DANGER AND RESCUE
A phrase echoed round her head, drowning out the urgent beat of her heart. She couldn't remember exactly who had said it, not right now. She just knew it made sense and that it was all that was likely to keep her safe.
Don't show your fear. Don't look at them. Don't scream.
Rubina was on her feet as she thought it. The night was graying now, the gray-washed, cold morning touching the shadows of the trees, bringing back the colors. Rubina was cold. They had been riding almost all night. She had dropped off to sleep a few times, only to jerk back to waking as they crossed a bump in the pathway. Her fingers ached.
The rope bound her hands and restricted the blood flow. She tensed and relaxed her fingers, trying to bring the feeling to their cold extremities. She sighed.
No one spoke. As they passed through the woodlands, the men had fallen silent. The night had bothered them, Rubina realized. In a foreign land, with only the path below their feet to guide them, reliant on the faint silver of night and the eyesight of Albert, who led them, they were almost as helpless as she.
And who knows who is pursuing them?
Hope kindled in her heart, fierce and firm. Her father would send someone. He was the Duke of Buccleigh.
She shivered, thinking of the forest lasses who might have been taken and never found. Curse these men! She spat.
“Easy, there,” one of the men said. He glared at her.
“Hush, Matt,” one of the other men reprimanded fitfully. “No talking. He ordered it, remember?”
The man gave the other a murderous glance, but no one said anything again. Rubina, jolting with the faster motion of the horse's hoofs, found herself wondering who “he” was.
Castlereagh, the English officer.
She sensed a growing tension in the men. It seemed, to her, as if things were changing. Maybe they were close to the camp.
Finally.
Her back ached and she realized, with some shock, that she was almost indifferent to what happened to her. She just needed this ride to end.
As if agreeing with her, the woods seemed to thin a little here. She sensed more light, falling down from a pale, pewter sky. The birds sang sleepily. They were nearing the edge of the woodland.
Terror gripped her again, as the men grew stiffly alert. They seemed nervous – stiffening their backs, shifting to and fro in their seat on their saddles. The restlessness communicated itself to her, making her tremble with unease.
“Hey, fellows,” the man called Matt, who seemed to be a second-in-command to the bearded man, called softly. “Look lively. Here's the Castlereagh”
Rubina drew in a breath. Her heart thumped. One of the men chuckled uneasily.
“Right. Let's go.”
They rode hesitantly into the gap.
A horse snorted. A bird chuckled down sleepily from the treetop. Rubina inhaled mist and smoke and shivered.
“Right,” their leader said.
This seemed to be the only word necessary. The men dismounted. The man who rode before her attempted to lift her down. She almost collapsed, his presence on the saddle before her the only thing seeming to keep her up.
“Hey,” Albert said aggressively. Shouldering the man aside, he cut the bonds round her hands. She hissed out a breath as the blood flowed back to them, and then yelled in agony. Her fingers felt like a white-hot mass of pain. She sobbed.
“Shut her up, do?” Matt said dolefully. “He'll hear us.”
“Go on ahead,” Albert snarled.
He lifted her down and set her on her feet. She found herself facing a camp out just beyond the treeline. There were canvas tents – perhaps four of them, and a central post where shields were hung. A fire had been assembled nearby it – the smoke curled up from a white-and-black bed of ashes. She coughed.
Someone next to her hissed in a breath. She stared.
Someone had come out of the main tent. In the pale illumination, scattered by the mists, she crinkled her eyes, finding it hard to see who it was. She stared.
He was tall, clad in a white tunic and beige hose. His hair was dark. Cut severely to chin-length, it framed a long, bony face.
His presence was tall and angular, his nose long, his manner silent but threatening. He had thin lips and a square jawline and his eyes were brown. He...
Her heart stopped.
He was the man from the clearing. The man who had seen her. Who had smiled.
He recognized her as she recognized him. His eyes widened, and then narrowed. He smiled again.
Rubina moaned. Her guard tensed, about to shake her. She fell silent. Her legs turned weak under her and she stumbled. Her guard pulled her up. She looked at the man.
He was still smiling.
