A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After Page 10

  She lifted her head, the rain all but blinding her. It was useless to try to find her way to the house now. All was blackness. The mud pulled at her, splattering up into her face, her hands sinking in as she attempted to push herself up.

  Yet that was not the worst of it.

  “No, no.” Not now. It could not happen now. Her body began to tremble, going cold all over.

  Just as it did when one of her spells was about to come on.

  15

  The wind was picking up, all but howling on the other side of the stone walls. The dogs circled, anxious, before following Dougal up the stairs.

  They had to settle this once and for all, him and the lass. If she refused to understand after he explained himself, that would be no fault of his. So long as he knew in his heart that he’d done all he could, that would have to be enough.

  She certainly did not care for him. Enid was a good woman with a kind heart, but she did not know all.

  “Tyra?” he called out before rapping at the door to her bedchamber. Strange, how he’d come to think of it as hers. “Tyra, I wish to explain. I might make ye understand.”

  She offered no response, and he asked himself what he’d expected. “Tyra, come now. Dinna behave so. I have made ye a fine offer and we ought to discuss it.”

  Still nothing.

  “I will not be ignored.” With that, he threw the door open, modesty be damned. Let her throw something at his head. He was beyond the point of caring very much.

  Nothing hit the arm which he’d flung across his face in preparation of her attack. Nothing hit him anywhere, in fact. Because Tyra was not in her chambers.

  Where would she flee from the kitchen? He’d passed his study and had not found her inside. She might have hidden herself in one of the unused rooms, imagining Dougal would not think to look for her in any of them.

  He ran down the stairs, the dogs at his heels, and was about to begin searching the rooms closest to the kitchen when he realized the sounds of the storm had grown louder. Another broken window?

  No. Prince trotted to the front door, tail wagging, drawing Dougal’s attention.

  The door was open.

  She’d gone out.

  He opened it further, staring out into the inky darkness brought about by the storm. The wind blew back his hair, blowing the first raindrops into his face.

  She was out in this.

  “Tyra!” he bellowed, hands around his mouth. “Tyra, where are ye?”

  He may as well have shouted into a pillow, as the wind stole his words and tore them away. It was useless. She would never hear him.

  “Stay,” he bade the dogs while tying a cloak about his neck. They were eager to follow their master even into a storm such as this. “Stay, both of ye.” For he could not watch for their safety while searching for Tyra, and the heavy wind and rain would make it all but impossible for them to be of any assistance.

  With that, he lifted the cloak’s hood and strode out into the storm.

  Instantly, rain soaked through his clothing, the cloak a sodden anchor which slowed his progress. He put more effort into his steps, striding into the rain, his head swinging back and forth all the time. “Tyra!” he screamed. “Tyra! Speak to me!”

  What if she’d had one of her spells? What if she was lying in the rain, unconscious, unable to help herself? What if she became ill due to the storm?

  It would be his fault. He’d pushed her to this. “Tyra!”

  Yes, he could imagine her, lying crumpled in the mud with rain pelting her face. The thought of it tore his heart and made him fight harder than he had before to find her. She needed him. He needed her.

  His feet slid over loose rocks, causing him to jump back. The storm made it difficult to see that he’d reached the stream, now flowing swiftly at the bottom of the rocky ravine. The bank was far less steep on the other side. What would have been a treacherous descent on a dry day might have broken his neck now.

  He leaned against one of the trees scattered along the bank, wondering if this was a hopeless cause. There was too much land to search on foot in a storm, and no telling which direction she’d fled in upon leaving the house. “Tyra!” he screamed, but it was with a sinking heart. She could not hear him.

  Another sound cracked through the air, seemingly in response to his cry. He ducked when he realized it was the sound of a pistol being fired.

  Nearby.

  He crouched behind the tree, his back to the stream. The shot had come from somewhere ahead, had it not? The wind did not howl quite as it had before, meaning it had not carried the shot far from where it had been aimed.

  Someone had shot at him.

  They fired again, and Dougal ducked behind the tree. Who was it? Why were they firing on him?

  What if Tyra was near enough to be struck?

  He had to find better shelter than this, somewhere to hide. But where? Venturing away from the stream would place him in plain view of who’d done the shooting, no matter how hard the rain fell.

  The trees to his right were not densely packed, but they would have to suffice. He might be able to dart from tree to boulder—there were many near the edge of the ravine—to tree quickly enough that his attackers would not find him.

  It was his only hope. As for Tyra, he prayed she had the good sense to keep herself hidden until the threat passed.

  He dared peer from behind the tree, eyes moving over everything before him. There was no sign of movement. It seemed the best time to go.

  He fell behind the nearest bolder at the same time another shot cracked through the air. For one moment, he imagined he’d escaped unscathed.

  Until pain exploded in his head, unlike any pain he’d ever known. Blinding, sizzling pain. He touched a hand to his temple and stared in silent shock when his fingers came back blood-covered.

  “I hit him!” Who was that, their voice raised in jubilation?

