Page 3 of Kidnapped by her Highland Enemy

T he brine of sea salt tickled Maisie’s nose. Stirring, she felt the tickle of an unfamiliar sheet brush across her nose and then, as she made to call for Heather—the memories of being thrown on a strange Scot’s shoulder jolted through her mind.

Gasping, Maisie shot up, grabbing at her clothes and finding only her stiff, dried shift.

A fearful shudder ran through her, and she gently rose up from the slender cot and went to the latched window.

Looking out she saw nothing but dark blue water, which surely flowed to forever, there being no end in sight.

“Where am I?” she breathed out, confused, while looking to where the blues of sea and sky met.

Her eyes dipped to the lower level—and saw only about a few feet of land, ten or twelve before a stark drop to the sea. There was no way to escape from this point.

She took a deep breath of the salty sea air and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the waves as they crashed onto the shore.

What was she to do now? Maisie felt ill; she wanted to go home.

Even though there was little comfort there, she did not know what horrors she would endure here in the clutches of her captors.

Is Faither searching for me? Surely he realizes that I am missing by now.

A great flock of white sea birds suddenly startled her as they flew over the longship, their shrill cries breaking into her thoughts.

She shielded her eyes from the sun and gazed up at them, watching as they soared high into the endless expanse of blue sky, then one by one dove back down to the surface in search of fish for their morning meal.

Suddenly, her stomach grumbled angrily, reminding her that she had eaten little since the day before.

“Ah, yer awake,” a familiar—and infuriating—voice said from behind her.

Spinning, Maisie looked around the room, trying to spot anything she could use as a weapon, but found nothing. The chamber was quite bare, leaving only the cot she had slept upon and a few chests shoved up against a far wall.

Pressing herself against the shuttered window, she balled her fists to the side and notched her chin up. “Who are ye and what do ye want with me? Where am I?”

“Now, what would be the reason in telling ye that last bit?” he said while entering, his emerald eyes glimmering but staid. “I am Lucas McCormack, Laird Barclay.”

“Ye!” she spat, furious that he was one of the dastardly enemies. No, he was the dastardly enemy. “Me faither will have yer head on a pike when he comes for me.”

“He can try,” Lucas said easily while ruffling his light, flaxen, golden hair. “But I doubt he’ll win.”

She bristled, “Are ye always this… this arrogant?”

“Aye,” he shrugged.

“What do ye want?” Maisie’s fingers flexed on the wall. “Why are ye doing this?”

“Why nae?” he asked. “It’s another way to show yer faither me clan is nae to be trifled with.”

“To this length?” Maisie said in disbelief. “To take me from me home? Why do I nae believe ye?”

To her irritation, he held her gaze without any faltering. “That’s up to ye. Trust me words or nae.”

“Where—” she looked around. “Where is Heather, me maid? What have ye scurs done with her?”

“What do ye ken we’ve done with her?” Lucas asked lightly, too lightly for Maisie’s peace of mind.

Angry, horrified and a bit fearful, Maisie spat, “Because ye are nothing but ruthless dogs that have nay compassion, care or remorse. Ye kill whatever displeases ye and ye will nay stop at anything to get what ye want.”

Lucas’s jaw tightened and he came forward, his long legs eating up the small space between them with two strides.

Pressed against the wall, Maisie feared the flashing fury in his eyes.

He stopped a stride away from her, but while he did not touch her, something odd crackled over her skin, raising the tiniest hairs on her skin.

“Dogs ye say,” he growled quietly.

“Aye,” she braved. “Ye are nothing but mangy mongrels.”

His lips were thinned, “We might be mongrels but we are not bastards. We do nay abuse women. Yer maid, me lady, is downstairs. Being…entertained, ye could say.”

Fright for Heather leaped into Maisie’s heart. “What? Are ye—what are ye doing to her?” Lurching from her place, she darted to his side. “If she is hurt I will—” Her hand lifted with the intention to crack it across his face, only for him to swiftly grab it and stop her dead in motion.

A scorching heat ran up her arm at his touch, the warm heat of his palm and the disturbingly arousing rasp of his calluses on her wrist. His gaze was taunting, “Ye’ll do what, lassie?”

