The Highlander

by Spear, Terry

  “I bathed in a tub full of lavender this morning, just for you, so it seems, as I knew you would appreciate the effort.”

  Niall laughed. “I am glad that you did, Anora.”

  And then she had a brilliant notion. He smelled clean, as if he'd washed in the nearby river recently, but mayhap he would like to clean off some of the blood around his wound. “Mayhap you would like to use the tub to wash in?”

  “Nay, no’ at the moment.” Again, his eyes sparkled with merriment.

  She’d tried. She thought if he was naked in the tub—though she couldn’t help wondering just what the rest of him would look like—she could slip away.

  "Unless you'd like to join me in it," he said, his voice rough with intrigue.

  Her mouth gaped open, then she snapped it shut. Men and women didn't bathe together.

  She quickened her pace as she carried the pork into the cottage. How could he suggest such a thing? And now that he had, she couldn't get the forbidden image out of her mind. Not that she was trying very hard—as she envisioned him with his arms wrapped around her body, both of them completely naked in a tub of water in the byre where she bathed. From now on, every time she took a bath, she'd imagine such a thing.

  Trying not to think of it further, she laid the meat on a cutting block and began to slice it into cubes. Niall sat down on a chair situated at the table nearby and observed her work.

  Not liking that he monitored every move she made, making her feel somewhat self-conscious, Anora frowned at him. “Be sure to make yourself comfortable in my cottage, sir.”

  “Thank you, lass, I will.” Niall rested his elbow on the table with his chin propped on his hand, his eyes half-lidded.

  She thought he looked weary, despite his having slept in her cottage for however long it had been. She was about to mention taking a look at his injury, when he asked, “Who was the man who came to visit you earlier?”

  Certainly not her rescuer. Though she was glad he hadn't had to fight Niall. She wouldn't have wanted her friend harmed. “Matthew.”

  “And?” Niall's tone was somewhat condescending, and she didn't like it one bit.

  “And what?” she asked, irritated.

  “What were his intentions?”

  She glowered at him. “What do you mean?” She knew what the Highlander was getting at, but she didn't feel a need to defend Matthew's honor. She scooped up the chunks of day-old meat and threw them into the simmering broth.

  “I mean, that a young woman, such as yourself, shouldna be seeing a man like that without a proper chaperone.”

  “’Tis none of your concern.” Anora noticed him stiffen a little and the look of disdain on his face. She added, “His intentions are honorable if ‘tis any of your business, but what of yours?”

  Niall was the one she had to worry about. The Highlander with the hot-blooded gaze and the heated touch. Matthew had never been more than just a friend. If he'd ever looked at her or touched her the way this man had, she might have been married to him already. She shook her head at the very notion.

  “If my purpose was other than honorable, you would have known about it long before this.” A hint of teasing shown in his eyes as Niall's mouth curved marginally.

  Her traitorous heart did a little leap. “You are leaving after supper, are you not?” He could not mean to stay any longer than that.

  Niall’s eyes sparkled with devilment. Wiping his hand over the smooth tabletop, he said, “I am no’ certain. You have been so kind to me, when I truly have needed it, I may wish to stay the eve—at the verra least.”

  Did he realize she lived alone? Would he not suspect her family would arrive home soon? Before nightfall, at the very least.

  Grinding her teeth, Anora stirred the stew. “You cannot tarry here any longer than it takes for you to have your supper. The word will soon reach the village that a man is staying here with me...,” Anora said, then hesitated as Niall’s eyes narrowed.

  She briefly closed her eyes as she was annoyed with herself for making the slip. She should have said with us. Not with me.

  She looked to her stew again, hoping he wouldn’t have noticed. Not that she assumed she’d have much luck with that. He had a warrior’s watchfulness.

  And she was quite certain she was doomed.

