Tempting the Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  Raelynd launched herself toward the trees, heading for the closest one she could climb. The pounding of the cat as it closed the distance confirmed she had been right to divide their small group. Reaching the tree, Raelynd hauled herself up on the first branch and was about to climb to the next one when the cat caught up to her. Raelynd dropped the meat bone, but the animal ignored it. Instead it contracted its muscular body and then leaped, snagging Raelynd’s dress as it came back down.

  Pain seared through Raelynd’s leg and she could feel warm blood streaming out of the wound, but fear for her life kept her moving upward. By the third branch, she turned to assess her situation and upon seeing the extended claws, realized her plan had been flawed. The cat was going to climb.

  Panic engulfed her as Raelynd watched the wild animal jump high into the air and reach out to seize the tree’s bark. Then, just before it grabbed hold, it suddenly yelped and convulsed, falling back to the ground.

  Down below the animal twitched and Raelynd saw the arrow embedded deep in its side. Hearing the sound of pounding horse hooves, Raelynd looked up and saw the angry face of Laurel with her bow prepped and ready to fire another shot. Raelynd’s jaw went lax and she nearly fell out of the tree.

  “Are you hurt?” Laurel demanded, sliding off her horse. “Can you get down?”

  “My leg,” Raelynd answered, and immediately started to descend as another rider joined the scene.

  The large man had shoulder-length auburn hair, braided on the sides and pulled back allowing her to see dark green eyes that flashed disapproval. “She’s fine,” he said, answering Laurel’s unspoken question about her daughter, “but calling for you. I had one of the men escort them back to the castle.”

  “Thank you, Hamish. Please help her,” Laurel ordered.

  Raelynd was about to argue and tell them both that she needed no help, when the pain in her calf became unbearable and her injured leg gave out. She fell right into Hamish’s arms. He proceeded back to his horse, hauling both her and him onto his mount. Then he and Laurel aimed their horses back to the castle, leaving behind the picnic blanket and sack.

  Guilt plagued Raelynd and she slunk down into Hamish’s arms as the three of them rode back in silence. She knew Laurel was furious and could not blame her. Brenna could have been seriously injured or even died, and Raelynd’s own wound did not help dispel Laurel’s anger. And Crevan . . . Raelynd cringed to think about his reaction.

  “Doesn’t she belong to you?” Obe inquired.

  The question startled Crevan and he almost dropped the dagger he was holding. The smithy was one of the few places little Brenna avoided that also provided a view into the comings and goings of the castle. So until he wanted others to know he was around, Crevan had insinuated himself into the small area.

  Ironically, for years Crevan had believed the old silversmith did not like him. Obe rarely spoke and avoided contact with people as much as possible. But sharing the same space with him for a few hours each afternoon during the past several days, Crevan had discovered the smithy was distant with everyone. The man was not taciturn; he was shy.

  Crevan went to the opening and looked out at the commotion near the gatehouse. Laurel slid off Borrail and handed her horse’s reins to the stable boy. She did not look happy. Behind her were Brenna and Meriel, but it could have been Raelynd. The two looked identical so it was hard to tell just who it was at a distance, but he guessed Meriel due to the overly pensive look. “I wonder what has Laurel so upset,” Crevan murmured to himself.

  “Probably that,” Obe replied, using the misshapen sword in his hand to point toward the other side of the bailey.

  It was then Crevan understood the root of the courtyard’s disquiet. One of Conor’s guards, Hamish, was carrying an injured person into the Star Tower. Crevan was half tempted to seek out Meriel and chance encountering Raelynd just to inquire as to who his friend was carrying and what had happened. But before he could decide, the guard moved out of Hamish’s way so that he could enter the tower and for a brief moment, Crevan was able to see who was in his friend’s arms. Raelynd.

  From so far away, Crevan could not discern the extent of her injuries, but that she was being carried into the Star Tower spoke volumes. Primarily the private chambers of the laird, his wife, and family, the unusually tall tower saw few visitors. But it was also where Laurel sent anyone who was seriously hurt. The light in her dayroom was one of the brightest in the castle and it made inspecting and stitching up wounds easier.

