by Mariah Stone
Oh, was she a schoolgirl? Melting like that at the sight of a handsome man.
Their eyes locked, then his traveled to her lips. “Everything all right, lass?”
As long as he looked at her like that, she’d be all right. “Yes,” she said.
Fergus and the rest did not lift their heads, their hands busy. They looked like naughty schoolboys in the presence of the teacher.
Well, Fergus had just basically compared their lord’s wife to a goat. If she wanted, Amy could have his ass thoroughly punished just now.
But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t rat on her team, no matter how badly they behaved.
Didn’t mean that she couldn’t teach him a lesson.
“I don’t know,” she said and looked pointedly at Fergus. “Is everything all right, Fergus?”
One of Fergus’s eyes twitched, his nostrils flared, but he continued peeling the parsnip. “Aye, mistress,” he mumbled. “Why wouldna it be?”
“I think you promised to finish peeling the parsnip you dropped. Didn’t you?”
Fergus glared at her, his jaw muscles working.
“Or did I misunderstand your MacDougall goat joke?” Amy pressed.
“What joke?” Craig asked.
Fergus’s mouth pulled into a spiteful curve. He looked like he was about to spit at Amy. “Nae, ye got it right, mistress,” he said finally and picked up the parsnip.
Amy nodded, satisfied. Military authority was military authority in the Middle Ages, as well. And they definitely respected Craig.
“Good,” Amy said. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
She turned to Craig. “Did you want something?”
“Aye.” Craig looked around the kitchen, still puzzled. “I need yer assistance. Ye said ye had healing skills.”
“Well, not healing exactly, just first aid stuff…”
Damn, first aid probably didn’t mean anything to him.
“Um,” she said. “Yes, I have some healing experience. Is anyone hurt?”
“Aye. First aid or nae, ye’re the best we got. Ye better come with me.”
Amy nodded, undid her apron, and put it on the large table. “Angus, please take my place cutting the vegetables until I’m back.”
“Aye, mistress,” Angus said.
Craig let Amy go through the door, his warm, masculine scent touching her as she passed by him, making her pulse accelerate. “What was that about a goat joke?” he said when they were in the courtyard.
Cold air bit Amy’s cheeks and nose, reminding her that winter was not far away. The courtyard hummed quietly with voices, and a small gathering stood by the gates.
“Nothing to concern you with,” Amy lied. “Everything’s under control. They are not thrilled to be chopping veg, but someone has to, right?”
“Aye.”
“Who’s hurt?”
“A child, something about their arm,” Craig said. “The villagers came for help. Can ye do something?”
“I hope so.”
Amy had received advanced training in first aid—she could secure broken limbs, do basic treatment for burns, and stop external bleeding until an ambulance arrived, but she was certainly not a medical professional.
The small crowd consisted of about a dozen people, men and women of all ages. Women wore long dresses of dark wool with white linen caps on their heads, while men were in heavy quilted jackets and woolen trousers. They looked warily at Craig and Amy as they approached. In a cart drawn by a pony sat a girl of ten or so. An older man sat by her side, his arm around the girl’s shoulders. She hugged herself with one arm, her face distorted in a grimace of pain.
Amy hurried to her, while the people looked at her cautiously.
“Hi, sweetie,” Amy said as she stood next to the cart. “My name is Amy, Amy Mac—”
“Amy Cambel.” Craig raised his chin.
Amy Cambel…
How could he just put a yoke like that on her—publicly claiming ownership of her. Amy’s chest and stomach tightened till a sharp pain cut at her gut. Not long ago, she’d been Amy Johnson, and look how that had turned out. She couldn't breathe for a moment, and made a conscious effort to suck in air, then breathe out.
“’Tis my wife,” Craig explained.
Forget Craig. Just concentrate on the little girl who needs help.
She’d deal with Craig later.
“Good day, mistress,” the man hugging the girl said. “Are ye a healer?”
