An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(15)
Could she trust him? A shiver jolted her body. Biting her lip to prevent herself from expressing her wrath and frustration, she began to fumble with the heavy fabric of her gown. Her fingers felt numb with cold and had lost their usual nimbleness, but she forced herself to undress.
He turned his back to her and began to lay a fire.
Within moments, she had managed to slide the wet dress down over her shoulders while at the same time trying to hold the blanket to cover her. She snuggled the bundle of fabric past her hips, and then her feet. It lay in a wet ball, soon to be followed by her chemise.
Her captor hunched down before the fire, his back still to her, slowly placing sticks on it, his gaze riveted to the landscape around them.
She huddled under the saddle blanket, naked, staring at his broad back and the way the muscles played over his shoulders as he tended the fire. The glowing light of the fire cast a slightly reddish tinge to his hair.
Muttering softly to herself, she donned the breeches, way too big, but at least they were warm and dry. Warily, she lowered saddle blanket from her shoulders, baring her upper torso as she arranged the tunic to slide over her arms and down her shoulders. The cold, damp air touched her skin, caused a shiver of goosebumps. Quickly, she slid the tunic over her head, threaded her arms through the sleeves, and quickly fastened the leather thong at the deep vee in the front of the tunic. She snugged it tightly shut.
As for the trousers, well, if she stood, she would just have to hold them up, or they would slide down to her ankles. Begrudgingly, she admitted that she felt a bit better and warmer, though she would certainly not acknowledge that fact to that Scottish brute. She felt her lagging spirits rise.
As she shoved the horse blanket aside to reach for her sodden clothes, her captor stood, his back still toward her.
“Are you done yet?”
His impatient, condescending tone triggered yet another unwise fit of pique. Her frustration boiled over. She gathered the pile of wet clothes in her hand and heaved them at him. Her blue gown landed on his left shoulder and then slid ever so slowly toward the ground. Her cream-colored chemise landed on his head.
The sight prompted a horrified shout, half laugh, that erupted unbidden from her chest as he spun, whipping the undergown from his head, his expression startled, angry, and… and then, much to her surprise, he reached up, snatched the undergown in his hand, glanced at it, then at her, but said nothing.
It was at that moment that she realized that he wasn't going to hurt her. He wasn't going to beat her, and he wasn't going to… he wasn't going to accost her.
At the same time, she realized by the look that he gave her that he was not a man to be trifled with. Odd, but his behavior, his expression, and that taciturn silence seemed to acknowledge her emotions. She might have gotten away with it this once, but that look was no doubt a warning that she would not be getting away with it again.
He stooped down, keeping his eyes on her, and plucked her gown from the soft dirt on the floor of the cave. Casually, he shook both the gown and the chemise, then draped them over outcroppings of rock just inside the cave.
She stared, appalled that her underclothing had not just been handled, but was in clear view of the—
Overhead, a loud crack of thunder startled her. She quickly reached for the saddle blanket and huddled under it, pulling it up to her shoulders as she watched him rummage in one of the leather satchels he'd brought in.
He pulled out what looked like a piece of dried meat and handed it to her. She stared at the disgusting sliver of sinewy meat, then up at him. He shrugged and started to turn away, but she snatched her hand from underneath the roughly woven blanket and took the strip of meat.
Her fingers brushed against his. Warm, strong fingers. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the damp chill in the air. He said nothing, but settled himself cross-legged, leaning back against the rough rock wall as he retrieved another strip of meat from his satchel and began to chew on it. Occasionally, he glanced at her, but for the most part he simply stared outside the cave opening.
What was he thinking? She had no idea. Though his features remained expressionless, his eyes constantly shifted, darting here and there, as if watching for something. What? Wild animals? Dangerous people intent on robbing and killing? She grunted. All the people in this forsaken country were wild. Heathens with the manners of a guttersnipe.
Then again, this one… this Hugh, had not laid a hand on her in anger, not yet.
The rain pounded down, broken only occasionally by the crackle of the fire, burning low just inside the opening, casting undulating shadows of light against the shallow cave walls.
Dalla tried to rest but couldn't. She glanced over at him minutes later and saw that his eyes were closed. She tensed. Was he asleep? He wasn't going to tie her up? He wasn't afraid that she would run away? He was right that she could not expect to plead for mercy or help from the natives. They hadn't seen anyone since they'd left the small harbor town anyway.
No one would help a Norwegian woman, an obvious captive… but she was wearing men's clothes now. Ill-fitting men's clothes, but maybe, just maybe, if she escaped, she could convince them that she had been kidnapped, which was the truth, but they didn't have to know from where.
She spoke English and could tell them she was from the English countryside down south, or even France. Any of these Scottish highlanders who managed to speak even rudimentary English would certainly not be able to identify a lack of geographically proper accent, would they?