  Chapter 4

  Glad Anora was living alone, Niall was pleased beyond measure at the lass's slip of the tongue. The midnight blue léine she wore complimented her blue eyes, so bright and clear, he was reminded of a loch that he and his cousins swam in near Craigly Castle. Her light brown hair was streaked with gold, the braid half undone, the loose strands falling over her breasts, her breath quickened as if she was still afraid of him… or intrigued.

  Oh, aye, he believed he fascinated her because of the manner in which she had considered his body when he wasn't looking, until he caught her at it. And made her blush. Niall didn't remember ever having met a maid who could be so charming—in a mulishly determined kind of way.

  Was Matthew her only betrothal prospect? Already Niall was thinking the lass deserved better, despite not knowing anything about the man. But if Niall had come to call on her, and knowing she lived alone, he would have searched for her until he found her. Her sheep were in their pen, her dog sticking close to the cottage—so Niall would have assumed the lass was nearby—and he would have located her before he left. Or… he might not have left. He smiled at the notion.

  “Well...,” Niall said to Anora as she prepared the meal, elongating the word for emphasis, “that answers one of my questions. You live all alone. That is even better for me.”

  He meant only as far as not having to worry about Anora having brothers or cousins or a father who would attempt to slay him for breaking into the cottage and taking the lass hostage. Although, he couldn't help thinking in terms of being with such a lovely—not to mention, high-spirited—lass alone, and the notions that led to.

  Anora released her ladle, then headed for the door, making him jump from his seat. And groan. The lass was way too flighty for his wounded condition.

  Before she reached the door, he grabbed her arm—delicately boned in his large hand—and pulled her to a stop, afraid she meant to run off.

  “Release me at once!” Anora grasped his hand and tried to peel it from her arm, her cheeks flushed with indignation at being accosted. “Just because I am only a shepherdess and you are a... well, what are you exactly?”

  "I am Niall, naught more.”

  “You are a cousin to two lairds and as such, I assume that is why you are so demanding.”

  Niall laughed as he released her arm. “Where are you going to now? Are we no’ going to eat soon?” He was starving and the aroma of the stew was making him even hungrier. And he was tired. He thought having food in his belly would help chase away the weariness he felt and give him strength.

  “I must take my sheep to graze again before the meal is done.” Anora strode for the door.

  “I will help you.” He followed behind her, but the muscle in his side twitched with pain, informing him he would be better off staying behind and resting. He clapped his hand over the wound as if that would prevent it from hurting further. But he couldn't allow her out of his sight.

  “Now you will help me?” Anora turned suddenly, catching Niall off-guard.

  He barely halted before running into that sweetly-scented body of hers.

  Frowning furiously at Niall, she continued, “When you could have carried that heavy bucket of water into the cottage for me?”

  “That looked too heavy.” Niall folded his arms, head tilted to the side a bit. “I told you it wouldna do for me to injure myself further.”

  He was loathe to admit he couldn't help the lass with her chores as he would have done so in a heartbeat—not only because he'd slept in her bed, and would now eat her food, but because he was always willing to aid a lass when she needed assistance. No one could ever call him idle. But he knew, too, his physical limitations—with regard to h
is wounds—prevented him from doing anything too strenuous or he was liable to pass out, and she'd flee and get help.

  She glanced at his bloodied binding. "How were you injured?" She sounded suddenly suspicious and a little worried.

  "A skirmish. Thieves attacked me."

  She looked up at his face and frowned. "Thieves, yet they did not take your sword?"

  "They attacked in the middle of the night. My sword was lost in the tall grasses. They stole my horse and left me for dead."

  Her lips parted—soft, pliable, a natural primrose color that begged him to lean down and kiss them.

  Then she worried her bottom lip with her teeth and considered his bindings again. "Mayhap I should take a look at it."

  He envisioned her warm hands touching his skin in a gentle caress. And he was more than willing to let her do so.

  "If you will take off the binding,” she said, hesitantly, her cheeks turning rosy, as she glanced from his bare chest to his face. “I will get one of my father's tunics for you. He had two extra ones and either should fit you.”