Amy smiled, rubbing one hand against her leg to stop it from shaking. “Well, not quite. But I know how to deal with some injuries. I might be able to help your—”
“Granddaughter,” the man said. “My name is Erskine, we came from the village up River Lochy. We heard rumors that the Comyns are nae here no more and wanted to see for ourselves who we are to pay rent to. And Caoimhe”—he pronounced the girl’s name as Keeva—“fell and hurt her arm. Since the healer is away, we came to ask if the new lord has one.”
Amy nodded. “I’ll see what I can do. Caoimhe, why don’t you come inside with me where I can take a look at your arm. It’s a little chilly here for you to undress.”
“Thank ye, mistress,” Caoimhe said.
Amy helped the girl to climb down from the cart. Instead of wearing a jacket, she was wrapped in a couple of adult-sized coats. The three of them and Craig walked towards the great hall where it would be warm by the fireplace and there’d be enough light to examine her.
“I didna want to harm her arm even more by putting it into a sleeve,” Erskine explained.
“Yes, you did right,” Amy said. “Caoimhe, sweetie, why don’t you explain to me what happened?”
“Boys were chasing me,” she said. “I climbed a tree and fell…”
So it could be a broken arm. Broken bones were tricky. If it was a broken bone—and God forbid, in several places—Amy could do little to help the girl. She could put on a splint and make some sort of cast, but she couldn’t guarantee how well it would heal.
“And where does it hurt?”
“The shoulder, mistress. I canna move my arm.”
They arrived and settled near the fireplace, and Amy unwrapped Caoimhe. Even under the girl’s simple dress, Amy could see the odd shape of the shoulder. It wasn’t bleeding, though, which was a good sign. Amy felt along the shoulder and arm to make sure there were no broken bones.
She sighed with relief. “Good news is it’s not broken. It’s dislocated. I’ll put it back in.”
Caoimhe’s eyes widened with fear.
“It’ll hurt just for one moment, honey,” Amy said. “Then the sharp pain will stop, but you’ll be sore for a while, and you’ll need to wear a sling and not move your arm for a couple of weeks. Certainly not climb any more trees.”
Caoimhe tensed and moved away from Amy a little. “Look, sweetie,” Amy said. “You’re a brave girl, aren’t you? A Highland lass climbing trees… I know you’re a little afraid, I’d be in your place. But you’re safe. Your grandfather is here. I’m right here with you. And look at your new lord, Craig Cambel—have you seen a stronger warrior than him? Do you think a man like him will let anything happen to you?”
Caoimhe glanced at Craig, and so did Amy. He stood with his back straight, his posture tense and a barely visible blush on his cheeks. He eyed Amy with astonishment and perplexity. Their eyes locked for a moment, and something passed between them—like agreement, and adoration, and something that felt like a warm kiss on a cold winter evening.
“Aye, mistress,” Caoimhe said. “Do it. I’m ready.”
Amy nodded and smiled to her, although inside she was nervous. Usually, she’d leave the dislocated limbs to the ambulance attendants. But sometimes the dislocation would last for too long, and the muscles and blood vessels would start to atrophy, and the ambulance wasn’t available. Amy had done this three times—twice in a storm and once in a location where she had no signal. Every time it had gone well, but she still could pull too hard or in the wrong way, and do m
ore harm than good.
She needed to be careful. “Right, honey, I’ll need you to lie on the table here. Craig, could you push away the bench so that I can have access to her shoulder?”
“Aye,” Craig said.
He removed the bench and pulled the table closer to the fire.
“Thanks,” Amy said. “Caoimhe, Craig will help you get on the table. Please lie on your back so that your shoulder is to me.”
Caoimhe did as Amy asked. The warmth should help the muscles relax a bit, because they would be stiffening the longer the shoulder was dislocated.
“I’m going to take your arm now,” Amy said. It was important to let the injured person know what would be done to them.
Amy took the girl’s arm and put it into a straight position. Slowly, she rotated it so that it was about forty-five degrees to Caoimhe’s side. Without changing the angle, Amy grabbed Caoimhe’s hand and pulled it firmly. Once the muscle loosened enough, the head of the humerus should slip into the shoulder socket.
