An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(13)

She scrambled upward, eyes riveted to the ground, as if determining where she would place each footstep before she did so. While he appreciated her caution, she was also moving much too slowly.

“Come, Dalla, you're almost there, and then we can find some shelter.”

She sent a glare his way as she reached for a stubby clump of brush on the side of the slope to aid her steep ascent. Her chest heaved with exertion, and her limbs trembled, but she bit her lips, and kept pushing on.

In a matter of moments, she also reached the crest, her breath escaping her chest in short, harsh gasps. She leaned forward and rested her hands above her knees.

“We'll find shelter before this mist turns into—”

Too late. The clouds burst, and a delusion of rain pelted down. Within seconds he was drenched, as was Dalla.

The rain felt icy cold, bringing with it the smell of white pine, damp loam, and a myriad of other scents of the lush, forested wilderness that opened before them. At least they had managed to traverse the flatlands and those dangerous bogs before the rain came down.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of pine on the air as he quickly made his way through a stand of pine and birch trees, the ground soft beneath his feet. He followed a faint deer trail, hoping to find some thick shelter, or if they were lucky, a cave in which they could take shelter for the night.

The rain came down harder, pounding on his head and soaking them both, the raindrops fat and heavy. In minutes, tiny rivulets began to wind their way downhill through the trees, and in areas not covered by pine needles or leaves, the ground soon grew saturated and slippery.

The horses ducked their heads, but plodded steadily behind Hugh, holding both reins now. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder to find an increasingly angry-looking Dalla, her hair now plastered and hanging in dripping tendrils around her face, her pale blue gown darker in hue, hanging shapeless and heavy, the bottom hem dragging in the mud.

Her mouth was slightly open, her lips trembling with the growing chill in the air. He had to find shelter, and soon, or she would definitely fall ill, especially after—potentially—weeks of captivity and a rough sea crossing, and likely no more than watery broth and stale bread for sustenance.

He pushed forward, searching the landscape for an outcropping, anything that would provide—

A startled cry jerked his attention away from the landscape and back to her.

She had lost her footing, teetered for balance, arms swinging wildly as she tried to regain her footing.

He let go of the horses and stepped toward her, arms extended, trying to catch her before she fell, but he didn't get to her in time. She landed face down on the now muddy ground.

Hugh reached her a second later, but she was already scrambling to regain her footing. She shook off his helping hand, glaring up at him, tears shining in her eyes. Or maybe it was just the rain. Her jaw set, she growled low in her throat. The entire front of her gown was caked with mud, and so was most of her face.

He shook his head, unable to halt his grin. His amusement triggered a burst of anger as she let loose with what he could only imagine were curses ground out at him in her native language.

He didn't understand a word she said, but they certainly didn't sound like they were extolling his virtues. Hugh reached again for her arm, and though she struggled to yank it from his grasp, he tightened his grip.

“Stop fighting me,” he snapped. “There's a cave, up there, at the base of that slope. Do you see it?”

She stared up at him for several moments, her mouth set with a stubborn pout, the rain pounding down around them.

Finally, she turned in the direction he pointed, searched a moment, and then offered a stiff nod.

“Go. I will bring the horses.”

He gestured her forward, and she hurried toward the cave, almost hidden in a cleft in the great mass of rocks rising nearby. The lip of an overhang a man's height extended over the opening.

She scrambled beneath it and dropped to her hands and knees to crawl to the very rear, maybe a few feet deeper than the height. She sat and pressed her back against the rocks, pulling her knees close to her body before placing her forehead on her knees, burying her face from his view.

A surge of pity swept through him, but he brushed it away. He had more important things to think about at the moment, the least of which was finding some shelter for the horses, and then lighting a fire, if he could find any dry tinder, and then, food.

Dusk approached quickly, hastened by the heavy cloud cover. The reality of his situation struck him anew. He never had any problems weathering a storm, nor going without food nor warmth for days on end. But had Dalla?

He shook his head, once again regretting that moment when he had plucked the coins from his pocket and bought this stubborn, willful, and angry wildcat of a woman.

He had a feeling that she would be more trouble than she was worth.





8





“Take off your clothes.”

Dalla stared up at him, mouth dropping open. While she considered herself fluent in English, she was sure she had misunderstood. “What?”

He extended his saddle blanket toward her. “It's a bit damp, but it's dryer than your clothes. So, take them off. You'll catch your death. You can hide under this until they’re dry.”

With that, he dropped the blanket to the ground beside her with one hand, a crumpled handful of clothes that looked to be a pair of breeches and a long-sleeved tunic beside it.