  “Ye never did!” Another voice. Both of them came from the other side of the boulder, some distance from where he knelt with blood running down the side of his face. “It was a shadow.”

  “In the middle of a storm?”

  They argued over whether or not he’d been hit while Dougal bled freely onto the ground, the pain making even thinking a difficulty. How could he escape them? How…

  He’d barely had time to ask himself this question before the mud beneath his hands and feet gave way, sending him sliding into the ravine. He clawed at the rocks, his flesh tearing as he struggled to gain purchase. It could not be managed. He landed at the bottom, halfway in the stream, bruised and bloodied but still very much aware of the danger he faced.

  “Where could he have fled?” The voice was much louder now, close to the ravine’s edge. Dougal hurried to cover his face with his hood, hoping the dark, sodden cloth would conceal him.

  “I had him, I swear it,” the second man insisted.

  “We shall not be the only ones searching for him now that the warrant has been signed.”

  “… if it weren’t for the storm, would’ve had him.” The wind carried the rest of it away.

  “…again, soon. There is only so far a man as known as he can flee. It would be foolishness to return to the house…”

  Their voices faded as they continued on, having failed to find him in the stream. Dougal fought to remain conscious, as the question of where to find Tyra was still at the forefront of his mind.

  It was a losing battle. No matter how he fought, darkness thicker and heavier than that brought by the storm enveloped him.

  16

  There were certain sounds which Tyra knew she would never forget, not if she lived a hundred years.

  One of them was the sound of a shot being fired, for it had been an errant shot which brought she and Dougal together. Her entire life had turned around once that shot was fired. It was a sound etched upon her heart for all time.

  Which was why, when she heard shots fired somewhere near the stream, she hit the ground and remained there, fl
at upon her belly, barely daring to lift her head that she might see about her.

  Who would fire a shot in the middle of a storm? A storm which had begun to lessen in its intensity, to be certain, though the rain continued to fall at a steady pace. The wind had grown quieter, though, which gave her the ability to discern the direction from which the shot had come.

  Another shot! She pressed herself to the ground and prayed her sodden clothing and dark hair made her blend in with her surroundings. Where were the men who did the shooting? And who were they?

  And why were they shooting at all?

  Her heart pounded hard enough to sicken her, and once again the threat of a spell came upon her. She felt herself growing cold, colder even than the muddy earth to which she pressed her body. There had never been cold like this. She would lose herself to it…

  No.

  The voice in Tyra’s head did not sound like her own. To whom did it belong? Dougal, perhaps. No, ye shall not give in to this. Ye shall hold on.

  Could she? She’d never tried to fight against one of her spells, merely accepting them as they came upon her and hoping they would not last long. That whomever she happened to be near at the time would care for her—normally, that had been Iona, and earlier than that it had been her mother.

  There had never been cause to doubt either of them would provide care to her when she fainted, so she’d never attempted to fight back against a spell.

  Now, she had no choice. What if she were to be rendered helpless against the shooter? What if they discovered her out here? The prospect of being trampled by a horse unsettled her worse than being discovered and…

  The very thought of what might befall her was enough to center her thoughts, to strengthen her determination. She would not give in. She could not!

  Another shot cracked through the air, making her jump. But she maintained a hold on herself, which was a victory in itself considering the way her heart raced.

  Was it Dougal they fired upon? It had to be, unless one of the criminals he’d spoken of had gotten loose. What if someone were pursuing them across the moors? Perhaps this had nothing to do with Dougal at all.

  A lovely notion, but Tyra’s instincts told her otherwise. Had Dougal not already spoken of the dangers of possessing English blood? Was that why he considered himself a dangerous ally?

  There were voices. Shouts, coming from the stream. She lifted her head just enough to follow the direction of the shouting, gritting her teeth against a cry of surprise when she discovered a pair of men on horseback.

  “Go away. Go away,” she whispered, now following their every movement. They were frustrated, these men, she could hear it in their voices even though the words they spoke were lost in the rain.

  Soon, they did as she asked. She braced herself when they brought the horses about, for one brief moment near panic at the thought of them riding in her direction. What could she do if they came her way?

  They did not, riding well past her. She followed them still, watching until they were nothing more than shadows in the distance.

  There was no time to lose after that. If Dougal was out in the storm and those men had fired upon him…

  Strength she’d been certain she no longer possessed surged through Tyra’s body as she pushed herself up from the muck in which she’d been lying for so long. The mud clinging to her skirts made them twice as heavy, their weight slowing her as she ran blindly for the stream.

  She reached the edge of the ravine, just before the sharp drop-off. What were the men doing here? It was so dark, the rain still falling and all but blinding her at times. She placed her hands above her eyes, holding back the water dripping into them. It helped a bit, allowing her to see as far as the rushing stream below.

  Should she call out to Dougal? No, for there might be other men nearby who would hear and come on the run. If only she knew why they’d come and what business they had there. If only she knew where to find him! If only she knew he was safe.

  Then, she saw it. Movement in the stream. A fallen animal?

  No. A man.

