A while later Hugh glanced at her, sitting quietly on the mare, for the moment at least, clinging tightly to her mane.

He held the tether of her horse, not trusting her ability to ride alone. She was either very inexperienced with riding, or she was afraid of the animal. She didn't offer any explanations, and he didn't ask.

For a moment, he thought she had fallen asleep, her body relaxed, her chin resting on her chest, her body swaying with the movement of the horse as the mare picked her way along the path of his own horse. But no, her eyes were open, and he caught her glancing his way, then quickly darting her gaze away, toward the woods in the distance.

He stifled a chuckle and shook his head.

They had left the village hours ago, and she had yet to utter a word. He knew she spoke English, or at least some but was obviously unwilling to communicate. For the moment, she wasn't trying to escape, but he had no doubt that she was thinking about it. If he'd been in her position, he would too. He didn't want to tie her up, but he would if he had to.

“Don't try to escape,” he spoke softly and slowly to ensure that she understood. “You will find no one to help you, and the forest is filled with dangers. You're safer with me.”

She said nothing, but once again, he saw her gaze dart his way. She didn't want to talk? Fine with him. He didn't want to talk either. What he wanted to do was go back to yesterday. He should have just gone hunting. If he had, he wouldn't be in this predicament. The more he thought about it, the more irritated he grew. With himself. With her. With everything. He sighed.

Maybe he would take her back with him to Duncan Manor, ask the laird, Phillip Duncan, and his wife Sarah, how he could go about returning her to her country.

There was no love lost between the Scots and the Norwegians, but she was one small woman. What could she do? He knew nothing of her background, her history, or how she'd ended up as a captive bound for Scotland. Until he knew more, she would be his problem and his problem alone.

The trail back to his makeshift hut grew rougher and steeper as the way took them ever higher into the foothills, interspersed with steep drop-offs, deep gullies, and an occasional precipice.

In between these hillocks were the damned bogs, some in plain view, others hidden beneath grasses and reeds.

Soon, her horse was forced to follow directly behind his, the trail narrowing as they rode up a steep slope. Single file, they made their way upward.

He glanced back occasionally and noticed her gaze riveted to the often-treacherous trail they followed, higher and higher, the fingers of her hands clutching the mare's mane so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

She was frightened, as anyone with any common sense would be, not only due to her situation, but the treacherous terrain.

All he knew about Norway were passing comments he'd heard from those who had been there: relatively flat except by the coastline, though toward its interior the land grew more rugged and mountainous. He'd heard it was a land of glaciers and fjords, the eastern part of the country filled with rolling hills and valleys and rich soil for farming. High mountain ranges scattered the north.

“Where are you from?” he asked over his shoulder, thinking to distract her from her fear as well as gain some information from her.

To his surprise, she mumbled an answer.

He turned in the saddle, eyebrow lifted. “What?”

She looked up at him, her features stiff, her eyebrows lowered. “Near Stavangar,” she muttered, then raised a defiant eyebrow. “You are familiar with my country?”

He shook his head.

Her sarcasm was not lost on him, and once again he couldn't help but admire her spirit, much as it annoyed him.

She might be a captive, but she certainly wasn't cowed. Not yet anyway. He said nothing more as he focused his attention on the trail, his mount slowly picking his way up the slope, the ground beneath loose with stones and soft soil.

Beneath him, he felt the gelding's muscles bunch as he struggled upward. He tightened his grip on the rope for the mare, and wrapped it around his hand.

The nag was much older than he'd preferred, but his choices had been few. He heard the mare struggling and resolved that when they reached the top of the slope, they would rest.

His horse slipped, and Hugh instantly prepared to leap off the gelding's back to facilitate the climb, but it proved unnecessary. He couldn't say the same for the mare. Not far from the top, the old broodmare stubbornly refused to continue.

In fact, the sudden balking of the mare nearly pulled Hugh from his own saddle. He quickly glanced behind him, glaring at his captive, but she was doing nothing more than hanging on.

Hugh took pity on the mare and gestured for Dalla to climb off. She stared at him in dismay, glancing at the steep slope on her left, the rather drastic precipice to her right.

“Off?” she asked, eyebrows lifted in dismay.

Hugh nodded and quickly dismounted, slapping the gelding's rump. The horse continued upslope.

His hand still grasping the lead rope to the mare, he lifted his free hand toward Dalla.

“Give me your hand.”

She hesitated for a moment. Then, with obvious reluctance, she released her grip on the horse's mane and reached for his hand.

He clasped hers tightly as she dismounted, trying to maintain her balance on the steep slope. He then released the mare's rope and slapped her on the rump. The mare followed his gelding upward, albeit more slowly, while Hugh and Dalla followed on foot.

The fine mist that had started to fall an hour ago grew heavier. The clouds grew grayer, thicker, and dropped closer to the ground. They wouldn't make it to his camp in the distant mountains for another day. He'd have to find shelter out of the coming rain for the night.

