Page 10 of The Forest Bride
Pulling in a shaky breath, she looked out through the branches. No one was about in the forest. She would be safe here for a while. But she must find a way to help the others somehow. Returning to Kincraig for help would take days, even if she could find a way to do that. Perhaps a nearby sheriff might providehelp more quickly. There would be a village nearby where she could inquire.
Another thought struck her. Had the attackers intended to take her too? She was fairly sure they had snatched Lilias deliberately. Though Margaret Keith was an earl’s daughter and a Marischal’s niece, she had no value otherwise. She did not even have a husband to pay her ransom, having refused four betrothals.
But she possessed something that might be valuable to some—an elf-bolt that had belonged to Thomas the Rhymer, given to him by the Queen of Faery, said to be imbued with magic. And one of the attackers had the Rhymer’s brooch. If she could get the brooch back, could she barter those precious items in exchange for a king’s daughter and a hero’s son? Yet she did not know who had Lilias and Andrew, though the attackers were likely enemies of Robert Bruce.
But she had no answers to such questions yet. She needed to retrace her steps, leave the forest, find the attack site, try to find out who the attackers were and where they might have taken the hostages. But how?
For a moment, she felt utterly defeated.
Years ago, one of her suitors had refused a betrothal, insisting that Lady Margaret Keith was bad luck; he said the girl could bring bad luck to a man faster than thunder brought lightning. She had brought ill fortune to others, he claimed, who had agreed to take her for a bride.
The proof, apparently, was that Sir Duncan Campbell had been unfortunate enough to be yoked to her. Even though the betrothal was broken, he had been captured by the English and had died in captivity. Bad luck indeed, said this fellow.
Other suitors had died too, one of age and infirmity during the betrothal negotiations. Another—Sir Brian Lauder, a knight in his prime, intelligent and considerate in their one meeting, aman she almost considered—had died in a skirmish before any agreement could be made. After that, her father had negotiated with a fourth suitor—but that man had harshly rejected her on the excuse that she would bring him poor luck, even death.
Ridiculous. She knew that. What her suitors did not know was that Margaret Keith had refused those betrothals against her father’s wishes. She was not bad luck for anyone. She was brokenhearted and did not want to marry. As for her first suitor, she had transformed Duncan Campbell into an ideal, the perfect knight, the lover tragically lost, the one man she would have loved forever had fate allowed.
Now, in this dilemma, she had no husband, no father, and no brother nearby to help her. No matter. She would make her own luck. The wellbeing of others—Lilias, Andrew, the captured men—depended on what she did now. She alone could help.
Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled back a pine bough and listened again for pursuers. The forest was so quiet that she ventured out and began to walk back along the path the way she had come, her steps cautious.
Soon she heard a voice somewhere in the forest sounds. She froze.
“Margaret!” The whisper cut through the trees. “Meg!”
It was a familiar voice. And only kin and friends knew her shortened name.
“Andrew? Andrew!Here!” She ran forward a few steps.
Nearby, bushes rustled and swayed, and a lanky blond boy with blood trickling down one side of his face emerged. Andrew Murray. She ran to him.
“Oh, Andrew! I thought you were—oh, your head! You are hurt!” His thick golden hair was blood stained, the side of his face scraped. He cradled his left arm.
“I am fine,” he said as she hugged him. Then she turned to usher him back to the shelter of the huge pine. “Are you hurt, Meg? They took Lady Lilias and the men.”
“I know. Sit down. Let me see your wounds.” She pushed him to sit.
“I must go after her,” he insisted. “I will ride after those rogues!”
“Then you would not return in one piece. Tilt your head, let me see,” she instructed. His forehead was bruised and his cheek scraped, and he was holding his forearm. She crawled away briefly to grab some of the nettle leaves and wild garlic that she had seen growing nearby. Dipping them in the stream that ran beneath the slope, she returned to wipe damp leaves over his wounds. Then she pulled at the hem of the linen shift under her woolen gown and tore the fabric to create a few strips. She tucked nettle and garlic in the bandage and wrapped his head. He winced.
“There,” she said. “Let me see your arm.”
“I twisted my wrist when I fell—oww,” he muttered.
She wrapped linen around his wrist and made a simple sling with the longest piece. “Try not to use it for now. It does not seem broken, but I am no healer. If my sister Rowena were here, she would know what was wrong.”
“And she would be gentle. Ow,” he said as she positioned his wrist.
“Luckily she is away, or she might have been abducted too. How did you get away?”
“The rope knots were loose enough that I slipped free. I saw you roll down a bank and run, so I watched for a chance and did the same. Then I went in the same direction hoping to find you. But what should we do now?”
She sighed. “We can do little before morning. It will be dark soon. Best we rest here. There is a clear stream nearby, and I canfind berries and such for us to eat. And we will think of a way to help Lilias.”
“How?” He shook his head. “I am sorry that I could not stop them.”
“You did your best. And I am sorry I did not pull my bow fast enough to take them down.”
