Page 3 of Highlander's Captive Bride
The sun was high in the sky as they turned east and inland. Daisy hoped the weather would stay fine. Fergus had assured her that, in good conditions, with the horses carrying them at a steady walk, even accounting for navigating the tricky craggy passes and low glens on the route, they would cover the thirty-five miles between Castle Rottrich and Castle McGunn by sundown the next day.
Daisy was lost in her thoughts, Violet’s illness at the forefront of her mind
It was hard for Daisy to think that her former mentor was now sick herself, and even more worrying that, according to Dominic’s message, Violet had been unable to heal herself.
As the journey progressed beneath the bright spring sunshine, Daisy felt the weight of responsibility resting heavily on her shoulders. An underlying current of anxiety flowed through her, making her want to race ahead, whatever the dangers of the road. She bit her lip and forced herself to stay calm, like the Laird’s daughter she was.
After many hours of traveling and a few brief stops to refresh the horses, the sky began to darken as the sun sank slowly towards the horizon and dusk drew in.
“We’ll make camp for the night up ahead,” Fergus announced.
Daisy looked where he indicated, recognizing the spot as one where they had stopped before on her journey to Rottrich. It was a natural spot to make camp, near a fast-flowing burn and sheltered by rocks and fragrant pine trees. She dismounted along with everyone else, handing her reins to one of the men, who led the beast down to the water’s edge to drink and graze with the rest.
She stood looking at her surroundings. The warm sun lit the campsite brightly, and there was no doubt it was a pretty spot. Yet, for some unknown reason, a feeling of foreboding seized her. She frowned as goosebumps suddenly broke out on her arms, and she hugged herself and rubbed them, trying to brush off the feeling.
Fergus posted two guards, while the other men gathered firewood. Before long, a fire was blazing, for the chill of the Highland night had already begun to descend from the mountains as the sun’s warmth faded.
Daisy fetched a blanket, her cloak, and some provisions from her saddlebags and sat down next to the fire with the others to eat. She finished her bread and bacon, drank some cold tea, then settled down to sleep. Exhausted as she was by the long ride and worry, slumber soon took her.
As if to soothe her troubled mind, kind sleep took her back to her childhood. Her father was there, laughing as he threw her in the air and caught her, whispering to her that she was his special wee girlie, while her siblings, Dominic, Dakota, and Delilah, clamored for his attention. Each wanted to be his favorite, and he would tell each of them in turn that they were. But much as she adored her brother and sisters, Daisy knew it was really her.
Suddenly, without warning, her sweet dream was suddenly punctured by loud voices shouting and the sound of restive horses. Panicked, she sat bolt upright and looked frantically around, trying to make sense of what was happening. In the semi-darkness of breaking dawn, she spotted Fergus flanked by the men of her escort, standing in front of her as they faced down a group of about a dozen armed riders who were pulled up just outside the camp.
Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins as she took in the man seated at their head on an enormous horse, which pawed at the ground impatiently. The man was huge, with broad, muscular shoulders, his dark, saturnine features half hidden in shadow. Over one massive shoulder was a tartan plaid whose pattern she could not quite discern in the half-light.
“We dinnae want a fight,” he declared in a deep, rumbling voice that sent shivers of fear down Daisy’s spine. “We just want the healer, so just hand her over, and we’ll leave ye in peace.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
Me. They want me.
“There’s nae healer here, Bellamy Kane,” Fergus lied commandingly. “Aye, I ken very well who ye are. Ye have the wrong party. I advise ye to be on yer way.”
Daisy could only watch and listen as the man called Bellamy Kane sighed, as if he had been expecting the denial and was bored by it. “And I ken ye, Fergus O’Finlay, and I ken ye have the healer with ye,” he replied with icy calm.
As he spoke, he jerked his head towards Daisy, who cowered behind the protective shield of the Rottrich men. One glance from the dark, shadowed pools of the giant’s eyes set her teeth chattering with fresh terror.
“Now, if ye dinnae want to die along with all yer men, send her over here, now! I willnae hurt her.”
“Ye willnae have the chance. Leave, if ye dinnae have a death wish,” Fergus countered, unsheathing his sword.
The rest of the escort took it as a signal to do the same, filling the quiet air with the zing of iron on leather.
“I thought that’s what ye’d say,” Bellamy replied calmly, though Daisy could have sworn his features darkened further. “Come on, man. See reason. There’s nae need for a slaughter here today. All I want is the healer.”
“Then ye give me nae choice,” Fergus spat. “For the sons of McGunn, advance!” he suddenly cried, raising his broadsword and lunging forward to engage the enemy, followed by his men, who echoed the cry as they, too, surged forward.
Daisy stared, transfixed by terror, as a fearsome claymore, the mighty double-edged sword of the Highland warriors, appeared in Bellamy Kane’s hand as if by sorcery, accompanied by the harsh music of a dozen more behind him.
She started violently as he pointed his weapon to the sky and unleashed a bloodcurdling roar. “Hounds of Murdoch, come feast on yer foe’s flesh!”
She backed away, instinctively seeking partial shelter behind a large tree trunk, watching helplessly as, in the red light of dawn, the two foes clashed amid loud roars and the ringing of metal upon metal. Even with her ignorance of battle, Daisy knew at once that Fergus had made a grave tactical error, for his men were on foot, while Bellamy Kane’s were on horseback.
Though the men of Rottrich fought with all their might, slashing at the legs of the mounted men with their dirks, aiming to pull them to the ground and finish them with their swords, they were just as quickly cut down, screaming in agony, swathed in their own blood, to the ground.
In a liquid movement, Bellamy himself slid down from his saddle, landing on his feet, poised to fight, claymore in one hand, dirk in the other. He sprang forward to engage with Fergus.
“Run, Daisy, run!” Fergus shouted as the two men clashed, ferociously exchanging blow for blow and feinting with their daggers.
