Captured Heart (13 page)

“These will add wonderful flavor to a goose dish for the festival,” Meg called. Her eye caught a patch of withered feverfew at the base of a tall pine tree. She sunk to her knees. “Just what I need.”

Crack!

Meg jumped at the sudden explosive noise. She stood and whirled around at the sound of Donald’s deep groan. He slumped to his knees and fell over into the leaf litter.

“Donald!” Meg ran to the fallen man. A large dead tree limb lay next to him. She glanced around but saw no one. A broken stump stood out from the tree trunk several feet above. How often did large tree limbs just let go and fall when someone stood beneath? Her eyes narrowed and she once more scrutinized the surrounding forest, but couldn’t see anyone.

She probed the back of Donald’s head. Her sensitive touch told her that he had some bruising around his brain where the heavy limb had struck, along with some minor bleeding on his scalp.

Aunt Rachel’s words swam through the worry in Meg’s mind.
Envision the body being normal
.

She placed her hands on Donald’s chest and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and summoned the blue light, imagining it pushing into the man. Meg followed the path of muscles and bone through Donald’s body until she reached his injured head, imagining the brain healthy and clean, no blood.

“What’s going on here?” A man’s voice shot through her so hard that she gasped and fell backward. Her eyes snapped open, her gaze shooting around the trees.

“I…I…” Panic at being caught using her light choked her words. “He’s been hurt. I was but trying to help.”

A strong hand clasped her upper arm and pulled her to standing. Good Lord, what had he seen?

“Are ye hurt, lass?” He set her away from him and knelt to inspect her fallen friend. The man’s voice was friendly and he had a mouth full of white teeth. He was tall and broad with a handsome face. His dark hair was clipped along with a short beard. He dressed and spoke like a Highlander. The man stood, his head tipped back to study the tree stump. “He’s got a nasty bump on the head. Rotten piece of luck, that.”

Meg breathed in relief that the accent wasn’t English.

He glanced around before gazing back at her. “May I be of assistance?”

“Yes, I need to get Donald back to Druim. Just there, through the woods. I am Meg…a guest at Druim.” Best not to give the stranger her full name. Although her accent told him she was English.

He led her toward Pippen, who stood just inside the tree line. “And I am Gilbert. Gilbert Davidson, a neighbor and friend to the Macbains.”

“The one providing the grain for our harvest festival?”

“I wish I could do more,” he said with a bob of his head.

“Thank you very much for what you can give.” Meg took hold of her saddle. She yanked down on it, her foot in the rung of the stirrup, when the leather snapped. She fell back into Gilbert Davidson’s arms.

“Good God ye’ve had a run of bad luck today,” he said with a chuckle, and turned her toward him.

The hairs on the back of Meg’s neck prickled as she realized that she was pressed between Pippen and this large man’s chest. The man gave off an overbearing vibe. Perhaps it was because he stood so close. When she’d met the Macbains, all of the men stayed well away from her.

Not Gilbert Davidson. They were also very much alone, out in the woods with no witnesses and no one knowing that she was gone from Druim. She was trapped.

“Ye are a bonny lass.” He spoke much too close.

She turned and he frowned, changing his handsome features into something far darker. “The leather seems like it’s been sliced through. Thank the Lord ye didn’t plunge off yer horse.”

Meg swallowed hard. How could it have been cut? The sharp edge of the leather showed that it hadn’t just torn.

“I can’t allow ye to ride all the way back to Druim bareback, milady.”

“I can take Donald’s horse,” Meg countered, her gaze flicking about. The horse was missing.

“Never fear,” he said with a gallant bow, “I still have my steed. I will take ye.”

He grabbed her elbow and propelled her over to his horse.

“Really,” Meg said, “I can ride Pippen back without a saddle.”

“Too dangerous.” He lifted her up onto his horse. His hands lingered around her waist and her stomach fluttered up into her throat. He jumped up behind her, settling his thighs intimately around her hips. She grabbed a tuft of mane as the horse jumped forward into a canter.

Gilbert leaned close to her ear. “Ye have such a lovely accent. Is home England?”

“Druim is the other way,” Meg said, trying to keep her tone casual, but her heartbeat thumped wildly.

“I know a short cut,” he said as he dodged between the trees.

