by Alisa Adams
Archie shrugged, trying and failing to look innocent. “J’ai oublié, I forgot,” he said, feigning a guilty look.
“Tu n'as pas oublié!” she replied, laughing. “You did not forget!”
Archie sighed and sat down beside her, putting one arm around her shoulder, and Maureen brought them both glasses of ale. Outside, the storm was raging, but inside the room was heated by a cozy fire and plenty of love.
2
Blair
Laird Blair Patterson the Younger was the stuff of most women’s fantasies. He was tall, strapping, and handsome, with blond-streaked light brown hair reaching his shoulder blades, and the kind of eyes that women loved to gaze into. They were an unusual grayish violet color, fringed with long dark lashes, and he used them to great effect when charming any young lass he took a fancy to.
As a wealthy, handsome young man of means, Blair was not short of admirers, but so far none of them had proved to be marriage material. The one woman he had started to pursue turned out to be very arrogant and not very bright, and he thought it unlikely that he could ever have any respect for her at all.
Blair was not looking for love, and even if he had been, very few young men of his class were lucky enough to find it. He had just come back from a six-month stay in Ayr in the Lowlands and had been impressed by the level land and more even temperatures down south, but it was good to be home in the craggy, inhospitable Highlands again.
He looked down over the village of Inchcolm and sighed. Soon all of this would be his property and his responsibility. His father had always been the kind of laird who let his tenants work their own land without any assistance from him, but he was not going to be that kind of laird. He intended to be respected by his tenants by being their friend and help them by listening to them and learning from them.
This was a radical idea, but one in which he believed. He had seen what discontented tenant farmers could do to the estate, and he never wanted to go to war with his workers.
Now they were about to start harvesting what few crops grew in the Highlands. The staple diet consisted of rye, oats, and barley, with some root vegetables like onions and turnips. Most of the arable land was given over to sheep and the formidable-looking Highland cattle, who were the most placid creatures on Earth despite their fearsome horns.
However, now it was time for a pursuit of a different kind. Blair and his best friend Francis were going hunting. They only ever pursued old animals, mindful of the future of the herds, but it was still a thrilling pastime and one that required fitness and fast reflexes combined with superb horsemanship and skill with a bow. Blair had been hunting since he was sixteen, so he was a veteran, as was Francis.
“If I get the first shot in,” Francis said, grinning, “I reserve the right to take Lady Moira Allen to the ceilidh next week, and you are not allowed to ask her.”
Lady Moira was the flighty, good-natured, and pretty daughter of one of the local lairds. She was great fun and had a good word for everyone.
“And what makes you think she will let you?” Blair asked, laughing. “She may have someone else lined up already.”
“She will fall at my feet,” Francis replied confidently. “A little bird tells me that she has mentioned my name in glowing terms half a dozen times at least. I have no doubts at all. Now, what is your bet?”
“Hmmm…” Blair thought, rubbing his chin. What could he bet on? Then he had an idea. “If I win, you will give five pounds sterling to the Boar’s Head Tavern so that Jimmy Kerr can make better beer.”
Francis stared at him in horror. “What is the fun in that?” he demanded.
“No fun at all, except seeing the look on your face! Think of it as a service to the community.”
Francis gave him a strange look that was halfway between a smile and a frown. “I swear you are going mad, my friend!” He sighed, shaking his head.
Both of them were alert and excited, relishing the thrill of the chase. They let their bloodhounds off the leashes, and after seeing a magnificent stag and two does with fauns, they found an old, battle-scarred stag who looked like fair game. At first it seemed as though it was going to be an easy chase, but then the deer caught their scent and began to put on a surprising turn of speed.
The two men split up and tried to approach him from two different angles, but the stag was unexpectedly agile and wove between trees and bushes with the speed of a younger animal. Desperation had given him speed and strength, but finally he was cornered between two fir trees that were growing so close together that he could not move. The two men galloped up to him and Francis let an arrow loose. It went wide, but its flight took it very close to Blair’s face and he leaned back in the saddle to avoid it.
He never clearly remembered the next few seconds. He shouted a protest to Francis, but it turned into a howl as his horse reared up in protest. He saw a dizzying spiral of colors as the world suddenly spun around him, then there was a jarring thud as first his body then his head hit the ground with a sickening thump. For a moment, total blackness fell over him.
Francis bent over him, his expression one of deep worry. “Blair—wake up! Wake up!” he cried desperately. “Open your eyes!”
Blair felt his cheek being slapped none too gently and slowly opened his eyes. He raised a hand but a lightning bolt of agony shot up his arm, and he screamed. He tried to clutch his left arm with his right hand, but that made the pain even worse, and eventually he gave up and lay on the ground, moaning in agony.
Francis stared at him desperately for a moment, then folded his cloak into a pillow and put it under Blair’s head.
“I have to go for help,” Francis said urgently. “Do not try to move, Blair. I will be back as quickly as I can.”
“Don’t leave me!” Blair’s voice was a whimper of pain.
