DANGER AND THREAT
Amabel screamed. She did it to repel the man who had leered at her and then grasped her wrist. She knew it was probably pointless – anyone out here in the woods would likely either ignore her or be another of her enemies.
“Easy, now...” the man said. His grip on her wrist was cold and hard, and Amabel twisted her hand in his grasp, dragging it free. He swung back and clouted her across the face and she fell back. She sobbed in sheer amazement. No one had ever hit her before.
“Tam, stop that,” a commanding voice said. “We're not here to do that, but at his lordship's bidding.”
“Aw, c'mon, Lewis. Who'll know?”
“If anyone finds out, he'll kill you. He's not Duke for nothing.”
Amabel frowned. “What duke?”
“Lord Callum,” someone said helpfully. The man who appeared to be in charge hit him. Amabel froze.
The duke of Astley? No! Why would he..?
“You blithering fool, Duncan,” he swore. “How're we supposed to explain that we just shouted that secret all over the woods?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Thanks. I can use a good sorry when the duke roasts my toes.”
The man chuckled and the man in charge glared.
At that moment, Amabel cleared her throat. She thought she'd heard something, some rustle in the bushes. It had happened twice now – enough to make her think it might be someone. She coughed.
She let forth a blood-curdling scream.
“Whist!” the man closest to her hissed. He struck her again and this time Amabel felt restraint dissolve. She screamed aloud and this brought another blow. She sobbed, curling in on the pain.
The sound of her scream had also brought horses.
Hoof beats exploded down the path and Amabel saw hoofs enter the clearing. From her vantage on the ground, that was all she could see. Big, solid hoofs with the slender ankles of a hunting horse above them. She saw the horse wheel and rear, and heard one of the soldiers scream in fright.
She heard someone shouting, letting out incoherent screams of rage as he attacked. She deduced that whoever it was had arrived on the horse. The clearing was disintegrating into running feet, cries and howls. She curled up tightly, afraid of being trampled as the men ran into the trees. Three of them had stayed to fight and she heard the clang of sword on sword and curled up tighter, wishing she could see what was happening.
A man ran off, crashing through the bushes on her right-hand side. Then the leader was shouting – she recognized his voice – and engaging whoever it was with a sword. She heard the clang of a blade against a blade, and then another clang. She could see two pairs of feet and the hoofs of the horse, moving subtly to give his rider the advantage as he fought.
She heard a yell and the crack, indescribable and resounding, of a cheap sword cracking. Then the second man ran off.
The leader of the group seemed to decide to leave shortly thereafter, for she heard him moving light-footed through the brush. She tensed as she heard rustling there, afraid he might draw a dagger or hurl a spear at her rescuer, but nothing happened. She heard the rustle of feet retreat and then, it seemed, the man left.
She curled up, cold, sore and afraid. She was so tired. Too tired to sit up or even to speak.
It's shock. You're tired because of the shock. You have to move.
She sighed. Why should she move? She was warm here. Warm and safe. If she just lay down, she would be safe. She could rest. Sleep.
She heard the horseman dismount, his boots cracking on twigs as he crunched across the space of the forest floor between his horse and her. She heard him draw in a breath and then kneel.
Then he let out an explosive whisper.
“Amabel?”
She stared. She knew the voice. It was the first word he'd spoken. It couldn't be. He wasn't here! Yet he was.
She struggled to kneeling, and stared.
“Sir!”
It was Rufus. He was kneeling on the leaf mold, his tunic shining dully in the darkness, eyes horrified.
“My lady,” he said. He reached out his big, warm hands to her and took her wrists. She flinched. He seemed to understand and released her, opening his arms. When she didn't move, he dropped them to his sides.
“My lady,” he whispered. “You...are you hurt?”
She sniffed, dryly. “Probably,” she said. She had meant to sound unaffected, level. Her voice came out as a small croak and she winced, clearing her throat. “Are you?”
He sighed. “Oh, Amabel. I'm well. Here. You'll freeze. Where is your cloak?”
“They took it,” she said. She looked at the ground uncomfortably. She was wearing a plain woolen shift, her riding cloak and overdress both gone. The men had stolen them, saying they'd fetch a pretty penny in the town some time.
So almost vagabonds. However, not quite. They were in someone's pay.
She shook her head to clear it. She reached up into her hairline, feeling the swelling mass of a bruise. She knew the addled sense such a bruise could result in, and decided she would try and make a conclusion about the event later. Her brain might have filled in the nonsense about Lord Callum. It was completely crazy. She sighed.
“My lady?” Rufus said. His voice was surprisingly humble, broken. Amabel sighed too.
“Sir,” she said in a soft voice. “Take me home?”
Rufus stood. He reached out his hands and, this time, she let him take her fingers in his strong grip and assist her to her feet. Then, gently, he drew her to his chest.
“You're shivering,” he said. “We need to get you warm.” he paused. “Would you...” he turned, rummaging in his saddle pack. “Would you wear this?”
He passed her a wool tunic. She shook it out. Looked down at it. Dark brown and so soft, she thought she recognized it as something he had worn. She looked up at him.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was tight with feeling. He smiled.
“My lady,” he said. His hand rose to cup her cheek and then it fell to one side. He still smiled, that same sweet, hesitant, impish smile, as if fully unsure of welcome. However, he would not touch her without her permission.
She sighed and shrugged on the tunic. Her teeth were chattering now, the shock letting her feel again, and she felt cold.
She struggled into the garment, which hung halfway to her knees, and scraped her hands down her biceps, trying to fight out the terrible, aching cold.
“Please,” she whispered. “Take me to Buccleigh? Now?”
She had to talk to her father. She had to confront him. Now she had to make sense of what she'd heard. Why was Lord Callum on the lookout for strangers riding between Edinburgh and Buccleigh? It made no sense. His own landholdings were scattered around the nearby landscape, though she knew he did hold land close to Buccleigh.
Which is why, she supposed, her father and grandfather thought it such an appropriate match.
Nevertheless, I don't think they'd take such a kind view of a man whose thugs almost beat me unconscious.
She gritted her teeth, as it seemed remembering the wound in her head worsened the ache she felt there. She felt his hand touch her shoulder and she tensed, not wanting to flinch.
Then, gently, he led her to the horse and lifted her on. She thanked him, feeling sleepy. Why was she so exhausted?
“At your service, milady,” he said gently. He mounted behind her, holding her safely against him as he breathed against her shoulder, guiding the horse back to the road, and whispering. “I will always find you, no matter whether you will walk away or not. My heart is tied to yours, whether you will sunder it or no. Forever.”
She didn't even try to make sense of those words. However the gentling speech wove into her heart and that, together with the safe warmth and the comfort, sent her, almost at once, completely unanticipated, to sleep.