Master of the Highlands

“Oi, Newsam, look what I found me! ” Lily’s captor spun her around, yelling in the direction of a small copse of trees just down the road. His accent was as thick as Ewen ’s had been, though his cadences were not as round and languorous as the clan chief’s Scots brogue.

To her horror, two more soldiers materialized, stumbling drunkenly out of the trees. These two were in no better shape than the first. Their red coats were rumpled and discolored by the filth of battle and living outdoors. Their bleary eyes told Lily that, although they might not be drunk presently, chances were good that they had been drunk only a few hours past.

“What ’ave you got there, Corporal Neal? You know you’re to share with your senior officer. ” A smile bloomed on the face of a tall soldier, revealing a missing front tooth. A pair of small, close -set eyes squinted at Lily, and she wondered if the lanky soldier needed a good pair of glasses. He was as ugly as the first, though in a different, almost comical way. He was easily a foot taller than his companion, though likely not one pound heavier. An enormous Adam ’s apple protruded from his grimy neck, resting atop a well -stained cravat. His dirt- colored hair was pulled into a limp ponytail at the base of his neck.

The third man was just as enthusiastic about the latest turn of events, though he didn’t say as much. Instead he just grinned dumbly, head bobbing, as he walked toward Lily and the soldier. Even though he used a long musket as a walking stick, pouches of fat around his neck and cheeks flushed red with effort. The top of his head was bald and covered by a fine sheen of sweat, a fringe of frizzy orange curls encircling the sunburned skin.

The absurdity of this redcoat version of Laurel and Hardy overwhelmed her, and Lily shrieked, a quick, sharp sound somewhere between hysteria and fear. Her legs found their strength, and she began to struggle desperately to free her arms from her captor’s grip.

Lily went rigid, a wave of terror chilling her, as the tall soldier got close enough for her to see the malevolence in his eyes. The lanky one who had been referred to as Newsam hovered over Lily, making no effort to disguise his appraisal of her.

Tightening his grip, Corporal Neal buried his face into Lily ’s curls and inhaled deeply. “Ay, isn’t she a peach now? I do love Scot stock.” Lily choked down a wave of revulsion feeling the hot stink of his breath on her neck.

“Ay, a ripe peach at that, Neal.” Newsam ’s hand reached out and brutally squeezed Lily’s right breast. He found her nipple and rolled it roughly between his thumb and finger. Lily’s gasp provoked a smile from the fat one, his thin shiny lips peeling away to reveal a mouthful of tiny square teeth.

“And who gets to ride her first then? ” The fat one ’s baritone voice was incongruously deep. Lily breathed deeply and rhythmically in a desperate search for those reserves of inner strength that she had been congratulating herself on just moments earlier. She tried to master her pounding heart at the sight of the orange-haired man adjusting the growing mass between his legs as he licked his lips.

“Keep it buttoned, Burton. ” Newsam, clearly the leader of this trio, snarled at the clown-haired man. He turned his face back to Lily, tiny eyes squinting deep in thought. He placed his hand gently on Lily’s cheek, stroking lightly with his thumb. Reaching his hand back to the nape of her neck, the soldier slowly tangled his fingers in her hair. Abruptly, he tugged his hand up and back, violently exposing her neck. Lily stifled a scream as the pain shot through her neck and shoulders.

He met her stare and smirked. “There’ll be no riding yet. Not this close to Cameron lands. We move on. With our pretty little bird. ”

The soldiers secured her onto the rear of Newsam’s horse. Lily was flopped on her belly, the mount’s flanks punching into her stomach with each step. The length of rope they had used to tie her hands and feet cut into her skin with even the slightest movement. Dry heaves wracked her body, the waves of nausea aggravated by the stomach-turning combination of smells that filled her senses—the musk of horse and saddle, the iron tang of blood trickling down her hands from the bite of the rope, and the sourness of her own bile that she fought to choke back.

Her mind desperately tried to focus on a plan. She recalled an afternoon talk show she watched just after the layoffs at work. The topic had been survival, and the host was interviewing kidnap survivors. The number one rule, they kept repeating, was never to let strangers take you to a remote location; once they have you in their power, there is little to no chance of escape. Lily’s heart sunk. Not only was she bound hand and foot atop a horse, she was definitely being whisked off to someplace remote.

They rode for hours, putting miles between them and the Cameron lands. Each step took Lily further away from any hope of assistance. The full extent of her situation dawned on her. She ’d considered it from every angle, and still, everything pointed to seventeenth -century Scotland. There was no civilization for miles, and between the scene at Ewen ’s castle and these mounted redcoats, it was clear she had somehow ended up in a nightmarish version of Gram’s song. Herself landing on Lochaber soil, herself hailing from a future grand.

