touch her, to hold her against him and protect her. He focused his mind on the core of her panic.
“Help me,”
she whispered, and he nearly wept at the sound. He had never heard her speak before.
But how to help? How could he possibly do anything? She needed a weapon. She needed some way to defend herself. His mind raced, searching. He had always been able to find hidden things and people. Now he focused his thoughts, demanding answers.
There it was. There, floating just out of reach, then suddenly in his hand: her salvation. An old hunting knife, abandoned long before by its owner, lay on a boulder nearby. He gripped the smooth wooden handle and felt the weight of the unfamiliar blade, then set it back down and gestured toward it with his open palm. He didn’t know from where it might have come, but its savage blade was as solid as the rock upon which it now lay.
Something strange and exciting happened to Andrew while he lay there. It stirred his blood with its unfamiliar power, and he embraced the sensation. He felt as if he were no longer an observer, but a part of her. He felt the air she breathed, hot and dry, stirring the hairs on his arms. He smelled the trees above her, different from any he had ever seen. The ground was hard and dusty, choked with unfamiliar weeds and grass. Beyond the trees was the same sky, the same shining sun warmed them both, but what lay beneath was foreign. Where
was
she? It didn’t feel like Scotland, but he couldn’t be sure of anything. He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek, imagining he could feel the wetness of her tears against his palm.
“At the river,” he murmured, having no idea where the words came from. “Look for me at the river.”
He awoke slowly, rising from the dream as if fighting a strong current. One of his hands was vaguely stiff, the fingers curled from gripping the knife in his vision. He stretched his fingers and rubbedthe sore knuckles. His nails had carved tiny half-moons into his palm.
His temples throbbed, and he pushed his fingers against them, trying to ease the pressure. The pony was watching, alerted to the unusual energy flowing around him. She swished her tail at a fly and nudged Andrew’s shoulder. He groaned, but rose to his feet, still rubbing his temples.
“Ye’re ready to go, are ye, lass?”
He stroked her velvet muzzle. Drops of moisture twinkled inside her nostrils. He leaned his face into the mare’s neck, inhaling the tang of her dried sweat and hints of the straw she had left behind in the MacLeods’ barn. He still saw the girl in his mind. Her tortured features cut painful lines across his heart.
The afternoon sun was moving on, the shadows of the trees lengthening into stark, black lines. Crickets would begin their chorus soon.
“Aye, all right,” he said to the pony. “We’ll head back.”
He reached for her mane and hoisted his body onto her broad back. He smiled as they set off toward the MacLeods’ home. Not even the shock of the dream had diminished the day. He had saved the girl in some way. She would survive.
Chapter 12
Entreaty
When Andrew reached the stables, Janet was waiting for him, a smile lighting her eyes.
“Ye had a good ride, did ye?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Fognan’s a sweet pony,” she said, reaching up to stroke the smooth, russet neck.
Andrew swung off the pony’s back and led her into the stable. Fognan walked into her stall, ears flicking with interest when she smelled fresh oats. Andrew latched the stall door on his way out, then went to where Janet leaned against the wall, watching him. She rubbed her palms on her long brown skirt, as if they were damp. He folded his arms over his chest and smiled expectantly at her.
“What is it then?” he asked.
“I was only wonderin’,” she said. “Ye’ll be off soon, won’t ye?”
“Off? I jus’ got back,” he said, puzzled.
She shook her head and gave him a brief smile. “No. I meant ye’ll be leavin’ our home and
“Help me,”
she whispered, and he nearly wept at the sound. He had never heard her speak before.
But how to help? How could he possibly do anything? She needed a weapon. She needed some way to defend herself. His mind raced, searching. He had always been able to find hidden things and people. Now he focused his thoughts, demanding answers.
There it was. There, floating just out of reach, then suddenly in his hand: her salvation. An old hunting knife, abandoned long before by its owner, lay on a boulder nearby. He gripped the smooth wooden handle and felt the weight of the unfamiliar blade, then set it back down and gestured toward it with his open palm. He didn’t know from where it might have come, but its savage blade was as solid as the rock upon which it now lay.
Something strange and exciting happened to Andrew while he lay there. It stirred his blood with its unfamiliar power, and he embraced the sensation. He felt as if he were no longer an observer, but a part of her. He felt the air she breathed, hot and dry, stirring the hairs on his arms. He smelled the trees above her, different from any he had ever seen. The ground was hard and dusty, choked with unfamiliar weeds and grass. Beyond the trees was the same sky, the same shining sun warmed them both, but what lay beneath was foreign. Where
was
she? It didn’t feel like Scotland, but he couldn’t be sure of anything. He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek, imagining he could feel the wetness of her tears against his palm.
“At the river,” he murmured, having no idea where the words came from. “Look for me at the river.”
He awoke slowly, rising from the dream as if fighting a strong current. One of his hands was vaguely stiff, the fingers curled from gripping the knife in his vision. He stretched his fingers and rubbedthe sore knuckles. His nails had carved tiny half-moons into his palm.
His temples throbbed, and he pushed his fingers against them, trying to ease the pressure. The pony was watching, alerted to the unusual energy flowing around him. She swished her tail at a fly and nudged Andrew’s shoulder. He groaned, but rose to his feet, still rubbing his temples.
“Ye’re ready to go, are ye, lass?”
He stroked her velvet muzzle. Drops of moisture twinkled inside her nostrils. He leaned his face into the mare’s neck, inhaling the tang of her dried sweat and hints of the straw she had left behind in the MacLeods’ barn. He still saw the girl in his mind. Her tortured features cut painful lines across his heart.
The afternoon sun was moving on, the shadows of the trees lengthening into stark, black lines. Crickets would begin their chorus soon.
“Aye, all right,” he said to the pony. “We’ll head back.”
He reached for her mane and hoisted his body onto her broad back. He smiled as they set off toward the MacLeods’ home. Not even the shock of the dream had diminished the day. He had saved the girl in some way. She would survive.
Chapter 12
Entreaty
When Andrew reached the stables, Janet was waiting for him, a smile lighting her eyes.
“Ye had a good ride, did ye?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Fognan’s a sweet pony,” she said, reaching up to stroke the smooth, russet neck.
Andrew swung off the pony’s back and led her into the stable. Fognan walked into her stall, ears flicking with interest when she smelled fresh oats. Andrew latched the stall door on his way out, then went to where Janet leaned against the wall, watching him. She rubbed her palms on her long brown skirt, as if they were damp. He folded his arms over his chest and smiled expectantly at her.
“What is it then?” he asked.
“I was only wonderin’,” she said. “Ye’ll be off soon, won’t ye?”
“Off? I jus’ got back,” he said, puzzled.
She shook her head and gave him a brief smile. “No. I meant ye’ll be leavin’ our home and
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