“There is no shorter route than straight across the moor,” she said. Her eyes shifted amongst the trees. Where was he taking her? Anywhere besides the safe haven of Druim would be disastrous, even deadly. Foolish! Feebleminded! What was she thinking?

He laughed. “What does an English lass know of the Highlands?”

Meg clung to the horse with her thighs and fingers as Gilbert veered around trees. “You’re going too fast.”

He snaked one solid arm around her middle, pulling her back against him. “There now, I will not let ye fall.”

Movement ahead through the woods hitched Meg’s shallow breath. She gasped as Gilbert’s horse pawed its front hooves in the air and dropped back to earth with a high whinny, jarring her teeth.

“
Cac!
” Gilbert swore.

Caden sat on his warhorse just two trees away. The clamping panic in Meg’s chest unfurled into hope and complete trust that her hero would rescue her.

“Caden!” Meg would have jumped off Gilbert’s horse if the oaf wasn’t clasping her to him like a shield.

Caden raised one hand and six Macbain warriors surrounding them unsheathed their swords in unison. He brought up the dirk from his boot and pointed it at Gilbert. “One twitch from me, Davidson, and Ewan will skewer you through your back.”

Meg remained still, her eyes trained on Caden’s strong jaw. Everyone seemed to hold their breaths.

“God’s teeth, Macbain!” The man’s blood rushed fast, his heart pounding with alarm. “I was but rescuing the lass. Her saddle’s girth strap was cut.”

“Rescuing?” Caden didn’t even blink. “Taking her back to your holding, you mean. You’re headed south.”

“I got turned around,” he said, and slowly raised his hands out to the side. “Could you fault me? She’s lovely. I but lost my train of thought.”

Before Meg could even consider arguing that point, Caden’s charger lunged toward her, missing her legs by a brush of horsehair. In one swoop of his iron-like arm, he lifted her from Gilbert’s seat and spun his horse in a tight loop. She leaned into his warm chest. Pine and leather scent completely enveloped her, soothing and thrilling at the same time. Meg’s senses picked up Caden’s tight muscles throughout his body, poised to attack. His heart beat a strong rhythm, pumping blood to his extremities, and his pupils dilated.

Every part of his body was prepared to rip Gilbert Davidson in two.

Gilbert had reared back in his saddle when Caden had advanced. He now leaned forward without seeming to care that six swords still pointed toward him. “Ye grab the lass like she was a possession, Macbain,” Gilbert said in English, and shrugged. “Like a lover.”

He winked at Meg, who just stared in shock at the man’s audacity. “Or…a captive.”

Meg’s sensitive gift told her that Caden’s muscles tensed to flick the dirk he still held. Didn’t the idiot know that his taunts would snap Caden’s control? Could killing the chief of another clan cause a feud between them? She couldn’t be the start of something so dreadful. She needed a distraction.

“Donald needs tending.” She pointed back the way they had come.

“You dare attack my man and take my…” Caden paused for the slightest of seconds, “…guest.”

Meg pushed hard on Caden’s arm. “Donald was hit by a falling tree limb.” She lowered her voice. “I tried to help him.”

“Hamish, Sean,” Caden ordered, eyes and dirk still trained on Gilbert. “Find Donald.”

Hamish and a young warrior spun their horses around with their knees, keeping swords drawn, and tore off through the woods.

“What are you doing on Macbain land?” Ewan called.

Gilbert kept his eyes on Caden. “I was checking to make sure ye received my gift of grain. I didn’t know I’d be treated like an enemy.”

Caden lowered his dirk and the other four men lowered their swords. “We will repay the favor when you are in need.”

Gilbert bowed his head.

“I take it you know your way home.” Caden wheeled his warhorse around. He wrapped an arm around Meg and leaned into the charge. As they broke through the trees, he urged the horse into a gallop across the moor.

“Donald’s mount,” Meg called above the wind as she spotted a lone horse grazing half way to Druim.

Caden motioned to one of the warriors and the man veered toward the animal.

She turned and leaned her face into Caden’s shoulder and peered back over it. Hamish and Sean rode out of the woods at a slower pace, and Donald rode upright on Pippen’s bare back. “Thank God he seems well.”

He grazed Meg’s ear with his lips, scattering a million little shivers throughout her body. “More likely, thank Meg.”

