Page 35 of Kidnapped by her Highland Enemy

O wen stirred blearily to the scent of woodsmoke and male voices mumbling and grumbling in the near distance, while another sound, like a great beast trying to take flight, throbbed in his ears.

“He’s awake,” someone said, in those clipped, English tones that Owen abhorred.

That “he,” Owen assumed, was him. Though where he had awoken and why were still unknown.

A shadow stretched over Owen and an unfamiliar face appeared.

Damp blond hair plastered on a forehead, wrinkled in concern, which curved down to a proud, bulbous nose and a small, pursed mouth.

Ruddy cheeks, peppered with fair stubble, matched reddened eyes that glistened with barely contained tears.

The eyes might have been blue, but Owen’s sight had not yet cleared enough to be sure.

“Mr. McCulloch?” the man belonging to the face whispered, in a voice that reeked of desperation.

Owen groaned, struggling for breath as the full weight of his injured ribs threatened to stop all air from getting into his chest. “It’s… Laird Dunn to ye,” he managed to spit, as he lurched into a sitting position.

After a few deep, restorative breaths and some measured blinks, he could see well enough to take in his surroundings.

He was inside a large, rectangular tent with a peaked roof.

A fire crackled in the center, sending billows of grayish smoke up through a funneled hole in that roof, though the raindrops that snuck back down made the flames hiss.

The flapping sound, he realized, came from the front of the tent, where the stormy winds battled against the limply tied canvas.

“Apologies. I am Elias Spencer, and I am in dire need of your assistance, Laird Dunn.” The blond man cleared his throat.

“I realize that we are neither allies nor friends, and your side has suffered a great defeat, but… you are the only one I can trust. The healers among my army are sawbones and quacks, but your talents are famed.”

“Aye, and they’re nae for the likes of ye, for the reasons ye’ve just so plainly noted,” Owen shot back, searching the tent for any sign of Sawyer.

Moreover, Owen knew precisely who Elias Spencer was—the Earl of Gallagher, and one of the highest-ranking commanders of Cromwell’s army. Perhaps, the very last person on Earth, barring Cromwell himself, who Owen would feel inclined to help in any way.

“I had no choice, Laird Dunn. Truly, I did not.” Elias gestured toward another cot, on the opposite side of the tent, where a limp figure lay beneath bloodied blankets.

“My son, my darling son, will die if you do not help him. Heal him and you may leave, with your man-at-arms. I shall pay you handsomely, in addition, but you must do this. I beg of you, not as an English enemy, but as a father who cannot bear the thought of losing his only son.”

There was something about the plea that struck a chord in Owen’s chest. A moment ago, he would rather have spit in his own eye than help this man, but it was hard to look at Elias as an enemy when he appeared so woefully pitiful.

“How handsomely?” Owen muttered.

Two choices lay before him, and neither were particularly pleasant.

On the one hand, he could remain stubborn to the already defeated Scottish cause and risk his death and that of Sawyer, with little hope of seeing home again.

On the other, he could do as Elias asked, gain a reward, and be on his journey back to Dunn Castle within a few days, with Sawyer intact.

In truth, it did not seem like much of a choice at all.

“Would this suffice?” Elias took out a heavy coin pouch and placed it in Owen’s hand for a moment, presumably to let him feel the weight. Of course, he removed it quickly, so Owen would not have the chance to snatch it.

Sighing, Owen ran a hand through his thick, fiery red hair.

It felt rough with dried mud and dirty from weeks of marching without so much as a stream to bathe in.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined a steaming bathtub, placed before the fireplace in his chambers at Dunn Castle.

He could almost smell the fragrant oils and feel his tight muscles loosening at the pleasurable sensation of being submerged in warmth.

“I suppose it’s goin’ to have to.” Owen nodded toward the wounded man. “What happened to him?”

“William?” Elias clasped his hands together in a strange, praying motion.

“I cannot be certain, but he has several injuries and has been struggling to breathe. I am sure you will be able to understand his wounds better if you look at him yourself? I must leave to speak with my officers. Please, do all you can; I beg of you. Jenkins here will fetch anything you require.” He gestured to another man in the tent, before departing in a rush, likely so Owen could not refuse.

For two seemingly endless days and nights, Owen toiled with barely a snatched hour of rest here and there.

The small vessel that sat beneath the hollow reed, which Owen had inserted into William’s side, needed to be checked frequently in case the color changed.

Moreover, the wounds, though sewn up, needed to have their bandages replaced every few hours.

For those two days and nights, William had drifted in and out of consciousness, groaning and muttering and speaking in fevered tongues. Something Owen had witnessed countless times in soldiers who were suffering as William was.

“Am… I dead?” William croaked, taking Owen by surprise on the eve of the third night.

Taking a cup of watered ale, Owen lifted it to the man’s lips. “Drink this, Lad. Ye’re nae dead, though ye’re nae out of trouble just yet.” He rested a hand against William’s forehead and grimaced at the heat of it. “Once yer fever breaks, ye’ll mend more quickly.”

“Where is… my father?”

Owen tilted his head toward the entrance. “He’s gone to speak with his men about movin’ ye back to England. I wouldn’ae have ye move so soon, but I’m eager to be on me way, too.”

