An Outcast's Wish Read online

  Up ahead.

  He headed toward it, moving quickly now. Once again, he saw a shadow dart between the trees. Not quite as dark as the surroundings. He followed, intent now on his target and quickened his pace still more.

  The figure was running now, no longer trying to remain quiet or stealthy.

  Maccay followed, heart pounding, eyes riveted to the dim figure rushing through the forest, branches swatted to the side, sticks breaking, the sound of breathing louder.

  Suddenly, the figure disappeared.

  Maccay stopped short and held his breath, seeking the moving shadow of the fleeing figure, cursing himself for losing him. He jogged forward, not hearing the sound coming from behind until it was too late.

  A breath later, something hard glanced against his thigh, causing him to temporarily lose his balance. He tripped and barely caught himself from falling, going down to one knee as he thrust out his left hand and caught himself against the base of a pine tree, the bark digging into the palm of his hand.

  Anger surged through him, not only at his own carelessness, but at whomever was out there. How had he managed to circle around behind him so quickly? Even worse, how could he himself have allowed that to happen?

  Maccay heard running feet, saw movement off to the side, and latched his eyes onto the back of the figure racing away, darting through the trees. Regaining his footing, he pursued, slapping branches out of his way.

  The figure was close, so close he heard the labored breathing, saw the person swatting branches out of the way as he tried to escape, careening recklessly down the slope of a ravine, seeking the shelter of rocks and the thick undergrowth of brush in the nearby distance.

  “Stop, or you’ll feel my axe in your back!” he threatened, not really surprised that the figure kept moving. He was determined to catch him, to learn his identity, to find out what he was doing out here.

  He gained ground, darting around trees, seeking an angle to cut off the runner. The fleeing figure was slowing, hunched over slightly.

  In a matter of seconds, he had caught up and reached out to grab the edge of the cloak flying behind the figure, so close he managed to clasp it for a moment before a garbled cry of alarm mingled with pain escaped his attacker and he darted forward with lurching, almost drunken steps.

  Maccay heard the raspy breath and in the back of his mind noted the small, slender figure. A boy?

  “Stop!”

  The figure kept running. Maccay grew annoyed now and redoubled his efforts. His attacker was a lad, he was sure of it. In a matter of steps, he once again gained ground. Thinking to put an end to this pursuit quickly, he lunged for the figure, tackling him roughly to the ground.

  They both fell.

  He fell on top of the boy, who had landed face down, arms sprawled in front of him on the ground. H caught only a glance of a dirt- smudged face and leaf-tangled auburn hair. Definitely not Ceana with her unmistakable red hair.

  He quickly rose to his knees, grabbing a handful of the cloak and lifting the boy’s upper torso from the ground. “Get up!” he growled. “Get up and tell me what you’re doing on Duncan lands!”

  The boy didn’t respond. He didn’t even move.

  Maccay frowned with confusion. Then he realized the figure wasn’t moving at all. Not a finger twitched. Blast it, had he hurt the boy? His anger gone, he quickly turned the lad over. A young lad for sure. He noticed several things at once.

  The small hands, the pale features, and there, beneath the dirt smudged face, a visage too delicate to be that of a lad.

  He swore.

  * * *

  “How is she?” Maccay asked soon as Sarah emerged from the room, still stunned from the knowledge that the lad he had been pursuing through the woods was no lad at all, but a lassie, and a very pretty woman at that.

  After he had turned her over and brushed the leaves from her hair, he had seen the braid trapped between the cloak and the tunic she wore. Noticed the shapely legs wearing boy’s trousers, soft-soled leather boots laced tightly upward along the calf. The narrow waist. The swell of bosom, and then, finally, the blood. She had a gash on the side of her head, near her right temple.

  His mind reeling with questions, he had lifted her into his arms and carried her back to his horse. Not much trouble at all, as she didn’t weigh much.

  Why was she out here dressed as a boy?

