Highlander of Mine (12 page)

The flames in Fleur’s cheeks intensified while thinking of her secretive meetings with Helen’s son.

Later, Helen had spoken softly about her time married with Albert.

“First, I married the man, thinkin’ him a fine provider. That he’d give Duncan and me a fine home, and we’d never worry about food ever again.” Helen had sipped her tea, which usually seemed to give her more energy, but had made her seem glassy-eyed and nostalgic that day. Her face had dropped into despair when she’d turned to Fleur. “He wasn’ neither. The home ye see now, Fleur, is all Duncan’s doing. He bought every single stone, even the ground the house sits upon. For Albert only rented it. Duncan paid for men to build me this huge house. I think to tell me once and for all, he was done with Albert. Done with that man. Made it so nothing resembled him, ye ken? Duncan single-handedly made it so none of us remembered that I was married to that mean man, or that he’d fathered Duncan’s half-brothers. But even with all the finery Duncan gave to me, we all remember.” She took a small sip of her tea, wincing upon tasting it, but gulped down more within a few seconds’ time. “Albert never hit us. But he did with words. He said the most unkind things anyone could ever say. At first, because Albert was so pleasant in public, I thought I was imaginin’ the harshness. But those words, the hits those words made, they festered. Unlike a bruise or a cut, the injuries Albert made seemed to last an eternity. And I was too weak to stop any of it.”

Fleur held Helen’s hand, trying to shake her head. But Helen would have none of it.

“’Tis true, beautiful Lady Fleur. I can’ lie to you. I ken I should have left that man, but I—I didn’. I was too scared by then. Albert had told me what a common wench I was, how no man would ever want me and all my sons. I ken he was a liar. I ken he was wrong. But I was too weak to prove it to him.”

Fleur clutched at Helen’s hand then. “I understand that. I do. I understand that kind of fear. How it’s paralyzing. You can’t move.”

“Aye,” Helen said breathlessly. Then she shuddered. “But for the sake of my lads, I should have done something.”

Fleur shrugged. “Maybe, Helen, you did the best you could.”

Tears formed in Helen’s eyes. “The Lord does have mercy, for I’ve longed to hear that. Still, I’ll never forgive myself for not doing better for my lads, especially my Duncan.” Then Helen had clutched at Fleur fiercely. “My dear, Fleur, I don’ ken how to stop that kind of fear, but if it ever happens to you, then shake it off, lass. Do whatever ye can to get rid of it. I don’ regret anything but havin’ that fear and not doin’ what I needed to do for myself and my sons. So shake off that fear, hear me?”

Fleur had nodded.

Back in the Commons, Fleur shuddered as she remembered Helen’s urgency.

Fleur glanced again at Duncan, showing a few of the lads how to punch. Something about the man made her heart lurch to a painful stop, then beat furiously fast a second later. Her body smoldered when thinking of him and wishing each night he’d lean in and kiss her. Maybe when Duncan started to teach the boys wrestling, then she could teach the big guy a few moves of her own.

She skimmed her hand over her cheek, trying to calm her thoughts in front of Duncan’s sleeping mother. But it was difficult. She was crushing on the man in a way she’d never felt before. There was nothing linear about the process between her and Duncan. It just was. And it scared the crap out of her.

But something else nagged at her currently. Something was amiss. What it was, she had no clue.

She noticed Rory who was smiling at her. Waving at him, his grin grew and he returned her wave, then turned to explain how to use a sword. He seemed like such a nice guy, and, boy, she hated to admit how his attention was flattering. But that was merely her hungry ego liking his responsiveness. She knew it and felt she should say something to him. But what? Then again, maybe she was reading him wrong. Maybe he was just polite to what he thought was a Native America ambassador. It was strange, but while glancing at him, something seemed not right. No, it wasn’t Rory who was wrong it was...what was it?

Something shifted. Now it felt as if she were in the Willy Wonka movie. God, the community center in Porcupine had played that over and over again, so Fleur had watched it, each time a bit disgusted and yet fascinated. That’s what everything felt like right now. The colors seemed to come out of an old television—too bright and brassy. The sense of looming trouble almost suffocated her.

