Outlanders

It was difficult to remember how I got here. How my brother, foolish bastard that he was, could allow things to fall this far. With the death of our father five years ago, Rayan had come to be in charge of the household. What a terrible decision the home falling onto his shoulders was, but he was a misogynist who deep down despised me for being our father's favourite.

I was nothing like my brother. He was reckless, indulged too much on alcohol and gambling, acted on whims whenever he saw fit, and almost always spoke prior to thinking. Well, I suppose that last part was similar.

I had a sharp tongue and quick wit like my mother before me, something that got me into more trouble than I care to admit. In society, a woman was valued for holding her tongue, obeying her elders and husband, and being submissive to whatever they order. I had a problem with authority. Not all kinds, but I did not fancy traditional women's roles. Little did I know it would nearly cost me everything.

"Raina, pick up the pace, won't ye?"

I begrudgingly tapped my heels against my steed's sides, encouraging him to quicken his trot from a leisurely one to a canter. I was in no hurry to arrive at my destination. As a woman, I was a pawn, nothing more than to warm someone's bed and bear their children. Unfortunately, rather than finding an agreeable match for me, my brother had taken up the offer of marriage between me and who he was indebted to.

I knew well enough of the man, Eric, to be aware that my life would be anything but happy. He was quite handsome, and he put on a good show, but deep down he was cold, bitter, and cruel. He was a poor excuse of a man, and I was to be his bride in just three short days.

We had been on the road for two days time, riding from sun up until well past sun down. My party consisted of myself, Rayan, two of his mates who happened to be brothers, Alec and Alistair, and my lady who would be accompanying me in my new life, Mary. Bless her soul for coming along on this journey and the start of a new chapter in my life.

I had prayed so hard to God that there would be some turn of events, that Eric would change his mind about the arrangement or that my brother would see how shallow of a man he was to trade his own sister as payment for his sin. How our father would beat him if he were still alive. I knew very well that he was rolling in his grave, as was our mother.

It was only a mere few miles we had ridden before the sound of distant hoof beats were heard approaching. In my naivety, I hoped for a silver lining, for someone to see I was worth more than a pawn in the world. That was, until I realized that if I had been white, maybe that would have been the case.

My mother was Indian, my father Irish. Growing up, we stayed relatively close to our home, under the protection of my father and our surprisingly accepting neighbors. Apart from our small circle though, it was extremely different. People were intolerant, presuming my mother and I to be common whores. Exotic beauties rarely did come to Ireland, Scotland, and Britain without resorting to more meager means of making a living.

No, instead of a safe passage and someone to help guide me home, we were greeted by the red coats. I had been wary of them all my life, but while my father was alive, we remained safe. Upon his passing, small acts of violence would be enacted on our property, but I was always spared. This time I wasn't so lucky.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I accepted what had begun to unfold: I would not be making it to France.

James' chest collasped as he heaved a half conscious groan when lifted to the linen lined stretcher. He wasn't sure what had happened or how long he had had been laying the field that reeked of decay. He was, however, painfully aware of every fiber of muscle that moved, the searing pain that had taken up in his left leg, and the flies that had taken it upon themselves to begin picking his wounds.

His saviors seemed to talk of him as if he were not there or they did not expect him to hear. Their predictions were not of the optimistic variety. Wounds had started to fester, he had been left too long, if he were to live he'd be a cripple.

He felt a prisoner in his own body. Unable to move or talk. At some point, God must have taken pity on him as he slipped back into the comfort of unconsciousness.

____

A chesnut mare and black stallion trotted alongside each other up the well worn path. The trees that lined the road offered their riders a shade, a welcome relief after riding all day in leather plate. A young man with tousled brown hair rode astride the stout chesnut and his older, bearded counterpart sat on the lean stallion.

The mare tossed her head back when he rider urged her up the hill. Becoming more fiesty with each nudge in her ribs. She threatened to rear but couldn't muster the strength after the long day's ride.

"Aye, that's a redhead for you." Mason, the bearded man, laughed as he watched his companion struggle to regain control of the small mare. He had watched the lad struggle with the family plow horse since the day he had managed to slip away and join the war effort. He couldn't deny the young boy's spirit though - he gave as much buck as his mare did.

"That's what I said about your sister. Could hardly hold onto that one." He jested in retort as the mare's opposition to being alone drove her to trot after the stud.

The past few days had been long and tiring. They had narrowly escaped a british scouting troop on their patrol but lost their food and most other supplies in the process. They both had doubts their commander would be happy to hear about the strength of the opposing forces.

The stallion balked at the road ahead as well but instead of rearing in protest he let out a loud nicker that carried across the field. Both riders looked at each other in concern that another british troop was approaching but instead a hoarse whinny was returned from up ahead.

"Tie the horses and grab your sword." Mason instructed Jackson as he climbed down from the stud before drawing his sword. Jackson did as he was told and ran after the older man.

"God damn those fuckin' brits. I know they did this." Mason cursed as he looked on the carnage. Pillaged bags and panners lay scattered across the cobblestone road. The bodies of 2 young men were disgarded to the right side of the road while a third lay over the stone fence that lined the left. The corpse of a horse lay in the middle while a second injured one was on it's side despretley trying to get it's feet under it.

"I don't fuckin' understand killin' perfectly fine animals and leavin' this one for the wolves. Can't fuckin' finish a job." Mason continued on kicking the paneers out of the way as he walked over to the struggling horse with his sword drawn.

