Kidnapped By The Highland Rogue. Terri Brisbin
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she could get home.
The walk down took much less time and effort than climbing the steep incline of their path back. In spite of Martainn’s initial reluctance, he was not such a bad overseer. He kept his distance as she knelt at the stream and scrubbed out the pot. He even told her what supplies remained in the boxes and sacks. Clearly, he had tired of being in charge of meals and was glad to pass it over to someone else.
When she’d managed to find a stone with a flat end, Fia used it as a way to scrape the coated grime off the pot’s bottom and sides. She noticed that Martainn’s attention drifted and she used that few moments to clean her hands and face, tighten her garments and remake the braid from which her hair threatened constantly to escape. Once done, she filled both the pot and the bucket with water and stood. To her surprise, Martainn took them from her and motioned for her to go ahead of him. In a short time, they entered the centre of the camp and found the others there waiting.
With no interference other than a few rude comments whenever she bent over, Fia gathered the oats and a few other ingredients and soon had the porridge cooking over the fire. Keeping a close watch on it and adding more water as was needed, it took little time before the smell of it spread through the area. Before she knew it, the men were standing with bowls and spoons in hand, waiting for her to finish.
As she scooped out porridge for each of them, a few whispered words of thanks and Fia found herself surprised by it. Martainn’s was the loudest and she almost laughed at it. After she’d served all of them, Fia moved away from the pot and sat down on a log. No one stopped her or said much for they were too busy filling their bellies. Then a bowl was shoved under her nose and she looked up at Iain Dubh.
‘Ye didna eat, lass,’ he said, holding it before her. She took it with a nod. A spoon followed and her stomach growled loudly enough for him to hear it.
‘In truth, I was not sure there would be enough,’ she said. She only then remembered the sack with the bannocks in it and could not remember where she dropped it.
‘Is it cooked well enough?’ she asked, eating her first spoonful. It was blander than she was accustomed to, preferring to add fresh cream and nuts and even a wee bit of the uisge beatha made by the Mackintosh’s brewers to it at home.
‘Och, aye,’ he said. When she raised her gaze to his, he was staring at her. That bit of amusement glinted in his deep-blue eyes and she waited on the rest. ‘So much so that I canna wait to discover yer other talents.’
His attempt at humour over such a matter soured her stomach and she put the bowl down and looked away. Only Anndra’s approach broke the tension between them.
‘Is there more?’ he asked, holding out his bowl. Fia nodded and rose to give him the rest of it. She scraped the bottom of the pot, filling his bowl as much as she could.
Unwilling to return to the matter between her and Iain, she reached for the bucket of water and added some into the iron cooking pot to loosen the remainder of the porridge so it would not burn on the surface. In spite of trying to ignore him and the looming danger, she was aware of his presence as soon as he approached.
‘I dinna ken yer name, lass. What are ye called?’
She hesitated in answering him. Was she safer as Fia, Lady Arabella’s maid, or as an unknown villager they’d kidnapped? Before she could decide, he nodded.
‘I see then. Keeping yer identity secret? Weel, I wi’ give ye a name so we all ken what to call ye when we need ye. For cooking and cleaning and the like,’ he added with a wink. He stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and his blue eyes gleaming with mischief now. A lock of his black hair fell across his brow, making him look like the scoundrel he was. ‘What do ye think, lads? Is she an Isobel or mayhap a Margaret?’
It brought their attention to her once more, making her very nervous. They stared and studied her for several minutes in silence before Martainn spoke. Fia fought to keep her mouth shut, remembering that silence might be more helpful than speaking out.
‘My auntie Agneis cooked well. Mayhap Agneis?’ he suggested.
‘Yer Aunt Aggie was ugly as sin,’ Anndra called out. ‘This one isna that. Let’s call her... Cora.’
The men all shook their heads and complained about both of those names. Another one, a man with bright red hair and a long beard, one she’d not spoken to, stepped forward. ‘I think Sile is a good name for her.’
Fia watched and listened as they each offered suggestion after suggestion without ever coming close to her true name. ’twas interesting though to watch their manners and hear the comments about the kith or kin with the names they said. And, she learned the names of her captors and began to figure out who led this group and who followed. The years of observing the laird and lady were of some use in assessing people.
Lundie was in charge and everyone followed his orders.
Iain Dubh seemed respected, though begrudgingly, by the rest of the group. Even now he used humour to defuse the tension.
Anndra, Micheil, Martainn, Iain Ruadh and Conall all followed orders. Though there seemed to be a sense of comradery among them, she did not doubt for a moment that they would turn on each other if the right reason came along.
‘So, Iain Dubh, what’s she to be called?’ Micheil called out, clearly tiring of this matter. But, by asking Iain, Micheil confirmed Iain’s claim on her.
Iain seemed to think on it and then smiled. She could not even guess which suggestion he would choose.
‘I think Lundie had the best one. We wi’ call her “Ilysa”.’
The name echoed through the clearing as each man tried it out. Fia noticed it had been Lundie’s second suggestion. A smart decision to use their leader’s choice, she thought.
‘Come, Ilysa. We will stroll down to the stream to clean up the cooking pot.’ The men did not mistake his meaning or his intention.
Nor did she.
’Twas yet early in the day. The weather was clear and warm for a spring morning here. There were hours and hours before night would fall, but Fia doubted that her efforts to protect herself would wait that long. As he lifted the now-cooled pot and held out a hand to her, the very devil sparkled in his eyes. Deciding she must reserve her strength for when the time came, she accepted his hand and walked at his side.
Fia kept thinking about the various paths and hidden places in the camp. The cooking pot might make a fine weapon if she needed it. Then she could hide until these outlaws moved on or help arrived.
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