Terri Brisbin - Kidnapped By The Highland Rogue

‘I hiv told ye—I amna sharing her,’ he replied. The men hissed and guffawed their disappointment. ‘But,’ he began, turning her to face him, ‘I am no’ opposed to letting her do other things for ye scoundrels.’

Yelling and clapping, the men grew louder and more boisterous over this. Fia stared in horror at Iain Dubh, wondering if he would do this to her.

‘Nay! Nay, do no’ mistake my kindness,’ he called out to them. ‘She can cook for us. ’twould be better than the burnt mess ye call porridge, Martainn!’ he said, meeting her gaze now. ‘Can ye cook, lass?’

Fia did not say a word, fear yet held her in its control. All she could do was give a slight nod in reply.

‘There ye go! Finally, a decent meal is to be had,’ he said. With a grip that did not relent, he tugged her closer. ‘And I would no’ mind if she washed my trews and shirt,’ he said. ‘They are close to standin’ on their own.’ He laughed then and pointed at one of the others. ‘Lundie, will we be here long enough for her to do some laundry?’

‘Aye,’ a tall man off to one side said. She’d seen him before. In the village when Iain Dubh had claimed her. He must be in charge of this ruthless group. ‘A few days.’

‘There ye go, friends,’ Iain Dubh said, smiling at them. ‘Ye can hiv a hot meal in yer bellies and clothes on yer backs that dinna smell as bad as Micheil does.’

The mood of the men had changed from dangerous to something less so. Oh, she did not doubt that any one of them would seize her and do those things they’d said, but, for now, they seemed calmed from their worst. Calmed by Iain Dubh. With only words, he’d eased their demand for her and given them something else to please them. When he pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her and resting one of his hands on her buttocks, all good thoughts about his abilities and his intention scattered.

‘And when she is tired of cooking and laundry, I wi’ keep her busy with other...chores!’ The men laughed then and Iain leaned his face down to hers. In that last moment, as she planned to bite him again if he tried that disgusting thing with his tongue, he whispered so only she could hear. ‘If ye naysay me, lass, I will give ye over to them.’

Though she expected the kiss, the gentleness of it surprised her. As did the feel of his hand in its intimate caress. Trapped between his strong chest and his embrace, Fia tried not to fight him. His tone gave no indication that he was jesting or did not mean what he’d said.

So, instead, to keep panic away and not struggle in his arms, Fia did what she did when trying to distract herself—she began counting the number of cousins in The Mackintosh Clan. She managed to count the first fifteen, by name and age, before the kiss changed and drew her attention back to him and his mouth. He had slanted his mouth against hers and was rubbing his tongue over her lips.

Mayhap because she’d not been paying attention, it was not as abhorrent as that first time? Now, though, he slid his other hand into her hair, holding her head close as he managed to get his tongue inside her mouth and...taste her! The hand on her bottom caressed her there and pressed her against the obvious hardness in his groin. When she shifted in his embrace, he lifted his head and laughed aloud.

‘I think the lass is interested after all,’ he said so everyone could hear. ‘But, ye hiv a meal to make, love. See to that and then I wi’ see to ye.’

Before she could speak, he spun her around to face the fire and swatted her on her bottom, sending her in that direction. Fia let out a squeak and she stumbled away from him. Making porridge would be easy and preferable to what the scoundrel had planned for her. Gathering the edges of her torn gown, she tightened the belt and linen strips holding it all closed.

‘Where are your supplies?’ she asked, looking at Lundie. He was in charge of this motley group, so she would give him his due.

He led her over to a tarp-covered pile and tugged one edge of it loose. Wooden crates and sacks of all sorts and sizes lay there. Whether bought or stolen, she knew not, but most staples needed to feed the gang were here. And in adequate amounts.

Glancing around, she found a large iron pot that could be used. As she lifted it, she saw and smelled the burned-on layers of many previous uses. As Fia was about to ask if she could take it to the stream and wash it out she realised she held knowledge about this encampment that they most likely did not.

She knew where the stream led. She knew which caves connected. And, she remembered where the secret tunnels were. Brodie had insisted that everyone in their camp—be they man, woman or child—know an escape route from it. Fia did not remember any talk that those pathways had been closed or filled in when they all moved back to Drumlui, so that knowledge could be the means of her escape.

‘Is there a place to wash this out and get water?’ she asked.

‘Aye, down that path, but ’tis a good mile.’

‘Is that where I’m to launder their clothing?’ she asked.

‘Aye.’ Lundie nodded and then whistled. A few seconds later, one of the men broke through the trees and approached. ‘Take her to the stream, Martainn.’

‘Isn’t she Iain Dubh’s?’ he asked, rubbing the back of his hand across his grimy forehead.

‘I did not tell you to swive her at the stream. I said take her there so she can clean that and get water,’ Lundie explained. ‘Only that, do you understand?’

For a moment, it looked as though Martainn would object again, but he held his words behind his teeth. With a nod, he pointed to the path leading off to the left. And down the mountain she knew. Grabbing the pot and an empty bucket, she followed his directions to the stream. Fia could have gotten there faster using a different route or even one of the tunnels, but she kept that knowledge tucked away.

For the first time since this terrifying ordeal had begun, she felt a sense of relief and hope. As long as she was alive, she could escape here. No matter what happened, she could get home.

The walk down took much less time and effort than climbing the steep incline of their path back. In spite of Martainn’s initial reluctance, he was not such a bad overseer. He kept his distance as she knelt at the stream and scrubbed out the pot. He even told her what supplies remained in the boxes and sacks. Clearly, he had tired of being in charge of meals and was glad to pass it over to someone else.

When she’d managed to find a stone with a flat end, Fia used it as a way to scrape the coated grime off the pot’s bottom and sides. She noticed that Martainn’s attention drifted and she used that few moments to clean her hands and face, tighten her garments and remake the braid from which her hair threatened constantly to escape. Once done, she filled both the pot and the bucket with water and stood. To her surprise, Martainn took them from her and motioned for her to go ahead of him. In a short time, they entered the centre of the camp and found the others there waiting.

With no interference other than a few rude comments whenever she bent over, Fia gathered the oats and a few other ingredients and soon had the porridge cooking over the fire. Keeping a close watch on it and adding more water as was needed, it took little time before the smell of it spread through the area. Before she knew it, the men were standing with bowls and spoons in hand, waiting for her to finish.

As she scooped out porridge for each of them, a few whispered words of thanks and Fia found herself surprised by it. Martainn’s was the loudest and she almost laughed at it. After she’d served all of them, Fia moved away from the pot and sat down on a log. No one stopped her or said much for they were too busy filling their bellies. Then a bowl was shoved under her nose and she looked up at Iain Dubh.