Authors: Heartstorm
"I
ought to beat you for the risk you took," he said, looking up at her
candidly, "but since no harm's done, I'll let you off easily this time. If
Cassie can forgive you for running her into the ground, I suppose I can
too."
He
turned and squinted up at the sun. "At least you've succeeded in causing
me trouble, lass. These horses are spent. We'll never reach Camereigh tonight.
Let's see if we can find our way around that damned ravine and get back to
Donald. The poor man will think I've strangled you by now."
He
placed a reassuring hand on the sweaty withers of the big chestnut and glanced
at Anne over his shoulder. "Come here, lass. Lancer's best able to carry
your weight now."
For
a moment she didn't move. She had no wish to go near MacLean again.
At
her hesitation, MacLean raised one challenging brow. "I said, come
here."
His
soft command sent a shiver down her spine. She stepped uncertainly up beside
him, catching her breath as he reached for her. His powerful hands closed about
her waist, lifting her easily onto the chestnut's back. She gave a sigh of
relief when he moved away.
MacLean
led the animals along the rim of the ravine until they could edge down the
rocky slope to a narrow valley below. They skirted the swift-rushing burn,
moving slowly over a ragged hillside until a lone rider on a gray horse
appeared. At sight of the two of them, Donald broke into an easy canter,
reaching them in a flurry of hooves.
"The
gray's obviously not lame," MacLean stated in greeting as his friend drew
to a halt beside them. "That, at least, is good news."
"Nay,
there was but a wee stone wedged in his hoof. I removed it in a trice,"
Donald remarked, his eyes moving anxiously from the face of his chief to the
pale, silent one of the girl.
"Well,
no harm done here," MacLean said, "though our guest wanted to take
wing and fly over a deep gorge a ways back. Thank God I was able to cut her
off, or we'd be trying to explain to Glenkennon how his daughter got a broken
neck while in our tender care."
"Are
you afraid my father won't pay for damaged goods?" Anne asked
contemptuously. "Don't worry. You'll get your gold."
Donald
looked at her strangely, but MacLean only grinned.
They
walked the horses until the animals were cool, finally allowing them to drink
from the icy mountain burn. Though she tried to ignore MacLean's movements,
Anne was acutely aware of the frequent, sidelong glances he gave her. Was he
remembering those unsettling moments between them? The thought made her heart
beat wildly.
Keeping
her eyes downcast and her mouth firmly closed, she belatedly reminded herself
that she had best control her unruly tongue. Sick with disappointment at her
failure to escape, she was yet aware that she had fared far better than she
might have done. She had best not risk Mac-Lean's rage again—especially since
the last episode had ended in so disconcerting a manner!
The
party continued traveling at an easy pace through the afternoon, finally making
camp at dusk in the corner of a sheltered glen. As the chill of evening crept
forward with the dying of the day, Donald shared the last of his wine and a few
dried meat strips with Anne.
Huddled
in MacLean's warm plaid, Anne gazed abstractedly into the fire, wondering if
her father and brother knew yet of her kidnapping. The thought of her brother,
Charles, brought a sharp ache to her chest.
She
remembered him best as the mischievous child she had often rescued from the
consequences of childish pranks. Unfortunately, he had been taken to live with
their father at the promising age of nine, and she had seen very little of the
boy in the last eight years. He had been cold and remote during their visits,
far more like her father than the happy child Anne had known. Now she wondered
if she would ever see him again.
She
closed her eyes tightly against the threatening sting of tears. Her defiance
had been short lived. She was now cold, hungry, and frightened at thought of
her helplessness in MacLean's hands.
The
distant cry of a hunting wolf sounded from somewhere out in the darkness, and a
log collapsed on the blaze, almost smothering the tiny flame. She groped for
nearby twigs, feeding them to the greedy fire in an effort to keep her one
solace alive.
A
slight
sound caught her attention. Turning, she found MacLean standing beside her.
