“The horse!” a man yelled, too far into the distance, I hoped, to yet see me.
But there was another pursuer who was closer, galloping straight toward me. And I was not hidden enough. The shrubby trees were too sparse.
It was only seconds before the warrior reached me. I armed myself with my small sword and turned to face him. I knew resistance was futile, once he called out to the rest of the search party. I would be surrounded, beaten, taken back to Ogilvie to be punished.
But the warrior did not reach for his sword. Instead, he removed his helmet, revealing disheveled, very-red hair. “Roses. ’Tis me, Ritchie.”
Ritchie. My friend and my trainer. The one who had taught me how to fight and how to hold a sword correctly, as I was doing now.
“Nice technique.” He smiled briefly, a quick flash of mirth. Then his face grew serious. “I’ll not reveal you, Roses. But you must be quick. Do whatever you can to escape, and don’t come back. I know nothing about what you did to anger Laird Ogilvie, but he’s hell-bent on getting you back. He has dispatched search parties in all directions. He wants you found.” He turned to look behind him at the approaching soldiers. “Go! Before the others catch up.”
“Ritchie,” I said, gasping for breath, with relief and gratitude.
“Go!” he said, more forcefully. “Be safe, Roses.”
The furtive warning in Ritchie’s voice charged me, and I turned from him. I looked back only once to see his horse vanishing into a glade, wishing I could thank him, but he was already gone.
I climbed as fast as I could up the craggy terraced cliffs, farther and higher for what felt like a long time, until I reached a sheltered grassy cove. My lungs and legs burned with my exertions, and I sat for a moment to catch my breath. I could see that I was high above the vast rolling grasslands now. So high that I was afforded a magnificent view, across the heather fields.
My heart skipped a beat as I looked over the rise of a nearby hill to see the grand central stone castle of the Mackenzie keep—Kinloch, if I remembered correctly.
Within the confines of the keep, I could see tiny people milling about. Spaced cozily across the castle’s grounds were smaller stone and wooden buildings, and acres of farmland, striped with green and gold crops, artfully decorated with fruit trees, vines and gardens. The landscape was richly colorful, dotted with the tiny orange, red, green and yellow shapes of the laden orchards and gardens that looked on the verge of harvest. It was far more lush and skillfully tended than the Ogilvie keep. And it looked wildly inviting, especially considering the emptiness of my stomach, which twisted and growled at the sight of such plenty.
The stone wall that circled the central area of the keep’s castle and gardens looked as tall as two men, at least. If I used a ladder—which I hoped I might be able to build with some wood and the rope I had brought—I might be able to scale it.
I would use the daylight hours to scout for a place to find a shelter to sleep tonight, after I returned from my raid. To my intense relief, I found one easily. The hillside was steep and gouged with small caves, shielded from the wind by massive boulders and packed tree glades. I found one that was not too cramped, extending deep into the smooth rock. At the back of the cave, a slit extended up to a thin crack of daylight, giving warmth and soft light to the cozy space.
Delighted by my find and feeling hopeful at the prospect of food, I went in search of wood for my ladder. What I found first, farther around the western back of the hillside, was a picturesque waterfall splashing into a clear pool. I took a long drink. I washed my hands and my face before continuing to gather lengths of sturdy, thin branches.
I returned to the cave and wound the lengths of rope I had brought around the rungs of my makeshift ladder, fashioning what I hoped was my portal into the Mackenzie gardens.
The only thing left to do was wait until darkness veiled then settled thickly around the landscape of my new—and quite comfortable—temporary home. I prepared my bag, checked my ladder once more for weight-bearing consistency.
I strapped my belt, strung with my knife and sword, around my waist. Figuring that a disguise would be the best course of action, I wound my hair into a loose braid, coiled at the back of my neck, then fastened the war helmet onto to my head and set off on my way.
The stone wall of the keep was farther away than I’d estimated. It may have been as much as an hour before I reached it, and by then, my lack of sleep and lack of food was beginning to take its toll. Attempting to ignore both, I positioned my ladder, waiting atop the wall, listening for sounds of stirring in the near vicinity. My eyes had adjusted by then to the spare light offered by a sliver moon and some cloud-veiled stars. I could see no one. I adjusted my weight on the thick surface of the wall and pulled the ladder over, placing it against the inside wall so I could make my escape. I climbed down to the ground and found myself on the far side of a small loch from the looming castle and within sight of the silver-edged silhouettes of garden hedges and gnarled, fruit-heavy trees. I sneaked around the water’s edge toward my goal. I fingered the first pear of my harvest, taking several bites before I could continue. Its sweetness was indescribable. I picked as many fruits as I could carry.
As I walked past the edge of the smooth expanse of the loch toward the wall, I was surprised to notice that the yellow hue of morning had just begun to creep above the horizon. I’d taken too much time. Soon, people would begin their day’s chores. And I was still inside the wall. Taking quick steps now, I secured my helmet and approached my ladder. Just as I started to climb, a sound drew my attention.
A splash.
I turned to see a man walking out of the loch.
A very big, muscular, naked man. Very naked.
And he was looking right at me.
We were both stunned into frozen silence. But then he tensed and moved in my direction, jolting me into action. I clambered up the ladder as fast as I could, pulling it up behind me and jumping heavily down to the ground on the far side, my bag of fruits and vegetables secured to my back. I left the ladder where it lay and ran for my very life. I didn’t look back, but I knew he was coming.
I ran and ran until my legs threatened to buckle under me. My back had gone numb with the weight of my load as I struggled farther and farther up the hill.
I could hear him gaining on me.
“Halt!” he yelled, and his voice reached into my body and grabbed my heart, such was the fear I felt. It wasn’t just the strength of the command but the closeness of it.
And I did halt.
On the other side of the sharp jutting rock was my shelter. I dropped my bag and turned to face him. I pulled my sword from its belt.
And he was there, not ten feet from where I stood, fully clothed now and holding his own—much bigger—sword.
As far as I could see, he was alone. Would he have told others about his chase?
The first thing that struck me about him—aside from his size, which I already knew about, in every regard—was his captivating looks. His black hair, still barely wet, hung to his shoulders, and he wore a small braid stitched back from each temple, as was customary for clansmen. Despite the small distance between us, I could see that his eyes were a vivid shade of blue. His face was fierce not only in expression but also in countenance: fierce in beauty. I was dizzied by my fear and by my reaction to his dazzling presence.
“Who are you?” he asked, his broad chest heaving as he breathed heavily from the chase. It was a command, that I supply him this information.
I did not speak. I had no intention of giving up my identity. He might return me to Laird Ogilvie.
He held up his sword and asked the question again, this time more quietly but no less commanding. “I said, to whom am I speaking?”
I held up my own small weapon. It was far less impressive than his own,