  He gently brushed some of the dirt from her face, a face so finely structured, amazed that someone so delicate could survive out here in the wilds of the highlands. It had taken a bit of doing to lift her onto the horse and keep her balanced while he leapt up behind her, but he had managed it. He’d adjusted her body and maneuvered so that she sat sidesaddle, trying to ignore the soft spots that proved she was a lass. He rode thusly, her torso leaning against him, his arms bracing her form on either side as he grasped his horse’s reins.

  It had taken him several hours to return to the manor house as he kept his horse to a walk to avoid jostling the lass leaning against him. He didn’t know what was wrong with her or why she had not stirred since he had tackled her to the ground. What he did know was that he liked the feel of her softness against his body, her warmth, and the feel of her breath on his neck. She hadn’t roused once, and he worried that it she might have some severe injuries, hence his decision to keep his horse to a walk. At the same time, he wanted to urge Bruce into a run, to get her to the manor house quickly so that Sarah could care for her.

  How long had she been out there in the woods?

  She was filthy, her hair tangled with twigs and dirt, her face smudged, her hands and even her fingernails caked with dirt.

  Even so, he could tell she was a pretty young lass, with a high forehead, perfectly shaped eyebrows, and long eyelashes. He admired the line of her nose, slightly raised at the end, and those full lips and firm jawline. He found himself glancing down at her often, at the swell of her bosom, the thin bones of her wrists and those small hands of hers, resting in her lap.

  Who was she?

  A surge of protectiveness had welled up inside him, startling him, but he brushed it away almost as quickly as it came, scoffing inwardly. What did he care? He would take her to Sarah and she could take care of the lass and that would be that.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Sarah had spoken to him.

  “What?”

  She frowned. “You’re the one that asked me, Maccay. I said she hasn’t woken up yet,” she replied. She carried a wooden bowl of water in which a bloodstained cloth floated.

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “She took a quite nasty bump on the head,” Sarah replied, eyeing the bloodstained cloth. “She also has severe bruising, maybe some cracked ribs. Not broken, but—”

  Had he done that? Had he tackled her so hard he had injured her? He frowned. “I don’t think I hit her that hard—”

  “The bruises are older than this morning,” Sarah interrupted. “You didn’t injure her ribs or give her that knock on the head.”

  “Did someone beat her?” he asked, aghast.

  The thought of someone laying his hand on a woman made his blood boil. He quickly glanced at Sarah, knew the she likely felt the same. She and her sister Heather had both been beaten and tormented by their stepfather, the cowardly bastard.

  “It’s hard to say whether her injuries came from a beating or from a severe fall.”

  “Nothing to give any indication of who she is or where she comes from?”

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t recall seeing her in the village. Do you?”

  “No, I’ve never seen her before. Neither has Phillip, Heather, or Jake. Martha’s sitting with her now, but I’m sure that when she wakes, we’ll find out more about her.” She looked up at Maccay, an eyebrow lifted. “Does it matter?”

  The question startled him. “We’ll of course it matters. We have to find where she belongs.”

  “Even if she was running away from something?”
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br />   “And if she was?”

  “Then we should do what we can to protect her.”

  He wasn’t surprised by Sarah’s words.

  She was that way, as was her sister. Still, he couldn’t fathom why a young lass like this one would be hiding out in the woods on Duncan lands. Where did she come from? Why was she out there? Was she running from someone, and if so, who?

  2

  She floated in and out of consciousness, each time her senses tried to reach out and absorb sounds and smells. Nothing seemed familiar. No scent of pine, dirt, nor air laden with mist that carried with it the scent of ferns and flowers.

  Where am I?

  Her eyes felt so heavy she couldn’t force them open, no matter how hard she tried. Her body felt heavy as well, the lethargy that had overtaken her was so powerful that she couldn’t even pull through it.