Damn the man; he was quiet as a cat! Before she could move, he dropped to one
knee, catching her wrists and quickly trussing them with a narrow piece of
cord.
"Since
I can't trust you not to run, I've decided to take precautions tonight,"
he explained, giving the rope one final tug to make sure it was secure.
She
stared at him speechlessly, unable to believe what he had done. Rage washed
over her, drowning out her fear. "I hate you!" she hissed, unable to
think of anything more scathing to say.
MacLean's
expression did not change. "As you please, lass," he said, tying the
loose end of the rope around his left wrist. He stretched himself out
unconcernedly on the ground not three feet from her. Pulling his cloak around
his body for warmth, he closed his eyes. "Wake me if you get cold,"
he said softly. "Now good night."
She
could hear the smothered laughter in his voice. Tears welled in her eyes, and
she almost choked on a strangled sob. Huddling miserably before the dying fire,
she gazed at his disgusting form in the waning light, wishing she were anywhere
in the world besides this desolate Scottish hillside at the end of a short rope
held by Sir Francis MacLean.
***
Anne
was awakened by gentle hands untying the cutting rope from about her wrists.
She blinked sleepily as MacLean chafed her numb hands, quickly restoring the
circulation to her tingling fingers. Her muscles ached from the cramped
position in which she had slept, but MacLean dragged her to her feet, obviously
impatient to be off.
While
Donald held their mounts, MacLean gave her a boost into the saddle. "We
should make Camereigh by midmorning if we push," he stated with a quick
look at the spreading dawn.
As
he walked across the clearing to collect his plaid, Anne turned to Donald.
"What's Camereigh?" she asked, covering a wide yawn.
"Camereigh
Castle is the stronghold of the Clan Mac-Lean," he explained simply.
"We're almost home now, lass."
She
shivered in the chill dawn, longing to snuggle back under the woolen tartan.
Though she spoke no complaint, MacLean noticed the movement. He silently untied
the cloak from behind his saddle and moved to spread it over her shoulders,
tying it firmly beneath her chin.
She
longed to throw it off, but its warmth was too welcome. She contented herself
with coldly ignoring him.
MacLean
gazed quizzically at her. "Do I have your word you'll behave yourself
today? If not, I can't allow you the freedom of your mount."
Fully
awake now, she glared at him, her pride still rankling from his treatment the
night before. "I give you my word on nothing save to cause you as much
trouble as I can."
He
accepted her challenge, eyes gleaming. "Fair enough, lass. If it's open
warfare you want, I feel safe enough predicting the winner."
Swinging
into the saddle in one easy movement, he caught the reins of Anne's mount in
his left hand. "If you don't mind, I'll lead Cassie today. I consider my
horses too valuable to risk foolishly again."
She
dug her nails into her palms, wishing it were the Highlander's bare skin
instead. Oh, how she hated the man and his mocking smile! For the first time in
her life she longed to commit murder.
Since
she could do little about her predicament Anne retreated into cold
indifference, riding hour after hour without a word to her companions. She
doubted now that MacLean would harm her. Hadn't he admitted he needed her in
one piece for a ransom? But what a joke it would be on them all if her father
refused to pay for her safe return.
The
thought was not so far-fetched that she could completely dismiss it. What would
become of her if MacLean had no reason to keep her safe? She recalled the
hungry way he had reached for her the day before. Closing her eyes, she tried
desperately to think of something else.
Before
noon the travelers had left the trackless moors and were riding through more
hospitable country. Here and there Anne noticed a smudge of gray peat smoke
rising lazily against the horizon from the stone huts of numerous crofters. The
men and their families frequently ran out to wave and shout words of greeting
to their chief, and Mac-Lean would draw rein, calling the people by name,
spending a moment with each one as though he had all the time in the world.
