Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

H ow could I have been so stupid?! I should have made sure tae take that ring off when I changed me clothes on the beach. Now they think I’m a spy fer me braither! I havetae get out of these ropes and get away from him before he either tortures and kills me fer a spy or sends me back tae Carson!

Ivy felt like she was trapped in a nightmare. She was tied up against a tree trunk in the forest, her hands bound with rope behind her, left alone with the ruggedly handsome - but terrifying - warrior. He kept shouting in her face, accusing her of being a MacAlister spy, shaking her so hard, her teeth rattled.

Despite her terror, her keen sense of self-preservation had her already surreptitiously working her wrists against their tight bindings. They bit into her flesh, but she prayed she could loosen them enough to eventually free herself and make a run for it when he turned his back.

That plan flew out of her head temporarily when he suddenly raised a massive fist and thumped her hard twice in the ribs. She heard herself groan as the pain lanced through her, knocking the breath from her body, making her feel sick. She drooped against the ropes, expecting more blows to come.

A memory suddenly flashed into her mind—of Carson holding her pinned against a stone column back home in Castle MacAlister.

She had been about ten and he had been eighteen. It had been shortly before the raid in which both their parents had been murdered and Carson had become laird. He had held her by her skinny upper arm, squeezing it so hard, she was screaming in pain.

“Give it tae me!” he had snarled in her face.

“Nay!” she sobbed.

“All right. This is yer fault, ye ken? Ye’re makin’ me dae this,” he told her. Then, he punched her in the ribs, and the small parcel of shortbread she had just been given by one of the cooks in the kitchen fell to the floor.

Carson had abruptly let go of her, and she had dropped to the flagstones, her whole body shaking as she leaned against the cold stone column.

“I hate ye,” she whispered through her sobs, determined to defy him no matter what.

Carson grinned and pointed to the shortbread. “Pick it up and give it tae me,” he ordered.

Ivy hesitated a moment too long. He kicked out at her, narrowly missing her head. “Pick it up!” he roared.

Hardly able to see through her tears, Ivy had had no choice but to do as she was told or she would have had to suffer more torment from her relentless bully. Her big brother had always enjoyed “punishing” her for the smallest of mistakes, reinforcing her deep-seated fear of him. With trembling hands, she had picked up the oiled paper wrapping and handed it up to him.

“There, that wasnae so hard, was it?” he asked, stuffing a slab of shortbread into his mouth and spitting crumbs as he sauntered off down the gloomy hallway laughing.

“Answer me, damn ye!”

Ivy snapped back to reality, only to find that the pain of being thumped in the ribs by the warrior had not abated. She closed her eyes and braced herself for more punishment, trying to pull as much air into her lungs as he could before the next blow landed. At the same time, her numb fingers returned to working at the knotted ropes binding her wrists.

She waited and worked, head bowed, trembling. But the seconds passed by, and no other blows came. The questions had stopped too. She opened one eye, and then the other, wondering how long the reprieve would last. Because that was all it could be, surely? A reprieve.

He was standing looking down at her with an odd frown on his sculpted features, rubbing a large, scarred hand over his dark stubble reflectively. Then, as if he had come to some kind of decision, the questions started up again.

“Who are ye? Why are ye here? D’ye work for Carson MacAlister? Are ye alone?”

But something had changed which puzzled her greatly: he did not lay another finger on her. Why nae?

He went on questioning her, clearly meaning to break her down. But however much she wanted to, she was afraid to open her mouth, figuring that once he heard her voice, he would know she was a woman. God only knew what would happen to her then.

In her vulnerable state of fear and pain, her mind a maelstrom of whirling thoughts, she finally gave way to his constant questioning. Trying hard to speak in a more masculine tone and maintain her disguise, she burst out, “I’m nae a spy! I was just after yer horse! What are ye gonnae dae tae me?” She was appalled at the high, strangled sound that came out of her mouth. He would guess she was not a boy for sure! It seemed like a miracle when he did not.

When he told her he was taking her back to some castle to be interrogated as a spy, panic rose afresh inside her. I havetae get away!

Fortunately, by this time, she had managed to secretly loosen the ropes around one wrist enough that with a huge effort of determination, she surreptitiously freed her one hand. She pulled at the bindings, and the rope slipped from her other wrist too. I’m free!

She was very careful not to let him see it, instead waiting for the moment when he would be distracted enough to give her a chance to get away. She planned to vanish into the midnight forest, confident there would be no way for him to catch her.

Her opportunity came when something made a loud rustling noise in the shadowed undergrowth a few feet away. The warrior’s head snapped around, his eyes scanning the darkness, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. Suddenly, a large white winged creature came swooping silently out of the darkness and flew across the clearing, passing over his head by just a few inches before vanishing once more into the shadows. He ducked, clearly taken by surprise by the appearance of the snowy owl.

Ivy was too, but she saw her chance and did not hesitate. She sprang away from the tree, the ropes trailing, and took to her heels, hurling herself after the owl into the darkness between the legions of trees. She ran as fast as she could over the uneven terrain, blundering over fallen logs, branches, and tree roots, stubbing her toes on hidden boulders, with only the occasional glimpse of moonlight from above to light her way.

