Dalla wasn't at all sure about Hugh’s plan. While she understood his concerns about somebody looking for them, or her rather, the thought of returning to the coast filled her with misgivings. She wasn't sure why.

Surely, along the coastline, she might have a better chance of escaping and finding a way to get back to her native Norway. Then again, should she, or would she, be willing to take such a chance?

She glanced down at Hugh, sleeping now, still recovering from his wound. She had something else to consider. Her growing fondness for him. Out here in the wilderness, just the two of them, they were forced to rely on one another. And he had saved her life, and she had saved his. That put them on equal footing, didn't it? And while she was still his captive, and his somewhat unwilling wife, she didn't want to see him get hurt again, or worse, at least not for her sake.

Nevertheless, she couldn't help but worry. What if his brother refused to help them? As far as she knew, Hugh didn't have a lot of money, perhaps a few coins left tucked into that leather pouch tucked away among his belongings. She had lifted it and surmised that he had very little, without even peeking inside. While the thought had briefly—very briefly—flitted through her mind that she could use that money to bribe someone to help her, she had to be realistic. No one was going to help her. And even if she did manage to get back home, what then?

If his brother didn't help, would that coin be enough to hire someone else to take them by sea to the western coastline, where they would still have to trek inland to reach Duncan lands?

Questions ran rampant through her mind, over and over again. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that her kidnapping had not been a random act. Someone wanted her to disappear. Had that someone been her father or her uncle? Someone else? She didn't know.

She sighed and pushed her disparaging thoughts from her mind.

It was mid-afternoon, the sun was shining, and they needed food. She decided to go down to the stream she had found a couple of days ago, around the rocky cliff face and perhaps a quarter of a league distant. Maybe, if she were fortunate, she would catch a fish. She had found a fishing string in Hugh's belongings, which she had rifled through at one point when he was unconscious, not feeling the least bit guilty about doing so. It had a finely wrought hook attached to one end. The string and hook might be rudimentary, but they would suit her purpose. As far as bait, well, maybe she could dig up some worms along the bank. She had fished much of her life, and had no doubts that she could catch something. While she wasn't particularly fond of eating raw fish, she knew that they could do so, and it wouldn't make them sick as long as she cleaned the fish properly.

Before leaving the opening in the cave, she carefully peered around at the landscape. The underbrush nearby remained still. The trees growing in solitary places along the base of the cliffs and those dotting the slopes moved only with the gentle afternoon breeze. Nearby, a butterfly floated and fluttered about, looking for pollen. A bit further on, near the base of an elm, a squirrel dug for a tasty morsel near the base, occasionally stopping to glance around, flick its tail, then return to its task. Other than the slight breeze, the air was still. No hint of wood smoke from distant campfires, no voices echoing against the rocks—just stillness.

She carefully made her way down to the stream, ever conscious and alert to the sound of horses or voices. Nothing but the twittering of birds, an occasional scolding from a squirrel and the nearby gurgling of the stream met her ears. The sun shone warmly on her back, soaking into the depth of her muscles, easing the strain she had felt over the past days caring for Hugh, worrying that he wasn't going to survive.

She felt so tired, not only physically, but emotionally. Her slumber had been understandably fitful, constantly waking to make sure Hugh was breathing, and no footsteps were approaching their hiding place. Last night, it had gotten chilly enough that, while he slept deeply, she had lain close to him, soaking in his warmth. Despite the saddle blanket and the one other blanket she had brought back from the hut, the lack of a fire kept them both chilled to the bone.

She sat down on the banks of the stream, hidden in the underbrush growing close to its banks. The stream was maybe two stone throws wide, but it didn't look deep. Its surface was smooth, glistening with brilliant spots of sunlight. A few rocks in its center caused low eddies that rippled gently around them, and tiny waves rhythmically lapped onto the shore.

Here, the landscape was filled with underbrush, but as the slopes rose, towering close growing and towering pines overshadowed the steep slopes of the mountains and the granite spires hovering along the hillsides. In the distance, to the east and north, she saw another mountain range, only the tips of the mountains now glowing an orange-red color with the late afternoon sunlight. The rest of the valley spread away, wreathed in shadow.

Relieved that all seemed calm, she ventured close to the water, digging her hands into the soft soil where the water lapped at the silt. To her pleasure, she did find an earthworm and quickly stabbed it onto her fishing hook, then tossed the string and hook as far as she could into the water. She wished she could venture into the stream itself. It didn't look to be particularly fast running, but she was afraid to expose herself, not only to the cold waters, but to anyone lurking up in the higher elevations who might see her.

For a time, she relaxed, soaking in the warmth, closing her eyes and just listening to the sounds of nature around her. She felt a tug on the string and gently snapped it toward her. She felt the tug again, then slowly pulled it in, a smile lifting her lips as she pulled a medium-sized fish from the water.

