With that she collapsed in a heap beside the dog, asleep, or perhaps in a faint.
The dog nudged her, sniffed her, licked her bloody face, and when nothing made her rise he settled beside her and slept.
The sun was high overhead when Elizabeth woke and looked up at the massive, shaggy head of the dog. The animal’s eyes were questioning, as concerned about her as a human. There was an ugly cut covered with dried blood under one of the dog’s eyes.
“Get that from fighting the wolves?” She smiled up at the dog, scratching its ears. As she started to rise, her legs gave way under her and she clutched the dog. “It’s a good thing you’re strong, Charlie,” she said, using the dog’s back to brace herself.
When she was at last on her feet, she looked down at herself and groaned. Her skirt was half tied up, half hanging down to her ankles. Her left knee was cut, scraped, still oozing blood, while her right knee was merely raw. With determination, she tossed the plaid over her arms, not wanting to see the damage done to them. When she touched her hair she felt dried bits of blood so she moved her hand away.
“Can you find some water, Charlie?” she asked the dog. “Water?”
The dog took off instantly across the rocky landscape, returning when Elizabeth could follow only at a snail’s pace. The newly healed scabs had opened and there were warm trickles of blood on her body.
The dog led her to a small stream where she washed as best she could. When she met her liberators, she wanted to be as presentable as possible.
She and the dog walked for hours, staying close to the rocks and the few trees. Once they heard horses and instinctively Elizabeth hid, pulling the dog to her side. There was no way she could have held the big dog had it decided to leave her, but for the moment the animal seemed content to stay with her.
By sundown, what little strength she had left was gone, and it didn’t seem to matter when the dog began barking at something she couldn’t see. “No doubt it’s Miles or your mistress,” she said heavily and slid to the ground, closing her eyes.
When she opened them again a man she’d never seen before stood over her, legs wide, hands on hips. The dying sunlight haloed his gray hair, made shadows on his strong jaw.
“Well, Rab,” he said in a deep voice, stroking the dog, “what have you brought me this time?”
“Don’t touch me,” Elizabeth whispered as the man bent toward her.
“If you’re worried I’ll harm you in any way, young woman, you needn’t be. I’m the MacGregor and you’re on my land. Why is Bronwyn’s dog with you?” He eyed her English clothes.
Elizabeth was tired, weak, hungry, but she wasn’t dead. The way this man said Bronwyn told her they were friends. Tears began falling down her cheeks. Now she’d never get home. No friend of the MacArrans would return her to England, and Roger’s capture by a Montgomery could start a private war.
“Don’t greet so, lass,” the MacGregor said. “Soon you’ll be in a nice safe place. Someone will tend to your cuts and we’ll feed you and—What the hell!”
Elizabeth, as the man leaned closer, had pulled his dirk from its sheath and aimed for his stomach. Sheer weakness had made her miss.
Lachlan MacGregor sidestepped, took the dirk from her and flung her over his shoulder in one quick movement. “Give me no more trouble, lass,” he commanded when she started to struggle. “In Scotland we don’t repay kindness by stabbing someone.”
He tossed Elizabeth on his horse, whistled for Rab to follow and the three of them set off at a furious pace.
Chapter 9
ELIZABETH SAT ALONE IN A BIG ROOM IN THE MACGREGOR castle, the oak door barred. The room was mostly bare except for an enormous bed, a chest and three chairs. A fireplace was along one wall, filled with logs, but no fire warmed the cold stones.
Elizabeth huddled in one of the chairs, the plaid from Bronwyn wrapped about her, her sore knees drawn in to her chest. It had been several hours since the MacGregor had tossed her in the room without so much as a backward glance. No food had been sent to her, no water for washing, and the dog, Rab, had bounded away at the first sight of the MacGregor fortress. Elizabeth was too tired to sleep, her mind in too much of a turmoil to allow her much rest.
When she first heard the familiar voice, muffled through the heavy door, her first reaction was one of relief. But she quickly recovered from that. Miles Montgomery was as much her enemy as anyone else.
When Miles opened the door and walked in boldly, she was ready for him. She sent a copper and silver goblet from the mantelpiece flying at his head.
Miles caught the object in his left hand and kept walking toward her.
She threw a small shield from the wall at him and he caught that in his right hand.
With a little smile of triumph, Elizabeth grabbed a battered helmet from the mantel and drew back her arm to throw it. He had no more hands with which to catch this object.
But before she could throw the helmet, Miles was before her, his arms drawing her close to him.
“I was very worried about you,” he whispered, his face buried against her cheek. “Why did you run away like that? Scotland isn’t like England. It’s treacherous country.”
He didn’t hold her very tightly, at least not enough to cause her to want to struggle, but instead she almost wished he’d pull her closer. As it was, she had to stand very still or else his arms might drop away altogether. At his idiot words, though, she did move away. “I am attacked by wolves, nearly fall into the sea and some man throws me about like a sack of grain and you tell me this is treacherous country!”