Fleur glanced again at her sleeping companion, then made sure she was breathing. After watching a loved one die, it was hard to watch another’s chest and wonder the same thoughts. “Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Please don’t die.”

Helen’s chest moved easily up and down in a peaceful sway, making Fleur take a deep, relaxing breath of her own.

She looked out to the boys, specifically to Duncan and Rory. They had their backs to her and were now close enough their elbows almost touched.

Before she could let herself think any further, something pressed hard against her mouth, then something else had her under her armpits and lifted her up and over the chair she sat in. Hands. It was hands all over her. Big, too rough hands, lugged her through an alley.

When she realized it was hands carrying her away from Helen, her first thought had been how ridiculous it was to be abducted.

To be abducted. To be abducted.

Her brain had snapped and tried everything it could to turn from reality, but after the third time thinking it to herself, she finally realized she was truly being kidnapped.

She thrashed and tried to scream. But the hand over her mouth was too firm, and the hands holding her body held her tighter, hurting her.

About seven men held her, transporting her hurriedly through Durness. They were tight enough together that they blocked the sun. Then they began to run. They had scarves covering their noses and mouths. Their shirts were yellowed from grime and dirt, and their kilts were worn and filthy. As much as she saw stains, she was surprised they didn’t carry a strong odor. In fact, almost all of them smelled of the outdoors, of heather, and of smoke. She struggled again, especially as they jogged even faster and the landscape changed from the small homes of Durness to something greener and wild. God, they were taking her away from Duncan!

Chapter 13

D
uncan had noticed when his mother had fallen asleep. He’d noticed when Fleur’s chair was vacant but had thought with his ma in dreamland, she had gone into a tavern to get some water, for the day was a hot one. He’d been drinking water from a leather pouch and flung it at Rory, noticing the man licking his lips for the thousandth time.

Rory nodded his appreciation, and then called the troops for a break to drink water from the Green Cat Tavern. He gave Ewan a few coins to pay for the drinks, and Duncan appreciated that Rory hadn’t expected the tavern owners to compensate for the beverages, even if it was merely water. Feeling a sense of pride come over him, he couldn’t help but smile at Rory as the troops slowly trudged off the Greens.

“What?” Rory asked, almost defensively as he finished gulping down the rest of Duncan’s water.

That made Duncan smile even broader. “Ye’re a good leader, Captain. Good to the men. Good to the people here at Durness.”

Rory squinted his eyes, but slowly smiled himself. “Ye better stop with the compliments. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think ye were almost too fond of me.”

Duncan found himself chuckling, utterly surprising the both of them. “Well, ye are a bonny lad, that’s for sure, but I’m not
that
fond of ye.”

Rory smiled, but then tried to quell his grin. “I’m holdin’ ye to that, Duncan. For I’ve well heard how men, when alone on a long military mission, get a wee bit too fond of each other.”

“Ah, sir, I hate to break this to ye, but ye wouldn’t be my first choice ifn we were alone for a long time. Ewan bakes a hell of a bread.”

“I’m heart broken. I am,” Rory said, then smiled brightly at Duncan. “So then we’ll probably have to fight over Ewan.”

As much as Duncan was beginning to enjoy the humor of the conversation, something about Rory’s last sentence sucked away all the frivolity. Still, he plastered a grin into place and chuckled as good naturedly as he could. Rory’s own smile had dimmed, but then vanished as he peered over to Duncan’s ma.

“Where is Lady Fleur?”

“Thought perhaps she was at the Green Cat. Mayhap she wanted a beverage too.”

Rory nodded, but didn’t stop staring at where Fleur was supposed to be.

“Will ye come with me to find her?” Duncan asked, not sure why he’d extended the invite to Rory. When it came to Rory being close to Fleur, he’d prefer the two never saw each other again. Lord, he was jealous of Rory, and if Fleur wanted the golden lad, he wouldn’t fault her for it. But he would try everything he could to have Fleur look his way, instead of Rory’s.

Rory nodded and they began to follow the young troops. Nearly to the door, Duncan heard a thudding that only belonged to feet running as fast as they could. Already he was bothered by something—he hated to admit that it gnawed at him when Fleur wasn’t there to watch him show off. Lord, he was a royal arse, vying for the woman’s attention like a knight of yore would have by his jousting prowess. Nay, he was much worse. He’d seen many a peacock in Sweden’s court, although it seemed they never lasted through the winters, but he feared he was strutting about like one of the colorful birds. Jesus.

