Heart Of A Highland Warrior (6 page)

“The master wants to make sure this one works out first,” Bart said. “Let’s go deal with this mess.”

“You gonna leave him unchained?” Lance asked, nodding toward the other cell.

“He’s no threat in that condition,” Bart said. “And I drugged him earlier. I’ll chain him in the morning.”

She
’d
beaten up a tortured, drugged man. Hell, what a night. She waited until the footsteps faded and then walked to the bars between their cells. The dungeon was still relatively dark, even with the sconce, and she couldn’t see the man clearly. She could only assume he was alive. “Hey,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

His fingers twitched, and he tried to move but collapsed to the floor again. His hair still covered part of his face, and he wore a beard. From what she could see, his eye and cheek were swollen and streaked with blood. Like Angus’s.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

He rolled slightly, and his hair fell back from his face.

Anna’s breath caught. “Faelan.”

CHAPTER THREE

A
NNA PRESSED CLOSER
to the bars. It couldn’t be Faelan, could it? She
’d
just talked to Ronan. He said Faelan and Bree should be home soon. Unless they had been captured in the last few hours. Could he be Duncan? He and Faelan looked enough like to be brothers. No, this man had a beard. Faelan and Duncan had both been clean-shaven in Virginia. But that was a few days ago.

She studied him a minute longer, the length of his hair, the shape of his head. Definitely not Duncan. But she couldn’t be sure this wasn’t Faelan. Whoever he was, he needed help.

“Can you move closer?” Anna asked. All warriors had basic medical training. She didn’t know what she could do with these bars between them, but she had to try.

He must have heard her because he started sliding closer. It was slow, and she cringed as he groaned in pain.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

His eyes opened, and Anna saw a flare of recognition before they closed again. Was it him? Good God. The clan must not know, or this place would be surrounded by warriors. And Bree would fight the Dark One himself to free Faelan. Anna reached through the bars and touched his hand. A jolt ran up her arm. Blimey. What was that? She
’d
touched Faelan dozens of times sparring with him. He
’d
beaten her every time, but he
’d
never shocked her.

She checked his hand. No wedding ring, but he did have a broken finger. There wasn’t a talisman at his neck, but the guards could have taken his too. She needed to see his chest. A warrior’s battle marks were as good as fingerprints, and she knew most of the warriors’ marks from sparring with them, since males usually sparred shirtless.

She shook his arm gently, and he hissed. She yanked her arm back. Maybe he wasn’t human. But he looked so much like Faelan. Demons could shift into human forms, but she
’d
never known a demon that could shift into a known identity. Even if that were the case, a demon would never be able to maintain his human shell if he were this injured.

“Can you roll over? I need to see your chest.” Hopefully he
’d
think she was checking his injuries.

He grunted and tried to move. It took a minute, but he managed to roll onto his side. She pulled his shirt aside and looked at the tattoos on his chest. Battle marks. Her heart sank. If the Mighty Faelan was trapped in here, what did that say for the rest of the clan? But something was different about these marks. She looked closer. It was difficult to see in the dim lighting, but she was certain these weren’t Faelan’s marks. Then who was he?

“I need to check your injuries.” She
’d
probably inflicted a couple of them. She put her arm through the bars and checked his pulse. Strong. Alternating bars, she checked him over. There was a knot on his head and a couple of cuts on his neck that had already dried. She already knew his back was a mess. There were cuts on both calves and a small pool of blood at the edge of his kilt, making her wonder what else they might have done to him after she was captured.

She eased his kilt up until she found the source of the blood, a cut on the front of his thigh. Warriors healed quickly and were immune to most diseases, but they weren’t immortal. If they were injured badly enough, they could die. Like Angus. And she wasn’t positive this man was a warrior. She looked around the cell to see if there was anything she could use to clean his wounds. The floors and walls were lovely, but the cells were bare except for a toilet in one corner, a sink with a cup and paper towels, and a stone bench with a folded blanket.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, unsure whether he could even hear her. She filled the cup with water and grabbed the roll of paper towels. She worked on the cut on his thigh first, cleaning off the worst of the blood. He was shivering when she finished, from pain or from the cold. She didn’t clean his back since his shirt was stuck to his wounds. She would do that later, after they
’d
escaped. There had to be a way out of this place.

He shivered again, and Anna worried that he was going into shock. She got the blanket and stuffed it through the bars, spreading it over his body as best she could. Then she checked his pulse again. Still strong.

She spent several minutes checking the cell for some way out, but the bars were secure, and she didn’t have anything to pick the lock. There wasn’t even anything she could use as a weapon. If the bastards got close enough, she
’d
strangle them with her bra.

The man moaned, and Anna went back to him. Squatting next to the bars, she slipped her hand through and touched his face. Still cold, but no fever. That was good.

He seemed unsettled. He tried to raise himself to one arm. “Piss.”

“What?”

“Piss.” The man fumbled with his kilt and lifted the front.

Anna’s eyebrows rose. Was he going to do it right here on the floor? “Wait! You have a toilet.” Damn. He couldn’t walk to the toilet. He
’d
been drugged. Grabbing the cup still sitting on the floor, she tilted it just in time. She looked away, trying to give him privacy. His hand was unsteady, and she was afraid he
’d
end up soaking the floor. Anna cursed under her breath and reached through the bars. She put her other hand over his, guiding his aim.