  "Aye," Niall said. "Thank you." He couldn't be more pleased that she'd take a look at his wound. Mayhap, she could even help him to heal sooner, and he could search for Gunnolf next.

  She returned to the smaller room of the two, rummaged through a chest, and then pulled two tunics out. She rejoined Niall and held the garments up for him to consider. “Which do you prefer?”

  “The one that is softest.” He didn't know why he said such a thing. Just like with the meal. He would be pleased with anything she offered him. But he couldn't help bantering with her.

  Anora laughed. “I did not know a Highland warrior would be so...” She paused as she tried to think of something to say, then shook her head.

  “So… what?” He was dying to hear what she had to say to him, considering her mischievous expression.

  “Soft.” She handed him the linen tunic.

  When it came to being around her, wrestling with her, being close to her, he couldn't be accused of being soft. Even now as he took in her scent again, his body reacted.

  “Change in the other room if you are shy, while I stir the stew.”

  “You will try to slip away.” She might not attempt such, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe he had naught to worry about concerning the lass. He just hoped she wouldn't faint at the sight of his wound.

  Exasperated, she said, “All right then, change in here, and I will wash your garments and mend them before I retire to bed. You can use this to wipe your wound clean.”

  Anora poured some water onto a clean rag, then looked up as Niall unwrapped the binding, stained with blood. She thought she could manage seeing any injury without showing any kind of reaction.

  The red cut streaking across his smooth golden skin while the blood trickled down from the wound made her draw in a bit of breath with surprise. “Oh, my Lord, who has done this to you?” She hadn't thought it would be this severe, particularly as much as he'd been moving about.

  She was certain if she had been so wounded, she would have been flat on her back, unable to move, languishing in pain, wishing she was dead.

  “We were ambushed, and when I came to, I found no sign of my horse or the man I rode with. I had to find a safe place to rest. Now you know, but no one else must know I am here until I can regain my strength and search for them.”

  His dark gaze remained steady on hers, and she had the impression he was pleading with her in a silent way to aid him. She realized then, as much as he was in charge and could wield a mighty sword, he needed her help to see him through. And that made her feel more—in charge of her situation—which she preferred.

  “Who are you?”

  “Niall. I have told you this several times already.”

  “From which clan, I mean?” She couldn't help but sound exasperated. Because of his staying here, she had to know what she could be involved in. "So I will know them if they come here searching for you."

  “Are you from a clan?” he asked her instead.

  She shook her head. She had thought the men who waylaid him might have been Normans or Lowland Scots, but maybe they were from another Highland clan. In any event, the situation didn't divine a safe outcome.

  “Are you allied with any?” he asked.

  “Nay.” Anora touched the wet cloth to his skin, and he took a deep shuddering breath. “I am sorry, Niall. Mayhap if you sit down...”

  He removed his sword, set it on the table, then sat on the chair.

  Anora eyed his sword for a moment. She wasn't used to being around a man who carried one with him everywhere he went. She leaned over and carefully wiped his wound. “'Tis still bleeding. I fear it is too deep and needs to be stitched.” She looked up at his face, but found him enjoying the cut of her bodice, and hadn't realized how much it gaped when she leaned over very much. She straightened, casting him an annoyed look.

  He smiled when she caught him at it. “Have you stitched a man’s wounds before?” he asked.

  “Aye, if you can stand the pain. Drink some of this mead, and I will get my thread and needle.”

  Anora retrieved her sewing materials, and Niall frowned. “Are you sure that you can do this? ‘Tis no’ the same as sewing on cloth.”

  She almost laughed. "He who wields a mighty sword is afraid of a needle and thread?"

  He smiled.

  She had to admit she liked the way he smiled at her teasing. But she didn't wish to let on that she was rather enjoying his being here. Not when he was holding her hostage. Yet, staying here by herself with only her dog Charlie to keep her company was lonely at times. She missed her guardians, whom she had considered her parents—mother and father, even though they were sister and brother—all the more.

