“Take off your clothes.”

Dalla stared up at him, mouth dropping open. While she considered herself fluent in English, she was sure she had misunderstood. “What?”

He extended his saddle blanket toward her. “It's a bit damp, but it's dryer than your clothes. So, take them off. You'll catch your death. You can hide under this until they’re dry.”

With that, he dropped the blanket to the ground beside her with one hand, a crumpled handful of clothes that looked to be a pair of breeches and a long-sleeved tunic beside it.

She scowled. She had no intention of disrobing one item of clothing from her person. If he thought she would—

“Do it!” he snapped. “I paid good money for you, and for a horse. I will not let you waste it by becoming ill, or worse yet, dying on me.”

For several seconds, she stared up at him, flabbergasted. How dare he speak to her like that! He was nothing but a barbaric Scotsman, and a highlander too, and she was a member of the royal family of Norway. Why, she should—

“Either you take those clothes off yourself, or I'll do it for you.”

She looked into his eyes and took in the hardness of his jaw and realized that he just might possibly do just that. She heaved a sigh and then looked down at the clothes at her side.

Dalla darted one more glance up at him, but he'd already turned his back, legs slightly spread, arms crossed over his chest as he stood slightly hunched, so he didn't knock his thick noggin on the roof of the cave.

He stood near the lip and water seeped over the overhand, making its way along the pitted rocks above him and dripped. He didn't seem to notice, or even care that fat drops of rain pattered down on him, dripping down the back of his head and down that thick, strong neck. With his arms crossed like that, the seams of his tunic looked near to bursting, his muscles bunched and tense with what could only be aggravation.

Muttering with exasperation, she stared at his back until he abruptly walked off into the woods, mindless of the rain. She stared after him in dismay. Where was he going?

A moment of panic surged through her. He wouldn't leave her out here by herself, would he? She calmed her fear, snickering at her own foolishness. Maybe he was just taking care of nature's needs… which she also needed to do, come to think of it. No, he was looking after the horses too. He certainly wouldn't be going far, not with all of their supplies and the horses still nearby.

Still, she stubbornly sat, unmoving, as if frozen with indecision. But she didn't have a decision to make, did she? She had to do what she was told or suffer the consequences. She was in a tenuous situation, no doubt about it. She had to watch her mouth, a challenge in the best of times. She couldn't push him too hard, or he just might hurt her, or worse, kill her. It probably wouldn't bother him a bit. After all, she was the enemy, and he was a bloody Scot.

He had complained about the cost of buying her. She cringed at the word. She had been bought. Her spirits sagged even lower, but with an effort, she pulled herself out of her despairing thoughts. Nothing she could do about it now. She had no idea where they were, and though she was loath to admit it, he was right. Who was going to help her? She had no knowledge regarding the local geography. Arriving in these foothills had been treacherous. More than once she had felt the ground slightly give way to the weight of her horse.

Bogs, he called them. Quagmires. He had told her that if she fell into one, it would swallow her up. Was he telling the truth? She didn't want to put it to the test. More than once she had seen skeletal remains floating on the surface of those muddy holes, the decaying carcass of a deer half in and half out of one, as if it had died trying to scramble to freedom.

No, she couldn't take the chance. Could she?

What if—

“I thought I told you to get out of those wet clothes.”

She startled as she looked up and saw him standing in the cave opening, head and shoulders again slightly stooped.

He carried an arm full of small branches. They looked dry, much to her amazement. He tossed the wood onto the ground nearby and took a threatening step toward her.

“I don't want to tell you again.”

“I—” The heat of a flush warm her cheeks as she gestured outside. “I—I need to—”

He stared at her a moment, then nodded. “There's a tree near the entrance. Go there and no further. I'll be watching.”

She flushed again. “You can't—”

He shook his head with impatience. “I won't see you actually—just go. I will only see your shape—”

“But—”

“Go! Before I change my mind and watch you the entire time!”

She swallowed back a sharp retort, rose, her wet and mud-flecked gown heavy and uncomfortable. She stepped by him, refusing to cringe as she passed, then ventured beyond the overhang. She looked to the right, and there stood the bloody tree.