Caoimhe’s face gathered into a grimace of pain, and the poor girl cried out.
“I know, sweetie, just a little more.”
The arm moved a little on its own and gave out a barely audible pop.
“Ahhh!” Caoimhe cried.
Amy released the pull softly, and laid the arm on the table by the girl’s side.
“I think it’s fixed. Don’t move though, sweetie, okay?”
Amy felt the shoulder under the girl’s dress, and the bones were in place. She helped Caoimhe sit up.
“Can you move the arm a little for me? It’ll hurt, so gently, please. We just need to see if you can move it.”
Caoimhe nodded, and with a grunt she moved her arm upwards.
“Excellent! Now, please hold your arm like that, close to your body, and support it with one hand, like this.” Amy showed her. “And don’t move it. I’ll fetch a sling for you, and then you’ll be good to return home.”
“Let me fetch it, mistress,” Erskine said. “Where?”
“Oh, thank you, Erskine,” Amy said. “Next door is the kitchen. There should be clean linens in one of the chests there.”
“Aye.”
“Tell them I ordered it,” Craig said.
“Aye, lord.”
Erskine walked out. Amy looked at Craig, and his eyes were on her, heavy and hot. He considered her, looking puzzled, as if she were something wondrous he’d just discovered.
Amy’s throat dried. “What is it?” she asked.
“In the field, we just push the bone back, but it often breaks. Where did ye learn to do it gently like that?”
Amy looked down at her hands. Did he mean it as a compliment? Or was he just curious? “Ah well, you know. You learn things in Ireland…”
She glanced back at him, and although he didn’t say anything else, his green eyes were the color of moss in the sun, and she found herself unable to look away. Her breath caught, bubbles tickling her stomach—just like when she looked at the vastness of the Vermont mountains, just like the first time she’d seen the Highlands. Somewhere deep, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the beginning of a disaster.
And yet she couldn’t look away.
Chapter 15
Later that evening, Craig savored the hot, meaty stew, which brought him a feeling of home. His stepmother often had a stew made, and he enjoyed the hearty, filling comfort of it. The great hall droned with the voices of satisfied men, who’d eaten their first decent meal in weeks. The atmosphere was almost festive, as though there was something to celebrate.
In a way, there was. Stew. Cleanliness. A working kitchen for the first time since they’d claimed the castle.
Craig couldn’t stop staring at his beautiful wife, who sat by his side at the chief’s table. He sensed her, as though there were a warm, invisible field around her that touched him even though her body did not.
“Well. ’Tis nae poison. ’Tis the best meal I had since I left home,” Craig said.
Amy turned to him and raised her eyebrows with a half smile.
“Really?” she said. “I’m not that great of a cook. It must be your men who did that. I only organized who did what.”
“As long as ye put a meal like that on my table every day, I dinna mind who cooked it.”
“Just a little salt and some herbs, whatever I could find—”
“Salt?” Craig interrupted her. “How much salt did ye put here?”
“As much as I needed—I don’t know, a couple of spoons…”
“How could ye be so wasteful?”
“Wasteful? Why, is salt so precious—”
She stopped herself, her eyes widening as though in realization.
“Aye, mayhap ye MacDougalls swim in salt, but ’tis very costly for the rest of us.”
Craig looked for a sign of arrogance, for her to say that she didn’t care about the goods wasted, that he couldn’t forbid her to use whatever she liked no matter how dear.
“Sorry,” she said, blushing, as though she was embarrassed. “I didn’t know. I thought you’d just get more.”
Aye, the MacDougalls were a wealthier and mightier clan than the Cambels, but she must have seen there wasn’t much salt left. It was as though she had no idea this was too wasteful. As though everyone in the world could afford as much salt as they wanted. He was sure that a rich MacDougall maiden, even one raised abroad, would have known that.
“Get more where?” he asked.
