Anita Clenney - Heart Of A Highland Warrior

“Not until I get what I want.”

Anna backed against the wall, anger and fear making her blood pound. She didn’t know if he meant answers or rape. She didn’t mind a fight, but rape…the thought made her sick. Her mother had been raped. It had ruined her life.

The guard slammed the door and started to lock it. “The lock’s broken. The bullet must have hit it. We’ll have to move her.”

“Not if we kill her,” Lance said. “We have too much to worry about with these other two.”

Did that mean there were only three of them being held here? The prisoner, the hybrid, and her?

“No. The master will want to know who she is. She must be a warrior. She had one of those necklaces.”

She touched her bare neck. Warriors didn’t lose their talismans. It just wasn’t done. What a bloody mess she’d gotten into.

“Put her in with Faelan for now. I’ll deal with her later. Move,” he ordered her. He stayed several feet away, aiming the gun at her head as Lance unlocked the other cell and shoved her inside. “We’re not finished. You’ll pay for this.” The guard gave her a dark look, and the two left.

Anna turned to the prisoner. He sat on the stone bench, his arms shackled to the wall above him, his bare feet shackled to an iron ring in the floor. Dried blood smeared his kilt and shirt. He was unconscious, head cradled between his upraised arms and his chest. Who was he? The guards thought he was Faelan, and he did resemble him, but they were wrong.

She touched his arm, and he yanked at his chains and opened his eyes. Anna leaned back. She had no doubt he could be dangerous. His dark gaze locked on her, and something zinged along her nerves. “What’s your name?” she asked.

He looked disoriented, but his gaze was steady. “Faelan.”

He couldn’t be. He didn’t have Faelan’s battle marks. “What’s your last name?”

“Last?”

“Faelan what?”

He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

Amnesia? They had beaten him so badly it was no surprise. “Where do you live?”

He closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“How do you know your name is Faelan?”

“That’s what they call me.”

“Hold on, I’m going to try to free you.” Anna tested the shackles and chains. They were strong. She needed something to pick the lock. Her hair clip. It had a sharp edge. She touched her head, but the clip was gone. It must have fallen out when she fought the guard. She hurried to the bars and scanned the floor of the next cell. The clip was lying in a corner. She lay on the floor and stretched out her arm. Too far. Blimey. She reached around behind her and unhooked her bra. She shrugged one shoulder free, then the other, and wiggled out of it.

The prisoner watched, his brows drawn together. If he hadn’t looked so broken, his astonishment would have been comical.

“I’m sure it isn’t the first time you’ve seen a bra.” Holding one end of the bra, she knelt and tried to snag the clip through the bars. It was sort of like fishing. It took several tries to retrieve the clip. When she got it, she scooped it up and hurried back to the man. She stuck the pointed end in the lock. She wasn’t as good at picking locks as Ronan, but she wasn’t bad. Her efforts paid off, and she heard a click as the shackle released. She opened it, and the prisoner’s arm dropped. His wrist was raw from where he’d pulled at the chains. The second shackle proved harder. Anna glanced at his face, only inches from hers. She felt a jolt of something, but decided it was sympathy or shock.

His eyes moved over her face. He frowned and shook his head.

“I’m Anna. Anna MacKinley.”

“Anna?” He said the name stiffly, but there was no doubt he was a Scot. And a warrior. Why hadn’t she seen him before? There were some smaller clans who kept to themselves. Perhaps he belonged to one of them. But it didn’t answer the question of what he was doing here and why the guards called him Faelan. A thought was forming in her head, but it was so outlandish, she didn’t give it credit.

“Do you remember how you got here?” she asked.

“No. They’ve taken my memories with their damned potions and needles.”

“An amnesia drug?”

“I don’t know. I woke once, and they were taking my blood. And I think they branded me.”

“Branded?”

“There are marks on my chest.”

Strange that he would refer to them as brands and not tattoos. Maybe they weren’t battle marks. Lots of guys had tattoos on their chests. But he didn’t remember who he was, so it was possible he didn’t remember that he was a warrior. “Can I see them again?”

He looked slightly taken aback. “Aye.” He pulled his shirt aside.

