Now he had the healer in his arms, and the lass had been suspiciously quiet for the last hour as he put distance between them and the keep. Arran imagined she was angered at him, but he had no other choice in his decision. She would have been killed if he had left her there, and he did not wish to have anyone else’s blood on his hands from this situation.
Perhaps she would be interested in staying on with his clan.
Well, that is, if she lost her anger at what Arran had done.
They rode until Arran saw the familiar boundary of his land, feeling the relief slide through his veins as he crossed over. He was home. Even though he had another full day’s ride ahead of him, he was one step closer to stopping his brother and protecting his clan.
The storm caused Arran to seek shelter, finding a thick copse of trees that would keep most of the rain off them. He stopped the tired horse, tightening his hold on the healer.
“I dinnae wish tae run after ye, lass,” he told her, feeling her stiffen against him. “Give me yer word that ye wilnae run.”
It took her a few moments to answer. “Alright. I wilnae run.”
Arran wasn’t so certain he believed her, but that was all he had. Sliding off the horse, he reached up and helped the healer down. She moved away from him immediately, going deeper under the large tree, her arms around her waist.
“What now?”
“Now I build a fire,” Arran replied, tying the horse to a low hanging branch. “And then I find food.”
She gave him a nod, and Arran set off, gathering the sticks before the rain had a chance to soak them. Soon he had fashioned a snare for a rabbit or some other small animal and placed it in the wood before trudging back to the clearing where he had left the healer. Arran was surprised to see her coaxing a small flame to life.
“Thank ye, lass.”
She sat back on her heels as the flame caught the sticks. “I was cold.”
Arran chuckled as he sat on his haunches near the fire, putting his cold hands out to warm them. “Are ye still angry?”
“Ye took me. What do ye think?”
Aye, she would be fine in his clan. “I did what I thought was right.”
“Then ye need tae rethink, Scot.”
Arran decided to let the conversation end with that. She would be happy once she saw his clan, his village, and to be out from under McDougal’s reign.
The next afternoon, Arran slowed the horse as he saw the party coming toward him, relieved to see his colors flying in the cold breeze, and his brother at the helm. He urged the horse forward; soon, he could see his brother’s wide-eyed stare.
“Arran?”
“Aye,” he replied, lifting his hand.
Murmurs rippled through the group of warriors present as Malcolm grasped his outstretched arm, relief showing on his face. “’Tis ye! We thought ye were dead. The warriors...”
Arran felt a wave of sadness flow through his body as he thought of his warriors that were lost, their families grieving. “An ambush,” he forced out, his voice heavy with regret. “’Tis mah fault.”
His brother squeezed his forearm. “We have honored them, mah brother.”
Arran nodded, fighting back the emotion in his voice. “We must go tae the keep. McDougal will be wanting his revenge.”
His brother wasn’t listening. Instead, he was staring at the woman seated in front of Arran. “Who is this?”
“The healer,” he said, gripping her a bit tighter. “And mah prisoner.”
She started to protest, but Arran spurred the horse forward, back toward the keep. “I am not yer prisoner!” she shouted.
“Ye are until I figure this out. Or until ye make a choice.” He knew she did not care for her laird, but that did not mean she would not go running back to him.
“A choice?”
