Page 23 of Highlander's Sinless Nymph
Edward sat, still as a barn owl and just as quiet, and listened to the unseen figure slowly picking its way towards the fox cub clearing. It sounded like a single person, but he strained his ears for any hint of others moving stealthily around.
She is a Bolton. She comes from cunnin’ and ruthless blood. I cannae trust her.
Then, from between the trunks of the trees that ringed the small glade, a hooded, slender figure emerged. Edward’s breath caught in his throat. It was like seeing a springtime bluebell emerge from the winter frost. The figure’s hood was drawn up against the chill of the morning, but it carried the same basket that Charlotte had born the previous night.
Like a shadow, the muscular Highlander slipped out from his perch and made his way quietly out to meet her. He moved from tree trunk to tree trunk, pausing to sniff at the air and listen as he got closer and closer. Eventually, crouching down behind a bush not twenty yards from the figure, he decided to show himself.
“Good mornin’ to ye, Miss Bolton,” he said, emerging from his hiding place.
The figure spun about with a gasp, the hand not carrying the basket flying to her mouth to stifle her cry.
“Edward, you scared me!” she hissed.
Before he quite knew what he was doing, Edward strode forward and embraced the young woman. He felt her stiffen in his arms, flinch and tense up like a creature fearing for its safety. He held her for a moment or two in his brawny arms and gradually felt her relax slightly. She felt, just then, like a timid lass who had just allowed herself to enjoy this basic connection for the first time in a long time.
The question must be asked though, why in God’s name are ye huggin’ the lass?
He moved back away from her, still holding her gently, but firmly, by the upper arm.
I cannae forget why I am here.
As they disengaged from one another, the hood was pulled back from Charlotte’s head. Edward froze as he caught sight of her face, the smile that had crept onto his own sliding from his countenance like gruel down a wall.
The entire right side of the pretty Englishwoman’s face was mottled with bruises; deep purple, mauve, and yellow, they spread from the corner of her eye to the corner of her mouth and across her cheek. Her lip was split and swollen in the corner closest to the bruising too.
“Good God, lass,” he breathed, unable to contain his shock at the sight of her. “What in the world happened to ye?”
Charlotte hung her head and her eyes were hidden behind the swaying curtain of her curly hair.
“I––I––” she stammered. She glanced up at Edward’s grim, appalled face and then looked ashamedly at the floor again.
Why is it that she should look abashed?
“Who did that to ye?” he growled, deep in his throat.
Charlotte did not say anything, but her head drooped even further down so that her chin was almost resting on her chest.
“It’s of no import,” she muttered in a tone that told Edward he would get nothing else out of the young woman. He took the hint and did not press her further.
Her faither, that bastard. This work has his handprints all over it.
Edward became aware that he could hear his own teeth grinding and he made a concerted effort to unclench his jaw. He reached out a calloused and rough hand unthinkingly, wanting suddenly to touch the girl, to support her in some way, if only by cupping her cheek in his palm. He pulled back at the last second though.
I must harden me heart. She is me hostage now, whether she kens it yet or nae.
Then, on seeing the heart-rending, beseeching way that she cast her blue eyes up at him––as if she somehow thought that he might be able to help her with her woes––Edward was struck by a sudden idea.
He may have looked like a hard-bitten ruffian, but the notion of having to potentially forcibly abduct this woman had been preying on his mind all the previous. Now, on seeing her in this pitiable condition, his already waning conviction at kidnapping her subsided even further.
To his astonishment, Edward, on looking at the woman’s injuries, found himself growing genuinely enraged. The thought of Captain Bolton laying violent hands on his own flesh and blood sent paroxysms of anger boiling up through his stomach and heart like acid.
Ye have seen men do plenty worse than this to one another. Why is it that ye are gettin’ so bent out o’ shape at seein’ this lass lookin’ in such a sorry state?
The girl seemed so small and dainty, standing in front of him as he looked down at her, as if she were bowed under the weight of all her cares.
Edward’s epiphany hit him like a bolt from the blue. If it worked, it would make his life a lot easier and turn him from the villain into a hero––of sorts.
“Charlotte,” he said, thinking that he might as well get it over with. If the lass did not want to go along with his scheme then he would have to resort to his previous plan and drag her back to Scotland by force.
