The Rogue (5 page)

  Angus cursed, reached behind his back and shed his sword. He pulled his breacan feile from his shoulders, made a knot at one end and lowered the wool over the edge. “Lass, take hold of the breacan feile and I’ll pull ye to safety.”

“Yer what?”

He wracked his brain for her word. “The plaid, lass, grab hold of the plaid.”

She waved an arm above her head missing it by a foot. “I canna see!”

“Oh, for...” He eased a wee bit more over the crumbling edge so the cloth hit her hand. “Grab hold, woman, before I fall over and join ye.”

Thankfully she did as he asked and he started pulling. She came to a standing position on the ledge and he grasped one of her wrists. “Birdi, let loose of the plaid and grab onto my hand with both hands.

“Nay, I dare not.”

“Birdi, make haste!” She remained in mortal danger; the sandstone beneath her feet was crumbling at an alarming rate with every breath she took. “Lass, plea—”

Hhhhhheeee
!

His mount’s whinny, long and urgent, caused Angus to look up. Dust clouds rose along the main road.

The Macarthurs! Bloody hell.

Hissing through clenched teeth, he let loose his end of his breacan feile—mentally kissing his prized covering good-bye—and engulfed both her hands with his. With one jerk he brought her up and over the edge. To his amazement his precious cloth came with her. Panting, he pried her fingers from it. “Lass, so help me God, if ye ever do anything so foolish—”

Looking irate, Birdi scrambled to her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “‘Twas not my intention to fall off a cliff!”

With an eye on the approaching Macarthurs, he snorted and pulled his claymore from its sheath, then let loose a piercing whistle. Birdi, at his side, jumped a foot. He grabbed her hand as Rampage—hooves flashing, nares wide and snorting—came thundering across the oats. As the horse came to a prancing stop a few yards before him, Angus began running. “Hie, lass!”

Dragging her feet, she whined, “Hie? Why?”

Without explaining, he grabbed her under the arms, hoisted her in one quick motion onto the saddle, and vaulted up after her. She squeaked in protest as he wrapped a tight arm around her waist and pressed his spurs into his mount’s flanks. The horse lunged north toward safety.

Birdi screeched. Clutching the protrusion before her with one hand, the Canteran’s arm with the other, she prayed like she’d never prayed before in her life.

She was accosted by the wind at her front, the man’s hard chest at her back, and by the horse at her bottom and thighs. Blood pounded in her ears, making it impossible to hear in a world of shapeless, blurring color.

She rarely traveled at a run for fear she’d crash into something—or fall—and here she was trapped on a beast quite obviously running amok.

Goddess, help me!

And where were they going? Was he taking her farther from home? She fervently hoped not. Would wolf be able to foll—

She screeched, the sensation of falling flipping her stomach. The Canteran’s arm tightened its hold on her just as she jerked forward and then back. Icy cold water stung her bare feet as the beast splashed through what sounded like a rock-strewn river. A heartbeat later her captor muttered, “Good lad,” and clucked. She was then propelled upward in jarring fashion to the tune of the horse’s hooves clicking and clacking as he climbed. She’d barely caught her breath and the scent of pine and cedar, when the Highlander pushed her head to the side. She kenned why when she felt pine needles brush against her cheek and legs. More branches whipped past, thrumming in the wind. The man at her back cursed with almost as much frequency. And on it went.

After what seemed like a lifetime, the Canteran whispered, “Whoa,” and the horse, heaving beneath her, slowed to a walk, its lathered sides radiating heat like the sun against her bare legs.

“We’re safe now, lass.”

“Aye? And from what are we safe?”  Her captor wasn’t simply daft but wode...stark raving mad.

His breath ruffled the hair lying against her cheek. “From the Macarthur, lass. Did ye not see him? He and a good dozen of his men—their blades waving, their faces scarlet with rage?” He chuckled, sending vibrations through her sweat-soaked back and into her chest.

“Where are we?”
Goddess, please let it be close to home.

“We’re in Fraiser territory. They’re not exactly MacDougall friends but they are most certainly Macarthur enemies. Those behind us will be wise to give up the chase.”

“Fraiser territory.” This wasn’t good. Nay. She kenned no Fraisers. She sniffed and caught...what was that? Sharp, clean, and making her need for water more acute? Something white flashed close overhead, issuing a raucous cry. She squealed as she ducked.

