An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(22)

How could Phillip, Jake, and Maccay actually want such a personal, interconnected, and responsible relationship with someone? He had no issues with protecting the people of Duncan Manor, nor the inhabitants of the nearby village or the lands surrounding the Duncan lands. That was his duty. He'd been doing it for years.

But having to be constantly watchful, concerned, or trying to anticipate what Dalla was going to do from one minute to the next was overwhelming, almost to the point where he found himself growing increasingly agitated and irritable. Not only at himself, but at her. And then, just when his emotions reached the brink of outright anger, he looked at her, at the color of her hair, its length, her features, and once again caught a vague resemblance to his Elyse.

He brooded in silence, not wanting to compare the two women. Elyse had been special. Very special. He had given her his heart, the only woman he had ever felt affection for. Elyse had been a gentle soul, almost shy around others, but when they were alone, or with friends like Maccay, she was more herself, laughing often, her eyes sparkling with excitement and enthusiasm for what the day might bring.

Maybe that's why he had bought Dalla. Imagining Elyse in such a horrific situation had made him feel sick to his stomach. Maybe it was the surge of protectiveness that he had always felt for Elyse that had prompted him to plunk down his precious coin for this obstinate, stubborn, and foolishly courageous young woman.

The thought of daring to strike him before running off into the night and then nearly losing her life in the bog prompted him to shake his head in consternation. This one had a strong instinct for survival. He just hoped that such instinct would not prove to be not only her undoing, but his.

He glanced up, not really surprised to notice that she also watched him, as if looking for signs of something; weakness maybe? Weariness? The possibility of him letting his guard down? That he would not do, even if he had to sleep with one eye open. She had already tried to escape from him twice, and he was sure that she would try again. At the same time, he knew that he couldn't keep her bound hand and foot the entire way back to Duncan Manor—unless he had to.

And that was another thing. He'd come up here to be by himself, to put his thoughts in order, to seek out his estranged brother, to… it didn't matter anymore. He couldn't stay up here in the wilderness very long. Their supplies wouldn't last, the weather would grow colder, and he couldn't imagine how difficult it would be to not only to take care of himself as the weather grew worse—and he would not have difficulty doing that—but a female as well. This hut, though acceptable for him, would not be for long, and especially not for a woman still recovering from whatever it was she had been through.

Even now, a chill breeze made its way through the chinks in the stones and down from the hastily repaired roof, causing the flames of the fire to dance, leap higher one moment, burn low to the ground the next. In a couple of weeks, maybe even sooner, snow might fall, and then what?

He didn't want to take the chance of being stuck so far with a woman, and a captive, unwilling bride at that. Travel would be just about impossible as the mountain passes grew choked with snow, dangerous with sleet-filled rainstorms that would loosen boulders and rocks from high above, sending them crashing into the gullies, ravines, and gorges below.

He finished eating.

Dalla plucked the last bit of meat from the leg bone of the rabbit he had given her, served up on a small slab of bark from one of the trees near the hut. Her eyes grew heavy-lidded and her shoulders sagged. She was filthy, as was he, but in the morning, they could both bathe in the river. They could take turns, and she could wash her dirty, mud-streaked clothing as well. They would spend a couple of days here, resting, recuperating, and filling their belly, and then he would head south.

Back to Duncan Manor.





13





Early the following morning, before the sun had made its way half past the eastern horizon, Hugh woke Dalla and told her to take off her muddy clothes. He held a blanket in one hand and gestured behind the hut as he told her about the small creek there, where she could bathe and wash her clothes.

She stared at him, as if unable to comprehend.

He explained again, slowly. “Your clothes are filthy. So are you. Go down to the creek, dunk yourself in a couple of times, and clean yourself, and your clothes.”

She frowned. “You want me to bathe in my clothes?”

He shrugged and lifted an eyebrow. “If you want to, you can, but I wouldn't recommend it,” he said, fighting back a tone of weary sarcasm.

“You want me to take my clothes off?” She shook her head in refusal. “I can't… I won’t undress in front of you—”

He held back a sigh. “Fine. Then you can bathe with your clothes on.”

“But that would be silly,” she said. “Neither I nor the clothes would get clean doing it that way.”

He said nothing for several moments. His patience was wearing thin. Was everything with her going to be a debate or an argument? He had to bathe as well, and he had plenty of things he needed to accomplish today.

He gestured toward the northwest. “There's another storm coming. It's going to get colder as the day progresses. It might even snow.” It probably wouldn’t, she couldn't know that. “Either you bathe now, or you can remain in those dirty clothes, your skin covered with bog mud, and the bugs that dwell in it.”