Here at the end—for surely, she thought, she was facing her end—what struck her was that she was utterly alone, not just in this past place, but in her own time as well. Closing herself off from any personal attachments, focusing only on work, Lily had also lost—what? Her twenties? And with it, any chance at love, or friendship, or fun. And for what? A meager nest egg that she ’d never get to share with anybody.

She had been so pleased with herself and her string of triumphs. She had watched coworkers lose everything in that very first round of company layoffs while she escaped, with a promotion no less. She should’ve known then that it was the beginning of the end of the technology boom. Instead, she zipped around the city in her hot little silver sedan. She had been so thrilled with such physical proof of her successes—forget the automatic everything that her BMW came loaded with, the thing even had heated seats. Lily thought it couldn’t get any better. All those accomplishments, those things that had given her pride and self-worth, rang ridiculously hollow now.

It hit her with excruciating clarity. She ’d once had such ideals, gotten such simple pleasures from painting an d reading. When had she lost touch with herself and what was truly important to her? She’d spent her adult years chasing shadows only to realize now that none of it mattered. All of it led to this moment in time. Stranded God knows where and God knows when, about to be brutalized by a trio of soldiers, and nobody would even notice she was gone. Correction. Aside from that formidable Ewen-Lochiel-whatever-he-called- himself and his brother, she could disappear off the face of the earth and nobody would truly miss her, not here, not back home. And Ewen would probably be relieved that the bothersome foreign … lass … as he kept calling her, had conveniently disappeared.

Her head ached from the tears that had been silently flowing almost nonstop since her capture. Exhausted, alone, lost, Lily let herself drift into unconsciousness.

She was being shaken, hands jostling her, roughly moving her limbs into places they didn’t want to go. Lily opened her eyes just as the horizon was spinning. She was being pulled off of the horse. Her makeshift bonds had caught on Newsam’s saddlebag and the ugly soldier with the bloody ear was doing his best to wrestle her up and over the horse ’s haunches. Lily was now numb to the pain as the barbs of twine ate deeper into her raw and bloodied wrists with every move. The saddlebag slipped free and Lily toppled to the ground, her weight flung solidly down like a sack of flour.

“You Scot wenches are built like lads. ”

Lily struggled to focus and choked down another wave of nausea as Neal’s ear dangled wildly from his scalp like an ornament.

Disgust inspired her anew. She would not give up. She could figure her way out of this, even if she was sapped of strength, bleeding, and tied up hand and foot. Newsam was barking orders to the fat one to gather kindling for a fire. She studied the sky, which was now steadily darkening to gunmetal gray. So twilight was upon them. Lily was no fool, and she knew what night would bring.

Her mind raced as Neal continued with his diatribe. “Not like the English ladies, mind. Now in London you ’ll find some right genteel ones, you will. Light and delicate -like. Not like you Scots hussies. ”

So, they thought she was Scottish. Of course. Lily realized that, in all the hours she had been with these men, she still hadn ’t uttered a single word. Her unrecognizable American accent would surely sound peculiar to them. She couldn’t decide if she could use that to her advantage or if it would be a liability. She could rely on Ewen ’s cover story and pretend she was from France. Though, come to think of it, she wasn’t quite sure if the French were all that friendly with the British in—what year did Robert say it was? 1654? No, come to think of it, didn’t the French ally with Scotland in battles for independence against the British? She seemed to recall that tidbit from some Mel

Gibson movie she had seen years ago. Why hadn’t she listened more attentively to any of the myriad museum tours that she had taken on her vacation?

Newsam appeared over her. His lanky form cast a dramatically long shadow in the late afternoon light. Lily sucked in her breath as she noticed a rusty blade in his hand.

He saw her eyeing his old dagger and chuckled. “Don’t mind this, missy. I ’m not done with you yet. We just need to pry these big feet of yours apart. ” He gave the other redcoats a knowing smirk.

Burton, now finished lighting a small fire, knelt down at Lily’s head and pinned her shoulders to the ground. Her senses piqued, Lily was overwhelmed by a heightened awareness of the ground beneath her. A large, smooth rock dug into her buttocks, with smaller rocks grinding into her right shoulder blade and a clump of foliage in the small of her back. Not soft and forgiving, but bristly, like thistle. She remembered, incongruously, that thistle was the last thing she saw before the image of that man’s hideous face. With one swift flick of his wrist, Newsam severed the rope at her ankles and began to saw at her bound hands. Adrenalin coursed through her veins at the thought that these men surely hadn’t been this close to a woman in quite some time. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">