But something else was off. The pounding of feet racing toward him seemed to confirm it. He wheeled about. Jamie, the young lad who every day since he’d met Fleur in the cave had come to call on her with bouquets of leaves and sticks, came racing toward him, his gang in tow. His too large feet and hands made running seem almost impossible, but somehow he kept sprinting toward Duncan.

Jamie was trying to shout something, but Duncan couldn’t make it out. He began to jog in the direction of Fleur’s lads, as they were now called, finally catching the words. “...got her! They’ve got the princess.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Duncan had reached for his
sgain
dubh
from his hose and been about to charge in some wild direction, when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned to Rory, slightly flinching from the knife Duncan accidentally aimed it at him.

“We need a plan, Duncan.”

He couldn’t even nod, but looked at Jamie as he lowered his blade. “Who—who took her?”

“Mosstroopers,” the lad huffed, his hair a tangled mess, his face covered in grime and sweat.

“Where? What direction?” Rory asked almost calmly.

Panting, Jamie pointed south.

“What’s this about?”

Duncan could hardly believe his mother had come up on them unawares, and her voice felt more like a dirk inserted into his ribs.

Rory turned to her. “Mosstroopers spirited Lady Fleur away.”

Helen clasped her hands over her mouth, then to her heart. She turned to Duncan. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’ have—”

“’Tis no one’s fault, save the mosstroopers,” Rory interrupted. Then he glanced at Duncan. “And they’ll pay for what they’ve done.”

Duncan ground his teeth, but nodded at the sentiment. “Aye.”

Within a few heartbeats, they had a plan. Duncan wasn’t sure how Jamie and the orphan lads had gotten involved, but they had. They would track the mosstroopers, while he and Rory and the troops would try to gain as many horses as possible, then hunt down Fleur’s abductors like the thieves they were.

Chapter 14

F
leur lashed out with all her might. One pair of hands dropped her right shoulder, and she swung out violently. When she made impact with a man’s stomach, he groaned. The running stopped.

“Greggor, grab hold o’ her.”

Fleur kept swinging until someone took hold of her hand then crushed it in his grip, pain ripping all the way from her fingers to her chest. She shrieked, or tried to, but the noise was muted behind a giant hand. Suddenly, a pair of bright green eyes, heavily rimmed with red, hovered above hers.

“Hold, or I’ll slice off that wicked arm of yers.”

The eyes held a menace she’d never seen before. They were cruel and desperate.

She remained motionless, wanting to cry.

No, this couldn’t be happening. No! She was here to do something good, then she’d go back to her time. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be...

“Grab her arm like I told ye,” the man with the green eyes said.

Her arm was clutched at, but the man who she’d hit in the stomach didn’t hold her so tight. It was subtle, but he held her looser. She searched for the man holding her arm amongst the mass of her brawny kidnappers and finally found arctic blue eyes. They were such a light color they almost looked like ice reflecting the sky. He glanced down at her and when their eyes met, she could have sworn he grimaced. He should have appeared even more villainous with those light eyes of his. But the way he looked at her, showering her with compassion and worry, she thought him oddly kind, although the son of a bitch was abducting her.

They ran again, but didn’t go far before they stopped, and she was instantly on her feet. The man with glacier eyes was at her back, holding a small knife at her throat. Horses with no riders trampled tall grass, tethered close to a small chortling brook, almost as if the waterway were laughing at her for getting herself kidnapped. She’d basically been kidnapped to this time in the first place—she
had
been taken against her will—and now this?

The man with flashing green eyes leaned close, inches from her face. “Ifnye scream, Greggor will slit yer throat, ye ken?”

“Faolan, ye certain she can understand ye? She isn’t Scottish. Mayhap talk slower,” said the man at Fleur’s back.

Green Eyes’, Faolan apparently, fierce stare shifted to just beyond Fleur. She actually pitied the man holding the dirk at her neck, whose name was Greggor it seemed, because the look Green Eyes was giving him was pure rage.