As she ran, elation percolated through her limbs as she realized she had gotten away, that she was safe at last. I’ve done it , she crowed in her mind, he’ll never find me now!

That lasted for about six seconds.

She shrieked and tried to run faster as she heard him crashing through the undergrowth after her, swearing intermittently as he came. She could hear his harsh breathing as he got closer and closer. Then suddenly, an iron hand grasped her ankle. She screamed, “Let me go! Let me go! I mean ye nae harm!”

But there was naught but an angry grunt as the fist closed painfully around her ankle, and she lost her balance, crashing forward full length on her face. Spitting leaves and earth, she scrambled to free herself from his grip, trying to grab anything she could to pull herself away from him, kicking her legs frantically.

But it did no good, and she sobbed in defeat as she was slowly but inexorably dragged backwards by her leg over the soaking ground, until two beefy arms went around her waist, and she found herself pinned beneath him.

Damn it!

Too much was at stake to give in so easily, so she fought with all her strength to get away from him again. He growled and grabbed her by her shirt, holding her off as she punched and flailed at his face. Suddenly, as she wrenched herself backwards, there came the sound of material ripping.

Everything stopped then. She panted, trying to wriggle her legs out from under him. Then, all of a sudden, some of the crushing weight upon her lifted. She realized he no longer had hold of her and was in fact sitting on his haunches with a handful of her shirt in his hand. She followed his eyes, and saw he was staring open-mouthed at her chest. She looked down at herself and gasped in horror to see the front of her shirt had been ripped away, and one of her breasts was completely exposed! The cold had made her nipple harden to a rosy point. Her heart sank to her boots then, and the fight went out of her.

He tore his eyes from her nakedness and stared at her face with obvious bewilderment. In tones of wonder, he breathed, “Jaysus Christ! Ye’re a lassie!”

She was already hastily gathering the torn material over the telltale breast, thankful for the meager moonlight and red glow of the fire that hid her blushes. For some reason, she felt furious rather than afraid. “Aye, I’m a lassie, all right? Are ye happy now? I’m nay threat tae ye, so ye can let me go,” she groaned, glaring at him and trying to shake off the grip he still had on her arm.

“Ach, nay, nay, there are plenty of lassies who make very good spies,” he told her, tightening his hold and pulling her to her feet as he stood up. He was hurting her, but she refused to let him see it. “What’s yer name?”

“Amy, Amy Blythe,” she said, having already chosen the false name she intended to adopt in her new life.

He nodded. “Well, all right, Amy Blythe. I’m Liam MacTavish, and I work fer Laird Stewart, who was just here. But ye probably already ken that if ye’re spyin’ fer MacAlister.”

“How many times dae I havetae tell ye? I’m nae—” She was cut off when, to her shock and indignance, he suddenly picked her up, slung her over his large, muscular shoulder, and strode back to the fire. “Let me down, ye great lummox!” she shouted, pounding his back with her fists and kicking at him. But all was in vain, for he simply held her ankles easily in one hand until he finally set her down right next to him by the fire.

“Here, cover yersel’,” he told her, not unkindly, tossing her a blanket. She breathed a sigh of relief that, despite discovering she was a woman, he was not going to assault her. Instead, to her surprise, he made some tea, adding a nip or two of whisky from a small hip flask he carried in his pocket to the mixture before handing her a beaker of the steaming liquid. “Drink it. It’ll warm ye up.”

“Warm me up fer another interrogation,” she said bleakly in her normal voice. Cold and defeated, she was grateful for the blanket and the hot beverage. She realized that if she were to have any hope of getting her liberty back, she was going to have to convince him she was not spying for her brother.

But she knew that if she admitted to being Carson MacAlister’s sister, she would be as good as hanged as a spy when he got her back to the castle. How could she convince him of her innocence without giving too much away? “I’m nay threat tae ye. Ye should have just let me go. I told ye, I mean ye nae harm,” she reiterated.

“So ye say. D’ye mind tellin’ me why ye’re out here in the forest in the middle of the night, disguised as a lad, and tryin’ tae steal me horse?” he asked, blowing across his own tea to cool it before sipping it.

She hesitated, unsure what to tell him. “I was supposed tae be gettin’ wed this mornin’, but I didnae wantae be married, and the man who was supposed tae be me husband is cruel. I couldnae stand the thought of bein’ shackled tae him fer a lifetime. I was gonnae hide in the forest and go intae the town disguised as a lad and find a way tae get a lift somewhere far away.

“But then it got dark, and the weather got worse, and I thought I’d havetae spend the night here in the forest. I was worried me soon-tae-be husband would already have men out lookin’ fer me. Then, I heard ye and yer horses, and I thought if I could take one of them, I could be away and safe in nay time.”

“So, ye’re telling’ me ye’re running from yer own weddin?”

“Aye.”

He laughed mockingly. “A good story, but I dinnae believe a word of it.”

