Highlander’s Broken Love by Fiona Faris
Chapter Two
Chirnside, England & Scottish Border
“Daenae move, Sassenach.”
The order made Elisabeth freeze. She had only just recovered from the fall from her horse when she heard the voice.
That is a Scottish accent.
She swallowed dryly and slowly turned around.
She had been riding through her father’s estate, that these days straddled the English and Scottish border. Here though, she was supposed to be safe; that had clearly been an illusion. She was standing in the pine tree forest, flanked by Scots pines and Sitka spruces. It made the shadows fall across the three men’s faces before her.
“I said, daenae move,” the man said again. She held her body still as the three men stepped out of the shadows. She almost shivered at their barbarian-like appearance. Dressed in plaid and dark trews, they moved toward her. The one at the front had a crossbow in his hands that was trained on her, while a second had a rope in his grasp. Backing away, her feet moved through the undergrowth and snapped a twig. “Och! Stop!” he ordered, lifting the crossbow higher.
She closed her eyes, trying to tamp down on the spike of fear that had erupted in her chest.
“Now,” he ordered to the man at his side. Another conversation passed between the three men, prompting Elisabeth to open their eyes. They spoke in Gaelic, and she could not understand a word that was said.
What she could understand was the way her wrists were being bound together. She looked around and considered screaming for help. Yet the house itself was too far away for anyone to hear her, and, even if someone happened to be walking the grounds the moment she called out, the Scotsman might well put the bolt of that crossbow in her chest.
More words were uttered in Gaelic. Then, one man took the rope around her wrists, using it to pull her forward; another pushed her back, shoving her further forward. With each push, she stumbled through the undergrowth, so that her feet sometimes slipped on the moss and wet rocks from the recent rain.
They took her through the forest until they came out onto a track road where three horses were waiting for them.
“Up,” one of the men ordered her. He had long, red hair in plaits extending down to his waist.
I don’t intend to make it easy for you.
She just stood there, refusing to move. If this was an abduction, then there could only be one of two reasons for them to have taken her. One was that they took her because she was a woman, the second was that they took her because they intended to hold her for ransom. With her father’s wealth and position, she didn’t doubt the second reason was the likelier motivation.
“I said, up,” the man ordered again, his Scottish accent thick.
When she still didn’t move beyond lifting her chin a little higher in defiance, he took hold of her waist and tossed her into the saddle. She yelped in surprise at the force of the throw and struggled to sit up straight. Her expensive, blue, silk dress made moving about rather difficult. She was still maneuvering when he pulled her bound hands forward and tied them to the front of the saddle. She pulled against his tug, but, with his strength, her effort was practically futile.
She whimpered as she gave up and then swallowed any further sound. He was staring at her as she made those sounds, and she didn’t like the menace in those eyes. They were too lightly colored, almost unnaturally so, practically milky.
More words were exchanged between the three men in Gaelic before he pulled himself up onto the horse behind her. She panicked, moving as far forward in the saddle as she possibly could.
This was not just improper but revolting to her. With his hands taking the reins around her, she was disgusted. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck as he urged the horse to gallop forward, with the other two following them.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, having found her voice at last. He said nothing, so she tried again. “I demand to know.”
“Och, ye demand, do ye?” he chuckled. She tried to rear away from his breath, which she could smell since, even at her back, he was that close. It stank. “Well, ye arenae in yer father’s big house now, lass. Ye are at the mercy of lowland soldiers now. Yer demands mean as much to me as the push of the wind. Ye understand?”
She shivered, though she did not reply, and looked away from him. He said something in Gaelic to the others, and they all laughed. She wished desperately to understand what they said, though she could guess very well when the soldier reached around her and patted her thigh through the silken material of her dress. She flinched away and tried to elbow his arm off her, which only made him laugh some more.
The ride was long and continuous. No matter how many times she asked to know why they had taken her or where they were going, they did not answer. Yet clearly there was some kind of agenda, or they wouldn’t have taken her. Whatever destination she was moving toward had to be a part of this plan.
It seems I am a prisoner now.
She shuddered at the idea, just as her captors began to speak between one another. This time, they were gesturing ahead, looking toward something. She followed their gaze, trying to make out what they were looking at.
Between mountains, there was a lowland valley. From the hill they were on, she could see that there were several rivers trailing through the green and purple-gauze land.
“Aye, there it is,” the Scotsman behind her said, pointing out something in the landscape and making her move away from him again. “Yer new home.” She could think of many tart retorts, but seeing they would do her no good, she bit her tongue and followed his gesture with her eyes.
There appeared to be a dilapidated castle, somewhat in ruins, between the two rivers.
Surely, no one lives in such a place as that.
Yet as the horses set off, galloping down the valley, it became abundantly clear that the ruins really were the destination they were hurrying toward. When they were so close that the towering, old wall stretched far up above her head, they rode through a dense thicket of trees and into a clearing.
Elisabeth gasped at the sight that greeted her and held tighter to the ropes around her wrists and fingers, for this did not appear to be like any settlement she had seen before. The people here did not live in a town. They had built an encampment that began in part of the ruins and extended to one of the rivers at the other end. It was flanked by the border wall of the fortification on one side
Some of the tents were great towering things, having been built with a lofty height, that stretched between trees. There were circular tents and pyramid shapes, too—some smaller than others. There were even ropes and ladders that led up to the tops of trees. Elisabeth craned her neck, trying to take a better look above. Between the trunks were a series of ropes and platforms that had been built out of wood, some supporting tents among the branches and others supporting wood huts.