What a bloody freakin’ day. She
’d
gotten captured by God knew what kind of creatures, there was a monster hybrid on the loose, and now she was helping a man she didn’t know piss in a cup. When he was finished, he groaned and fell back, not moving. She lowered his kilt and emptied the cup in the toilet. When she returned, she straightened his blanket and sat on the floor next to the bars, afraid to leave him alone.

After ten minutes with her teeth chattering and her head drooping, she lay down, trying to draw what little heat she could from his body.

A smell woke him. Something tugged at his memory. Hugging a woman? No. Fighting…He opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor. A blanket had been thrown over him, and a woman lay inches away in the next cell, her back to him. She wore a short gown that left most of her legs bare. His eyebrows rose, and he winced at the movement. His face felt bruised and swollen. She must be a whore. What was she doing here? He pulled in her scent again, and he smelled something else. Blood. What had they done to her? Had the guard ravished her?

If that bastard had hurt a woman, whore or no, he
’d
wrap his hands around that thick throat and squeeze until there was no bloody life left in the man. When he could move. Damnation, he felt like he
’d
been trampled by horses. He looked at the floor and saw the bloodstain, there and on his kilt. It was his blood, not hers. His body hurt from head to toe, but he was warmer than he
’d
been for a fortnight. The blanket must have been her doing. Memories shot through his head. A woman’s voice whispering to him. Soft hands checking for wounds, holding his hand while he pissed. Bollocks. And he smelled worse than a sweaty horse. He hadn’t bathed in days.

“Well, now, isn’t this cozy?” The guard stood outside the cell. His arm was bandaged.

The prisoner didn’t recall attacking him. He didn’t think he
’d
been capable in his
condition. Had the woman done this? Not likely. What could a woman do against a guard? He heard an indrawn breath, and the woman jumped up, her back to him. All he managed to do was roll over. Since he didn’t have a sporran, he dropped his hand over his groin, but the guard had already seen his reaction to the woman.

“Nature blessed you, warrior, so you might manage it through the bars. We could use some entertainment.”

An unholy light lit the guard’s eyes, sending dread to the prisoner’s heart. He struggled to his feet, longing for his dirk. He would drive the blade up under his ribs, directly into his heart. The guard would be dead before he hit the floor. He must be a killer, else how would he know that?

The guard opened the woman’s cell and stepped inside. “Time to start talking. Who are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“Did you come for him?” He nodded toward the prisoner. “Strange clothing for a rescue. You couldn’t have come for the other one. He’s been here over two years. No one knows about him.”

“Do you know her?” the guard asked him.

“No.” He didn’t know anyone. Or did he know her? Was that why he
’d
felt the beginning of a memory?

The guard advanced on her, but she didn’t back up. Her body tensed, balancing. She was prepared to fight. Another rush of dread filled him. The guard would kill her.

“Answer me,” the guard demanded, clenching his fists. “Who are you? How did you get in?”

“You’ll need more than your fists to get me to talk,” she said.

Was she insane? The prisoner moved closer to the bars separating the cells. His body was still weak, but anger and fear gave him strength.

“I can make you talk.” The guard pulled out his pistol. “Lance, come here.”

Lance arrived, and the guard handed him the pistol. “If she struggles, shoot her.” The guard grabbed the woman’s arm. “Tell me who you are.”

“No.”

The guard slapped her.

The prisoner’s fingers pressed into the bars. He heard a growl and realized it came from his own throat. Then a startling thing happened. The woman punched the guard in the face and then kicked him in the chest. He fell backward, smashing into Lance. The gun flew from his hands. Damnation. Lasses didn’t fight like that. Maybe his dream of fighting with her wasn’t a dream.

“Bitch!” The guard jumped up and grabbed the pistol, pointing the weapon at her head.

“Just shoot her,” Lance said. “The master will be here soon. We don’t need trouble.”

“No. Get on the floor.” The woman’s face was still hidden, but her anger was apparent in her stiff movements. “Now.”

She sat down, awkwardly, because of her short gown. The guard pointed his pistol at her chest and shoved her back onto the floor. She tried to sit up, but the guard straddled her. He ripped the top of the woman’s gown, baring part of her breasts. Not overly large, but plenty. He sneered as he unfastened his belt. “Somebody needs to teach you a lesson. Human women are only good for one thing.”

A cry of rage rolled up the prisoner’s throat. “Get off her.”

“Sedate the prisoner,” the guard ordered Lance. “Then leave.”

In one swift motion, the woman lifted her legs, baring a backside covered in a tiny white cloth and the most bizarre shoes on her feet, and wrapped her legs around the guard’s chest, yanking him backward. At the same time, she swung her arm toward the pistol. It fired into the ceiling. She ducked, and the guard scrambled to his feet.

The prisoner growled and pulled against the bars. He felt the wounds on his back open with the effort. He wasn’t aware that Lance had entered the cell until something sharp jabbed him in the arm. He turned and swung at Lance, throwing him against the cell door. The prisoner started toward him, but Lance scrambled out of reach. The prisoner’s legs went weak as a new lamb’s. His mind blurred as Lance shoved him onto the bench. As the shackles closed around his wrists, he saw the woman’s face for the first time.

But it wasn’t the first time. He
’d
seen those turquoise eyes before.