Page 34 of Kidnapped by her Highland Enemy

“ W e should never have come down from Doon Hill,” Owen McCulloch grumbled, near blind in the driving rain that pelted the forest, turning any hope of a trail or path into an indistinct mass of churned, wet mud.

His friend and man-at-arms, Sawyer Connelly, just grinned and tilted his head up to the downpour. “Och, what could ye be gripin’ for when there’s fresh Scottish rain on yer face and a heart still beatin’ in yer chest? We’re the lucky ones, M’Laird.”

“Lucky?” Owen winced as his horse stumbled over a ditch, jolting his arm and chest. The former was lashed up in a makeshift sling while his ribs throbbed, feeling like they were about to pierce right through his lungs.

A few were definitely broken, if the bruising beneath his torn shirt was any sort of indication.

Sawyer shrugged. “We’ll be back in the north in a day or two, M’Laird, so we can lick our wounds with some hearty food and plenty nips of whiskey. I’d rather be doin’ that than shiverin’ and starvin’ in an English gaol, would ye nae?”

“Can ye set our defeat aside so easily, Lad?” Owen shook his head. “We were thoroughly—” He brought his horse to an abrupt halt and held up his good hand, urging Sawyer to a standstill.

A strange sound drifted through the heavy patter of rainfall: a muffled crunch of undergrowth, coming from somewhere to the right.

“What is it?” Sawyer whispered.

“I cannae be certain,” Owen murmured back, squinting into the darkness of the forest. It had been three days since the Battle of Dunbar’s conclusion, and though most of the victorious English army had marched west toward Edinburgh with their Scottish captives, there were no assurances that people lurking in the woodland were countrymen.

Sawyer slowly drew his broadsword, as both men had lost their pistols in the battle. Even if they had still had them, there was a good chance that the gunpowder would not ignite in such wet conditions.

The sound came again, but it seemed to originate from the left, this time.

With the darkness of night, the torrential rain, and Owen’s swollen eye competing to diminish his sight, he had to rely upon his gut instinct…

and it did not spell good tidings. There was a hushed furtiveness to the noise, though anyone with the benefit of shelter could see they were Scottish.

And if the people in the trees were also Scottish, they would make themselves known, once they had realized that.

They’re nay friends of ours.

“We’ve got one last fight, I reckon,” Owen hissed, drawing his own broadsword. His sword hand was injured but, fortunately, he was skilled with both. He merely preferred his right.

Sawyer nodded. “Aye, M’Laird. Ye cannae mistake that Sassenach stench.”

No sooner had they drawn their weapons than the danger in the forest shot out of their not-so-secret hiding places.

A surge of shifting, clanking, roaring darkness that poured onto the vanished path, wielding swords which beaded with rainwater that Owen would not turn red with his or Sawyer’s blood.

“Alive!” someone shouted in the unmistakable accent of an Englishman. “Remember, alive!”

Owen understood the word but not the context, as his horse reared in alarm at the sudden sweep of enemies. The war horse was built for withstanding battles, but not an ambush like this.

“Sawyer!” Owen barked, feeling himself slip from the saddle. Had both his arms been in good health, he might have been able to hold on. Instead, there was nothing he could do but give into the fall and hope for a soft landing.

“M’Laird!” Sawyer yelled back, jumping down from his own horse to come to Owen’s aid, at the very moment that Owen’s back collided with the muddy ground.

Covered by the darkness and the trees, it had been impossible to gauge how many enemies were hiding there. Now, it seemed like an entire army had Owen surrounded, as he struggled to raise himself from the sucking, squelching mud.

Nevertheless, he struck forward with his broadsword, using the motion to rock up into a sitting position.

At the same time, Sawyer crashed through the barricade of enemy soldiers, swinging his blade like a madman.

The distraction gave Owen a moment to lumber to his feet, unhindered, and he wasted no time joining Sawyer in their two-man resistance.

“Careful, men!” that same English voice bellowed through the storm. “Remember your orders!”

Indeed, it seemed strange that the attackers were not fighting back with the full weight of their advantage.

They clearly had the numbers to make this an easy victory, yet they were striking and parrying with a hesitancy that puzzled Owen.

Why were they acting defensively when they should have been fighting offensively?

“M’Laird! The trees! We need to get into the—” Sawyer’s frantic cries were severed sharply, followed by a guttural grunt and the sound of something collapsing into the mud.

Owen’s head whipped around as he dragged his hand over his eyes, desperate to clear the water away so he could see his friend. But there was no sign of Sawyer among the looming figures who closed in around Owen. Rather too quickly, this had become a resistance of one.

“Ye won yer battle!” Owen rasped, turning around and around to keep a watchful eye over the circle of men that surrounded him. “Let us be on our way!”

A figure stepped out of the circle. “We can’t do that, Mr. McCulloch.”

“Pardon?” Owen’s eyebrows rose in surprise, for the last thing he had expected was to hear these wretches call him by name. Even if they had gotten it slightly wrong.

“You are to come with us,” the leader of the group said firmly.

Owen raised his sword, to hold the man at a distance. “I daenae think so. I daenae ken who ye are, but ye’re English and that’s reason enough to go nay place with ye.”

“You can’t fight all of us, Mr. McCulloch,” the man replied evenly, and though he was right, Owen was not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

Slicing his broadsword in a sweeping circle, Owen bit back the pain that rebounded through his chest and arm as the metal clashed with parries and blocks from the blades of the English.

He spun and he spun, but with every rotation, the circle of soldiers grew more suffocating, until Owen could no longer extend his arm at all.

So, dropping his broadsword altogether, Owen snatched his dirk from his shoe and settled in for closer combat.

He lunged with the smaller blade, hoping to cause some damage to the enemy, but he could barely make out their faces, much less the shape of their bodies beneath long cloaks.

Once or twice, he heard the tear of material, or heard a hiss of pain, but he did not know what use it would be, in the end.

“What do ye want with me, eh?” Owen raged: his dirk-wielding hand now pretty much forced to his stomach.

The English leader sighed. “We have our orders, that is all we know.”

As Owen braced to strike at that man, sensing it might be his only choice, something collided with the side of his head.

With his eye swollen shut, he had not seen the blow coming.

Still, he felt it, sure enough. Sparks of pain erupted in his skull and though he was still on his feet, he no longer had any control over his limbs.

His legs staggered and his torso swayed, his good eye blinking furiously to try and disperse cloudy black dots that blotted out what sight he had left.

“I’ll be… avenged… for this,” Owen hissed, just as his knees buckled and he fell forward, hitting the mud with an almighty splash. Even with all the willpower in the world, he could not rise up again, for oblivion had well and truly claimed him.