Highland Escape - Cathy MacRae Page 0,6
And the bonniest I have ever seen. No pampered lily, this lass, but vital, compelling—alive.
Her expressive eyes, the color of green only found in nature, reminded him of faerie stories his mam told him as a wean. They reflected strength and courage—viridescent eyes sparking anger.
Long black hair reached her waist, held in a braid thick as his wrist. Her smooth complexion glowed, tanned by time in the sun. The high cheekbones, strong nose and chin, and kissable lips all added up to striking beauty. She’d finished treating his wounded with skills one would expect to have taken half a lifetime to master. His own clan healer was not nearly as proficient, and the old crone had seen many winters.
She claims to be a Scot, but her dress and mannerisms claim her as English. She is, however, well-spoken in Gaelic. For some reason, the lass had a fine teacher. A mystery. Unfortunately, a mystery he would unlikely solve, as his father gave Shamus permission to avenge his brother’s shoulder injury. Fool. His brother faces punishment for disobeying his laird by firing upon the lass, particularly since she’d saved my sister. Discipline must be maintained. He’d fought in too many battles not to know the lesson well. As captain, it fell to him to see all obeyed without question. Including himself.
I owe her a life-debt. The conundrum twisted him inside. He knew his father did not wish to sentence the woman to death, but could not ignore clan law. Should I support my kinsman or the lass I just met? Smiling inside from a feeling he didn’t quite understand, he sincerely hoped this Anna survived the night.
He watched her glance about—no doubt searching for a way past him—but ignored her questions about captivity for he had no answer to offer. His only orders were to disarm and detain her. Her body stiffened, fists clenched, a vision of anger. He swallowed the smile on his face when she spun toward him.
“Sir, do you wish me to attend the women? I can treat any injuries they may have sustained.” She wielded her sharp tongue with the same ruthless precision as a blade. The play of emotions on her face, as changing as the clouds above, beguiled him.
He took advantage of the opportunity to gaze at her before answering. “’Tis not necessary. They were not injured.”
She responded with a slight squint and nod. Did she disbelieve him? Or think he did not trust her?
“We have no shelter for ye. Ye will set up camp outside this tent. Food is being prepared. Ye will eat with us.”
“Thank you for the kind offer but that will not be necessary. I can take care of my own meal.” Her face and tone were as rigid as the finest steel blade.
Duncan motioned for her to exit the tent. Her saddlebags and bedroll lay deposited on the ground outside, and she replaced the supplies in her pack. Glancing up, she stiffened. He followed her gaze to her stallion on the other side of camp, saddle removed, tethered to the other horses—one more route of escape denied her.
Duncan watched with curiosity as the woman quickly set up her camp. She gathered her belongings and placed them beside a large rock away from the tent. Producing a small folding knife, she cut two saplings, laying them next to her ground cloth, using a third sapling to create a slender trident.
She paced to the burn, moving quietly along the bank, her shadow falling away from the water, he noted with approval. Halting next to a small eddy created by a submerged log, she took a deep breath. With one swift movement, she impaled an unsuspecting trout.
Duncan jerked with a snort of surprise.
After cleaning the fish with precise, neat moves, she returned to her campsite. She dug a small fire pit, collected fallen limbs nearby, then pulled out a flint. When the stone struck the knife, sparks flew into the tinder cradled in the shallow pit. The wood caught and a fire grew.
Duncan doubted he could have done it as quickly. Within a few minutes, she had a fire burning and the fish on a spit. She ignored him, not giving him even a cursory glance.
How can such a lass, scarcely out of her youth, possess such skills? ’Tis unheard of, absurd. Not for hundreds of years have women been trained in combat and woodcraft, and ’twas then only to repel the Roman bastards.
He resisted the growing temptation to approach her, a multitude of