Page 17 of The Story of his Highland Bride
Though she’d staggered through it in the dark once before, nothing seemed familiar, but that might’ve had something to do with the fact that she no longer had her phone’s flashlight as a crutch. The trees seemed more intent on closing in around her, and in every direction, frightening sounds made her pause every couple of steps: rustling bushes, creaking boughs, screaming foxes, and the eerie coo of birds that she’d disturbed, among others.
“It’s just one stretch of discomfort, then home,” she told herself, over and over, as she trudged through the undergrowth.
However, the roots and thorns that had already left welts and scratches all over her legs had apparently decided they weren’t done inflicting injuries on her vulnerable skin. And without the limited protection of her jeans, her calves were left open to theirbiting assault; the thorns and jagged twigs sneaking under the hem of her dress to enjoy a nip.
Before long, she was in agony, her legs pulsing with the heat of fresh pain and old pain intertwining. She could barely see more than a couple of steps ahead of her, and the sounds were becoming infinitely scarier… and closer. A short while ago, she could’ve sworn she heard footsteps approaching, but when she’d whipped around to try and see who was coming at her, she’d seen only darkness.
So, this is my test, huh? I won’t get killed by Jackson, but something in this wood is going to get me—is that it?She had no choice but to carry on, following what she thought was the path that the woman on the cart had mentioned. Essentially, it was the part of the undergrowth that felt less dense against her boots than the rest, though she knew it wasn’t a good judge in terms of sticking to the route.
“Thank goodness,” she breathed, as the trees suddenly thinned, opening out onto a glade.
At first, she thought she’d found the Cairns, but the moonlight quickly chased away any such hope. It spilled silver light down onto the flat, oval patch of grass, dotted with snowdrops, but there were no ancient burial rocks to be seen. No starlings, either.
Still, it wasn’t a bad place to make camp until the sun came up. It wasn’t too cold, the ring of trees protected the glade from the biting wind, and it was unlikely that anyone would find her outthere. Then, with the daylight, she’d continue on to Clava Cairns, following the actual path once it showed itself.
“Can’t be worse than waiting for the last train home on Christmas Eve,” she declared to the mocking rustle of the trees around her, as she picked a spot and laid down her cloak to sleep on.
Sitting on the thick wool, she hugged her knees and stared out across the glade, wishing she’d thought to bring kindling and one of the countless flickering torches she’d passed on her way out of the castle. A fire would’ve made the forest seem less terrifying, and it would certainly have chased away anything that might want to do her harm.
“One night of discomfort until freedom,” she whispered, forcing herself to lie down in the fetal position.
There was no way she was actually going to fall asleep, but the grass was soft beneath the cloak, and the wind had quietened, creating a mystical sense of peace that would definitely improve the next couple of chapters she’d had in mind for her book. If she could write about the forest, exactly as it was in that moment, she might just break out of her writer’s block and keep Harriet from pulling her hair out.
Closing her eyes, she began to map out what she would write and how she would write it, sifting through her mental thesaurus for the right words to express the eerie serenity. Would she mention Jackson? Her novel had been lacking in the compelling male protagonist stakes, but who would ever believe that such a mancould be real? She’d never be able to do him justice, nor would he fit in the modern landscape of her book.
Would Harriet cut ties with me if I asked to change the entire concept?She’d just thought of a new opening line, when a sound drilled through her slowly gathering moment of calm.
It started as a low rumble, like someone clearing their throat, but it didn’t stop when the lump was dislodged. It rumbled on, transforming into a deep and dangerous growl.
Eloise’s eyelids shot open to discover three pairs of yellow eyes staring right back at her, while sharp fangs glistened in the moonlight. And her scream, when it came, only seemed to make the wolves more ravenous.
10
The blood-curdling scream chilled Jackson to the bone. His thighs squeezed harder against the sides of his loyal stallion, his throat unleashing a frantic “hyah!” to urge the horse into a faster gallop, as man and beast tore through the forest, heading for that awful sound. The stallion, named Claymore for his sleek, silver hide—as shiny as any blade—was as surefooted as any mountain pony, but the tangles of roots and branches threatened to fell horse and rider at any moment as they charged through the underbrush.
What was she thinkin’, eh?Jackson fumed, keeping his body as flat to Claymore’s back as possible, in case a low-hanging branch tried to swipe him from the saddle.
As a second, strangled scream pierced the air, Jackson forgot his anger and raised his head just a little, to see ahead of him. Whatever Eloise was, and no matter how dangerous she was, he did not want any harm to befall her. He had made that decision no more than a few minutes after being sent fromher bedchamber by his grandmother, his mind haunted by the memory of her devastated expression.
Indeed, whatever that unnatural stone had been, he kept wondering if he had made mistake in breaking it in half. It seemed to mean a great deal to Eloise, for the wildness in her eyes when she had attempted to seize the two pieces had not been borne of just anger, but of pain and sadness: an emotion he recognized only too well.
Just then, Claymore sailed through the trees and landed with a snort in the middle of a glade. Once upon a summer, it had been the favored spot of his mother; she had always brought him there to take their luncheon in the cool shade, and when his father was not occupied by his Laird duties, he had often joined them. So, to see Eloise cowering by the trunk of an oak he knew well, being stealthily approached by three rangy-looking wolves; it jarred his heart somewhat.
“Oi!” Jackson bellowed to distract the wolves, as he unslung his bow from across his chest and plucked an arrow from his quiver.
He fired a warning shot, the arrow thudding into the dirt between the wolves and Eloise. She turned to him in terror, her eyes widening to the whites, her mouth agape. But whether she was more afraid of the wolves or of him, after his last display of bullish behavior; he was not sure.
Urging Claymore toward Eloise, he clenched his powerful thighs against the horse’s sides, and leaned out until he was almost horizontal, his hands reaching out for her. She appeared tounderstand his intention at the very last moment, reaching for him in return.
He grasped hold of her hands and hauled her to her feet, before grappling one arm around her. With all of his strength, his stomach muscles on fire with the strain, he hoisted her up onto the saddle. She managed to swing a leg over Claymore’s neck, riding as a man would as she settled into the saddle, sitting just in front of Jackson.
He wasted no time in wheeling Claymore around, and with his bow and arrow still in hand, he fired two more arrows in quick succession. One skimmed the rump of one of the wolves, sending it running into the forest with a yelp. The second landed just shy of another wolf’s paw, aimed on purpose to give the creature a chance to flee. It was not a foolish beast, and with a yellow-eyed glare in Jackson’s direction, the wolf took off after the first, with the last wolf loping away after a moment or two.
It's nae their fault,Jackson knew, noting the thin bodies of the wolves.It’s been a hard winter for us all, and it’s only goin’ to get harder.Still, he would have to arrange for soldiers to patrol the woodland, chasing off any wolves that dared to get too close again.
As Claymore headed back into the dense forest, plodding at a safer pace, Jackson put away his bow and arrow and slid his arm around Eloise’s waist once more. The way it narrowed like an hourglass did something peculiar to his stomach, making every muscle tighten until he could feel the grip of desire, pulsing deep in the center of his loins. And the swell of her buttocks, pressingup against those loins like soft cushions, almost made him stop the horse and take her into his arms properly. Indeed, with the wolves gone, the glade would have been the perfect place to free her of her garments and see her in her full, ethereal beauty in the silvery moonlight.
“Have ye taken leave of yer senses?” he said instead, using his anger at her escape to temper his longing. “Even if ye were desperate to leave, nay sane lass would walk in the forest at night by herself, especially nae in winter when all the beasts are half-starved and frantic for a bite of some tender flesh.”