They both jumped when she touched his skin. Her fingers ran over the marks, confirming what she’d seen before. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Faelan.”

THE WOMAN STARED at him with the most startling blue-green eyes. They reminded him of water he’d seen in Greece. Greece? He dug through the fog in his head, grasping at the small thread of recognition. Was he from Greece? But the memory moved past like a wispy cloud on a windy day.

He looked away from her breast jiggling a hand’s length from his face as she worked on the shackle. “How do you know I’m not Faelan?” He was oddly distressed by her words. He had felt a connection to the name. The only connection he had in the midst of this darkness. Until her. She was bonny. Perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that made him nervous, but he didn’t know why.

“I know Faelan,” she said.

“You know him?” That was a bloody odd thing, for her to know someone by the name his captors were calling him. “And you’re familiar with his chest?”

“Of course.” At his questioning look, her dark brows drew into a delicate arch.

“How do you know him?” he asked, hoping the words didn’t sound as impolite to her ears as his.

“He’s a friend.”

Friend. That could mean anything. “Why would they call me Faelan if I’m not him? Is it a common name?”

She continued to work on the shackle. “No. Uncommon, in fact.”

Yet she knew a man named Faelan, the very name they called him. Very odd indeed.

“Well, we know you’re Scottish.” She nodded to his kilt.

“Do you want me to try?” he asked, looking at the shackle.

“I think I can get it. We need to get out of here. We’ll have to set a trap and attack him. Maybe one of us can play dead, then we’ll attack him when he comes to check. I wish I had my dagger.”

Damnation. What kind of woman carried a dagger? The shackle clicked open. He removed it while the woman, Anna, started working on his feet. The shackles there opened easier. When he was free, he stood, wincing.

“Are you all right?” Anna asked, looking him over. “They’ve beaten the crap out of you.” She looked oddly guilty when she said it.

He frowned at her rude speech. Obviously a whore, which made him wonder again if she was telling the truth about this Faelan. More likely he had used her services. She was the bonniest thing he’d ever laid eyes on. He didn’t visit whores himself, but he’d be sore tempted with this one. How could he know he didn’t visit whores when he didn’t recall his own name? He touched his face and winced.

“Aye. If feeling like you’ve been run down by a team of horses is all right.” He noticed a streak of blood on her thigh, and his stomach knotted. “Did the guard hurt you?” Lasses like her were often ill treated, but whore or not, it made his blood boil.

She followed his gaze to her thigh and then wiped the blood with the edge of her gown. “It’s his blood, so it doesn’t matter.”

Cheeky wench.

“Do you know how long you’ve been here?” she asked.

“I’ve lost count. A fortnight or longer.”

She seemed puzzled by that. “Fortnight? What do they want with you?”

“They’re testing me.”

“For what?” Anna asked, smoothing down her gown.

“I don’t know.”

“Is your leg still bleeding?”

He lifted the edge of his kilt. Dried blood still crusted the cut on his thigh, but it had closed up overnight. “Thank you for tending me.”

She glanced away. “No problem. We have to get you out of here and back to your family.”

Family. Several faces rushed through his head so fast he didn’t have a chance to recognize them. It was damned frustrating.

The woman, Anna, walked to the cell bars. He glanced at her bare legs, wondering why a whore would feel so familiar to him. Perhaps he had glimpsed her briefly when she was put into his cell.

She grabbed one of the iron bars and tested it, then went around the cell testing them all, as he’d done when he awoke in here. “They’re strong,” he said. “I’ve checked them all.”

“We have to find some way out of here.”

She was serious. Was she barmy? Women didn’t break out of dungeons and fight guards. “I’ve tried to escape. Then they started giving me potions to keep me under control, and one of them keeps a pistol aimed at me. If they got it close enough, and I wasn’t half asleep from their bloody potions, I’d disarm them and kill them both.”

She turned and looked at him. “I think I know what you…” Her mouth closed, and she shook her head slightly. He wondered what she had been going to say, but she bent to inspect the lock, which bared her legs almost to her arse, and that’s all he could think about. The polite thing to do would be to look away, but he couldn’t make himself. She must turn a good profit. “How did you get here?”

“I followed the skinny guard, Lance.”