  Without thought, Crevan headed to the front gate and confronted Meriel. “W-w-was that your sister I just saw?”

  Meriel blinked in surprise and then again at seeing how dark Crevan’s blue eyes had turned. The storm brewing in them matched the hard line of his mouth. It frightened her. “I . . . I . . .”

  “Oh, Crevan,” Brenna bawled, and buried her head in his stomach, latching her arms around his waist. “It was so awful. We were out on a picnic and a wildcat came, but Raelynd got it to chase her so we could get away. She would have died if Mama hadn’t come and killed it.”

  “But she didn’t, right?” he asked, holding his breath.

  Brenna nodded, but Meriel answered. “It got her leg. That’s all I know.”

  A frisson of fear coursed through Crevan at the thought of something happening to Raelynd. He hated fear and he most especially hated reacting to it. Crevan took a grip on his nerves and pivoted. He had to see her, make sure she truly would recover, and then he would give her a lecture that she would remember for life. It was time she started thinking of others!

  Crevan rounded the last set of stairs that led to the fourth floor and Laurel’s sitting room. Three arched windows let in the sun’s rays, illuminating the room decorated in gold and green. Two empty chairs were in front of the crackling hearth, which was already warming the spacious room. Several chests of various sizes were positioned along the walls for easy access and under one of the windows was an overly stuffed settee, upon which a large, busty woman sat ripping cloth into strips.

  Hagatha, the clan’s midwife and one of Laurel’s closest confidants, was one of only three souls Laurel would have ever left alone in her room. But when one first looked upon her, just the opposite impression came to mind. Hagatha had bright red untamable hair and wore a crimson chemise with a plaid arisaid secured by a man’s leather belt. The woman was outspoken and at times irreverent, but she was fiercely loyal to Laurel, who returned the sentiment.

  Hagatha gestured with her chin toward the bed. Pale and unmoving, Raelynd lay prone with her wounded leg exposed. Several deep scratches were overshadowed by one long gash that went nearly down the full length of her calf. Anguish ripped through Crevan knowing the pain she was in.

  Hearing someone enter, and knowing what was to come, fear knotted inside Raelynd. She had never been stitched with a needle and the pain already emanating from her leg was excruciating. Turning her head, she saw Crevan. Her heart jumped, thinking he had come to be there with her, and then plunged as his face revealed barely controlled anger. It triggered her own. She was in pain and guilt flooded her. What she didn’t need now was a sermon. “Leave me.”

  The unexpected order shook Crevan into movement. He walked over to the bed and stared into the ripped flesh where the softest of skin used to be. “Of all the reckless, thoughtless things, Raelynd. Did you tell anyone before you went out? Did you even bother to ask for an escort?” He shook his head, answering his own question. “And why? Because you didn’t want to hear the word no. When are you going to learn?”

  “I told you to leave,” Raelynd repeated.

  Hagatha, done ripping the cloth to tie the wound once stitched, stood up and said, “The girl made a mistake.”

  “She could have died.”

  Hagatha arched an inquisitive brow at Crevan’s lack of concern for the others who had also been in danger. “Well, so could have Brenna and Meriel if it wasn’t for her bravery.”

  “W-what you call bravery, I call f-
foolish.”

  Hagatha scoffed disrespectfully as she did to anyone, including the laird, when she found them worthy of it. “You are a harsh and judgmental fool, lad, which in my experience, is unlike you. Might want to ask yourself why. Meanwhile, I think the girl is right. You should leave, especially before Laurel gets back with the medicines. I get the feeling she somehow thinks you and Craig are partially to blame for ignoring women you supposedly intend to marry.”

  Crevan stared inscrutably at the audacious woman and then glanced back at Raelynd. She refused to look at him, but her pallor was getting worse and he knew he was partially to blame. He came in here demanding from her what he had not been able to do himself—consider the consequences of his actions.

