructed. "Two men watching the southern trail. Rotate the horses."
Not a single man questioned his authority.
Within minutes, a small, weak fire crackled to life beneath the shelter of the towering pines, though the thick mist quickly swallowed most of its meager light.
Claire sat exactly where they had ordered her to sit, her wrists bound tightly before her with rough, abrasive rope.
She tested the knots discreetly, finding them entirely too tight to slip.
One of the younger men noticed her struggling.
"Dinnae bother," he advised lazily.
"I was only stretching," Claire lied smoothly.
He snorted in disbelief. "Aye, I am sure ye were."
The others busied themselves with their meager supper, speaking in low, hushed voices that carried little meaning over the crackle of the flames.
Only their leader remained entirely apart from the group, standing near the very edge of the camp and staring intently into the impenetrable darkness beyond the trees.
Claire watched him carefully for several long moments before she finally spoke up.
"Ye have a name," she called out to him.
He did not turn around to face her. "So do ye."
"Ye ken mine," Claire pointed out.
Silence answered her. She let out a frustrated sigh. "I would rather stop calling ye 'the man who kidnapped me'."
A few of the men chuckled quietly around the fire at her audacity. The scarred man finally looked over his broad shoulder. "My name changes nothing," he stated flatly.
"It changes something," Claire challenged.
He studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes calculating, before answering. "Callum," he said simply.
The name meant absolutely nothing to her, though she searched her memory desperately anyway. Nothing.
"Callum," she repeated carefully, testing the sound of it.
"That is all ye need to ken," he warned.
She held his intense gaze without flinching. "Why me?"
Callum looked back toward the darkness. "I have already told ye."
"Nay," Claire argued. "Ye simply failed to listen."
Claire frowned deeply. "Ye said me husband wouldnae remember ye," she recalled.
"Aye," Callum nodded.