An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(12)

“Don't try to escape,” he spoke softly and slowly to ensure that she understood. “You will find no one to help you, and the forest is filled with dangers. You're safer with me.”

She said nothing, but once again, he saw her gaze dart his way. She didn't want to talk? Fine with him. He didn't want to talk either. What he wanted to do was go back to yesterday. He should have just gone hunting. If he had, he wouldn't be in this predicament. The more he thought about it, the more irritated he grew. With himself. With her. With everything. He sighed.

Maybe he would take her back with him to Duncan Manor, ask the laird, Phillip Duncan, and his wife Sarah, how he could go about returning her to her country.

There was no love lost between the Scots and the Norwegians, but she was one small woman. What could she do? He knew nothing of her background, her history, or how she'd ended up as a captive bound for Scotland. Until he knew more, she would be his problem and his problem alone.

The trail back to his makeshift hut grew rougher and steeper as the way took them ever higher into the foothills, interspersed with steep drop-offs, deep gullies, and an occasional precipice.

In between these hillocks were the damned bogs, some in plain view, others hidden beneath grasses and reeds.

Soon, her horse was forced to follow directly behind his, the trail narrowing as they rode up a steep slope. Single file, they made their way upward.

He glanced back occasionally and noticed her gaze riveted to the often-treacherous trail they followed, higher and higher, the fingers of her hands clutching the mare's mane so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

She was frightened, as anyone with any common sense would be, not only due to her situation, but the treacherous terrain.

All he knew about Norway were passing comments he'd heard from those who had been there: relatively flat except by the coastline, though toward its interior the land grew more rugged and mountainous. He'd heard it was a land of glaciers and fjords, the eastern part of the country filled with rolling hills and valleys and rich soil for farming. High mountain ranges scattered the north.

“Where are you from?” he asked over his shoulder, thinking to distract her from her fear as well as gain some information from her.

To his surprise, she mumbled an answer.

He turned in the saddle, eyebrow lifted. “What?”

She looked up at him, her features stiff, her eyebrows lowered. “Near Stavangar,” she muttered, then raised a defiant eyebrow. “You are familiar with my country?”

He shook his head.

Her sarcasm was not lost on him, and once again he couldn't help but admire her spirit, much as it annoyed him.

She might be a captive, but she certainly wasn't cowed. Not yet anyway. He said nothing more as he focused his attention on the trail, his mount slowly picking his way up the slope, the ground beneath loose with stones and soft soil.

Beneath him, he felt the gelding's muscles bunch as he struggled upward. He tightened his grip on the rope for the mare, and wrapped it around his hand.

The nag was much older than he'd preferred, but his choices had been few. He heard the mare struggling and resolved that when they reached the top of the slope, they would rest.

His horse slipped, and Hugh instantly prepared to leap off the gelding's back to facilitate the climb, but it proved unnecessary. He couldn't say the same for the mare. Not far from the top, the old broodmare stubbornly refused to continue.

In fact, the sudden balking of the mare nearly pulled Hugh from his own saddle. He quickly glanced behind him, glaring at his captive, but she was doing nothing more than hanging on.

Hugh took pity on the mare and gestured for Dalla to climb off. She stared at him in dismay, glancing at the steep slope on her left, the rather drastic precipice to her right.

“Off?” she asked, eyebrows lifted in dismay.

Hugh nodded and quickly dismounted, slapping the gelding's rump. The horse continued upslope.

His hand still grasping the lead rope to the mare, he lifted his free hand toward Dalla.

“Give me your hand.”

She hesitated for a moment. Then, with obvious reluctance, she released her grip on the horse's mane and reached for his hand.

He clasped hers tightly as she dismounted, trying to maintain her balance on the steep slope. He then released the mare's rope and slapped her on the rump. The mare followed his gelding upward, albeit more slowly, while Hugh and Dalla followed on foot.

The fine mist that had started to fall an hour ago grew heavier. The clouds grew grayer, thicker, and dropped closer to the ground. They wouldn't make it to his camp in the distant mountains for another day. He'd have to find shelter out of the coming rain for the night.

As if to buttress his belief, a flash of lightning brightened the sky, followed by a stunning crackle of thunder that rumbled and echoed its way over the landscape. The mare neighed softly and tossed her head in alarm. His gelding, used to loud, sudden noises, didn't react.

He turned to find Dalla struggling to keep up, her thin leather slippers struggling to find purchase on the now slick trail.

Hugh frowned.

She was ill-clothed for bad weather, or for travel for that matter. He shook his head, looking uphill, urging the horses forward. He breached the rise, barely winded as he turned to wait for Dalla to catch up. She'd been cooped up in a ship's hold for how long? Not given much to eat, certainly. He would need to remedy that, or he'd end up with a sick captive.