  He so wanted to see her as the girl Hagatha referred to, but she wasn’t. Raelynd was a woman and no matter how frustrating she was, he would continue to desire her and that was a problem. Until the end of the month, she was Craig’s. But after that, she belonged to her clan. She was born to be a chieftain’s wife and a laird was something he was never destined to be.

  “She’s out,” Hagatha said, confirming Laurel’s presumption that Raelynd would not remain conscious beyond the first stitch.

  Relieved, Laurel quickly finished sewing up the gash. “It looks bad, but the wound is not as deep as I thought. She should be up and walking in the next day or two if she doesn’t fever.”

  “You’re still angry.”

  “Somewhat,” Laurel lied, tying off the string. Truth was she was furious. She had yelled at Brenna, whom Meriel stood up for when they returned. In a better mood, Laurel would have admired the fact that both women had risked themselves to protect her daughter. “I’m mostly riled with myself. I should have known that boredom was not the way to get them to admit the truth and ask to return home.”

  Hagatha pointed to Raelynd, lying on the bed. “This one won’t ever admit to anything. She’s stubborn. Maybe just as stubborn as you.”

  “But far more foolish.”

  “Her man Crevan feels the same.”

  Laurel’s head shot up and she halted, stirring the paste she was making for the poultice. “Crevan was here?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

  “Aye. Mad and afraid and mean.”

  Laurel licked her lips with constrained eagerness. That meant she wasn’t wrong. His avoidance for the past three days made her hesitate in her earlier guesses about where his true feelings lay, but not anymore. “Crevan is not her man. She is to marry Craig.”

  It was not often Laurel had the opportunity to shock her dear friend, but that simple statement did. Hagatha’s jaw dropped. “Can’t be. Crevan loves her and she him. It’s obvious.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why is she to marry . . . ?”

  Laurel shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve tried every way I know to get Conor to tell me and the four of them refuse to budge from their story.”

  “Maybe they don’t know the reason why.”

  “Crevan and Craig certainly do.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they just think so.”

  Laurel exhaled, smearing the medicinal mixture on Raelynd’s leg as Hagatha bound it. For many, the eccentric midwife was far too forward with her opinions, and rarely applied tact to even the most uncomfortable situations. That’s why Laurel loved her so. She never had to wonder if Hagatha was tempering or embellishing her viewpoint. Besides, her knowledge of the McTiernay brothers was extensive and she had incredible intuition. So, Laurel listened when her friend spoke. “Hmmm, would explain some things. But there has to be another way I can help these two—not just for Craig’s and Crevan’s sake, but their own.”

  Hagatha watched Laurel work with pride. The laird’s wife had skills before they met, but she now was just as proficient, if not better, as she herself was at tending the sick. “You know, if boredom is what set them off, then that could be fixed.”

  Laurel tied off the last of the bandages and stood up. “Devious you are, Hagatha, but I like it, especially since time is not on our side. I just need to shake loose the wisdom they already possess. Give it a chance to breathe.”

  Hagatha’s eyes began to twinkle. “Well, English, I wish I could stick around and see how things go, but babes are about to be born.”

  Laurel smiled and winked at her friend. “It will be interesting. Think I should invite Aileen into the plan?”

  “Aye,” the midwife laughed boisterously. “If you don’t, she’ll scold you for meddling.”

  “Beside myself, she has the perfect solution for the monotony of a noble’s life.”

  “Aye, that you two most certainly do,” Hagatha grinned.

  Chapter 14

  Fathomless black eyes held Cyric’s golden gaze for several silent moments before the man gave a signal to his horse toward the gatehouse. Once through, the old farmer urged his mount into a lope and was soon out of sight. The situation was bad.

  Cyric shook his head and headed toward the Great Hall. He had almost been convinced that he was once again naive to Highland customs and relationships. But his uncle had decided not to meet with the unwelcomed visitor, and though Schellden’s decision was intentional and based on previous interactions, it had been the wrong one. Soon, someone was going to be dead and clans would be at war. The thought of the impending and yet unnecessary blood about to be shed made Cyric shudder with anger.