“Dinna fash, Birdi, the gulls shan’t harm ye. They only seek handouts.”

She was none too sure he spoke the truth.

He brushed the hair from her cheek and asked, “Have ye not seen them before?”

“Nay.” She couldn’t see them now—could see only flashes of whirling white—so how could she have seen gulls before?

“They fly in from the sea seeking fresh water.”

“Ah.” Gulls were apparently some kind of sea bird. Their song wasn’t the least pleasing, not like the doves and laverocks that occupied her forest. She flinched as another called out. “I dinna like it here. I want to go home.”

“I would gladly take ye home, but I have no time for that now.” He pointed ahead. “We spend the night over yon. Ye can’t see it from here, but there’s a cave at the foot of the burn. Hopefully ‘tis dry, but there is no telling this time of year. We’ve had rain enough to satisfy Noah.”

She didn’t care if this Noah he spoke of was satisfied or not, nor if this place he spoke of was dripping wet. She wanted off the horse and out of his arms. Now that they’d slowed—and she’d conquered her fright—she’d become very aware of the pain at her side and in her legs. Her stomach ached for lack of food and her mouth felt like a lichen-coated rock. Too, as the horse ambled along the edge of the loch, clicking on shale and padding through grass, she’d become most uncomfortably aware of Angus the Canteran’s thighs as they cradled hers, of his hand as it relaxed against her stomach, of his every breath as she leaned against him, too weary to hold herself upright any longer. And her awareness generated feelings that were uncomfortably akin to the yearnings she’d awakened with just this morn.

“If ye let me go I’ll not say a word to the Macarthurs, I promise.” She avoided them as much as possible anyway. “Please. I can find my own way.”

He huffed at her back. “I doubt that ye can, lass. We’re many miles from where I found ye.”

“Many?”

“Aye, many.”

Horrified, Birdi looked up. The sky was turning to deep lavender. Soon the sun would burrow into its mountain bed and the world would again become a frightening place of blacks and grays. She’d have no way of kenning real from shadow, solid ground from crags. She’d be trapped wherever he placed her, without hope of escape until the sun rose again. But rise it would, and off she’d run if she survived the night.

The horse stopped and the Canteran slipped from behind her, leaving her sweat-soaked back to chill in the rising wind. She shivered.

He reached up, grabbed her under the arms, and hauled her off the horse only to hold her at eye level for a moment. Above eyes as blue as the mid-summer sky, he bore a deep scar the shape and size of a hawk’s footprint.
My stars! That blow must have hurt.
But what had made it and why had it left such a scar?

He suddenly frowned and lowered her to the ground. “There, lass, behind the big boulder you’ll find the entrance to the cave.” Her gaze traced the length of his arm, but his arm was long. It faded to fuzz. She couldn’t see his hand and had to guess the direction he likely pointed toward.

“Go,” he said, “I’ll be with ye shortly.”

Dare she? All was in shadow, most of the color having already drained from this place. She could hear water roaring—crashing—before her and to the right, could feel the spray on her face. What if she fell—

“Lass, go and see if we have place for a fire.”

Fire. ‘Twould be a good thing, given her hands and feet felt like ice. Hoping he’d come with her, she stalled. “But I canna start a fire without flint.”

“I’ll bring it, but first I need tend the horse. Go.”

Defeated, she wrapped her arms around her waist and took a hesitant step, then a second, relieved to discover she trod on solid ground. Needing him to find her way, and hating that she did, she stammered, “I need ken...where ye’re taking me.”

“Later, lass. Just go.”

She took one hesitant step and another, and then startled, arms flailing, when he said in her ear, “For heaven’s sake, lass, ‘twill be morn before ye get there.” He took her by the elbow and led her toward the roaring water. She stumbled and nearly fell before he huffed in exasperation and hauled her to his side. He guided her through high stones far grander than she’d ever imagined possible. She reached out a shaking hand as she brushed past one and was surprised to find it warmer than the air. She craned her neck, stretched over his arm to better look at its gritty surface—to make sure she knew this stone should she pass it again—and was yanked back.

“Come on, lass, ye can mird stones to ye heart’s content another time.”

Mird?
The man spoke such an odd tongue.

She was nearly made deaf by the roar of water and soaked by frigid spray and then just as quickly was surrounded by total darkness, trapped within blackness by a flowing sheet of roaring silver. “What...where am I?”