I’m sure Sawyer is, an’ all. He had visited his friend once since their capture, and though Sawyer was unharmed, he was being held in a wooden cage.

Naturally, Sawyer was not taking kindly to that sort of treatment, and it would not be long before one of the English soldiers retaliated at Sawyer’s spitting and throwing attacks.

“Do ye want me to fetch him back?” Owen reasoned that a son probably wanted to see his father, but William shook his head limply.

“No. I do not… want him to… know,” he murmured: his eyes foggy with delirium. “It all… happened so… quickly. I do not know… what is real and… what is not. I… am drowning, and I do not know… what to do. It is so… warm. Is it warm? Who… are you?”

Owen smiled. “I’m the fool yer faither captured to help ye. If I’d kent that healin’ men could forge a truce between the English and the Scots, I would’ve taken me needle and thread to auld Cromwell and stitched him up.” He sank back on his haunches. “Are ye breathin’ easier?”

“Breathing? I cannot… breathe with this… weight on me,” William hissed in reply, sounding panicked. “It is all… too much. It is crushing… me. I need to… get it off… my chest. I need it… gone! Save me, whoever you are! Save me!”

The injured man began to writhe and thrash, twisting up the fresh bandages that Owen had just wrapped around him. Already, fresh patches of red were appearing against the white material, where the violent motions were opening up healing parts of the wounds.

Seriousness furrowed Owen’s brow as he leaned forward to push down on William’s shoulders. “Ye have to stay still, William! If ye daenae, ye’ll tear everythin’ all over again!”

“William? You know… my name? How do… you know me? Were you… sent to… kill me?” William’s eyes widened with the madness of his fever, prompting him to flail and thrash harder against Owen’s restraining push. “He is… killing me! He… is killing me… again!”

With only one arm possessing its full strength, Owen knew he would not be able to hold William down without resorting to less comfortable measures.

So, he pressed his good arm across William’s collarbone and heaved down with all of his weight, while his injured hand clamped as best it could over William’s mouth.

It would not do Owen any good to have an Englishman shouting that he was trying to kill him.

“Hold still, William!” Owen commanded. “Ye’re goin’ to undo all the healin’ I’ve done, and I will nae be doin’ it all again for ye! I’m nae tryin’ to kill ye. I’m tryin’ to save yer life, so ye best do as ye’re told!”

Gradually, William relaxed, and his breath returned to a steady, albeit shallow, rhythm. Still wary of another outburst, Owen slowly removed the pressure of his arm and weight and sat back.

“Are you… truly trying… to save me?” William whispered.

Owen nodded. “Aye. Nae willingly, but aye.”

“Then, there… is something you… must—” William’s words turned into a spluttering cough that shuddered through his weakened chest, darkening the red stains of the bandages.

Owen placed a gentle hand on William’s chest and tapped lightly to release some of whatever was building up in there. “Daenae try to speak, William. Conserve yer strength.”

William’s eyes widened and he shook his head.

“I have to… tell you. I have to… you are going… to save me, so I have to…” He trailed off into mumbling incoherence as his eyes rolled back into his head, wheezing out the nonsense of those with a burning fever.

However, two hoarse words stood out, making Owen lean closer: “attacked… me.”

“Who attacked ye?” Perhaps, Owen reasoned, he would know the Scot who did it.

But no sound escaped William’s lips. Not even the rush of breath.

“William?” Owen pressed his fingertips to the side of the man’s neck, feeling for the pulse of life. No movement met his touch. “William? William, can ye hear me?”

The man had wilted on the cot, lifeless as a plucked weed.

His lips, already drained of color, were now a deathly pale.

Nevertheless, Owen brought his ear close to William’s mouth, hoping to hear a faint whisper of breath, but that miracle did not come.

The wounds had been too severe, and William had likely waited too long to be tended to by a healer.

“What have you done?” a shaky, terrible voice snarled from the entrance to the tent. “What have you done to my boy?”

Owen’s head whipped around. “I couldn’ae save him, Elias. If ye’d brought help to him quicker, he might’ve lived. Even a sawbones could’ve given him a better chance! I did what I could. I did everythin’ but he was too badly hurt!”

“Did you… kill my boy?” Elias flew across the tent before Owen could even think about defending himself.

As Elias tackled Owen with his full, portly weight, a cluster of guards raced into the tent.

Seeing their commander in what must have looked like a scuffle, though Owen was merely trying to stop himself being strangled to death by Elias, the guards hurtled toward the scene and grabbed Owen.

Wrenching his arms behind his back, not caring about his injured one, the guards hoisted him backward.

“He murdered my boy!” Elias screamed: his face purple with rage.

“Take him out of my sight! Throw him in the cage with the other Scottish vermin!” He flung himself at his son’s dead body, hugging the limp figure tight to his chest as he wailed at the top of his lungs, “My boy! My only boy! My sweet, dear boy!”

In that moment, Owen wished he had done as Sawyer jokingly suggested, and ridden back to the English to have himself captured.

That fate could not have been worse than what was surely about to befall him, for if Elias truly thought he had murdered William, there would be only one sentence awaiting him.