  Pushing open the two large doors, Cyric quickly scanned the room. Only servants who were finishing collapsing the trestle tables after the evening meal remained. His uncle and his men had left.

  “Out!” he shouted to all in the room, doing nothing to hide his frustration.

  Surprised, all work stopped as eyes shifted to him. Cyric had never been unpleasant or outright discourteous, which allowed most of them to ignore some of his more obvious Lowland mannerisms. Tonight, however, his demeanor was anything but friendly and everyone silently decided that enough work had been accomplished for the night and it was time to leave.

  Finally alone, Cyric sat down in one of the hearth chairs and buried his face in his hands. Caireoch was well maintained and the servants who supported the castle were disciplined and hard working. Still, they stared at him with an unwavering eye as if they were assessing him. Rowena had claimed it was his imagination when he had commented one night that it was more than a little unsettling to be judged and found lacking by a servant.

  Tonight, though, he did not care. He didn’t care what anyone in this clan thought of him or his ideas.

  The door creaked and, hearing footsteps, Cyric didn’t even look up when he shouted, “I said out.”

  “Well, at least you can bark like a laird.”

  Cyric’s gaze immediately shifted to the curvaceous figure walking toward him. “Maybe that’s all I can do. Tonight I learned that to be a Schellden chieftain requires one to be overly confident and intolerant of other opinions, and I want no part of it.”

  Rowena arched a single dark eyebrow and said playfully in an effort to yank Cyric out of his dark mood, “So, then why don’t you just leave? If you don’t want to be laird, then—”

  “Not now, Rowena. I’m not in the mood to be cajoled, placated, or scolded.”

  Rowena paused in midstride at the seriousness in Cyric’s tone. He raked a hand through his hair and settled back in the chair to stare pointedly at the dying fire in the hearth. Whatever was bothering him was not just a trivial matter of wounded Schellden pride. Previously, fear of disappointment had been behind his stress. Tonight, however, genuine anger was the cause.

  “Should I leave?”

  Several seconds passed before Cyric finally spoke. “I admit to being a fool. Not because I had believed my uncle would be eagerly waiting for me, ready and willing to have me marry one of his daughters and quickly assume a leadership role in this clan. I put to you that almost anyone when told such news by the king would have believed the same. My foolishness was in that I had attempted to prove my value in areas I knew nothing about. But th
at does not justify my uncle’s current unreasonableness.”

  Rowena resumed her walk, but slower. “Ah, the famous Schellden obstinacy. It runs in all of our clansmen—including those who grew up far away.”

  Cyric scoffed at the insinuation and rose to his feet. “Obstinate?” he repeated while looking her dead in the eye. “At least I listen. I listened to my grandfather, my instructor, my king . . . even you.”

  Rowena licked her lips and nodded, acknowledging that he had been receptive to what she had said. Upon seeing her admission, Cyric began to pace. His face was dark, almost haunted, as if he knew something he wished he did not. In many ways, he reminded her of her late father, who was also a thinker, prone to pacing as he worked through a problem.

  Until now, Rowena had no interest in him as a man, despite his unquestionable good looks. If anything, she had taken pity on Cyric. But like his uncle, she had again misjudged the Lowland relative. Cyric was ignorant of much, but that did not mean he was weak willed. Far from.

  “What happened?”

  Cyric halted briefly to look at Rowena as she took a seat. His first impulse was to refuse to tell her. She was a woman and to frighten her with only suppositions was both ungentlemanly and dishonorable. And yet, Rowena might be the one person who was in a position to prevent the impending clash. She had influence with his uncle where he had none.

  “Do you know of the McHenrys?”

  “Aye,” Rowena answered as she furrowed her brow, clearly puzzled by the question. In her father’s youth, one of the smaller McHenry clans had settled on the northern Schellden border. From time to time, they would steal a cow, and a Schellden clansman, in retaliation, would see to it that some of their sheep would go missing.

  “Ian McHenry arrived today to talk to the Schellden laird and yet my uncle refused without explanation.”