“I must,” Francis replied. “Be strong, my friend.”
The last thing Blair saw before he passed out again was his friend leaping onto his horse and galloping away as if a dragon were chasing him.
When Blair woke, he first saw the drawn curtains of his bedroom window. He ached all over, but thankfully the initial excruciating pain of his injury had gone. He raised his head and looked down at his left arm, which had a very strange-looking structure wrapped around it. It consisted of a thick pad of felt, under which he could see the edge of a linen bandage. A piece of leather covered this, and over that were numerous little lengths of wood. Everything was held in place by three hemp cords. He wanted to touch it, but decided it was not worth the pain.
“Good evening,” said a light, musical, and feminine voice. “Welcome back to the land of the living, M’Laird.”
He turned and his heart lurched as he saw the most beautiful girl he had ever laid eyes on. His mouth dropped open in amazement as he looked into the large hazel eyes that were smiling kindly at him.
I hope she is my nurse, he thought hopefully. He was dazed by his fall, of course, but even more stunned by the beauty of the girl by his side.
“You broke your arm, bumped your head, and dislocated your shoulder, M’Laird,” she informed him. “If you wanted to kill yourself I would say you almost succeeded. Your friend told me it was not such an attempt, however.”
“I do not remember a thing,” he confessed, feeling the bump on the back of his head and wincing. “Are you my nurse?”
“I am your healer,” she replied, frowning at the expression on his face. “Is that bump sore all the time or only when you touch it?”
“All the time, but it is not unbearable,” he replied.
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “I can put some salve on it for the pain,” she informed him, “but I will have to shave a patch of your hair off.”
“No!” he cried. “I can bear a little pain.”
She seemed amused as she smiled at him. “Such vanity! I will bring you some chicken broth,” she told him. “It is easy to eat and light on the stomach.” She turned away and left, which allowed him to observe the g
raceful way her hips swayed as she walked.
He hoped she would be staying with him for the rest of the night. It was almost worth being sick for that pleasure, he thought, then chastised himself for his carnal thoughts. Lusting after a woman at a time like this? He sighed and resisted the urge to let his eyelids close again.
Presently, she was back, carrying a bowl of something that gave off the most delicious aroma of cooked chicken and onions, and his mouth began to water. He suddenly realized he was ravenous.
She put the bowl down on his bedside table and turned to him so she could prop him up on his pillows. He was lying flat on his back, however, and was unable to help her, since he only had one arm with which to push himself up.
She fetched Blair’s manservant, William, who helped her to push him back into a sitting position after she had plumped his pillows. As she bent over him he could smell the fragrance of lavender, cinnamon, and something else that was just the essence of her, the natural musk of her body. It was heavenly.
As she stretched over him he could feel the warmth that she radiated, then her breasts brushed his arm, sending a thrill through him. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch her, since all his masculine instincts were telling him to do just that. She looked down at him and gave him a ghost of a smile, then tucked a napkin under his chin and began to feed him.
She blew on the soup as she spooned it into his mouth and poked the tip of her tongue between her lips as she concentrated on what she was doing. He gazed at her as he ate, but her eyes never met his.
Finally she gave him the last spoonful and he licked his lips in satisfaction. She came forward to wipe his mouth with the napkin, and he kissed her soft cheek gently. He was astonished when she gave him a venomous look, and when she spoke her voice was a low growl.
“Do not take a liberty like that again, M’Laird, or I will strike you, and damn the consequences!”
He gasped in astonishment. “I am your Laird, young lady!” he exclaimed hotly. “You live on my land.”
She straightened up and looked down at him, her eyes glinting with anger. “I would not care if you were a king, M’Laird!” she replied vehemently. “No man touches me without my permission!”
They looked at each other in mutual antipathy for a moment, then she picked up the leather bag in which she kept her potions and herbs, and said, “If you prefer, I will have my father attend to you.” Her tone was stern and challenging.
He gaped at her for a moment and shook his head. “I am sorry for having offended you, Mistress,” he replied in a somewhat panicky voice. “Truly, I did not mean to.”
Her expression softened a little as she looked back at him. Eventually she smiled. “I can be a little hasty myself, M’Laird,” she said. “Consider it forgotten.”
3
The Cat
Later, Blair would remember that night as being one of the most magical of his life. Tavia had given him some milk of the poppy to relieve the pain in his arm, and he dozed off again.
Tavia was sewing herself a new winter dress, and had brought it with her to while away the night, as well as the French book on the use of medicinal herbs that she was reading. She was always greedy for knowledge of any kind, and she would take advantage of any free moments she had to study or sew, because her mind and hands were never idle.
Now she had a chance to sew, learn about medicine, and improve her French while the young laird was in his drugged sleep. He certainly was a handsome devil, she thought, if a little vain. He had strong features—a Roman nose, high arched cheekbones, and a square jaw, with his unusual grey-violet eyes deeply set under heavy brows. She had to admit that she loved his long, luxuriant hair, which was light brown and threaded with corn-blond streaks. He was a beautiful man.