“‘Tis the cave, lass. Have ye not been in one before?”

Wide-eyed, heart bounding against her ribs, she shook her head. Why would she or anyone else want to be in one?

Panicked, she sniffed the air for something familiar and caught the scent of old ashes. He’d spoken of fire. Would he now cook her? Had he taken her to his lair?
Oh, Goddess...

She felt rather than saw him draw near and squeaked.

He huffed again. “Take yer ease, lass. Here, put this on.”

Something pressed her chest and she felt his plaid. She draped it around her shoulders as much for protection as warmth. “What shall ye eat?”

“Whatever I catch.”

‘Twas not what she wanted to hear. “Do ye like berries? I can gather berries.” She could hear him moving but could not see him. “Mayhap some mushrooms? Or fiddle ferns? Fiddle ferns are good.” It was well past the time for finding fiddle ferns but he might not ken that. “Do ye like dandelions? ‘Tis verra good for yer liver.”
Oh, please say “aye” to something.

“Thank ye, but I prefer meat.”

Ack! She stumbled back and hit a wall. Hands splayed against unyielding stone, she decided talking of food wasn’t the wisest of things she could be doing. “Tell me of this Beal. Is it grand? Does it have colored glass? Why are ye going there?”
Talk to me, Canteran, so I can tell where ye are and what ye’re thinking.
“Are ye to meet someone there? Is that why ye must make haste? Do they have fairs? I’d like to see a juggler...and a fire-eater. Personally, I can barely credit such, but if ‘tis so, I should very much like see them. Do ye ken a prince? Mayhap a king? And where exactly is Beal? Is it north or south of where ye found me?”

She continued on at a breakneck pace, asking question after question with barely a breath in between.

Angus rolled his eyes. Birdi’s babbling was giving him a headache. Why he frightened her so was beyond knowing. Had he not saved her from certain death as she clung to the ravine wall? Had he not saved her from that butcher Macarthur? He’d not harmed her—well, not since his blade had brought her down—which he hadn’t intended and had already apologized for. And that reminded him—he’d not looked at her wound in a good many hours. Was it infected? Was that why she blathered and shivered so? He’d have to check the wound as soon as he got a fire going.

Hoping to reassure her he muttered, “There’s nay reason to fash, Birdi. I promise I’ll not harm ye.”

To his amazement she kept on chattering like a crazed squirrel. Hauling off his chain-mail helm, he heartily wished she’d fall asleep as soon as humanly possible so he could have some peace and quiet.

He looked about the cave and found a pile of dry kindling at the back where the last traveler had left it for the next man to find. He grabbed an armful and set about laying the wood within the spent ashes in the center of the cave. He opened his sporran and pulled out a shaft of dry grass and his flint box. After much huffing and blowing he had a reasonable fire going and turned to find Birdi—head lolling to one side—sound asleep whilst still propped against the wall. Amazed, he cautiously approached. How could she do this?

He peaked behind her and found she was resting on a small outcropping of stone. “Humph!”

Well, he certainly couldn’t leave her like this while he caught their supper. She’d likely fall and cosh her head again, and she was already brain-coddled enough as it was.

Seeing her grip had loosened on his breacan feile he slipped it from her hands and spread it before the fire. He then called her name. Getting no response, he went to her and lifted her into his arms. The poor wee lass. She’d become exhausted. How much from fright and how much from blood loss he had no way of knowing. But she was safe now.

He laid her before the fire and covered her. Standing back he studied her face by firelight. Good graces, she was lovely. The finest woman he’d ever seen. Too bad he couldn’t keep her.

After tending Rampage and having caught and gutted two fish, Angus cut a sapling into two-foot lengths and returned to the cave, where he found Birdi as he’d left her, still sound asleep. He roasted the fish and then tried to wake her. She grumbled and curled into a ball. Deciding to leave her be, he ate one fish and wrapped the second in fresh reeds for her to find when she awoke.

Using his saddle for a pillow, he settled on the opposite side of the fire from her. Studying her fitful sleep, he again pondered what to do with Birdalane Shame if he couldn’t find her clan. Shame. What kind of a name was that? The lack of “Mac” before her surname meant she wasn’t from an auld clan, which left him wondering if a new sept had formed. ‘Twas possible. Look at the Fraisers, Mazies, and Montgomerys. Lord, there were more clans than a man could wave a sword at these days between the border and the North Sea. Ack!