Fuming, she stepped behind it, back to him, yanked up her skirts and squatted. She'd never been so humiliated in her life, but at the moment, all she could think of was relief.

In a matter of moments, she stalked back into the cave and resumed her former position, glowering as she stared at the walls, the small pile of supplies, the blanket and the clothes he had dropped at her side.

“Take those clothes off,” he said, his voice soft though firm. “Now.”

She turned to stare. She herself wanted out of her sodden gown, but when she was naked, she would be that much more vulnerable. She tugged the blanket closer to her body. If he thought—

He watched her for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then seemed to realize. He lifted his eyes upward, shaking his head.

“Don't be daft, woman,” he grumbled. “I'm not going to touch you. But I am warning you. If you get sick because of your own foolishness, I'm going to leave you where you lay. Is that clear enough?”

Yet another surge of heat warmed her cheeks. He wasn't going to… he wasn't going to take liberties with her. At least, she didn't think so.

Could she trust him? A shiver jolted her body. Biting her lip to prevent herself from expressing her wrath and frustration, she began to fumble with the heavy fabric of her gown. Her fingers felt numb with cold and had lost their usual nimbleness, but she forced herself to undress.

He turned his back to her and began to lay a fire.

Within moments, she had managed to slide the wet dress down over her shoulders while at the same time trying to hold the blanket to cover her. She snuggled the bundle of fabric past her hips, and then her feet. It lay in a wet ball, soon to be followed by her chemise.

Her captor hunched down before the fire, his back still to her, slowly placing sticks on it, his gaze riveted to the landscape around them.

She huddled under the saddle blanket, naked, staring at his broad back and the way the muscles played over his shoulders as he tended the fire. The glowing light of the fire cast a slightly reddish tinge to his hair.

Muttering softly to herself, she donned the breeches, way too big, but at least they were warm and dry. Warily, she lowered saddle blanket from her shoulders, baring her upper torso as she arranged the tunic to slide over her arms and down her shoulders. The cold, damp air touched her skin, caused a shiver of goosebumps. Quickly, she slid the tunic over her head, threaded her arms through the sleeves, and quickly fastened the leather thong at the deep vee in the front of the tunic. She snugged it tightly shut.

As for the trousers, well, if she stood, she would just have to hold them up, or they would slide down to her ankles. Begrudgingly, she admitted that she felt a bit better and warmer, though she would certainly not acknowledge that fact to that Scottish brute. She felt her lagging spirits rise.

As she shoved the horse blanket aside to reach for her sodden clothes, her captor stood, his back still toward her.

“Are you done yet?”

His impatient, condescending tone triggered yet another unwise fit of pique. Her frustration boiled over. She gathered the pile of wet clothes in her hand and heaved them at him. Her blue gown landed on his left shoulder and then slid ever so slowly toward the ground. Her cream-colored chemise landed on his head.

The sight prompted a horrified shout, half laugh, that erupted unbidden from her chest as he spun, whipping the undergown from his head, his expression startled, angry, and… and then, much to her surprise, he reached up, snatched the undergown in his hand, glanced at it, then at her, but said nothing.

It was at that moment that she realized that he wasn't going to hurt her. He wasn't going to beat her, and he wasn't going to… he wasn't going to accost her.

At the same time, she realized by the look that he gave her that he was not a man to be trifled with. Odd, but his behavior, his expression, and that taciturn silence seemed to acknowledge her emotions. She might have gotten away with it this once, but that look was no doubt a warning that she would not be getting away with it again.

He stooped down, keeping his eyes on her, and plucked her gown from the soft dirt on the floor of the cave. Casually, he shook both the gown and the chemise, then draped them over outcroppings of rock just inside the cave.

She stared, appalled that her underclothing had not just been handled, but was in clear view of the—

Overhead, a loud crack of thunder startled her. She quickly reached for the saddle blanket and huddled under it, pulling it up to her shoulders as she watched him rummage in one of the leather satchels he'd brought in.

He pulled out what looked like a piece of dried meat and handed it to her. She stared at the disgusting sliver of sinewy meat, then up at him. He shrugged and started to turn away, but she snatched her hand from underneath the roughly woven blanket and took the strip of meat.