…

Three more days and still no word from Alec Munro. Caden leaned his head forward, arms braced against the hearth to stretch his shoulders. He stared at the snapping flames as they danced around the dry peat in the hearth. Rachel had returned a full week ago to the Munro holding and Alec had yet to demand the release of his beloved niece.

Did the old chief think to steal her away? Caden made it understood that Meg was not to again leave the village of Druim, even with a guard. Donald had healed rapidly under her care. The branch was examined but no evidence against Gilbert Davidson could be found. Nor had they figured out how her saddle had been cut. Perhaps Davidson had done the deed to give her a reason to ride with him.

Caden frowned. Too many questions lay unanswered and, bloody hell, all they could do was wait for a reply from Meg’s uncle. Caden had a loyal maid in Munro Castle. She’d witnessed several curt exchanges between Rachel and Alec that had quickly led to behind the door shouting, but the topic was never fully overheard.

Perhaps Alec believed his niece was safe at Druim since she was being treated like a guest and not rotting in the dungeon. Wind whistled down the chimney making the flames dance and shudder. Did Alec think Caden wouldn’t let a guest starve through the winter?

The door banged open, caught by the wind. The harvest festival was planned for the next day, yet winter already snapped at the heels of autumn. Hamish and Ewan strode across the fresh rushes strewn through the great hall. Hamish handed Caden a folded parchment.

Finally, Alec Munro’s response.

“Did Gregory bring this?”

Hamish shook his head. “Someone I didn’t recognize. Headed south once I swore I would take you the missive.”

Caden studied the wax seal. A rose, red and thick as old blood. Not from Alec. The grand design smelled of England. He broke the seal, unfolded the thick parchment, and scanned the script. The hand at his side rolled into a fist as he read it through a second time, making certain to miss nothing.

“From England?” Ewan asked, his brow furrowed. “The messenger wore English steel, but no coat of arms.”

“Aye,” Caden said and passed the parchment to Ewan. Fury pinched inside Caden’s chest as control battled to keep his fury within. Anger would just cloud reason.

“Is it from her father? Rowland Boswell is her father?” Ewan asked.

“Aye, and he wants her back.”

“To test her for witchcraft,” Ewan read.

“Bloody hell,” Hamish cursed at the same time Caden slammed his fist down on the top of the oak mantel. Fire leapt up with breath from the wind as if God himself roared up on Meg’s behalf.

“Says he’ll give us food and weapons against the Munros if we give her over quickly,” Ewan spat. “How does he even know she’s here?”

“Good question,” Caden said. “And apparently Boswell wants Rachel Munro dead, too.” He glanced around the hall that had been decorated with dried flowers and ribbons for the festival. No auburn hair, bewitching hazel eyes, and lovely lips.

“The bastard lays it out quite succinctly,” Ewan continued. “And if we don’t comply, then he gives weapons to our enemies as well as turning over evidence that we’ve murdered Englishmen, aided Catholics, and kidnapped a loyal English girl.” He threw the parchment down on a bench. “So we’ll have two ill-tempered kings ready to hang us.”

“King Henry’s too far away to bother with us up here,” Hamish said.

“Not if he thinks we’re harboring Catholics and rallying against him. The man spooks at the hint of rebellion ever since the uprising in York over the abbeys being burned. He sent Suffolk with orders to hang men, women, and children,” Ewan said.

“So what do you want to do?” Hamish yelled. “Hand the wee lass over to be examined, tortured, and burned?”

“Nay!” Ewan shouted.

“
Stad!
” Caden held up a hand. He looked to Hamish. “Send word to the Munros about Boswell’s offer. Make sure Rachel Munro hears that her niece is not as safe as she thinks.”

The heat in Ewan’s eyes froze instantly into shock. “Caden, you’re not planning—”

“I will not hand Meg over to Boswell, even though he has legal custody. We still haven’t heard anything from the Munros, and winter is coming. We need to leverage this information, use it to our advantage.”

Hamish headed to the door just as Meg blew inside, followed by Angus. Her hair lay in scattered waves around her shoulders, her cheeks pink from the brisk wind. She was fresh and alive, brightening the entire room at once.

Hamish tipped his head to her as he ran out.

Caden folded the parchment and set it up high on the mantel. He wasn’t ready to explain that the devil had caught up with her.

“Smile,” Caden told Ewan.

“What?” Ewan still wore a fierce, battle-hungry scowl.

“Smile,” Caden commanded. “Else she’ll wonder.”