The
land here was not so barren and rocky as much of the terrain over which they
had ridden the past day and a half. Rich grass of a deep, spring green carpeted
the wide straths, a delightful profusion of bluebells and forget-me-nots
ornamenting the rolling hillsides. The shadowy woodlands teemed with the song
of birds, and once, a pair of red deer were startled from a glade in sudden,
graceful alarm.
As
the group rode on, a cool breeze lifted the curls about Anne's face, teasing
her nose with the tang of the sea. Sensing their stable, the horses leaned into
their bits, eagerly threading a thin stand of birch.
As
Cassie broke through the last of the trees, Anne caught her first glimpse of
Camereigh. Across a wind-stroked carpet of green, its high stone walls rose
steeply upward as if climbing to the sun. On the fretted battlements above, the
colorful pennants of Scotland and the Clan MacLean rippled gaily in the wind.
Two formidable towers guarded the gates, and within the forbidding walls the
massive buildings rose in an impressive jumble of dark stone. Riding slowly
toward the fortress, Anne wondered if she herself soon would be swallowed up
forever within those walls.
They
passed through the great arched gateway to the glad shouts of dozens of
clansmen, the enormous din stretching Anne's taut nerves almost to the breaking
point. She slid stiffly from her mount and was hurried from the courtyard
through a sturdy oak door into the cool dimness of a stone-flagged corridor.
Great oak beams arched above her head like the bars in a prison, and armed
clansmen swarmed from every doorway. There would be no second chance of an
escape.
From
the corridor, MacLean, Donald, and Anne moved past the door of the great hall
up a broad stone staircase. Anne followed Donald silently up the worn stairs,
one hand on the heavily carved railing to support herself. She could sense
MacLean following closely at her heels, and her breathing quickened in
apprehension. Now she knew how a trapped hare felt with the hounds snarling at
its back.
They
entered a comfortably appointed room where a small fire burned cheerily in a
massive stone fireplace, the dancing flames chasing away the remaining chill of
the morning. She had a brief impression of the soft gold of Turkish carpets and
of richly colored tapestries along the wall before noticing a man lounging at
his ease in a sturdy chair beside the fire.
MacLean
stopped short, his face breaking into a broad smile. "Ian, you dog! What
do you mean invading my house in my absence?" He held out a welcoming hand
in obvious delight. The seated man rose, catching MacLean's hand in the strong
clasp of friendship.
The
intruder was a handsome man, somewhere near his fortieth year, Anne surmised,
with the weather-lined face of one who spent his days in the out-of-doors. Tiny
smile lines etched themselves around his hard mouth, and his blue eyes twinkled
merrily as he surveyed the three newcomers. "Since you were expected last
night, 'tis I who's feeling abused, wandering around this infernal barracks
without a host," he complained. "Did you have problems with the
raid?"
"I'd
a bit of trouble convincing our guest here she was expected at Castle
Camereigh," MacLean explained lightly. "She had other ideas, it
seemed."
The
two turned their attention to Anne, the stranger, Ian, walking slowly around
her as though inspecting a horse at a fair. She felt an all-too-familiar fear
tensing the muscles in her stomach, though she kept her head high and her eyes
trained coldly on the crackling fire.
The
man completed his survey, obviously pleased at what he saw. "She doesn't
look enough to give a braw lad like yourself much trouble," he commented.
"Perhaps you're losing your touch, Francis."
MacLean
grinned. "Well, I was tempted once to wring her neck back on the
trail," he admitted. "But if a Highlander can think of nothing more
interesting to do with a troublesome wench than strangle her, he'd best retire
to the fire with the old women." His warm gaze slid over Anne suggestively.
She
looked quickly away in confusion, struggling to keep her poise in spite of her
recollection of those strange moments between them on the moor.
The
stranger chuckled as though reading the unspoken conflict readily. "I can
see I'm come in good time to protect you, lass." Taking her cold hand, he
bowed over it almost reverently. "Allow me to present myself, Anne. My
name is Ian MacDonnell. Your mother, Mary, was my sister."