Her fingers brushed against his. Warm, strong fingers. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the damp chill in the air. He said nothing, but settled himself cross-legged, leaning back against the rough rock wall as he retrieved another strip of meat from his satchel and began to chew on it. Occasionally, he glanced at her, but for the most part he simply stared outside the cave opening.

What was he thinking? She had no idea. Though his features remained expressionless, his eyes constantly shifted, darting here and there, as if watching for something. What? Wild animals? Dangerous people intent on robbing and killing? She grunted. All the people in this forsaken country were wild. Heathens with the manners of a guttersnipe.

Then again, this one… this Hugh, had not laid a hand on her in anger, not yet.

The rain pounded down, broken only occasionally by the crackle of the fire, burning low just inside the opening, casting undulating shadows of light against the shallow cave walls.

Dalla tried to rest but couldn't. She glanced over at him minutes later and saw that his eyes were closed. She tensed. Was he asleep? He wasn't going to tie her up? He wasn't afraid that she would run away? He was right that she could not expect to plead for mercy or help from the natives. They hadn't seen anyone since they'd left the small harbor town anyway.

No one would help a Norwegian woman, an obvious captive… but she was wearing men's clothes now. Ill-fitting men's clothes, but maybe, just maybe, if she escaped, she could convince them that she had been kidnapped, which was the truth, but they didn't have to know from where.

She spoke English and could tell them she was from the English countryside down south, or even France. Any of these Scottish highlanders who managed to speak even rudimentary English would certainly not be able to identify a lack of geographically proper accent, would they?

But first, she had to get away.

She glanced outside, watching the rain. She didn't look forward to venturing out into that rainstorm, but the rain would cover her tracks, making it more difficult for him to follow. She glanced again at the huge, slouching man, relaxed now, his head dipping toward his chest.

Dalla tested his attention by shifting her position. His eyes half-opened, heavy-lidded as he glanced at her, then closed them again. If she waited long enough, an hour perhaps, he would be fast asleep. Then again… she glanced at the pieces of kindling and wood he had brought in for the fire. She spied a length of a pine branch roughly the thickness of her wrist, measuring the length of her forearm. It looked like a good, stout piece of wood.

Did she dare?

How could she not? The further they ventured from the coast, the further her hopes of escape or freedom waned. The deeper they ventured into this wild countryside, the greater her chance of never escaping, never finding her way back.

She yearned to escape and return home and scowled at the thought. Were they even looking for her? She couldn't remember how many days she'd been gone. Maybe her father had already given her up for dead, not overly upset with her loss. No, it wasn't homesickness for her father that drove her thoughts now, it was anger and vengeance.

She would find those responsible for her kidnapping, for ordering her to be sold as a slave. If she could escape from her captor and somehow manage to get herself aboard a ship bound for the continent, she knew she would gradually make her way home. Dressed as a boy, it would be easier. She would crop off her hair if she had to. Muddy her face like a street urchin. But somehow, someway, she would return home and discover who had been behind this horrible, unthinkable deed.

And they would pay.

Her decision made, she waited, frozen, maintaining an easy breathing pattern as she pretended to sleep. Her captor shifted his position once or twice, but grew increasingly relaxed. She heard a soft snore. Now was her chance. She didn't know if she would get another.

Heart pounding, she shifted position, ever so slowly, taking care to carefully lift the saddle blanket from her body, her eyes riveted to her captor every second.

It seemed to take forever to remove the blanket and lift her body up onto the balls of her feet, holding up the too-large britches with one hand and reach for that stump of wood with the other. Finally, she wrapped her hand around it, clasping it tightly. Heart pounding, her mouth dry, her muscles protesting her slow movements, she paused to glance once more at the sleeping man. Lips pressed tightly together, forcing her nerves to settle, she lifted her hand and raised her arm above her head, prepared to strike.

The moment her arm descended downward, he opened his eyes.

She uttered a soft cry of surprise as he stared at her, his eyes wide just before the chunk of wood struck his forehead. With a low groan, he slumped back, blood streaming down into his closed eyes.

She stared in horror for several moments, then saw the pulse throbbing in his neck. She hadn't killed him.

While relief flooded through her, she abruptly turned and dashed under the opening of the cave and into the rain-swept night.

She began to run.