An Auctioned Bride (Highland Heartbeats #4)(32)

In less than half the time it had taken him to find his horse, he found the trail where the mare had separated from his gelding.

Overhead, thunderclouds were building, fast and dark. Why would she head up rather than down? Especially with the weather turning? It seemed an unnatural direction for the mare to go, north and higher into the hills rather than following the gelding downslope.

He slowed down his pace, carefully following the trail, which grew sparser the higher he climbed, and the rockier the slopes became. What had compelled Dalla to go this way? Before he could determine an answer, he saw a sign; a definite scuff mark of hoof against stone. Had the mare slipped? Had Dalla fallen off?

He stopped his horse, dismounted, and carefully looked around. There, near the base of a tree trunk, a splotch of blood on the base of the pine tree, staining the bark a darker color. Not a lot, but enough. She’d fallen off. Standing close to the trunk of the tree, he gazed around, seeking any movement, listening for any noise.

Nothing.

The fact that it was so quiet didn’t bode well. It meant either a predatory animal or humans.

Pulling his ax from his belt with one hand, reaching for his knife with the other, he crept slowly forward, his gaze scanning the dried pine needle and leaf-strewn ground around him, then he lifted his gaze to scan through the trees, rocks, and so many other possible hiding places.

He placed his feet carefully, trying to avoid the dryer leaves and pine cones.

Where was she? Where was the mare? After studying the area for several moments, he slid his ax back into his belt and reached for his horse’s reins.

Guiding him, walking slowly, he ventured deeper into the forest, pausing every few steps to listen. Was she injured? How badly? What if she—

A noise prompted him to freeze.

It only lasted a brief moment, and he couldn't identify what it was or from where it had come. The only thing he recognized was that it was different. It didn’t belong in a forest. It came from a higher level than that upon which he stood.

Ever so slowly, he inspected every rock, every tree that grew on the slope rising above him. Huge, tilting boulders interspersed with hardy birch and pine-dotted the slope. Undergrowth, wild-growing ferns, and briars grew interspersed with one another. He scanned even higher toward the trees, the seemingly solid rock walls of the mountain rising above, and decided she couldn't possibly have gone there.

So where was—

He heard the noise again, so soft it could have been a short breath of wind, the sound of a pine bough brushing against another high above, audible one moment, gone the next.

Once again, he eyed the boulders and the growth of brush interspersed among them. His gaze riveted on the briars, knowing that if it were he, the briars would be the most unlikely, the most uncomfortable, and therefore the best place to hide. But a hiding place for who? Dalla or a wild animal? Perhaps even a boar?

He glanced back at his horse, watching him, not appearing alarmed. If his horse had caught the scent of boar or bear, his ears would have been pointed forward, his muscles shivering with the anxiety of a hunt.

He took a chance.

“Dalla,” he said, softly, keeping his voice low so as not to carry and echo off the rocks above.

Nothing.

He pur away his knife, and tied his horse to a low tree branch and proceeded further, his ax held at mid-level, ready to use, while his left hand reached once again for the knife.

“Dalla” he hissed a little louder.

He heard another noise and this time was able to identify it as coming from the briars, its branches trembling ever so slightly. He quickly rushed forward, still keeping an eye on the landscape around him and spoke again.

“Dalla, you come out of there right now.”

He didn't raise his voice, purposely kept it calm, tamping down his anger and frustration. First things, first. She needed to get out of there.

“I can't.”

He couldn't fathom the relief that swept through him upon hearing that short, soft answer. It was at that moment that he realized she could have been gone forever, lost in this wilderness, dying slowly of starvation and exposure. Even worse, she could have been dead, falling off her mare, striking her head on a rock, or falling over the edge of a precipice.

And then his mind assessed the tone of her voice. Fear. Pain.

“Are you hurt?”

“I'm stuck.”

His emotions askew, he peered deeper into dog rose shrubs, seeking her. Wild roses in the highlands were no doubt beautiful, most appearing with small pink flowers, sending their lovely aroma downslope, but up here, they grew wild, tangled among themselves, creating thickets on the hillsides that could be difficult to penetrate.

It was a good hiding place, if one didn't mind getting scraped up by their sharp thorns. He couldn't see her.

He crouched down and tried to make openings in the long, branching vine-like protuberances, many of them curving back on themselves and forming circles or arches.

Unfortunately, the majority of the stems contained sharp, wickedly curved, reddish-brown thorns, effective in protecting its delicate flowers from rummaging animals. Not only that, but the thorns enabled the plant to grasp onto the most unlikely surfaces including rock and tree trunks, attaching themselves as they gripped, their stems climbing ever upward.

“Hugh, I can't get out. You're going to have to help me.”

He paused and located the source of her voice, just beyond an unusual growth of a deeper red rose, small and puckered in the cooler air. He would—