She grabbed the slippery fish, pulled the hook from its mouth, then, cringing, slammed the fish down hard on the dirt beside her to quickly kill it.

She dug for another worm, slid it onto the hook, and tossed the string in again. And waited. The sounds reminded her of home, and a surge of painful homesickness rose inside her. She opened her eyes and shook the memories away. Had those fjords ever been home? Truly home? A place to live, certainly, but her ideas of home were now forever jaded. The same was true of—

She heard a sharp snap of a stick in the near distance and froze.

An animal?

Her heart thumping, she quickly tugged in her string and pulled in her legs, quickly backing into a thicker growth of shrubs by the bank, careful not to rustle or shake them. She couldn't see much, but her ears strained for another sound. For several moments, she heard nothing. Had that been a stag stepping on a stick, coming down to the river to drink? A branch falling off of a tree? It could have been.

She hadn't seen—

She caught a whiff of something in the air, frowned, and then recognized it.

Wood smoke.

Where was it coming from?

Ever so carefully, she inched forward, hoping she would be able to peer through the leafy branches of the undergrowth without causing too much of a disturbance. She moved in increments, careful to watch where she placed her hands and knees.

Finally, she was able to creep low enough to the ground to slide forward on her belly. Barely peeking her head past the growth, she first looked downstream, then up, every movement slow so as not to garner attention.

There!

Just before the river rounded a bend to the north, perhaps a half a league in the distance, she saw movement. Two men, dressed in rough clothing and leathers. One of them led a foursome of horses down to the stream to drink. Her eyes widened in dismay as she recognized the mare that Hugh had bought in the village.

It was them!

Somehow, out of coincidence or by following their sign, they had figured out the direction that she and Hugh had escaped.

The man with the horses was joined shortly by another, and then another. At that moment she realized it was the same group of people—three men wearing rougher clothing, native Scotsmen, and there, standing near the edge of the trees, gazing down at the water, stood the other man, dressed in nicer clothes.

They were too far away for her to recognize any of them, but when the man wearing the town clothes moved, striding toward the water, she recognized his walk. She felt nausea rise in her throat as her heart thumped in dismay.

A myriad of emotions swept through her.

Uncle Amund!

No doubt about it. It was her uncle.

Anger—anger such as she had never felt before, surged like a hot fire deep in her belly. The kidnapping had elicited emotions of fear, uncertainty, and the terror of impending death. The voyage in the ship had also evoked an emotional maelstrom, but the anger that she felt at this moment bordered beyond hatred.

Her hands closed into fists. She fought the urge to stand up and confront her uncle, knowing that to do so would be the epitome of foolishness. Doing so would likely mean her impending death, and Hugh's.

She closed her eyes, trying to gain control of her breathing, trying to soothe her shattered spirit, to tamp down that fury that threatened to overcome her better judgment.

Now she knew. No question, no uncertainties, no lingering doubts. The only question that remained was whether her father was involved. Uncle Amund rarely did anything without consulting her father. But this? Then again, her father had never been especially close to her, nor concerned about her welfare as long as she stayed out of his way.

She shut down her mind, not even wanting to contemplate the two of them coming up with this horrid plan to get rid of her.

The convent. Had that even been true or just a ploy to take her away from the estate without triggering her or anyone else's alarm? She shook her head and then looked away from the now despicable and stomach-churning sight of her uncle and ever so slowly, eased her way back into the underbrush.

Dalla constantly looked behind her, watched where she placed her feet before she slithered back further. She snatched the fish she had caught and continued to ease away from the shoreline. It took quite some time to make her way back up the slope and finally gain the shelter of a nearby boulder. Only then did she realize she had left marks on the ground. Her heart still pounded. She had no way to erase those marks she had made. Any slight noise might be heard above the bubbling of the water and garner their attention. Would they find her trail?

She tried to brush away the marks closer to the boulder behind which she momentarily hid, and hunched low to the ground, then quickly made her way back to the cleft in the rocks. She did the best she could to cover her trail, but she couldn't count on that. She doubted that the men would stray far from their camp with dusk approaching, but she wasn't going to assume anything anymore.

By the time she made her way back to the opening in the wall, her thoughts were racing, her hands trembling with anxiety and fear.

She saw that Hugh was awake, trying to lift himself up on his elbows. Every day he had grown a little bit stronger, but it still took a great deal of effort for him to even sit up, leaning his weight against the rocks behind him.

She stood just inside the opening, staring at him, not sure what to think, what to say, or what to do.

He glanced up at her and then frowned. His muscles tensed as his gaze riveted to hers.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

“It is my uncle,” she finally mumbled, her voice harsh with pain and a heavy sense of betrayal. “It is my uncle who did this.”

He frowned. “How do you know—”

“We have to leave, Hugh. They're out there… they're out there!”