Beitris had been afraid before, many times. But not like this. She had been dragged from the house and blindfolded—they couldn’t tell she was blind? Obviously not. Over the years, she had grown adept at looking directly at people when they spoke, even when several people were gathered together. She learned to respond to the direction of sounds, of voices, of movement. She had practiced it for many years when she was young, to give people the impression that she really wasn’t that different after all.

Elspeth had helped her. When she first met Elspeth, Beitris had not tended to look at anyone in particular when they spoke because it dinna matter. She couldn’t see their faces, nor their expressions. Out of habit, she had always slightly turned her ear to the speaker, even if it was only a small, barely discernable movement. Elspeth had told her that in order to appear more natural, she needed to turn her face toward the person speaking to her. She paid attention to suggestions from her dear friend on how she could appear less blind.

So, perhaps it wasn’t terribly surprising that these men, whoever they were, hadn’t noticed that she was blind. She was hanging facedown on the horse’s withers and another jolting step pushed the air out of her lungs. She had been tossed over a horse’s back, one of the men—the one with the English accent—leaping up behind her into the saddle. There were three of them; one desperately hanging on to his horse, groaning loudly with each hoof fall. The one she’d stabbed. He complained that he still bled and whined continuously. The man who stood by the door throughout had an English accent, the same man who rode on the horse now, his knees constantly brushing against her as they rode. The man who had attacked Elspeth might also be English, although his accent was thick and difficult to understand. The English man was not the English magistrate that had come to the house previously. The other one, with the accent, perhaps he came from Ireland or Wales, and the third, well, she dinna understand half of what he said, regardless of his country of origin. By his manner of speaking, she gathered that he was missing teeth and to make it worse, spoke in a way that cut words off. Where had they come from? They weren’t Scots, were they? Nay, they—

“Stop,” the wounded man cried again. “Please, we’ve got to stop. I’m bleeding again!”

Beitris wished they would stop also, her position painful, tossed over the horse’s withers like a sack of grain. Her head pounded, not only from the blow she had received in the kitchen, but from riding in such a position for what seemed like hours, although it could have been much, much shorter. She had no concept of the passage of time. Every step of the horse jolted her stomach into the curved cantle of the man’s saddle, pushing the air from her lungs. Her back burned from her position, and despite her attempts to brace herself with her hands, constantly grasping at the horse’s shoulder to try to lift herself upward, the man shoved her back down, growling at her to remain still, or he would tie her up and drag her behind his horse.

Though she feared her own safety, she worried desperately about Elspeth and Alasdair. The men had not brought Elspeth was them, and she worried that her friend lay injured on the floor of her house, unable to get help for herself. Alasdair, recovering in the cave, would also likely wonder what happened when neither of them returned with water or food. Who would take care of Alasdair? Who would watch to ensure that his wounds were kept clean, to take care of any signs of infection? What if he developed a fever—

“Please, we have to stop!”

With the man’s growl of annoyance, the horse was pulled to a halt. She felt the weight of the man’s hand splayed on her back, holding her down, pressing even more air out of her lungs. When he spoke, she knew he was talking to her.

“Hold still. I will dismount and then help you down.”

She said nothing, not trusting herself to speak, torn between frustrated anger and fury and a panic that she barely managed to keep at bay. She dinna want to cry, dinna want to scream, to beg, but there was a possibility that, if given the chance, she would. Thought after thought raced through her head as she tried to think of an escape. But how? And where would she go? She had no idea where she was. In addition to her physical discomfort and positioning on the horse, it was difficult to assess which direction they traveled. They had gradually headed uphill, that much she knew because she had slightly rolled toward her captor as the horse’s muscles bunched harder beneath her, its breath coming in great bursts from carrying the extra load. Were they headed into the Highlands?