She swallowed hard, panic flickering in her eyes. “I don’t know, Craig! Let’s just forget it. I won’t use salt again, all right? Anything else precious you don’t want me to use?”
“I thought ye’d be the one to tell me to be more careful with things like soap, medicinal herbs, bed linens, and clothes.”
Her face fell. “Yes. Of course. All those things.”
Something was so odd about her, as though she didn’t understand the most basic things. She didn’t seem insane to him. She’d cooked a delicious stew and helped with that girl’s arm. It was as though she just didn’t know certain things. Her manner of speech was so peculiar, Craig had never heard anyone speak like that in his life. The way she’d been dressed when he’d met her, the strange, metal object in her hand…
“Why are ye so different from anyone I ken?” he asked.
She exhaled a shaky breath. “Am I? How so?”
“I dinna mean it in a bad way. But ye dinna ken things that everyone kens. Ye speak strangely. When I met ye, ye were dressed like no one I have ever met before.”
She looked at her hands, which were flat on the table and shrugged one shoulder. “You’re not exactly the kind of man I meet every day, either.”
“And what is so different about me?”
She sighed, then met his gaze, her eyes like two dark pools of water. “Pretty much everything.”
He held her big, beautiful eyes for a moment with his, his throat going dry. Did she sound as though she liked what she saw in him? Or was he only imagining it? His mind cloudy, refusing to think, his blood hot and pumping violently, he leaned towards her.
“Ye’re a mystery,” he whispered. “I am usually good at solving mysteries. Why canna I solve ye?”
She leaned closer to him. “Because you shouldn’t.”
With a moan he couldn’t stop, he covered her mouth with his. Her mouth met him like lush velvet, her lips like petals, her tongue like fire. She tasted delicious, and he wanted more. Desire ran through him in a hot, burning wave. Mine, mine, mine proclaimed his heart.
He wanted her. She was his wife. She was his by right.
He turned her chair towards himself and pulled her closer. Her waist was delicate and strong under his hands, like the curve of a bow. His groin throbbed, the need for her thick and hot and heavy.
“Lass,” he said into her lips. “If ye dinna want me, tell me now. I canna stop myself a moment longer.”
She froze, and he felt the flutter of her eyelashes as she opened her ey
es. She leaned back, and he looked at her, frowning.
“Yes, I think it’s best to stop, Craig.”
He breathed out. Frowned. Her eyebrows knitted together, her red and swollen lips parted as she tried to regain her breath.
“Why?” he said. “Dinna ye like my kisses?”
“I—that’s not why.”
“Ye’re my wife. I’m yer husband. I have the right to bed ye. Or are ye still saving yerself for the Earl of Ross?”
Jealousy stabbed him in his gut at the thought.
“What? No.”
“Then what is it?”
“I just think it’ll complicate things.”
“What is there to complicate? It’ll certainly make our time together much more enjoyable than it is now.”
She licked her lips.
“I will show ye all the ways a man can love a woman. All the pleasures ye didna think were possible.”
She exhaled, slowly. Her chest rose and fell quickly. The vein in her neck pulsated. Aye, she wanted him. He reached out for her hand, but she jerked it away from him and jumped to her feet.
“I’m really tired, Craig. I’m going to bed.”
“Ye barely ate—”
But she turned and left, leaving him frowning, confused, and feeling rejected.
He went to sleep in the room in Comyn Tower which was under their bedchamber. But he couldn’t rest. His thoughts returned to Amy, his muscles burning with unsatisfied need. Aye, he wanted the lass, although she was his enemy. And he was a fool for it. She was a beautiful woman, but he had started to see more.
He had started to see a caring heart, and skill. Strength and cleverness.
But caring about her would cloud his judgment, make him overlook danger. Make him miss a blade in his back.
So he couldn’t trust her. He couldn’t like her. Not just because she was a MacDougall, but because she was hiding something. Her shaking hands, her nervousness about how different she was, basic things she didn’t know. She was lying to him. But whether it was because she wanted to harm him, and Bruce’s cause, or because she was afraid of something, he couldn’t tell.