It would be Christmas before they took the splint off, and after that, New Year, and the day after that, her birthday, or at least the birthday she had been given when she was found. She would be eighteen. Once, eighteen had seemed so old, but now here she was, a fully fledged woman who had suddenly discovered the effect she had on men, and she felt powerful.
She had propped the book up in front of her, its cover resting on the side of the bed, and was sewing at the same time. Pulling the stitches through was such an automatic action that she could do it without looking at it, and she could do a yard of seaming without even realizing she had done it, and hum a little folk tune under her breath. Now, she was concentrating so hard on her book that she did not realize that Blair had woken up and was watching her. He could see that she was doing three things at once and did not want to disturb her; she looked so beautiful by candlelight.
She looked up and he met her gaze with his. She got to her feet and came over to him. “How are you feeling, M’Laird?” she asked as she put the back of her hand on his forehead. It felt cool, and she was relieved.
“Better,” he replied huskily.
“Your throat is dry,” she observed, and poured a glass of water for him from the pitcher beside the bed. She tilted it to his lips and he swallowed it gratefully.
“Another?” she asked, still holding the jug.
He shook his head. “A glass of wine?” he asked hopefully.
She nodded and fetched one for him, having diluted it with a copious amount of water. “Can you manage by yourself?” she asked, frowning. She had helped him with the water and broth, but was beginning to wonder if he really needed her assistance at all; after all, his right arm was uninjured. However, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and he swallowed the wine with a deep sigh of satisfaction.
“I must feed you again,” she said as she straightened his blankets. “But this time I will hold the bowl and you can feed yourself.”
“When will you take the bandage off?” he asked, frowning. “I cannot be without the use of my arm for months.”
“Three months, M’Laird, if all is well,” she replied. “The edges of the bone need time to knit together, and that will take place in God’s own time. You cannot hasten it.” Then she thought for a moment. “Wait—there might be a way.”
She left the room and came back a few minutes later with the biggest, wooliest gray cat that Blair had ever seen.
“This is Liath, the kitchen cat,” she told him. “Most kitchens keep a cat to keep mice out of the kitchen and eat any meat scraps, but from time to time we use a cat as a nurse, because their purring helps to heal broken bones, or so it is said. Your cook tells me she is a very placid animal, and will likely go to sleep on the bed beside you.”
“That is the strangest notion I have ever heard!” he said in amazement, laughing. He noticed as she held the cat that her hands were rough and calloused, and he wondered why. “What do you do with your hands all day?” he asked. “They are so rough.”
“I plant and harvest vegetables,” she replied, putting the cat on the ground. “I grind seeds and leaves with a mortar and pestle, I strip and chop tree bark, and I cut vegetables, fruits, and nuts from bushes. My hands spend a lot of time in water too, and oil, vinegar, and wine. Still, it is all honest work.”
“Indeed,” he replied, smiling. “Too many noble ladies and gentlemen have never done a lick of work in their lives. A day in your workshop or in the fields would do them a power of good.”
His voice was rather bitter and she wondered why. “That seems like a strange thing for a laird to say,” she remarked.
“We are not all heartless, Mistress,” he replied, “no matter what people think of us. I have been giving this much thought and I have decided that from now on my place is with my people.” He looked into her eyes and was distracted for a moment.
Tavia returned his gaze. Her lips parted, her pupils dilated, and for a moment she could not look away. They both felt the current that passed between them as they sat immobile. Then he murmured, “You are very beautiful, Mistress Tavia.”
“Thank you,” she said matter-of-factly, standing up. “I will have William come to wash you and then you
must sleep again. Liath can help to heal your bones, but sleep and laughter are the best cure for most things.”
She turned towards the door.
“Are you coming back?” His voice had a note of panic in it.
She smiled at him, amused. “Yes, M’Laird,” she replied. “You will need my attention during the night too.”
She went out with a swish of skirts and his gaze followed her. Every movement she made was graceful and sensual. If only they were of the same social rank, he could court her and make her his! But that was a forlorn hope. His father had lined up a procession of eager, salivating young noblewomen, all of whom would fight to the death to be the bride of the handsome Laird Patterson the Younger. Tavia Donald might be a lovely educated young woman with more knowledge and intelligence in her head than all the empty-headed aristocratic maidens put together, but she was many steps down the social ladder from him. In his own mind, that did not matter at all, but in the rarified world of nobility, it would be a catastrophe.
William came and bathed him in his usual taciturn way, being one of those men who never spoke unless spoken to first. He was devoted to Blair, although he would never admit it, and Blair was more fond of him than he was of most members of his family.
He washed and shaved Blair, sprinkled him with some perfumed oil, dressed him in a fresh nightshirt, and gave him a rare smile. “A’ finished, M’Laird,” he announced.
“What do you think of my nurse, William?” Blair grinned.
“Bonny young lass, M’Laird,” William smiled again, more widely. This was even more unusual. It seemed that Tavia Donald routinely twisted men around her little finger. He would have to be very, very careful!