  She felt the texture of rough fabric on her cheek, the cloth carrying with it the scent of damp, musty earth and a vague hint of sweat and leather. Her memories were vague and fleeting, the images provoked by smells and sensations flashing through her mind, evoking confusion.

  Then there was the pain. It seemed to come from everywhere in her body, not limited to any one particular muscle. Her head throbbed and every muscle in her body ached, so much so that when she did emerge from the depths of the blackness that enveloped her, she wanted to fall right back in, to escape.

  She remembered being in the woods, being hurt, having difficulty breathing, the pounding of her head. She had tried to fight through it, to survive. How long she had been in the woods, or why, was a mystery.

  Where was she? What were those sounds she heard? She tried to focus on them, and after several moments finally realized what they were.

  Voices? Voices!

  For some reason, the realization frightened her. But why?

  She felt someone stroking her skin, no not someone, something. Fabric… a cloth laid on her forehead? It felt cool and soothing. Then, out of nowhere, heat burgeoned from within and she felt like she was burning up.

  Where was the coolness?

  She wanted the coolness back!

  She couldn’t make sense of anything. She felt trapped in this darkness, semi-awake, but not conscious, at least not enough to understand anything going on around her. Why couldn’t she open her eyes? Why did she feel so weak? What had happened to her?

  Once, she thought she heard the sound of gentle, women’s voices, but that confused hurt even more. What were women doing in the forest? She didn’t remember any women there with her. Just trying to figure that out was exhausting.

  Every so often, she surged upward from that all-consuming blackness to hear distant voices, mostly female but on occasion a male voice broke through. Fear encompassed her then, prompting her to retreat back into the darkness that felt so safe. No pain, no worries, no fear. That darkness became her sanctuary, her defense, her safety from… from what?

  She tried to think, to remember, but the darkness that continue to pull her deeper…

  * * *

  Voices again.

  Propelling her up from the darkness though she wanted nothing more than to stay there. To float in that empty blackness, no pain, no fear… fear? Fear of what?

  She heard the voice speaking as if from a great distance away. A woman’s voice, encouraging and gentle, yet consistent.

  “Open your eyes. Come on, you can do it.”

  That voice, so soothing, so comforting. She wanted to please that voice and struggled to force her eyes open. Why did they feel so heavy?

  Try!

  Finally, she managed to make her eyelids flutter, but along with that came more awareness… of pain. She wanted to go back into the darkness, but the voice kept encouraging. Her head throbbed and her chest hurt… hurt to even breathe.

  “I knew you could do it.”

  Her eyes were open, but her vision remained blurry. She blinked and tried to move, but found it impossible. Maybe this was enough for now. She blinked again.

  Gradually, the figure above her began to come into focus.

  A woman, smiling down at her. She felt the woman’s hand smooth the hair back from her forehead, and then placing something cool and refreshing on it. A cloth soaked in cool water. It felt wonderful.

  She glanced past the woman and saw that she was in a room… a bedchamber. Without turning her head—it was too much effort—she saw the woman sitting in a chair beside the bed.

  There was a small table nearby, rough-hewn walls and a closed door behind her. From the corner of her vision she noted the edges of a stone fireplace.

  A coverlet was pulled up nearly to her chin. She felt warm, comfortably warm.

  She looked up at the woman and tried to speak. Nothing came out but a raspy breath.

  “You’re very weak, so don’t try to talk just yet. You’re safe here.”

  For some reason, the words brought her a sense of comfort, but on the heels of that thought came another.

  Why wouldn’t she be safe?

  Her eyelids grew heavy, those moments of semi-wakefulness exhausting.

  “You’re going to be all right,” the woman said. “You sleep. Rest. The next time you wake up, I’ll have some broth for you.”

  * * *

  When next she woke, the room was wreathed in semi-darkness. The undulating glow of a fire caused shadows and flickers to dance against the wall opposite the bed.

  It was easier to open her eyes this time and she did so, simply looking around for several moments, trying to recognize something, anything, that would tell her where she was.