  “’Tis the same as sewing on cloth, if the man does not scream out in pain too much. Mayhap you should lie down.”

  “You willna try to leave me, will you?” Niall asked, frowning.

  “While you are injured like this? I could not do that to you, nor to anyone else for that matter.” Well, she would if he was a real threat to her, but he wasn't. And she thought whoever had nearly killed him might be more dangerous than he was.

  Niall retired to Anora’s bedchamber, sword in hand, and she was reminded that he could be a dangerous man, too, even if he was wounded. He stretched out on her bed, then she proceeded to sew the deep cut on his side. When he winced, she smiled at a long ago memory. “I am sorry.”

  “I dinna believe you are.” But he didn't sound annoyed with her, only slightly amused.

  “Of course, I am. I do not wish anyone this kind of pain.”

  “Except that I tied you up earlier and held you hostage against your will.” His dark, fathomless gaze remained on hers.

  “Aye, still I do not wish to see you suffer. This only reminded me of something that occurred some years ago. Do you wish to hear of it?”

  “Aye, I wish to hear what amused you so if it wasna about my discomfort.”

  “’Twas not about your misfortune.” Anora took another stitch. “Many years ago, a sheepherder grew tired of eating mutton. So one day, he yearned something powerful for a good cache of fresh fish and determined to try his luck at fishing at the river nearby where trout and salmon are prevalent. After tossing his hook out into the cold waters several times, he grew impatient. He had listened oft to the stories of the villagers and how they had caught this fish or that, and he knew if they could do it, surely he could also.

  "As the sun rose high in the sky, so, too, did a stiff breeze. When his line drifted into shore, the sheepherder attempted to toss his hook deeper into the river. A gust of wind carried his hook right before he cast it, snagging it into his back. Having to walk all the way home from the river with a hook in his back was embarrassing enough, as he could not reach the metal barb no matter how hard he tried, but he had nary a fish to show for the ordeal either."

  She glanced up from her stitching and saw that Niall was concentrating on
her story. "Go on," he said, sounding interested.

  She realized then she hadn't shared one of her stories with anyone since her guardians had died.

  “When he arrived at the cottage, his sister folded her arms and laughed until the tears flowed freely. The poor sheepherder stormed into the cottage while his sister walked in behind him still snickering. Years passed, and the two often laughed about the situation. But I still remember him wincing so as she pulled the hook from his skin and then wiped it with a cloth soaked with water. His sister smiled, then winked at me, and I stared at the two stitches she had made. She kissed her brother’s cheek. ‘You should be a sheepherder, as that is what you excel at, my brother,’ she said. ‘Leave the fishing to other folks.’”

  After taking three more stitches to close up Niall's wound, Anora cut the thread with a knife and wrapped a scrap of fabric around Niall’s waist, then tied it off. “That should take care of that. You may put on John's tunic while I see to my sheep now.”

  “Wait,” Niall said, and grabbed Anora’s wrist. “What about your story?”

  She barely heard his words, she was so focused on what his touch did to her—his hand gripping her wrist, not tightly this time, and the heat from his large fingers seeped into her skin. Her whole body warmed with his touch, yet she did not pull away, hating how much she liked the way he affected her.

  “What about my story?” she finally managed to answer.

  “I thought it odd that you referred to John as such and not as your father.”

  “That is another story.” Anora reluctantly pulled her arm away.

  “Will you not tell me about it?”

  “I must see to the sheep.”

  “I thank you for all the generosity you have shown me, lass.” Niall captured her hand and to her shock, lifted it to his lips, then kissed her there, and released her.

  She openly stared at him, shaken at his behavior—since no one had ever kissed her like that before. She fancied he did so often with the lassies, only she couldn't imagine he would stop there.

  “Is that how you show your gratitude to the lasses?” she asked, again feeling way warmer than she should.