  She was on her way down the steep embankment before she could stop to think, sliding over rocks, sending them skittering in all directions. He was partly in the water, partly out of it, and the movement she’d seen was likely nothing more than his cloak floating in the current.

  “Dougal,” she whispered upon reaching him, touching his face with trembling hands. “Dougal, speak to me. I beg you, speak.”

  When she turned his head to the side, she found the blood. Ever so much of it. “No, no,” she whispered, pressing her ear to his chest and praying for a heartbeat. It was there, but it was weak. He lived. Perhaps he’d only been grazed.

  She could not allow him to remain here, that much was for certain. He would drown before much longer. “You must awaken,” she insisted, going so far as to slap his face in hopes of arousing him. Strange, but as much as she’d wished she might slap him earlier, when he’d hurt her so badly, it now pained her to do so.

  There had to be something she could do.

  Before she knew it, she had him under the arms and was dragging him up the embankment. “Help me!” she grunted, uncertain as to whom she spoke. Dougal? Perhaps, or perhaps to the Good Lord.

  Her shoulder fairly screamed in protest, along with nearly every muscle in her body, but Tyra ignored the pain in favor of making progress. She pulled him, then scooted backward up the embankment and pulled again. Tears of pain, frustration, terror on behalf of the man she struggled to save mixed with the ever-falling rain.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, Tyra reached the edge of the embankment and with a surge of sheer willpower pulled Dougal over the top and onto solid ground.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, lying on her side and panting for breath. She doubted she’d be able to rise from where she’d sprawled out beside him, every part of her body aching most horribly.

  But it was not for herself that she fought, and as such she found the strength to rise to her knees. “Dougal?” she whispered close to his ear. “Can you hear me? Please, speak to me.”

  He grunted softly, but to Tyra this was as much a relief as it would be to hear him speak her name. His eyes remained closed, his breathing shallow, but he was aware.

  It was too far to the house—in fact, she still could not see it in the rain, the shape of it lost among so many hills and trees. There was no chance of dragging him any further. Where could they wait out the storm?

  Within moments, she had her answer. Feeling along Dougal’s belt, she found his knife, and in time she’d cut loose enough branches from the trees lining the bank to create a roof which she then laid over two sturdy, flat-topped boulders some yards from where Dougal lay. It was slow work, the wood wet and pliable and not as easily cut as she would have preferred.

  But it was as good a shelter as she could manage, enough to keep the rain away from them. If only she could build a fire, but there was no means of doing so with the rain-soaked wood.

  Instead, then, once she’d moved him into the shelter, she crawled beneath the roof of branches and sat with her back against a rock, pulling him close to her. She did her best to wring water from his cloak before wrapping it around them in hopes of holding in the warmth from her body. He had to be kept warm.

  How long could they remain in this pitiful excuse for a shelter? Until morning? She might be able to find help once the sun rose, though she would not like to leave him alone.

  She fell asleep fretting over this, fatigue and strain finally winning out over her will to remain awake should he need her.

  It seemed only moments passed before something touched her cheek. Tyra waved a hand over her cheek as if to brush away an insect, barely roused from her slumber. She was just aware enough to take note of the absence of wind and rain. The storm had passed.

  She opened her eyes, startled to find the sky a great deal lighter than it had been only moments earlier. No, it could not have been mere moments, for not enough
time had passed during the storm to bring the dawn about so quickly. She must have slept for hours.

  Her heart jumped.

  Dougal.

  She looked down to where his head had come to rest upon her chest, only to find him looking at her. It was his touch which had woken her, his hand upon her cheek. The fact that his eyes were open at all was enough to pull a whimper of joy and relief from her. “You are awake,” she whispered, awed.

  “For a moment, I believed myself dead,” he breathed, staring deep into her eyes. “Waking in your arms, so near ye. There could be no other explanation. I’d died and awoken in Heaven.” He stroked her cheek with one thumb, then trailed his fingers along her jaw.

  What was happening? Was this real? Or was it nothing but a dream? “You are awake, and alive,” she whispered with a smile, covering his hand with her own.

  The slightest uncertainty touched his eyes, narrowing them for an instant. “For how much longer?” he asked. “I know not. So I must do this.” Before she could ask what he meant, his lips found hers and pressed gently against them.

  She knew she ought to be startled, though there was nothing of the sort racing through her mind as they kissed. No, it seemed quite natural that this ought to occur, the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, so close, defending themselves against the rest of the world. As natural as breathing.

  He continued touching her face, her hair, gazing up at her. “If I die…”

  “You shall not!”

  “If I do,” he insisted, “ye must know how I’ve come to care for ye.”

  Her heart swelled, her throat tightened in the face of this new joy. Could it be? “Truly?”

  “Truly.” A faint smile. “Far more than I ought to. I wished for ye to know it before…”

  “Do not say it,” she warned, more determined than ever that he should live. “Your temple is scraped. You were quite fortunate not to be hit squarely. But you shall not die.” In fact, his wound had stopped bleeding, the rain having washed away a great deal of what had covered the side of his face and head while she’d built their shelter.