No. No. Not him. No, no, no.
Her world went dark just as he strode over. She felt Albert tense and then step reluctantly away.
“Leave her to me,” a voice said. She felt the world grow dark around her and passed out.
The smell of smoke woke her. That and the feeling of damp. It was her hair that was wet, she realized. She reached up and groaned. Her head hurt. She sat up.
“She awakes,” a voice said. She tensed. Him. The man called Castlereagh. She shivered. A thought struck her. Was it best to try and reason with him, or to keep the fact that she could understand him a secret? She frowned.
A secret. If he knows I could betray their plans, he'll kill me.
“So,” he said. She tensed again as she heard his boots cross the leaf-litter and crunch over to where she lay, hunched and shivering, by the fireside. Someone touched her shoulder. She gasped. He laughed.
“Fine use, you,” he said. “Too scared for touching?”
She felt herself crimp together, her knees drawing up to her chest, some age-old instinct making her make of her body a smaller target. He chuckled. Harsh hands drew her up.
“Let's see you, then,” he said. She felt herself held at arm's length. She didn't look at him. It was an almost tangible thing, his gaze on her body. She felt it linger at her breasts and she felt spit dry in her mouth, her heart thump and her belly twist with fear. She looked around the clearing.
“Please,” she whispered. It was sheer luck that she said it in Scots, her own language. He frowned.
“Why be merciful, eh?” he said bleakly in passable Lowland Scots. She looked into his eyes.
“I can help you,” she said defiantly. Inside, she was shivering. She made herself look into his eyes. Dark – so dark they were almost black – they held a flat indifference that made her skin crawl. There was no goodness in this man. There was no warmth. The most he felt for her was a cruel curiosity.
He laughed. “How so?”
“I can tell no one you're here,” she said.
He huffed a laugh. “You won't be doin' that anyway,” he said coldly. “You can't talk if you're dead. And if you're with us, who's to tell?”
“Please,” she said again. “Just let me go?”
He looked down at her. His hand reached out to touch the front of her gown. It was blue velvet, decorated at the front of a square-cut neckline with a small cornflower blue silk ribbon. He smiled. She saw warmth in his eyes as lust kindled there. He tore at it hungrily.
“You're a highborn whelp, eh?” he spat into the leaves. “I come from the gutter,” he said. “I might be Sir Castlereagh now, but not before. Your lot would have let me starve.”
“I'm Scots,” she protested. He laughed.
“Don't care. You lot're all the same. Well. I'll have myself a highborn brat, then,” he said.
He grabbed her shoulders and threw her back into the leaves. She would have screamed, except the shock was too great as, glaring, he followed her down into the leaf-litter. She tried to sit up. He cuffed her. She smelled blood and something warm trickled down her face, salty and slow.
She shuddered and then, recovering her senses, screamed again. He raised a fist, warning. She stopped. He grabbed her bodice and ripped at it.
She lay where she was, frightened of being hit again. His blow had already stunned her, what would he do to her if she didn't keep still? He was so strong. The harder she fought, the more he'd hit her, hurt her. He wanted vengeance for his childhood treatment. He was going to exact it from her. The only hope for her was to stay still and quiet and to try not to enrage him.
Her dress parted and she could hear him swearing, laughing.
“Serves you right, eh...lordling's get...” he carried on in that vein, calling her names she wished she couldn't understand. He pulled at the laces of her petticoat. She felt her whole body go still. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see his face. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to scream. She wanted, very badly, to disappear. However, he was here, nauseating and humiliating, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do.
Besides disappear.
If she lay very still, if she closed her eyes, if she didn't move, didn't respond, didn't breathe...then she didn't exist. He can't hurt me. He can't see me. He can't touch me.
She was sinking deeper into the mist of oblivion when she heard something. Whatever it was, it was moving fast and quiet over the leaves. It rustled and then stopped. She felt the English knight tense. He swore.
The whatever had moved, loped closer. Rubina let herself open her eyes.
She found herself looking into the shaggy, white-and-patched fur muzzle and mismatched eyes of Brown, the boar-hound. Her heart kindled.
