Highlander Enchanted(59)
Her captor did not speak, even to his horse, or acknowledge her in any way. The muddy path slowed them at several points, before he pressed on in a pace as fast as the horse and mud would allow.
Fearful of who had taken her, Isabel began to devise a plan to escape, if she had the chance. If she could take his horse and run, he could never catch her. The paths through the forest were few and … this was Cade’s forest. His magic could find her, if she were able to break free.
If he lived, she added. With a pang of hurt and guilt, she realized she had not been able to reassure herself he was alive before leaving.
She had not been in the forest this direction, and its sudden cessation surprised her. The moment they broke free, the stranger kneed the horse into a lope, leaving any sign of road or trail or path for the vibrant green hills of the Highlands.
They rode for hours, until the light of day began to fade and a chill crept into the air. He never came close enough to any road or travelers or church or keep for her to cry out for help and instead, continued on a path only he truly understood. Across the moors, around hills of great size, beyond ancient ruins left by people long since passed. The breathtaking mix of verdant hills and moody skies left her in awe of the wild lands.
When she caught sight of the grey ocean, she guessed they had headed northwest from Cade’s small keep. The flavorful scent of the sea was brought to them on a cold, sharp breeze, one that made her grateful not to have to face it full on. Her captor bore the brunt of it, and she hunkered down behind him. England grew cold, but the Highlands were somehow far cooler than she was accustomed to.
Night began to descend. Her captor maneuvered the horse towards the ocean. Darkness robbed the world from her vision, and she leaned around him once more to see where he was headed.
Warm light glowed from the windows of a tiny cottage tucked between bluffs overlooking the sea. Shaking from cold and wet by the time they reached it, she sat stiffly on the horse when he dismounted. He took the horse’s reins and led it to a tiny stables big enough for a stall and one horse.
Isabel dismounted and looked back into the hilly, dark night.
There was nowhere to run. With some unease, she realized how isolated this place was, how far from anyone who could help her.
The man breezed by her and took her arm as he did so, moving to the cottage made of stone with a thatched roof. He entered, forcing her to accompany him.
Warm and smelling of food, the cottage was cramped but functional with two bed pallets, a sitting and cooking area before the hearth and trunks for belongings along one wall. One window was in each wall. Her captor released her closed the door, barring it, before he went to shutter all the windows to block the ocean chill.
As far as they had ridden, it was not possible for him to have started the fire or prepared the food before he left. She saw no one else in the cottage or anywhere near it, though.
“Sit,” he ordered.
She did so and knelt near the fire. Its heat warmed her quickly, and she shed the soaked cloak she wore and spread out her skirts around her to dry.
Her captor went to the trunks and tossed his daggers into one before peeling off the cloak and stretching it over another to dry. When he faced her, she gasped. He wore a covering over his face that had slits for his eyes and mouth. It completely blocked his features. Built like a warrior, he had a pronounced limp, a shoulder that slumped unnaturally and fingers missing from each hand.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
He ignored her. Her captor ladled stew from a pot in the fire into two bowls and handed one to her before seating himself and drinking his down.
Perplexed by the man who kidnapped her, Isabel watched him and sipped her stew. The meat in it was tough, the root vegetables soft and the flavor hearty. This was not one of Richard’s men, not a Highlander.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked.
“I do not wish you to speak.”
She forbade herself from shivering at his sinister tone. His voice was not fully human, and she began to wonder if there were more than seillie in the Highlands.
“I wish for you to speak,” she replied. “You brought me here, against my will. If you will not tell me who you are or why, then I-”
He gave a muffled roar and rose, slapping the bowl out of her hands as he did so.
She went still, recalling too often what followed when Richard reacted thusly. Ducking her head, she hunched her shoulders and lifted her hands in what defense they could offer and rarely did.
Aware of his every breath and movement, terrified to move and draw his ire, Isabel braced her body for the inevitable.
Her captor released his breath and started towards her.
“Did that heathen hurt you?” he demanded.
She shrank away. “N…no. Never.”
“Who?”
Isabel said nothing, still not certain this was not one of Richard’s men. If so, she was not about to speak ill of him.
When she did not respond, her captor went to the door and flung it open, striding out. Seconds later, she heard the whinny of his horse and the sound of hoof beats as he raced away.
Only when assured he was gone did she move. Opening her eyes, she stood and closed the door against the ocean wind. Isabel cleaned up the mess made when he hit the bowl and searched for some sign of who he was in the trunks and saddlebags. He had locked the trunk with the weapons.
Disappointed not to find what she sought, she debated what to do, until she heard the sound of hooves clattering against rock. Fear seized her once more. She grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her then lay down on the pallet with her back to the door, praying he would leave her alone, if he thought her asleep.