Affixed by his daring gaze, heat flared between them, and Maisie was not sure if it came from their mutual hatred of each other.

They held each other for a long while, the small room quiet but for the sound of their breathing and the lapping of the water just beyond—but then, his eyes darted to her lips and his nostrils flared.

Was he…was he aroused? Nay! She angrily dismissed the thought. It could not be, he was her enemy more than anything else, a cursed Barclay! He had to be angry. That was it surely. Why else would his nostrils had flared like a bull? Yanking her hand from him she said, “I need to see Heather.”

“So ye can put yer heads together and come up with some foolish plan to escape?” His left brow arched to his hairline. “Do ye ken I am a greenling?”

“I ken ye are a brute,” she said icily.

“Even so, I am a smart one,” he countered. “And ye willnae see yer friend until I decide to let ye do so. Have a rest, lassie, and daenae try to escape through that window. There is nay way out that way; unless ye can walk on water, ye’ll die.”

Her lips twisted. “Fine,” she said. “Are ye planning on feeding me at all? I’m hungry.”

“And what would ye like?” He asked, “Rabbits in gravy, all covered with sugar, red and white wine a’ plenty? Pheasants, and partridges, and roasted plovers? Fritters with sugar mixed with rose-water? Or may it be, apples baked with honey and dried fruits?”

“Yer mocking me,” she scowled.

“I am,” he smirked.

Maisie swallowed. “Fine then, I’d rather starve.”

“Dinnea fash yerself,” he snorted, “Ye’ll eat. Until then, daenae worry yer little head too much.”

Her stomach roiled as she turned away from him, and set her gaze on the far wall, decided on ignoring him.

With a laugh, the Barclay laird left the room, and she drew her legs up to her chin.

Lucas McCormack, the bane of her father’s life.

She had never expected to meet him, well, unless he had a sudden turn of heart and had come to apologize and make amends with her father.

And now I realize that is very far-fetched. He loves putting my family to shame.

Tucking her head into her knees, she felt dread begin to rest in her heart. If she did not know where she was, she doubted her father knew either. It was not as if the raiders had left him directions.

Even worse, she did not know what the dratted man wanted with her. Would he save her life and give her back to her father, or would she end up floating in a firth somewhere? Despondent, she tried to hold back the tears and sucked in calming breaths and pray that she would not die this way.

“Me laird,” Oliver greeted Lucas as he descended the wooden staircase. “Me wife is on her way.”

Eilidh Jamieson was the loveliest soul Lucas had ever met. Oliver had met her in his twentieth year and by one-and-twenty, the two were wed. Lucas had just turned fifteen and had been sent to train under him.

Back then, he had not seen the point of marriage and had mocked it, saying the man was throwing his freedom away, but then, Oliver had said, “Ye’ll find out one day. When that seed plants itself into yer heart, I dare ye to pluck it out.”

Lucas did not have the heart to utter one word against love the way his arrogant younger self used to, as now, the need to find a woman he could claim as his, had begun to set in his heart. Perhaps deeper, into his soul.

“Ah, aye,” Lucas nodded while ruffling his hair. “Are ye sure yer wife is fit to travel? The little lad or lassie is due any day now.”

“Eilidh is from strong stock,” Oliver grinned. “She might look frail and so, but the woman can kill a hedgehog from half a chain away.”

“Ah,” Lucas nodded. “How is the other lass?”

“Upset an’ worrying about her mistress,” Oliver said, while jerking his head to a room on the left. “Ian is minding her.”

“Daenae allow them to see each other yet,” Lucas warned him. “I havenae doubt that the lass and her will contrive some plan to escape and give us a headache to constantly watch and then stop ‘em.”

Laughing, Oliver said, “She’ll be an eejit to try and escape that room.”

“Do we ken who sent that note?” Lucas asked. “And has anyone acted on the threat yet?”

“Nay to me knowledge, sir,” Oliver said. “But it will be clear by now that ye are nowhere to be found. If anyone was foolish enough to try something, they would have been nabbed. However, I am sure when Eilidh comes, she’ll have some news. If nay, I’ll go and check in the next day or so.”