“Brown,” she whispered.
The dog saw her and padded over. Then he saw Castlereagh. She looked sideways, seeing how white and still he'd gone. The dog, too, went still.
Watch for when they go still. That's when they're deadly. If they bark, you're safe: if they just look at you, you're dead.
Brown was staring at Castlereagh. Then, like lightning, he lunged.
Rubina heard the snarl, the snap. The scream. She rolled sideways and sideways and then she was on her feet, leaning on a tree, vomiting, shaking, and weeping.
She didn't look into the clearing; didn't let herself focus on whatever it was that writhed and moaned and then went ominously still. The dogs were all there now: Brown and Patch and Odd-ear and Legs and Lurch. They were a pack, hunting. The sounds of hunting died down and left the clearing in silence.
Rubina, huddled against the tree trunk, hid when she heard the footsteps. She wiped the sick off her face, spat out the sourness of bile. Fixed the torn remnants of the petticoat so that it made a shift and then knelt on the forest floor and watched, half in fear and half in indifferent curiosity, the scene unfolding before them.
“Whist! Leg! Ears!” a man's voice shouted out the abbreviated names. “Go on, off!”
Rodney, the big huntsman, appeared at the head of a group of other woodsmen. They pulled the dogs away. Rubina recognized him distantly, information flowing piecemeal through the fog in her head.
“Sir?” one of the men called, animated. “What now, sir?”
“Split up. Look for her, man!” Rodney commanded tersely.
Rubina shook her head, shrank down in the leaf-mold, completely still.
Right now, the last thing she needed was a pack of woodsmen finding her like this. She wished she had her father in front of her – if this was his idea, she'd curse him for it. She had faced enough humiliation!
The men set off and found the camp. She could hear them exclaiming and yelling and she let out a long sigh. That would keep them busy.
With any luck she could just hide here until the chance came to steal a horse and ride...somewhere. She didn't want to see anyone right now.
Her family, she knew, wouldn't understand. Her mother would baby her, Father want to avenge her. They had no idea what she'd been through! No idea how it had changed her, aged her.
I'm not sweet little Rubina anymore. I am tainted. Old inside, if not outside.
She curled up and sobbed.
The woodsmen left the clearing one at a time. She let out a sigh. The body of her attacker, they had taken away. Good. She wouldn't ever have to see it. She spat, feeling her stomach lurch again, though there was nothing left inside to retch up.
I need to find a horse.
She walked shakily out into the trees. The fire had been trampled out. The tents ripped over. There was a bowl that no one had upturned. It held clean water. She bent down and sipped, gagged and spat. Drank from cupped hands, letting the clear, cold water fill her. It cleared her head. Cool and clear, it made her shiver. She washed her face in the remainder and sat still, thinking hard.
If I can get a horse, I can ride south. I can find the road from Queensferry. Maybe I can find the abbey.
She would seek refuge with the nuns. Maybe she could just stay there. Do charitable works. Never go home.
Never see Camden again.
The thought gave her pause. She shivered. Why would she want to see Camden? He'd never understand what had happened to her! If he knew, maybe he'd blame her? She deliberately stoked the fires of her rage. She wouldn't want to see him again!
She stood. Swayed. Steadied.
A horse gave a low whinny behind her. She tensed. Turned.
A white horse stood at the entrance to the clearing. Pale in the pale mist, the creature looked like he'd appeared there, woven from fog strands. She walked toward him.
“Whoa, lad,” she murmured. “You'll carry me, hey?” She reached up and stroked his nose. He huffed. The saddle he wore was a fine one, of Spanish leather. She tensed. Whose was he? Not Rodney or the verderers. They would never have a saddle like that. Not any of the English, either, she reasoned. A poor scouting force, none of them could afford this saddle either.
No, this saddle had come from the court. In which case, where was the knight who rode this stallion? She tensed, looking around.
“Who goes there?” she called in Lowland Scots.
No one answered. When she had waited a minute and still no one had appeared, she patted the horse's neck and led him forward.
“Come on, boy,” she said softly. “Come on. Let's go.”
She was about to mount up when someone spoke, startling her.