flames licked toward the men so their skin reddened with a pleasant sort of burn.
The MacLeods were a close family, and the discussions around the fire were always comfortable. Sometimes that bothered Andrew, and he knew exactly why. He was jealous. Hector hadn’t followed his chief into battle, choosing instead to hide the family and livestock deep in the Highlands when the danger came too close. The decision had been hard on his sons, who had felt entitled to join the ranks of the fighting men.
Duncan had brought his sons to war. And now they were all dead. All but one.
Andrew recognised envy on Simon’s and Geoffrey’s faces. How ironic, he thought, that he envied them for the opposite reason.
Andrew closed his eyes, breathing smoke from the fire and hope from the air. Geoffrey lifted his fiddle from its case and played, feeding Andrew’s hungry soul. He feasted until he could no longer hold his eyelids open, then went inside to sleep, and dream.
Chapter 11
A Cry for Help
The MacLeods were generous with their home. Andrew spent a fair amount of time in the stable, grooming, feeding, and caring for the ponies. He enjoyed the uncomplicated company of animals. When Hector suggested Andrew might like to ride up the mountain on his own, he was quick to accept.
A bay-coloured mare hung her head over the half door and nuzzled Andrew’s hand when he came toward her stall. She seemed more than happy to escape the confines of the stable and stood calmly while he swung onto her broad back. When the fresh air hit her nostrils, she became restless under him, tossing her head and champing on the bit in anticipation. Andrew felt the same urge and looked forward to letting her run as fast as she wanted.
Andrew and his brothers had learned to ride at their uncle’s castle in Invergarry. He had eventually become a groom, working with the
garrons
, the shaggy ponies of the Highlands. For Andrew, riding the animals was as natural as walking. He rode lazily through the trees, pushing aside the branches that stretched to touch him, until the forest opened to a wide meadow, flecked with purple blooms of heather and clumps of bracken as tall as he was. The breeze swept the long grass in invitation, and Andrew leaned into the pony’s neck. He pressed his thighs firmly against her sides, and she raced across the field, her thick mane stinging Andrew’s cheeks, her tail rippling behind her like a banner.
Partway across the meadow, the pony slowed of her own accord and Andrew relaxed along with her. She checked herself into a trot and finally into a rambling walk. He dropped from her back before she had stopped, and collapsed in the grass with a sigh of contentment. The meadow was alive with the constant buzz of bees at work. Their fuzzy bodies hovered anxiously when the pony lowered her head to graze, then returned to their duties. Andrew closed his eyes and draped his arm over his face to shut out the sun’s glow. He relaxed into the bed of wildflowers and began to doze.
The moment suddenly shattered. Shards of panic shot through his body so that his heart raced and his fingers prickled with heat. He heard screaming, felt pain, terror—he struggled to escape its grip, but could do nothing. Slowly, like a figure emerging from a fog, the dream revealed itself and something in Andrew’s mind realised it wasn’t he who was trapped. He was only a stunned observer. His mind reeled.
She
was there. It was she who was screaming. He felt her agony as if it were his own. His mind pushed blindly to find her, to protect her. It was as if he were being tossed a precious parcel, but was expected to catch it without the benefit of light or hands.
When she finally appeared from the confusion, the clarity of the vision was like nothing he had ever experienced. His heart constricted at the sight of her. The brown waves of her hair were matted with leaves and filth, her eyes bloodshot, and the bruises on her facetracked with tears. He wanted to
The MacLeods were a close family, and the discussions around the fire were always comfortable. Sometimes that bothered Andrew, and he knew exactly why. He was jealous. Hector hadn’t followed his chief into battle, choosing instead to hide the family and livestock deep in the Highlands when the danger came too close. The decision had been hard on his sons, who had felt entitled to join the ranks of the fighting men.
Duncan had brought his sons to war. And now they were all dead. All but one.
Andrew recognised envy on Simon’s and Geoffrey’s faces. How ironic, he thought, that he envied them for the opposite reason.
Andrew closed his eyes, breathing smoke from the fire and hope from the air. Geoffrey lifted his fiddle from its case and played, feeding Andrew’s hungry soul. He feasted until he could no longer hold his eyelids open, then went inside to sleep, and dream.
Chapter 11
A Cry for Help
The MacLeods were generous with their home. Andrew spent a fair amount of time in the stable, grooming, feeding, and caring for the ponies. He enjoyed the uncomplicated company of animals. When Hector suggested Andrew might like to ride up the mountain on his own, he was quick to accept.
A bay-coloured mare hung her head over the half door and nuzzled Andrew’s hand when he came toward her stall. She seemed more than happy to escape the confines of the stable and stood calmly while he swung onto her broad back. When the fresh air hit her nostrils, she became restless under him, tossing her head and champing on the bit in anticipation. Andrew felt the same urge and looked forward to letting her run as fast as she wanted.
Andrew and his brothers had learned to ride at their uncle’s castle in Invergarry. He had eventually become a groom, working with the
garrons
, the shaggy ponies of the Highlands. For Andrew, riding the animals was as natural as walking. He rode lazily through the trees, pushing aside the branches that stretched to touch him, until the forest opened to a wide meadow, flecked with purple blooms of heather and clumps of bracken as tall as he was. The breeze swept the long grass in invitation, and Andrew leaned into the pony’s neck. He pressed his thighs firmly against her sides, and she raced across the field, her thick mane stinging Andrew’s cheeks, her tail rippling behind her like a banner.
Partway across the meadow, the pony slowed of her own accord and Andrew relaxed along with her. She checked herself into a trot and finally into a rambling walk. He dropped from her back before she had stopped, and collapsed in the grass with a sigh of contentment. The meadow was alive with the constant buzz of bees at work. Their fuzzy bodies hovered anxiously when the pony lowered her head to graze, then returned to their duties. Andrew closed his eyes and draped his arm over his face to shut out the sun’s glow. He relaxed into the bed of wildflowers and began to doze.
The moment suddenly shattered. Shards of panic shot through his body so that his heart raced and his fingers prickled with heat. He heard screaming, felt pain, terror—he struggled to escape its grip, but could do nothing. Slowly, like a figure emerging from a fog, the dream revealed itself and something in Andrew’s mind realised it wasn’t he who was trapped. He was only a stunned observer. His mind reeled.
She
was there. It was she who was screaming. He felt her agony as if it were his own. His mind pushed blindly to find her, to protect her. It was as if he were being tossed a precious parcel, but was expected to catch it without the benefit of light or hands.
When she finally appeared from the confusion, the clarity of the vision was like nothing he had ever experienced. His heart constricted at the sight of her. The brown waves of her hair were matted with leaves and filth, her eyes bloodshot, and the bruises on her facetracked with tears. He wanted to
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