Highland Escape (3 page)

Such skill! Such bravery! Never have I seen a woman best a man in combat—much less six men!
Heat slid through his veins.
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 questions on his mind. It was clear she wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn’t blame her. They treated her as an enemy rather than an ally.
What is Da about? He saw how she rescued Nessa.

Even dressed like a man, he found her stunning, though the church would call her choice of clothing a sin. Try as he might, Duncan couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Her feminine curves weren’t completely hidden beneath the leather armor she wore. A matching black tunic and trews covered the rest. Leather bracers along with the cuirass were well fitted and spoke of wealth, as did her horse.
It makes no sense. Why would anyone of means allow a daughter as beautiful as she to dress and behave as a man and travel alone?
A mystery indeed.

He remembered the challenge and his mood shifted. He struggled with a strong need to do something to intervene. He ran a hand over his face in frustration. He could not. Clan law bound him as tightly as his father. He could not even offer to stand in her place.

Stand in her place? St. Filan’s teeth! What am I thinking? Go against a clansman for a strange lass?
What was wrong with him?

Why did he feel a powerful urge to protect her when she clearly didn’t want his protection?
It must be gratitude for saving Nessa and her maid. A curiosity. A riddle to solve, no more
. One of his men handed him a bowl of stew, causing him to push such thoughts away with another curse.

* * *

Finishing the fish, Anna produced one of the few remaining apples in her pack. With a pout, she inhaled its sweet fragrance before biting into the succulent flesh. Better to savor this, as there would likely be no such luxuries where they were headed. From the smell of the stew they passed around, she could assume her rations as a prisoner would be similar or worse. Her gut tightened as MacGregor approached, the same dark, brooding expression on his face.

“Come. Did ye hear the request for challenge when we arrived at camp?”

Of course she had. Did he think her daft? She rose without acknowledging the question.

“The rules are simple. The challenger chooses the type of weapon. Ye will have yer pick from several. The winner can allow quarter if he chooses or not. Any grievances are considered fulfilled by the match.”

Anna snapped her head around in response. “Is that not convenient for clan MacGregor? No such right to my kinsmen if someone were to wish to avenge my death,” she spat, no longer trying to contain the anger she’d held back all afternoon. Every muscle in her body tensed as she struggled against the urge to knock the man next to her on his arse.

“And what clan should I expect to come calling if ye were to lose this eve?”

His tone sounded calm and even, infuriating her more. Stiff with anger, Anna faced the men gathered without answering and strode toward the ring of expectant faces. She could play the game of ignoring questions as well as he.

“Good luck.”

“Go to the devil,
sir
,” she shot back with enough force to injure.

Laird MacGregor entered the circle and commanded attention. “Shamus has claimed his right to challenge. It should be said that Alasdair was injured disobeying my order. But he is a kinsman. Under the laws of our clan, ’tis his right and I grant it. I demand quarter be offered because the challenged is a woman, and because she killed the MacNairn filth who stole my Nessa.” He turned to Anna, nodded slightly and left the circle.

A square of plaide sat between them on the ground, blades scattered on its surface. The knives were of various lengths, none longer than her forearm plus handle. Shamus walked to the cloth, promptly selected a dagger and snarled at her. Looking at the pile, she noticed wooden batons as long as the longest dirks.

She claimed one in each hand and peered at Duncan. “Am I allowed two?”

He turned to Shamus for the answer. His laughter joined that of the rest of the men as he replied, “Only a
Sassenach
would bring a stick to a knife fight.”

Allowing the insult to pass, Anna quickly slipped into the mental space her mentor had taught her.
Give no thought to killing or being killed. Give no thought to your enemy. Clear your mind. Take only what is given
.

Zhang’s lesson had been drilled into her for longer than she could remember—flowing through her like the air she breathed.

Shamus spat on the ground at her feet, his face contorting with hatred. “English bitch.”

