Page 7 of Rebellion's Fire

Christian clung tothe horse’s mane, at first in sheer terror that she’d fall off or crash into a tree, but both horse and rider seemed to be used to the country and to flying at speed through it. The forest echoed to the thundering of hooves, and after the first few moments of fear, exhilaration swept through her. They swerved past trees, crashing through undergrowth until they broke free of the woods. Then it was a mad dash over open moorland, the horse leaping over streams, taking the uneven ground in its smooth, unbroken stride.

Hills rose up on either side, narrowing into a glen, and at last, by a rushing stream, Christian’s captor slowed his horse and again lifted his right hand. She wasn’t stupid enough even to try to escape this time. There was nowhere to go, and the chances were she’d just have been run down by a still-galloping horse.

“Rest and eat,” Adam MacHeth said to his men.

Understanding the sudden swirl of Gaelic around her took Christian by surprise. The men’s words were often crude, and yet the very sound of them, the lilt of the language, threatened to deluge her with memory. She was barely aware of Adam MacHeth’s leg swinging away from hers or the faint thud as he landed on the grass. Only when he grasped her waist did she jerk back to the present, grabbing at his bare forearms in instinctive defense. She could feel the sinewy strength beneath her fingers as he pulled her from the saddle and set her on the ground.

And then, almost as shocking, she was freed, stumbling backward to land on her bottom on a grassy tussock. Since that seemed as good a place as any, she stayed put as if she’d always intended to sit there. No one, least of all Adam MacHeth, paid her any attention. They were all engaged in caring for their horses, letting them drink from the stream and munch the coarse grass while they discussed the likely location of people Christian had never heard of. Only the name Donald meant anything to her. He could have been Adam’s brother.

Standing or sprawling in a shapeless huddle, the men ate the supplies earlier donated by the villagers, although two of them were climbing the hills on either side, presumably to watch for friends or enemies.

Adam MacHeth sat among his men, mostly silent. Although neither he nor his people looked at her, Christian didn’t make the mistake of imagining she was actually unobserved. In fact, in much the same manner,shewatchedthemfrom the corner of her eye while looking directly at the hill climbers.

After several minutes, Adam’s lips moved in speech she couldn’t hear. One of the men rose and walked toward her. She dragged her gaze from the summit of the hill to find a very young, brown-haired man holding out a none-too-clean napkin with an oatcake and a chunk of something that might have been a rather scrawny chicken leg.

“Adam mac Malcolm bids you eat,” the youth said in Gaelic. Although his meaning was obvious without words, he spoke clearly, and she understood him. She even knew the correct response. It might have been an advantage, so she hid it, contenting herself with a mere inclination of the head by way of acknowledgment before taking the napkin from him. He set a leather flask down beside her tussock and then nodded, much as she’d done to him. Suspecting mockery, she looked straight into his eyes. But if he was poking fun, he hid it well.

He turned and left her.

In truth, she was too churned up for hunger, but since she was sure she’d need all the strength she could muster, she forced herself to eat the oatcake and a mouthful of the meat. There wasn’t time for much more, for their break was short. Before long, the men returned to their horses—most of which were considerably smaller than their leader’s. Christian would rather have ridden one of them alone, but clearly, she would never be trusted to that degree.

Adam MacHeth stood in front of her. “If you please,” he said in French.

None of this pleased her, but they both knew that she still had little choice. As she stood, he was already walking away. The youth who’d given her the food stood by the horse to boost her into the saddle, while Adam stroked the beast’s head and gazed up at the hills. Only when she was mounted did he speak a brief word of thanks to the youth, whom he called Cailean, and then sprang up behind her. Even then he kept his distance as much as possible, again avoiding contact. It seemed that despite the familiarity, not to say intimacy, of their earlier ride together, he’d returned to physical repulsion. She might have been tired of that, depressingly tired, but he was an enemy, right now her greatest enemy, and it hardly mattered.

They rode at a brisk pace through a pleasant glen, and Christian began to imagine she could smell the sea. She lifted her face, sniffing the air, and the back of her head touched her captor’s shoulder. For an instant, he stared down at her, his wild eyes swirling with darkness, his hair falling forward to cast a shadow over one hollowed cheek. Her stomach clenched, churning with fear and with something else that had no name but felt a little like the exhilaration of racing through the trees. Awareness. Then his gaze moved, and his eyes seemed to glaze.

Christian straightened her neck, and they rode on. Now, instead of the stillness she’d almost grown used to, her captor seemed to be constantly moving, twisting in the saddle, turning his head. She tried to ignore it.

Eventually, he held up one hand, and the horses came to a halt. Adam MacHeth wheeled his horse around, and the sound of pounding hooves heralded a solitary figure on horseback careering through the glen in their wake.

“Findlaech,” one of the men said laconically.

Adam pushed through the column of his men to meet the newcomer, who eventually slowed. His horse blew and snorted for breath. So did the rider, a harsh-featured man with strands of gray in his black hair.

“Donald,” the man panted. “Donald is captured.”

Donald MacHeth? Adam’s brother? Had William won his first battle in Ross?

Adam swore under his breath, although for some reason it struck Christian that he wasn’t surprised. “Lanson?” he asked.

The man nodded. “He’d divided. While we watched one lot, another came up behind us. Good fight. We’d have beaten him soundly, only he retreated.”

“With Donald.”

“With Donald.”

Adam nodded. “It’s what he came for. Does Donald know we have the lady?”

The man nodded. “I told him you’d gone for her. What will we do now?”

“Exchange,” Adam said impatiently as if it was a foregone conclusion.

Christian couldn’t help it. She laughed.

The man, Findlaech, blinked at her several times, as if, despite his apparent knowledge, he was surprised to find her there. Adam ignored her. She twisted her head to look up at him, and although her laughter must already have given away some understanding of Gaelic, she spoke in French, openly mocking.

“Are you jesting? The great Donald MacHeth forme? Even I wouldn’t be so foolish, and I’m biased. You might as well let me go. I told you at the outset. William holds all the cards. You have none.”

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