“Good man.” Lucas clapped Oliver’s back. “Now, what about dinner?”

The wind was whistling and whirling against the brick walls, brisk and cold but it paled in comparison to the frantic thoughts swirling through Maisie’s mind.

Being captured and kidnapped by her father’s arch enemy had been the last thing she had expected while going for her morning bath, but now that she found herself in McCormack’s clutches, she had to find a way out of them.

The gall of him!

Seething, Maisie looked again for any way to get out of the room, without letting the men know. Glancing at the door, she stood and inched her way to it. Was there any hope that no one was minding it and she could slip away?

As she neared the door, she heard the stomps of boots and scurried back to plop her bottom back on the cot just before another man came into the room. She had never seen him before, but he looked older, and his dark red hair was a shock to her.

“Good eve, lass,” he said while settling a tray with a trencher of warm, flaky bread and a bowl of lamb stew before her. “Eat up before it goes cold.”

Warily, Maisie eyed the food. How easy would it be to have them add something to it to kill her. But then…if he wanted to kill me, wouldn’t he have done it already?

Still, she shook her head. “Ye eat some first.”

Oddly, he did not look taken-aback and genially broke a hunk of bread and dipped it into the stew. Promptly, he ate it and even went back for a second before Maisie blurted, “Ye daenae have to.”

He smiled. “I reckon ye’ve never seen me before, aye? Me name is Oliver Jamieson, and I am his lairdship’s man-at-arms. Yer a smart lass, but ye dae need to ken we wouldnae poison yer food.”

Taking the tray, Maisie began to eat. “I daenae ken what to expect from ye lot. Ye are Barclays after all. Where is his lairdship this evening?”

“Out,” the man said succinctly.

While eating, Maisie felt his eyes latch onto her and a quiet, disconcerting silence began to stretch long enough that she grew uncomfortable. An embarrassed red was creeping up her neck and warming her cheeks and ears, but she could not find any words to say.

Putting the tray down with her empty bowl, Maisie wrapped her arms around her and hunched over slightly. “What does he want with me, or from me?”

Instead of giving her a definitive answer, Oliver propped a hand on his thigh. “What do ye ken this is all about?”

She worried her lip. “I suspect it’s about the feud we have amongst us.

Is he tryin’ to prove something to me faither?

That ye are the strongest and smartest? Why bother because the last five skirmishes we’ve had with ye, ye won.

There is nay need for all this antagonism anymore. Ye’ve proven ye are the best.”

A flickering smile curved Oliver’s top lip. “It’s a bit more than that, lass.”

“How much more?” Maisie asked, her brows crinkling.

“That,” he said while getting to his feet, “I cannae tell ye. But be assured, ye willnae die at our hands, or at all if we can manage it.”

His words were somewhat comforting, but they did not fully quell the upset still resting in her chest.

“Are ye cold, lass?” Oliver asked, “I can give ye more blankets.”

She quirked a brow, “Are ye not afraid I’ll use them to let meself out the window?”

“Ye have more sense than that,” he said. “By now, ye’ve seen that there is nay way ye can escape without mangling yer body on the sharp rocks below there.”

Maisie’s eyes shot to the window then back to him. “I have enough blankets, thank ye.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Take care then, lass, and daenae ye worry yerself too much.”

When he left with the empty tray, Maisie could only draw her knees up to her chin and rest her head in the cradle of her arms. She had no other choice but to ponder what Mister Jamieson’s cryptic words meant.

What was more to this than the Barclays deciding to show how wretched and pitiful her clan was… again .

But, what did Lucas want with her? With Lucas’s words and now Oliver’s, Maisie deducted that there was more to this kidnapping than just a show of power. If they wanted her alive, was it for ransom?

Gold and jewels? Surely the Barclays had enough of that?

Was it in exchange for land? That did not make sense either as the Barclays were not afraid to come in and take how many acres of land they wanted.

She could not decipher any reason she had been taken and when dusk barely fell, she retired to bed angry, frustrated, and a bit fearful.

What if they are lying? Am I going to die here anyway?