Over the hills that she knew lay beyond the village and into the great expanse of the moors, dotted by bogs, sometimes hidden in long marsh grasses? Dangerous territory, coupled with tall, rocky spires rising like fingers from the marshlands, not often ventured through as one spring rain or winter’s snow could change the landscape, seal over one bog and create another…

She had ventured through the area just once before, when she was younger, and her father had described the landscape to her. A desolate, dangerous land. She couldn’t remember why they had even ventured there. A sick feeling rose inside her. Knowing now that her father no longer wished to be burdened with her care, had he had her taken out there to… No. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t. She turned her thoughts back to the present. Even if she managed to escape, to steal a horse, she had no sense of direction, no way of knowing which way would take her back to the village. For all she knew, she might ride straight into the sea before she realized—

Large hands grabbed her around the waist and pulled her from the back of the horse. Her chin banged against the edge of the saddle, causing a gasp as she bit her lip. Her feet barely touched the ground before the man let go, and she toppled, landing hard on her side, her head pounding anew, every bone in her body feeling the jolt, every muscle feeling strained and bruised.

“He’s bleeding something fierce,” one of the men said.

She heard her captor’s footsteps moving away from her, crunching on pine needles. Then the louder crunch as he stepped on a pinecone. She smelled marsh grasses in the distance, but the scent of pine was strong here. Pine and bark. They were in the woods on a steep slope, the air crisp and cool, a slight breeze tugging at her hair.

“You’re right, you are bleeding,” the Englishman commented, no emotion in his tone. “I do believe you are bleeding to death.”

The wounded man gasped, his voice frantic and hoarse. “Do something to help me!”

The Englishman tsked. “She got you in the stomach with the blade. There’s nothing we can do about that. You’re going to die.”

Beitris swallowed, fear surging through her. Had she wounded the man that badly? Would they punish her if he died? Her own fears against physical harm were coupled with a shiver of dread that raced down her spine at the tone the Englishman took when speaking to his wounded companion. No emotion, no concern, no sorrow. He was cold.

“Tell you what, Arlen, you got two choices.”

“Take me to the nearest village so I can get help,” the wounded man gasped.

“No, that’s not one of them,” the Englishman said.

“What… what do you mean? Robert, I’m bleeding to death! You’ve got to help me!”

“Here are your choices, Arlen. We leave you here under that tree over there, and you can slowly bleed to death in the peaceful solitude of this godforsaken Scottish countryside. Or, you can choose a quick death, a sword thrust through your heart. Take your pick.”

Beitris slowly sat up, dismayed by the Englishman’s—Robert’s—words. She knew then that these men were not friends, that they had only come together to seek the reward for finding Alasdair. How they had come together, she dinna know, nor did she care. The wounded man whined, begging Robert to save him. To her horror, Robert returned to his horse. She heard the sound of a sword pulled from a sheath. More footsteps, and then she heard the scream, the shout of denial, and then a sickening sound, a brief crunch, and then yet another hoarse, bubbly scream, then silence.

No one said a word for several moments. Robert sighed, and then Beitris heard the sound of scratching, realized that the cruel man was wiping his sword on pine needles. He then spoke to the other man, perhaps to Beitris as well, although she couldn’t tell.

“We can camp here for the night.”

Immediately, the other man spoke, voice raised in protest. “I ain’t staying here with no bloody corpse!”

“What’s the matter, William? He’s not going to hurt you,” Robert stated simply. “Would you feel better if he was out of sight?” A pause. “Fine.”

Beitris heard more pine needles crunching under boots, a shuffle, and then a receding rolling, thrashing sound, the crash of something against shrubbery, and then a dismal splash.

“There, out of sight at the bottom of the gully. You happy now?”

“No, still too close for my taste.”

“No matter,” Robert said, stepping toward Beitris. “We have this lovely young lady to entertain us, to keep you distracted. Not to mention encouraging her to tell us where her outlaw husband is hiding, the bloody coward.”

Beitris opened her mouth to retort, then snapped it shut. Fear raced through her veins again, her heart pounding with uncertainty, afraid that she would die like their companion. She was helpless, with no weapon to defend herself, no one to come to her rescue. Despair reared its ugly head at that moment, and more than ever before, she wished that Alasdair were here to protect her, to comfort her. She had truly underestimated the man, much as he had underestimated her. Was it too late? Would she never get a chance to tell him how she felt? Or had she wasted too much time? She couldn’t imagine—

She gasped as a hand clamped around her upper arm and dragged her to her feet. “Tie her to that tree yonder, William. I’ll deal with her momentarily.”

