Free Finding My Highlander by Aleigha Siron

whispered to the stars. “I’m suffering from Stockholm syndrome; it’s that business of developing an incomprehensible attraction to one’s captor.”
    Where was he anyway? Where were the other men? How long had she slept? Questions hammered into her brain one after another. She suspected it might be near dawn as the first chatter of birds rose from the trees. Raising her arms in a wide stretch and sucking in a deep, cleansing breath, her nose filled with the faint smell of smoke.
    “Where is that coming from?” All her senses went on alert. Was there another camp nearby? If enemies were pursuing them, could the smoke be from their campsite? She climbed to the top of the ridge. A strong wind carried the sharp, acrid smell of fire, though she couldn’t see flames. She questioned whether she should leave the shelter of the cave. She could not ignore a possible threat and Lorne still slept.
    Chills rippled over her skin, and not from the cool air. “I’m strong. It’s sensible to know what dangers we face.” Andra ran miles every day up and down the hills in San Francisco. She had studied self-defense. If nothing else, she needed to consider reinforcing the brush concealing the cave’s entrance.
    A path of sorts, most likely a deer trail, wound up the hill. She decided to follow it. After tying her long skirt into a knot high on her hip, she stretched out her long, legging-covered limbs and moved into an easy slow gait, taking as much care as possible not to trip.
    The sky turned from a shade of dark slate to a deep grayish-purple, then dusty gray. Her vision grew accustomed to the faint light. The smell of fire grew stronger the farther she ran into the woods until the air hung heavy with smoke. Stretching her gait, she increased her speed. The old, familiar burn of a good run seared her legs. Something wild and frightening coiled in her gut, but she could not escape the urgent need to run faster and faster. Eventually plumes of dark smoke billowed over the hill ahead. Keeping the upper part of the ridge to her left, she skirted around trees, and through brambles and tangled underbrush that scratched at her limbs.
    When Kendrick had departed last night, she was certain he went in the opposite direction, so she didn’t think he would be at the end of her mad rush. Something beyond reason drove her on.
    Alert to every sound—the pounding of her feet on the soft earth, the late or early movement of wildlife scattering in the undergrowth away from the fire, the sudden cessation of birdsong—all penetrated her awareness with a cloying dread. Then the sound of people struggling and the anguished cries of fear assaulted her. She worked her way through thick brush to the top of the hill and peered down on an unholy horror. Covering her mouth, she choked back the scream that almost escaped her throat.
    Flames engulfed several small crofts and the surrounding fields. The dying shrieks from inside the walls of the burning cottages tore the air and mingled with the moans from those fallen outside. Everywhere she looked lay mangled bodies. A company of English militia and a few men wearing dark, Scottish plaids were viciously murdering the people who struggled to crawl away. A couple of men dragged the limp form of a woman tearing away her clothes.
    Andra’s knees buckled as she ducked down and slunk behind a tree. Bile rose in her throat. The metallic taste of blood flowed over her tongue from biting hard on knuckles jammed in her mouth to prevent a terrified scream from escaping.
    Andra turned away from the hell below. About to flee, a movement in the trees caught her eye. Two children ran for cover through thick brush and the shelter of darker forest. She ran after them, hoping to help them hide or escape. Her speed and long stride brought her beside them quickly. They opened their mouths to scream, but only the shrieks of the dying filled her ears. Her heart pounded fiercely in her chest until she thought it might