Jackson soon understood his mare's protest to continuing up the road - the plow horse wasn't used to the smell of death the way the war stallion was. He took in the grisly scene. The blood from the affair had stickied the road and the smell of the bloated bodies made him want to puke...and he did as Mason finished off the struggling horse.

"Oh c'mon lad. You want to fight. This is just a drop in the bucket. Now, help me clear this shit out of the way." Mason patted the boy's back before he began to toss the remains of the scrimmage to the side of the road, some to leave and other things they could make use of.

Jackson tried.

But he couldn't handle anymore than the events he had already gone through that day. He sat on the fence while Mason continued to work on clearing the road. Jackson looked around the scene once more, wondering if he'd even be able to get his horse to cross the bloody road or if it meant another long detour and another night of camping. He got up to scout out a long abanonded stone barn in the distance.

He figured it'd make decent enough shelter from the highland winds and it'd allow them to burn a fire with little fear of it spreading. It'd give a place to secure the horses as well.

He nearly fell back as he looked around the corner once he had approached it. A small figure lay in the corner - a woman. He didn't know if he could handle dragging a woman's body out to be kicked in a shallow grave the way Mason handled the men's. He approached her and noticed her chest was gently rising and falling which sent him into another panic.

"Mason! Mason!" He called, nearly tripping in his father's two sizes too big boots as he ran back towards the road and signaled for the other man to join him back in the barn.

Swords were drawn not a moment sooner than when I caught up to my brother and the rest of the group. Mary, who had been riding alongside me, paled considerably, the ruddy tone of her cheeks now gone. I knew whoever these men were, they would not allow my party safe passage.

I would later find out that one of the men was Mary's husband whom she had run away from and taken refuge at my father's property some years ago. She was not too much older than I, only in her early 30's, but she had survived terrible acts of violence at his hands. She had shared with me her tales of abuse, exposing the scars that remained, and the fragile state she was overcome with hinted at just how deep the emotional scars ran.

My brother and his men began to banter with the red coats, and little did he notice, that more Englishmen had come up from behind us, making escape impossible. Mary and I were knocked from our horses and drug by our hair toward their captain. I thought perhaps we would be captured, taken prisoner by the English to hold over my brother's head. Instead, far more vile things occurred.

______


The shouting of men startled me awake. I did not know how long I had been asleep for, nor did I know how far I had managed to travel away from the gruesome scene. I just know that I ran, went into shock, and then collapsed.

I quickly drew the dagger I had tucked away in my boot, pointing it toward the young man who had approached me.

Flashbacks from the night before began replaying in my head: the sight of the blonde Englishmen, the uniform he wore, the rough grip he had against my throat and the even rougher touch he had as he raped me. I could still smell him, the reprehensible man who called himself a gentleman. The dagger I now held in my hand still stained with his blood, which I had spilled in order to free myself from the dreaded circumstance I was placed upon.

"Get away from me, you bastard." I shouted, my voice was hoarse, but my hand steady as the sharpened point of my knife was placed about a foot from the man who called for backup.

I was covered in mud, my dress matted with blood and torn from the sexual assault that I had endured the day before. I felt dirty, vulnerable, and I knew that being a lone woman, even a native Scottish one, was a dangerous thing to be. I, though, with my tanned skin, ebony hair, and hazel eyes was in far greater a predicament than a fair skinned counterpart.

My father had been certain to teach me how to defend myself, but up until the previous evening, I had never taken a man's life. There was a strange mix of disgust and relief that I was left with. The atrocities that the man had committed against me, I knew, were not the first, nor would they have been the last. For without that knowledge, I do not believe I would have the strength to live with myself.

It did not take me long to realize these men were no friends of the British due to the kilt and accents they were adorned with. That was only a silver of relief though, as I knew not how the Scottish conducted themselves, nor did I know how many were in their party.

Jackson did trip over his boots in shock when he turned around the see the young woman on her feet and holding a dagger to his face.

"Ye can't even handle the ones that aren't redheads, can ye lad?" Mason laughed as the boy, who was no older than sixteen, lay under the lady's blade.

"Don't hurt the wee lad, he won't do you no harm. He's scared of his own shadow." Mason looked the woman up and down as he spoke. She had clearly been on the losing side of the scuffle and to him that meant she wasn't a damn englishmen which translated to being okay in his book.

"The damm English got ye, aye lassie? I bet you gave them fuckers hell though." While most wouldn't curse in the presence of a lady, he used his judgement of her weilding of words and weapons to detremine this one wasn't your average lady.


Jackson seemed appaled at Mason's language but was feeling too sheepish after being bested by a lady to speak up. He did manage to rise to his feet and dust himself off.

Assessing the situation, Raina returned her blade to its proper place, tucked neatly inside of her boot. She genuinely felt poorly for scaring the young chap, as she knew that he was nothing but a child. Had it not been for the previous day's events, she never would have done so much as raise a hand to the young boy.

Mason seemed genuine. He spoke freely, his foul mouth not kept hidden in her presence. That much she had appreciated. It gave her an odd sense of peace, that she would not be harmed by him either. Given the state of shock on Jackson's face, he had not often been around such language, at least not in front of a woman.

"Well, it is not my blood that you see spilled on my frock, sir. At least not most of it." Raina insisted, uncertain of how the Irish dialect mixed with traces of her mother's lingering Indian accent would present herself.

She suddenly grew cold and her body began to tremble. The adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins, the very same that had kept her warm, began to fade as she stood before the pair of Scots.

"Who are you? What do the two of you want?" She retorted, crossing her arms across her chest as she shifted her gaze from young Jackson to Mason, who her unwavering glance landed upon.