He seemed to need no provocation to work himself up to kill a woman. Any blood spilled would be on his hands.

“Barbarians,” Anna growled. She brought the batons up and swung them around in circular patterns. Shifting her feet along with the sticks, she fell into a steady rhythm. The rods moved rapidly in a blur of motion, singing low as they cut through the air. Shamus watched with surprised fascination, seemingly uncertain what to make of the unfamiliar movements. She needed to take care. By the way he moved, this man had survived a number of fights.

He moved warily, probing the perimeter of her swings. Where the batons made contact with his blade a distinct
clack
echoed. Cautious not to hit the dagger on the edge, she struck only the flat of his weapon. This pattern went on for a while, his probing, her defending. He sought a weakness. She strove not to show one.

Shamus stepped in for a slash. Anna deflected most of his blow, but the tip grazed her left arm between the elbow and shoulder, causing a familiar sting and warmth as blood flowed.

He tossed her a wicked grin and a taunt. No time to think, only focus on the
here
, the
now
. Another slash and she swung both sticks in response. Each made contact with the wrist holding his blade, creating the distinctive
smack-smack
sound of wood on meat. Shamus dropped his blade. From the force of contact, she hoped for a broken bone.

Allowing the batons to continue to circle after the strike, she brought them both down to crash into the outside of his knee, spinning as she swung to add more force to the blow. The twin strikes buckled his leg, driving his knee into the soft turf. As she continued her spin, Anna used the momentum of her last attack to power the next, aiming for the back of his skull where the spine joined. The double strikes—one after the other—to this vulnerable area rendered him unconscious with a sickening thud, dropping him like a felled tree.

Snatching up his fallen blade, she grabbed the back of his hair and placed the dagger against his throat. The crowd, which she’d ignored during the fight, fell into silence. She scanned the crowd for MacGregor. He stepped into the circle. She issued her challenge.

“Laird, this man owes me a life debt. Agreed?”

The laird stared at her with surprise for a moment before answering. “Aye, agreed.”

She dropped her unconscious opponent, turned and stalked toward her campsite.

“The blade,” Duncan barked.

Whirling to face him, her knuckles whitened as she fisted the dagger, tempted to fight her way back to Orion. After a moment’s hesitation, she flipped the knife over, blade now in her palm, and hurled it toward the fallen man. It struck between his legs a few inches below his manhood, pinning his plaide to the ground.

She stormed to her campsite. Fat drops of rain fell, pulling her attention away from the fight. She fixed the waxed cloth overhead on the two poles she’d cut earlier, anchoring the ends to a rock and a couple of stakes, giving it a tug to test its strength. She ambled to the stream and crossed it, not giving her back to the man following her. She washed as much as she dared with MacGregor present, then filled her water skin and a small cooking pot from her pack.

She returned to the fire and inspected her wound. A three-inch-long shallow slash oozed blood below her shoulder. Uttering a curse toward all things male, she wiped the blood away, grateful she’d sustained no greater injury. After boiling the water in the pot, Anna soaked both the needle and thread. She cleaned and stitched the wound, applying the same salve used on the injured men earlier. Fetching bandage material from her pack, she bound the cut.

Adding more wood to the fire, she positioned a number of small twigs around her site to signal her if anyone stepped close. Still seething over her treatment thus far, she sat cross-legged under her small shelter. Eyes closed, body relaxed, Anna forced her mind to still. After an hour of calm, she opened her eyes to the night. The fever from battle, along with most of her anger, had ebbed.

Stretching out, Anna wrapped up in her plaide, trying for as much sleep as possible amongst a group of men who’d proven themselves foes. She hoped her performance against Shamus would discourage any from testing her again this night.

Drowsily, Anna replayed the day’s events in her mind and wondered what the next day would bring. Though her actions had resulted in capture, she knew she would rescue those girls again if given the chance. Even if the men possessed no honor, these barbarians would not alter hers. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, she offered no resistance when sleep claimed her.