  Nothing.

  She stared up at to a ceiling, watching the shadows cast from the fire.

  No sounds.

  She was alone.

  Gathering her strength, she turned her head, curious about her surroundings. She was in a bedchamber, still. The same one as before, but not one familiar to her.

  She lay in a narrow bed against a wall, a small table and a chair filling the space between the edge of the bed and the opposite wall. A small bedchamber, but it was very warm. On the wall facing the base of the bed stood a small stone fireplace, the source of the heat and dull glow in the room. She lay quietly for several moments, realizing that her head didn’t throb quite so fiercely. She listened to the occasional crackle and pop of wood in the fire.

  Where was she? What was she doing here? How had she hurt herself? She tried to remember what had happened but couldn’t. She tried to move, lift her arm from beneath the covers, but was too weak.

  Moments later, she fell back into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  She wasn’t sure what woke her, or how long she had slept, but the sound of soft footsteps on the wood floor brought her out of sleep. Startled, but not knowing why, she opened her eyes.

  The room was filled with light.

  Daytime.

  She glanced toward the door just as a woman holding a bowl of something steaming tapped the door softly closed with her foot, and turned toward her.

  She recognized the woman who had hovered over her earlier.

  “You’re awake, that’s good,” the woman said.

  She placed the steaming bowl on the table and sat down in the chair, leaning toward her while she reached out a hand to place it against her brow.

  “Even better. Your fever has broken.”

  Fever? I’d had a fever?

  “You must be hungry. I have some broth. Will you take some?”

  She tried to speak. “Where...?” The sound of her voice prompted a wince, so thick and raspy. Even the effort to speak was exhausting.

  “You’re at Duncan manor,” the woman said. “My name is Sarah, Sarah Duncan. This is the laird’s house.”

  “How…”

  The woman—Sarah, smiled. “Maccay found you in the woods miles from nowhere. What were you doing in those woods? What is your name?”

  She tried to answer and while her lips moved, no sound emerged.

  She frowned
. Her name? She was found in the woods? Her name… she couldn’t think, couldn’t remember. Her eyes widened with alarm. Her name… what was her name? Eyes wide, she felt her heart skip a beat. Why couldn’t she remember her name? “I… I can’t… I can’t remember,” she said.

  Sarah offered an encouraging smile. “You took quite a bump on the head. Don’t worry yourself. You’ll remember soon enough. In the meantime, would you mind if I called you Alis?”

  The name was not familiar but she supposed it would be all right. She offered a weak nod. Who was she? Why couldn’t she remember her name? Why couldn’t she remember where she’d been? She looked up at Sarah. “I… I don’t remember… anything…”

  Sarah leaned to take the spoon in the bowl and stirred the liquid, releasing steam. “You don’t remember anything before waking up here, or you don’t remember anything before you were in the woods?”

  She thought about that.

  She remembered being in the woods, but not why nor how long. Before that… nothing. She frowned, but even that slight movement pulled at the muscles and skin of her forehead, and prompted a new burst of throbbing near her temple.

  Sarah situated the bowl closer to the edge of the table and then leaned forward, gently lifting her head from the pillow and bracing it against her arm, she then reached for the spoon with her other hand, bringing it toward her lips, urging her to take some broth.

  Her mind whirling with questions and emptiness, she sipped the liquid from the spoon. It was warm and tasted rich and fatty, but had a slightly bitter aftertaste. She glanced up at Sarah.

  “I can tell by your grimace that you taste the herbs. They’re healing herbs, Alis, and they’ll help you get better. It’s a chicken broth with plenty of fat to give you strength.”

  Good for physical healing perhaps, but would it help her remember? She doubted it.

  She could only hope that with more rest and a day or two of healing that she could remember who she was, where she belonged, and most curious, what she had been doing out in the woods on Duncan lands. She didn’t know. She didn’t recall hearing the name before, but with her loss of memory, she couldn’t be sure.