Odd thoughts flittered through Fleur’s mind, like aimless butterflies. Those goddamned muses would have to get her out of this. Coyote better find her about now. But then usurping all other considerations, she imagined Duncan’s face, so handsome, especially when he smiled, and how she wanted to see him, have him close, rescue her.

Another man still held her mouth closed, and sometimes, while jostling her around, he pushed his grasp over her nose, making breathing impossible. Bite him. Bite him. Bite him, echoed in Fleur’s head. Besides the need to fight, terror also rippled through her body, making her feel so powerless. Through it all she was slightly aware of the fact that the man at her back wasn’t holding her too tightly. She had the oddest feeling that if she fought him, he’d surrender to her.

Faolan focused back on her, and all thoughts whispered away as fear oozed through her body, like a tar pit would suck an animal to death.

“Ye’ll go on the horse with Greggor. Ye’ll go up like a good lass. Charlie, bind her.” A blond man who carefully avoided looking at her tied her hands together, then finally the hand over her mouth was removed to be replaced by a strip of cloth going through her lips and tied tightly behind her head. After that Green Eyes towered over her again, saying, “We’ll not hurt ye as long as ye do as I say, ye ken?”

She stopped breathing.

Bite. Fight. Get your life back.

Something in Fleur bucked and lashed about internally.

The man behind her moved and in a swift move was on a horse. He scooted back in the saddle, and before Fleur knew what was happening she was on the horse too, sitting in front of the man with the light blue eyes, Greggor. His arms instantly surrounded her, holding her very close with the reins in one of his hands.

“Hold yer dirk to her neck,” Faolan reproached.

“I—I fear I’ll cut her while on the horse.”

Fleur almost looked behind, wondering about the statement.

Faolan actually nodded, his scarf moving in the process, revealing a cheek with a black beard. “Fine. I’ll ride beside ye. Ye hear that princess?” Green Eye’s gaze lasered in on her. “I’ll be right beside ye. So if ye try to escape, I’ll kill ye.”

Fleur believed him with a sickening feeling twisting her stomach.

Faolin jumped onto a paint horse, then signaled the rest to ride. And ride they did. But before the dark bay under Fleur began to cantor, the man at her back leaned even closer, holding her tighter. Over her shoulder he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

At that she finally did turn slightly, staring at her captor. Blue eyes held hers for a second, but then he looked ahead.

Again, she thought of fighting back, but then she glanced at Faolan. He was close. Terrifyingly so.

The bay she rode was nervous and liked to favor a trot instead of a gallop. Already, Fleur absorbed the horse’s energy, begging for the mighty animal to heed to her internal pleas.

Her uncles had taught her how to listen and talk to horses. How a human wouldn’t communicate with words, but with energy and sentiment, how horses could obey complex orders with mere thoughts. Fleur hadn’t thought of horse whispering for so long and wondered if she believed any of it. It sounded a bit like a fairy tale, didn’t it? Communicating to a horse with one’s feelings.

As if the horse sensed her doubt, it stumbled slightly. Fleur began to transmit her silent chant of tranquility as well as pleas for freedom in earnest.

The horse’s gait steadied.

She grabbed hold of the mane above the steed’s withers, amazed. Glancing back at the blue, blue eyes that caught hers once more, she checked whether he noticed the horse accepting her. If she could have seen through his scarf, she would have thought he was trying to smile for her, trying to encourage her. He adjusted his hold again, holding her tight against him. Protectively, not provocatively. Perhaps Greggor’s embrace should have made her more comfortable, or the horse seeming to accept her as the guide should have buoyed her spirits. But her gaze kept returning to threatening Faolin.

She shuddered, unsure what to do. What if there wasn’t anything to do?

“Yer cold, eh?” Gerggor asked in a soft whisper.

It was still incredibly hot. The sun castigated them with vicious rays that would melt the dead. She searched the horizon and all around for something that stood out, something that would help her get back to Duncan.

God, she didn’t even think about going back to her own time, just to him. Her mind then raced to think about her adrenal medulla that was presently producing a huge amount of catecholamines, which would make her fight or flight. So why wasn’t she trying to flee? Or struggle?

Why wasn’t she
doing
something?