Another set of hands grabbed her by her arms and roughly pulled her backward. Stumbling over her feet, she only barely managed to keep her footing as William pulled her along. He ordered her to stand with her back against a tree as William pulled her arms around the trunk and then her bound hands once again. Cold chills swept through her and prompted her to press her lips together to prevent them from trembling, though it did nothing to stop her leg muscles from quaking from fear and fatigue. She desperately held back a scream, her heart pounding so hard and fast it would certainly explode. She tried to calm herself, gulping down several breaths, trying to ignore the hard knot that had settled in the pit of her stomach. Always more aware of her surroundings than a sighted person, her senses were now extremely sensitive to any touch, any sound, her nerves on high alert, desperate to hide and ignore images of what might happen to her now flashing in her mind.

What were they going to do to her? How far would they go to try to pry information about Alasdair from her? How could she possibly—

“Start a fire,” Robert’s voice came from nearby.

Beitris startled. She hadn’t heard him approach, not from where he had disappeared into the surrounding woods, and certainly not from immediately behind her. It was as if he… as if he were a ghost. His ability to move silently sent yet another shiver of dread through her. She relied heavily on her senses to gauge her surroundings, and if she couldn’t—

A rough finger stroked her cheek, beneath the blindfold. She flinched and yanked her head away.

“Such soft, unblemished skin,” Robert said softly. “I wonder what your husband would think of you if were as scarred as he?” He chuckled, then spoke to William, gathering firewood nearby. “What do you think, William? Should we make them a matching set?”

Beitris clamped her jaw shut tight, pressing her lips tighter together, her eyes squeezed shut behind the blindfold even though she couldn’t see anything. Robert had spoken softly, gently, but that tone dinna fool her for a moment, not after he had so ruthlessly and callously killed his companion to still his pleas for help.

The finger traced the contour of her jaw, and then thumb and fingers grasped her chin, forcing her to look in his direction. The blindfold was roughly pulled away from her eyes, and she stared unseeing into the eyes of her captor as he chuckled softly, his breath warm against her lips. Her heart pounded so hard—

She heard a flint striking rock, once, twice, and then a third time. Then the sound of William blowing gently on pine needles or whatever small fodder for fuel he had gathered. And then, as the fire caught, a crackling of sound. So it must be dark. Night had fallen, or close to it. Alasdair… Certainly, by now, he would be concerned that neither she nor Elspeth had ventured to the cave. Was he well enough to make his way out and make his way back to the stone house? Would he risk it? And Elspeth… How did she fare? Was she seriously injured, or would she be able to get to Alasdair and tell him what had happened?

“Wait…” Robert’s voice sounded startled as he turned her face this way and that.

For a brief instant, she saw a brief glimpse of lighter gray against darkness, then a brighter area of grayish-orange. She realized that Robert had turned her face toward the firelight. The fire was growing stronger now, popping as pine sap was ignited by the growing flames.

“Oh, ho.” Robert laughed, turning toward his companion. “Do you see what I see, William?”

From down by the fire, a mere body’s length away, William replied. “I see a pretty, defenseless woman, one, who I assume, will be more than ready to tell us what we want to know when we’re done with her.”

“No, not that,” Robert said, a tinge of impatience in his tone. “Look! The pupils in her eyes… they’ve barely altered.”

She felt his breath on her face as he leaned even closer, so close she almost felt his lips against hers. She froze, hardly even dared to breathe.

“You can’t see, can you?” he murmured.

The question was directed at her, she knew that, and yet she refused to answer. She paid for her insolence as he grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her chin upward.

“No!” she gasped.

For a moment, both men were silent, and then Robert laughed and let go of her chin. He turned once again toward his companion. “She’s blind, William, and even so, she managed to mortally wound Arlen.” He turned back toward her. “Your name.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an order, a demand, one that the very tone of his voice deemed a threat to imply that she would answer or pay.

“Beitris.”

He said nothing for several more moments, and then he spoke, his words sending yet another shiver of dread down her spine, causing her stomach to clench and nausea to roil, the acid making its way upward into the back of her throat. She tried not to gag.

“Well then, Beitris, what say we get to know each other a wee bit better…”