Page 2 of Transporting a Ruthless Highlander
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Struan Gilchrist opened his eyes and closed them again very quickly as he tried to move his hands. That was when he realized that his wrists and ankles were bleeding profusely from the chafing of the coarse twine that bound them. He winced as he tried fruitlessly to twist himself free of his bonds, then moaned in pain, frustrated that there was nothing he could do to help himself. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the foul stench of unwashed bodies and urine, then tried to remember where he was and how he had come to this disgusting place.
He was seated on a rough wooden surface that was moving underneath him in a most unsettling way, as if some unseen hand was pushing it up and down. When he heard the slap and splash of water behind his back, he realized that he was no longer in the confines of the freezing dungeon he had occupied before. Now he was in the bowels of an equally dark, damp, and chilly boat. But how had he come to be here?
“Hey! Shift yerself, ye lazy wee tyke!” came a voice from a long way away. It sounded angry, and after a moment, he heard a yelp of pain.
Feeling vaguely nauseous, he cast his eyes around to see what else he could find out about his surroundings, but when he moved his head, it throbbed in anguish. Suddenly he became aware of agonizing pain in every part of his body. When he saw his legs, which were protruding from under his ragged kilt, he observed that they were covered in purple bruises and raw and bleeding scratches. Next, he looked down at his chest, which was even worse, and presently, he realized that every part of him was aching and stinging. He closed his eyes.
“I have died and landed in hell,” he groaned aloud, unaware that there was anyone around to hear him.
“No’ yet, sunshine,” a deep, hoarse voice said. “Ye will get there soon.”
Struan opened his eyes to see an old man with a long white beard staring down at him. He put a bowl of lumpy gray stew between Struan’s legs and turned to walk away.
“Wait!” Struan cried. “I cannot eat like this. Untie my hands, please.”
“Cannae dae that.” The old man shook his head. “Captain’s orders. Ye will have tae manage just as ye are.”
“Are we on a ship?” Struan asked, even though he knew the answer to his question.
“Aye,” the man replied, shaking his head in disbelief as he frowned at Struan. “TheWeepin’ Willow. Well named. Ye will weep a lot before we get where we are goin’.”
“Where are we—” Struan began, but the man had already shuffled away. He sighed and looked down at the slurry that passed for food. Knowing that it was all he was going to get, he shoveled it down as fast as he could to avoid tasting it, then he sat back and looked at the bindings around his wrists. The pain from the rope was almost unbearable, but suffer it he must because he had work to do.
Two months earlier…
“Bloody Hell!” Kevin Gilchrist growled in frustration before throwing down his sword, which struck sparks off the flagstones of the courtyard. “What are you eating these days, Struan? That is the third time you have beaten me!”
Struan smiled, then stretched and walked over to his half-brother and patted his shoulder. “I slew a dragon this morning and ate its heart,” he answered, laughing. “It tasted terrible, but it gave me a great deal of power and speed.”
“You are brave,” Kevin laughed as they walked into the atrium of Castle Lochnaig, their home. “Were you not afraid of being burnt to death?”
“I had a local witch put a spell on it,” Struan replied nonchalantly as he poured them both some ale. The two men may only have shared a father, but they were as close as any two full-blooded brothers could have been and shared the same wicked sense of humor.
They had just settled down to a quiet drink in the parlor when a manservant rushed in, flushed and breathless. “Message for ye, sir,” he announced as he handed a sealed piece of parchment to Kevin.
Struan watched as Kevin’s fair skin became chalk white, then he looked up into his brother’s eyes, horror-struck.
“Dougall has died,” he said faintly. He read the missive again, shaking his head as if he could not believe what he was seeing. “This letter is from his commanding officer. He was stabbed in the back by an English swordsman. His body will be brought back here for burial.”
“I cannot believe it.” Struan was shocked. He took the letter from his brother and read it quickly, shaking his head in disbelief. “He was always so strong and seemed invincible. This is impossible.” Then, a moment later, he realized that it was all too possible. He knew from bitter experience what the life of a warrior was like, never knowing if each day would be his last. Kevin had never felt moved to become a soldier, but Struan’s mother, although she had only been a maidservant, was as tough and protective as a wild boar, and Struan had inherited her warrior instincts. Their brother Dougall, older than both of them, had wanted to be a soldier almost from the time he could walk.
Kevin stood up and squared his shoulders, then drank the rest of his ale in one gulp. A look of grim determination settled on his face as he looked at the missive once more. “We must go to tell our father,” he said heavily.
Struan nodded. “Aye, but it will break his heart, Kevin.” His voice was caught in his throat, and it was all he could do to stop himself from weeping. “We must be very gentle.”
They trudged up to the laird’s study and paused outside the door, neither wanting to be the first to go in. Eventually, Struan opened it.
“Father,” he said heavily, “we have something to tell you.”
Laird David Gilchrist was as devastated as they had thought he would be. As soon as he read the letter, he looked at each of his sons in turn, his face puzzled as if he could not quite understand what was going on. He stood up, then flopped back into his chair while Struan poured him a full tumbler of whiskey and encouraged him to drink it. The laird pushed it away, then put his head on his desk and burst into tears.
The two brothers looked at each other as if to say,What should we do?Then they sat on either side of their father, and presently they were all weeping for the demise of one of the best men they had ever known.
The funeral was over, and the laird looked like a broken man, only a shell of the one he had once been. As he stood by the family graveside on the castle grounds, he averted his eyes from the sight of his son’s coffin being lowered into the dark pit.
“Goodbye, my beloved Dougall,” he said tearfully. “Go and be with your mother. She was so proud of you, as I am.”