As if to buttress his belief, a flash of lightning brightened the sky, followed by a stunning crackle of thunder that rumbled and echoed its way over the landscape. The mare neighed softly and tossed her head in alarm. His gelding, used to loud, sudden noises, didn't react.

He turned to find Dalla struggling to keep up, her thin leather slippers struggling to find purchase on the now slick trail.

Hugh frowned.

She was ill-clothed for bad weather, or for travel for that matter. He shook his head, looking uphill, urging the horses forward. He breached the rise, barely winded as he turned to wait for Dalla to catch up. She'd been cooped up in a ship's hold for how long? Not given much to eat, certainly. He would need to remedy that, or he'd end up with a sick captive.

She scrambled upward, eyes riveted to the ground, as if determining where she would place each footstep before she did so. While he appreciated her caution, she was also moving much too slowly.

“Come, Dalla, you're almost there, and then we can find some shelter.”

She sent a glare his way as she reached for a stubby clump of brush on the side of the slope to aid her steep ascent. Her chest heaved with exertion, and her limbs trembled, but she bit her lips, and kept pushing on.

In a matter of moments, she also reached the crest, her breath escaping her chest in short, harsh gasps. She leaned forward and rested her hands above her knees.

“We'll find shelter before this mist turns into—”

Too late. The clouds burst, and a delusion of rain pelted down. Within seconds he was drenched, as was Dalla.

The rain felt icy cold, bringing with it the smell of white pine, damp loam, and a myriad of other scents of the lush, forested wilderness that opened before them. At least they had managed to traverse the flatlands and those dangerous bogs before the rain came down.

He inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of pine on the air as he quickly made his way through a stand of pine and birch trees, the ground soft beneath his feet. He followed a faint deer trail, hoping to find some thick shelter, or if they were lucky, a cave in which they could take shelter for the night.

The rain came down harder, pounding on his head and soaking them both, the raindrops fat and heavy. In minutes, tiny rivulets began to wind their way downhill through the trees, and in areas not covered by pine needles or leaves, the ground soon grew saturated and slippery.

The horses ducked their heads, but plodded steadily behind Hugh, holding both reins now. Every once in a while, he glanced over his shoulder to find an increasingly angry-looking Dalla, her hair now plastered and hanging in dripping tendrils around her face, her pale blue gown darker in hue, hanging shapeless and heavy, the bottom hem dragging in the mud.

Her mouth was slightly open, her lips trembling with the growing chill in the air. He had to find shelter, and soon, or she would definitely fall ill, especially after—potentially—weeks of captivity and a rough sea crossing, and likely no more than watery broth and stale bread for sustenance.

He pushed forward, searching the landscape for an outcropping, anything that would provide—

A startled cry jerked his attention away from the landscape and back to her.

She had lost her footing, teetered for balance, arms swinging wildly as she tried to regain her footing.

He let go of the horses and stepped toward her, arms extended, trying to catch her before she fell, but he didn't get to her in time. She landed face down on the now muddy ground.

Hugh reached her a second later, but she was already scrambling to regain her footing. She shook off his helping hand, glaring up at him, tears shining in her eyes. Or maybe it was just the rain. Her jaw set, she growled low in her throat. The entire front of her gown was caked with mud, and so was most of her face.

He shook his head, unable to halt his grin. His amusement triggered a burst of anger as she let loose with what he could only imagine were curses ground out at him in her native language.

He didn't understand a word she said, but they certainly didn't sound like they were extolling his virtues. Hugh reached again for her arm, and though she struggled to yank it from his grasp, he tightened his grip.

“Stop fighting me,” he snapped. “There's a cave, up there, at the base of that slope. Do you see it?”

She stared up at him for several moments, her mouth set with a stubborn pout, the rain pounding down around them.

Finally, she turned in the direction he pointed, searched a moment, and then offered a stiff nod.

“Go. I will bring the horses.”

He gestured her forward, and she hurried toward the cave, almost hidden in a cleft in the great mass of rocks rising nearby. The lip of an overhang a man's height extended over the opening.

She scrambled beneath it and dropped to her hands and knees to crawl to the very rear, maybe a few feet deeper than the height. She sat and pressed her back against the rocks, pulling her knees close to her body before placing her forehead on her knees, burying her face from his view.

A surge of pity swept through him, but he brushed it away. He had more important things to think about at the moment, the least of which was finding some shelter for the horses, and then lighting a fire, if he could find any dry tinder, and then, food.

Dusk approached quickly, hastened by the heavy cloud cover. The reality of his situation struck him anew. He never had any problems weathering a storm, nor going without food nor warmth for days on end. But had Dalla?

He shook his head, once again regretting that moment when he had plucked the coins from his pocket and bought this stubborn, willful, and angry wildcat of a woman.

He had a feeling that she would be more trouble than she was worth.