“Why would ye nae believe it?” she asked, frustrated. “’Tis the truth, I tell ye!”

“Nay, I think ’tis more likely that ye’re spyin’ fer MacAlister. I admit, ’tis unusual fer a spy tae be a woman, but it is nae unheard of. Dressin’ as a lad would make sense.”

“I thought it would help me hide from those me groom would send searchin’ fer me. I had tae run in me weddin’ dress! These were the only clothes I could get tae change intae during me escape.”

“How convenient. Nay, ’tis too much of a coincidence fer ye tae suddenly turn up here, on Stewart land, wearing a ring with the MacAlister seal on it.” He gazed at her searchingly as he spoke, and she had to stifle a gasp. For the first time, she had got a good look at his eyes.

In the flickering firelight, she could see they were a stormy dark gray with glints of blue and fringed by thick, dark lashes. His gaze seemed to pierce her, and a peculiar shiver went through her as she met it with her own. “How de ye explain that?” he asked, glancing at the ring.

Ivy frantically wracked her brain to think of a way to explain the ring without telling him how she came by it—that it had belonged to generations of the ladies of McAlister, the last one being mother, Lady Sophie, now long dead. “I-I stole it.”

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that gave her goosebumps. “I thought ye’d say that. Ye’d rather have me believe ye a thief than a spy, eh?”

She shrugged helplessly. “’Tis true.”

He shook his head. “I dinnae think ye have a very good grasp of what the truth is, lass. Ye’ll understand if I dinnae believe ye. Anyway, it disnae really matter. We’re still goin’ tae the castle so ye can be questioned.”

“Which castle? The one yer friend is laird of?” she asked.

“Nae need tae pretend ye dinnae ken. Ye’re on Stewart land, as I’m sure ye ken very well, and that was Laird Stewart who was just here. We’re expectin’ an attack by the MacAlisters on his castle at any time. I suppose ye were out here scoutin’ out the lay of the land fer yer laird, were ye nae?”

“I wasnae! I ken naethin’ of any of that. Look, please, just let me go, and ye’ll never see me again,” she pleaded, desperate not to be taken to the castle and tortured. They would soon find out who she was, and then all her efforts to escape her terrible fate would have been for nothing. Her life would be over.

She knew a little of what happened to those who were questioned as spies, and it was not pleasant. Yet it seemed a better fate than being returned to her brother and wed to Gael Hamilton.

“Anyway, I’m sorry fer hittin’ ye,” he suddenly said, sounding surprisingly sincere. “I dinnae go around hittin’ women, but I thought ye were a lad. I feel bad fer fightin’ with ye too. Ye have a cut on yer face.” She flinched away as a large finger brushed against her cheek just below her left eye. “If ye dinnae wantae have a scar there, ye’d best let me see tae it.”

She sat quietly while he poured whisky onto his kerchief, but then she winced as the spirit stung her while he cleaned the wound carefully, his touch unexpectedly gentle. Once he had finished, he leaned over to his saddle bag and produced from inside a small pot of salve. He dabbed some onto the kerchief and then the cut, which she could feel throbbing slightly.

Despite her dreadful situation, Ivy was touched. She could tell he was a good man at heart. She had never met one like him. He oozed strength and power, yet he was kind and gentle as a lamb. She could not help being drawn to him.

“There ye are. With luck, that’ll nae get infected, and ye willnae have a scar,” he said, putting away the salve and stuffing the damp kerchief in his pocket.

“Thank ye, but a wee scar’s the least of me problems,” she replied, thoroughly dispirited. Ye cannae give up, ye havetae keep tryin’ tae persuade him, she told herself. Beg him if ye must. “Look, I can see ye’re a good man. What ye dinnae understand is that I’ve just risked me life tae escape a terrible fate, and now, ye’re forcin’ me tae face another.

“Ye ken what happens tae those who are accused of bein’ spies. If ye take me tae that castle, ye’re as good as signin’ me death warrant. But this attack on yer friend’s clan ye keep talkin’ about has naethin’ tae dae with me. All I want is tae leave this place and go far away. Please, let me go!”

“Ye ken I cannae dae that,” he replied, the corners of his lips turning down. “I cannae take the risk. If ye’re innocent, we’ll soon find out.”

She shuddered fearfully, cradling the beaker of tea hot tea between her hands as despair filled her. “What, after hours of torture? Ye ken very well that folks will say anythin’ tae stop it.”

They fell silent then, her words hanging in the air between them. Ivy’s silence was not just about her fear of being tortured. It was also about Carson. He was a cruel brute, and he would enjoy punishing her for running away from the marriage he had arranged for her. And anyone he thought had been involved in her escape would also be in grave danger.

Even though Liam was her captor, she could tell he was decent man who believed he was doing the right thing. In another life , she thought sadly, things might have been very different between us.

She found she did not want anything bad to happen to him, which it surely would once Carson found out who had her. She shivered despite the fire, her eyes scanning the surrounding world of shadow and darkness, suddenly unable to shake off the feeling they were being watched.