An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(21)

She would bide her time.

And when the time was right…





12





As Hugh had estimated, they arrived at the hut just before dark on the second day after leaving the cave. Once again, wearing the breeches and tunic he had given her—she had eschewed the torn gown and its undergarment—he had helped her off the mare and taken her inside, then bound her hands and feet, not taking any chances.

She had not said a word since they'd left the cave. He had no doubt that she was waiting and watching for another chance to escape and while he felt saddled with the burden of her care and safety, what he had said was true. She was safer with him than she would be wandering through the region on her own.

She looked exhausted, physically and emotionally, dark smudges under her eyes marring her cheeks, her face pale. She refused to eat more than a small piece of dried meat and take some water. As she sat down on the pallet he had made for himself before leaving, her back leaning against the wall, he saw a faint trembling in her hands. Whether that trembling was caused by physical exhaustion or emotional anxiety, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it would likely take a couple of days for her to recover her strength. If he had to force her, he would make sure that she ate.

He told her to stay put, to sleep, and then he turned and left the hut. He entered the woods with his bow and quiver of arrows, thinking to kill a couple of rabbits to make do with the few potatoes he had bought in the coastal town. He’d bought the supplies before he stopped for that ill-fated mug of ale, and the supplies would not last long, sharing them between two people.

If he planned on staying here more than a few days, he would have to venture deeper into the woods, kill a deer, perhaps gather some berries, and dig for roots to provide for the both of them.

He paused just inside the tree line, and then turned to watch the hut for several minutes. He heard no sound from inside, saw no indication that she was going to try to escape, but even with bound hands and feet, he wasn’t taking any more chances with her. He wouldn't put it past her.

He shook his head, wondering what Phillip and Maccay would say when he rode back to Duncan Manor with this spirited, somewhat reckless, and defiant young Norwegian bride in tow.

He sighed, turning his back on the hut and venturing a short distance into the woods.

Squirrels darted up ahead, gathering seeds and scampering about. He paused, gazing up at one, nibbling on a pine cone, tail twitching, as if daring him to shoot it. He wouldn't. He didn't like squirrel meat. He barely tolerated rabbit, but he would take what he could get this close to the hut.

In a relatively and surprisingly short period of time, he headed back to the hut, grasping the hind legs of two fat hares. In less than an hour, he would have them skinned, cleaned, and spitted, roasting over the fire pit with two potatoes buried in the ashes to bake.

At the structure, he paused outside the door, dropping the animals into the dirt by the threshold. He stepped inside to find Dalla sound asleep on her side, hands tucked under her cheek.

She looked like a child, huddled up like that, knees pulled up toward her chest. He studied her features, thinking at first that she was just pretending to sleep. After marking the steady rise and fall of her chest, her relaxed fingers, he realized she was indeed asleep.

She was lucky that he had been the one to purchase her. He would not hurt her. He had no idea what he was going to do with her, but for the moment, she was safe from harm. He had heard about the fates of other female captives from other lands; the rough, hard, and often painful existence they were forced to live with some Scottish clans as well as captains of ships who would take the women on board, use them, share them with the sailors, and then more often than not, toss them overboard when they were done with them.

With a quiet sigh, he stepped outside, skinned and cleaned the rabbits, then settled to prepare their supper. He built up the fire, created a spit, and soon the aroma of roasting rabbit meat and potatoes filled the interior of the hut. Both his gelding and the mare were hobbled outside under the trees, but he would bring them in before nightfall. Dalla could have the pallet he’d made up on the far wall, and he would make do with a blanket in front of the doorway on the floor. For his own safety and peace of mind, he would continue to tie her up at night.

Without thought, he lifted his hand and gingerly touched the lump and the cut on his forehead, shaking his head, already hearing Maccay’s laughter as he related how he'd gotten the cut, which would certainly scar. He had underestimated the girl… his captive… his wife, but he wouldn't do so again.

Occasionally, he tore off a small piece of roasting meat to test its doneness, finally satisfied that it was edible. He glanced toward Dalla to wake her up, but found her lying as she had been, though her eyes were wide, alert, and watchful. Her expression was blank, no indication of what she might be thinking as she stared at the roasting rabbits. Her nostrils flared slightly, and then he heard the loud rumble of her stomach.

“I'm going to untie you,” he said quietly. “And you are going to eat. You are not going to run. Understood?”

She stared at him a moment, then, slowly sitting up and leaning against the side of the hut, she nodded. He was pleased, but didn't react. Maybe she wasn't as foolish as she appeared. Then again…

They ate in silence, both assessing one another. He knew she was tired and not just physically, but emotionally. Truth be told, so was he. He wasn't used to being responsible for someone else, at least not like this. It felt exhausting.