It was a makeshift settlement, with the tents lain out on either side of a long, clear space that created the illusion of a street.
As the horses walked down this appearance of a road, heads began to pop out of tent flaps. At first there were just children and women; then men and soldiers pushed to the forefront, stepping out and bordering the road. Under their intense gaze, Elisabeth could not see a smile among them.
They see me as their enemy.
It made her fingers tremble as she clutched the rope. They continued to make their way through the camp, and she was shocked at the sheer size of it. The hard work that had been put into building each wooden, hut-like structure or making and setting up the larger cloth tents must have been years in the making.
“Laird Grier!” the man behind her called out. It was so loud that it hurt her eardrums and made her cower away from him.
Up ahead, in what appeared to be the center of the encampment, there was a large circular tent, much bigger than anybody else’s. The tent flaps quivered and then opened completely. A man stepped out, flanked by soldiers in tartan uniforms. This had to be Laird Grier, for others were looking at him with bows of their heads and other marks of respect. He was a tall and slender presence; his body gave the impression that he had been stretched. He had long, dark hair, greying slightly, that would have reached past his shoulders had he not tied it up. The full beard masked half his face, but his eyes were the thing that Elisabeth noticed first, for though he was clearly becoming advanced in age, there was a lot of youth and animation in those eyes.
“Ye found her,” he smiled suddenly, the beard quivering with the movement.
Elisabeth felt her hands being quickly untied. She was about to climb down from the saddle when the man behind her shoved her. She toppled to the ground and landed face first among the grass and earth. It was painful. She moved to her knees, lifting a hand to the jaw that would no doubt earn a purple bruise from the fall. She felt hands behind her again; they pulled her to her feet and urged her to stumble forward in Laird Grier’s direction.
She looked anywhere but at him. Around her, she struggled to read the faces. Most seemed to be smiling, pleased with having a prisoner, yet there were others, too. The more she looked, the more she could see them. Some women held back, talking amongst themselves and shaking their heads. There were a few men, too, who couldn’t even raise their eyes to her.
“Well, well,” Laird Grier said, walking toward her. She tried to back up, but, as he reached her, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her forward, stumbling into his chest. He was much taller than her. “Miss Elizabeth Rolfe. So kind of ye to join us.”
“I would have preferred an invitation,” she scoffed at him, lifting her chin.
“Och, we have spirit in the lass!” Laird Grier laughed and looked away. “Has the cage been prepared?” he called.
“Aye, me Laird,” a soldier replied. He pointed behind him to where a wooden cage had been constructed.
“You do not mean to…” she trailed off, uncertain how to ask. Before she could think of anymore to say, Laird Grier dragged her forward. “No! Wait, who are you?” she cried out, but he was stronger. No matter how much she dug her heels into the earth, she merely made grooves in the soil and grass, for she could not fight him. “What do you want with me? Let me go!”
“Open it up!” Laird Grier ordered, as they reached the side of the cage. A barred, wooden door was opened, and though she clung to the laird’s arms, desperate not to be locked up, she lost the fight when he struck her across the cheek.
She backed away, lifting a hand to her already bruised jaw and the cheek that would soon sport a fresh bruise. Another shove to her shoulder sent her flying backward, and she landed on her rear in the center of the cage.
“Lock it tight,” Laird Grier ordered. The lock was set in place. When the solider stepped away, Elisabeth looked up to see Laird Grier staring at her, a great victorious smile on his face, with his arms folded.
“What do you intend to do with me?” she lowered her hand, determined not to show this man any weakness, as she scrambled to her feet.
“That ye will have to wait and see. Ye are the daughter of General Rolfe, are ye nae?” His words made her grasp the bars of the cage and pull at them, though they didn’t yield an inch under her tug. She realized how right she had been. She had been taken by the Scottish for what had to be a ransom. They were expecting her father to pay for her safe release.
Laird Grier looked away from her and spread his arms wide. “A feast, I think! We must celebrate our new guest.”
Elisabeth scoffed, for she felt more like an animal than a guest in the wooden cage.
“Someone’s comin’!” a cry went up from above them in the trees. “To yer positions.” As the men around her began to pull out weapons such as crossbows, swords, and bows and arrows, she craned her neck to look above. What she had not seen before was that in the wooden structures they had built in the trees, there were men keeping a look out.
“Over there!” one cried.
As one, the group around her turned their heads to the side of the camp that her captors had ridden into. There were two figures in the distance, one much taller than the other.
“Wait, lower yer weapons,” one of the men called from the trees.
“Why? Who is it?” Laird Grier barked the words, stepping forward.
“He’s home, me Laird. He’s back.” The words were spoken with a kind of awe.
Elisabeth flicked her head back to the two men. They were close enough now that she could make out their faces. They were both covered in dirt, almost like prisoners wearing rags that once had been clothing. One was short and beginning to bald, despite his young age.
The other made Elisabeth cling a little harder to the bars in surprise. He had less dirt on his face, and it made discerning his features so much easier. He had strong features that were particularly handsome indeed, even though his expression seemed stern. He had chestnut brown hair that curled around his ears with a little length to it, and his dark eyes were trained on Laird Grier.
Be still my heart…who is that?