Cortisol had to be rushing through her blood streams, enabling her to heart to beat faster, her reflexes to be quicker, and her...and then it hit her. She was frozen. Another aspect of severe fear is paralysis. Immobility. As she had when she’d first been dropped in Texas. It hadn’t been her first time facing bigotry. But it had been the first time she’d been alone. Rather than fight against the whispered put downs about the way she had been raised, murmurs that she would scalp the student body, that she was inherently lazy and dirty, and the many, many feather pranks, Fleur turned to books. Words and thoughts had been her sanity, her comfort, her sanctuary from the new world she lived in, from all the uncertainty. She’d fallen into the tomes, as if she’d fallen into a different realm of reality, pushing away her fear, numbing it, until she felt nothing but her books. Later, she would feel nothing but her job. Ironically, her research was to help people discover their past, while she numbed herself from hers.

Hopelessness had shadowed her since she was fourteen. Now, twelve years later that obscurity still usurped her heart. Twelve years of fearing her choices would be ripped from her, even though, absurdly she never made many choices other than her career that gave her the impassiveness to keep, well, numb.

Making friends with Rachel and Ian had been the one exception in Fleur’s life, and thanks to that one allowance, she had just started to feel again.

Faolin yelled something. Immediately the horse’s cantor slowed to a trot, then a quick walk.

God, she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. Or maybe it all looked the same—big boulder there, small mountain range there, tall grass along a strip of a games’ trail, sometimes, though, there was a bright purple from a blooming thistle. If she could escape, she would have no idea where to head. She’d gotten herself in a hell of a mess and didn’t even have the wherewithal to pay attention to any markings on the boulders or crags or whatever they were called. All right,
she
hadn’t been the one to get herself into this mess. Like so much of her life, she hadn’t had a choice.

She was hopelessly lost. Lost in her own time and in this one too, in her own head, in her own damned way.

Faolin jumped from his horse and led it to a creek, and Greggor soon enough did the same, except he kept Fleur on the mount. As soon as Greggor had left the saddle, she caved in, wrapping her arms around herself and bowed her head to cry. She hadn’t really given herself the allowance to weep since she’d lived in Porcupine. Hated doing it in front of her kidnappers, but the fear, the panic and her self-incrimination had gotten the better of her. The tears flowed down.

Something warm patted her calf. She flinched when she realized it was Greggor touching her.

“It’ll be all right, princess,” he whispered.

Angrily, she wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

Greggor sighed, slumping his shoulders. “’Tis Faolin. Thinks he’ll get a huge bounty from ye, what with ye being a princess.”

“But I’m not—”

“I ken. I ken.”

“What did ye say to her?” Faolin had snuck up behind Greggor, hollering.

Greggor jumped and removed his hand from Fleur as if she’d burnt him. “Nothin’,” he said.

Faolin glared at Fleur for few menacing seconds.

Asshole.

Finally, Faolin glanced again at Greggor. “See if she needs to water a bush. I’ll get the
highness
something to drink.” Clearly Faolin had disdain for royalty, and Fleur thought to tell him she was no one of consequence. No one would miss her. Not here. Not even where she lived.

No, that wasn’t true, but by then truth had taken a serious beating from her self-pity.

“Ye—ye need to, ah, relieve yerself, Fleur?” Greggor’s voice came out reedy, but was gentle nonetheless.

She didn’t know if she did. She couldn’t feel anything within her body, other than the cold, hollow sensation of hopelessness.

Greggor watched Faolin for a few moments, and as soon as the obvious bully of a leader was farther away he leaned close, pressing his hand against Fleur’s calf once more. “I hope I didn’ scare ye. I’m sorry about the circumstances I met ye.” He paused as Fleur finally met his gaze. He appeared worried. “Ye should ken that I wouldn’ harm ye.” He leaned even closer then, narrowing his eyes. “And I vow to no’ let anyone harm ye either.” His gaze skid to meet the imposing form of Faolin.

As much as she believed Faolin would kill her, she thought Greggor would try to protect her. But he would fail.

Her heart sank. Or did it become more numb? She couldn’t tell anymore.

Then she couldn’t explain what happened next. Not even to herself, because what happened was even more fanciful than believing a horse could listen to her pleas.

A cool wind pushed through her hair, nestled close to her cheek, then whispered how Duncan was coming for her.

She couldn’t give up. Not now. Not ever.