Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends #1)(44)
A last solemn look in the direction of my freedom served as my unwilling goodbye to the box; yet I refused to give up hope. I rejected the thought of saying goodbye to Iain. Like a Polaroid, I instantly captured everything about that cave: the cool air, the rock . . . even the very essence of the box itself imprinted into the depths of my being.
After my busted escape effort, my jailors led me back to their makeshift camp. With no clothing to hide the evidence, I sighed in relief when Chatterbox’s full-on erection tamed down to something less embarrassing, even if no less impressive.
A few men broke off at my captor’s command, collecting spears, shields, and various types of leather satchels. Fur pelts and leather skins were tossed from a pile to each man. I watched with mild interest as they covered themselves. It wasn’t evident if their gathering had been for war, hunting, or religious purposes, but their actions made one thing crystal clear: we were leaving.
With every step I took away from my only tie to my life with Iain, my feet got heavier until they’d become as leaden as the heart mechanically chugging in my chest.
CHAPTER Fourteen
A frigid winter descended onto my mind, seeping into my heart. My senses sharpened to a claymore’s edge, reality settling like a hard-fallen snow snuffing out a vibrant newborn flower. My life had never been mine to control or enjoy. Powers beyond my feeble comprehension had locked onto me for an inexplicable reason. Tossed about at the whim of some bored, spectating gods, I’d become a cork bobbing on the surface of a dark, stormy ocean.
Who would rescue me? Would Iain even discover I’d gone adrift?
Despair at the notion that I’d split in two like Iain had done filled me with such sorrow, my breath caught on a choke. If a mirror image had remained—if Iain had no idea I’d been snatched away—no one would come for me. My only hope to return to my home, to the love of my life, rested solely on me.
My fur-wrapped escorts talked among themselves, loosely surrounding me as we walked. They weren’t overt about my prisoner status, but it didn’t take rocket science to be able to see them for what they were—a human jail cell. The inattention they gave me showed their confidence in my continued captivity. And hadn’t that become ridiculous? They thought they had me, but in actuality, nothing ever ended up being as it seemed.
Wrapped in my thoughts, I failed to notice my captor looking at me. He stopped. I hobbled along until everyone else stopped. As I lifted my gaze from the ground to see what had caused the holdup, he walked between his men, coming closer to me. Someone addressed him in the same manner as I’d heard earlier, and I realized his name was Velloc.
He got right up into my face. “Keff.”
I blinked. Right. This was the part where . . . poof! . . . I miraculously understood what he’d said?
“EeeeSoooBellll. Keff.” He said it again with force, like how people shout at the deaf. Yeah, it never made them understand any easier either. He gripped my shoulders in his hands, exerting pressure downward until my knees crumpled and my ass met the bark of a fallen tree.
“Ohhh, you wanted me to sit. Well, hell. Why didn’t you just say so?”
He nodded, pleased that I’d obeyed; I growled, irritated at his satisfaction over having coerced me.
Velloc barked some kind of order, and two men set off deeper into the forest. He turned and knelt in front of me as he lifted my skirt. I swiped a hand down to stop him, but his hand clamped my wrist before I registered the blur of movement. His fierce glare and low growl reiterated his role over me. I retracted my arm and clasped both hands in my lap. The rest of his group spread about—one took a seat on a rock, others disappeared into the scrub.
My attention shifted back to my captor. Long, dark hair fell across his face as he lifted my injured foot. He wrapped his hand around the heel of my boot and wriggled it off. Hot stabs of pain shot into my ankle, and I hissed, clenching my jaw as I squeezed my eyes shut. Deep breaths helped me work through the pain until he’d removed the binding leather. My first look at the bare foot showed no obvious bruising, but the outside sported an apple-sized knot. He manipulated the swelling, moving my ankle around in all directions, deftly administering his analysis with all the expertise of a doctor.
Velloc paused and glanced up, holding my gaze. Compassion and respect flashed from the depths of his dark irises.
The return of his two men shrouded his momentary expression while he gave them instructions. One took a handful of leaves he’d apparently collected and laid them on a nearby flat rock. With a smaller rock, he scraped the pile of greenery, grinding back and forth, twisting his fist. The other man left, returning with a knife and a thin scrap of leather. He sliced long, two-inch-wide strips from the leather. They coated the midsection of the pieces with the ground botanical paste and handed them to Velloc.
Velloc held my ankle in a tender but firm grasp. When they handed him the coated strips, he aligned the herb-covered sections on my swollen outer ankle, crossing them over one another, and pressed down. Agile fingers wound the dangling ends of the makeshift bandage repeatedly around my foot and tucked in the ends, creating a supportive compression brace.
When he motioned his fingers up and down the length of the log I sat upon, gesturing for me to lie down, I hesitated. He glared, leaning into my personal space, dictating my choices: I had the right to obey his clear instruction, or compliance of said command would be forced upon me.