A Highlander’s Love: Highlands Ever After

by Adams, Aileen

  There was no forgetting the hunger they’d both suffered at times, the sort that could keep a person awake long into the night. Cramping hunger, desperate hunger. Tyra thought she felt it even then, as if she’d returned to those times. Perhaps she had. Perhaps the rest of her life had been a dream.

  When she woke again, the light in the room was no more. So it was day when she’d last awoken, and now it was night. Hours had passed. Perhaps even days.

  Now, sleep did not pull her back beneath the waves, though she wished it would. Pain throbbed in several places over her body. Her shoulder, her head, her back. Her shoulder worse of all, though she could not rightly recall why it should.

  What had she done? Where had she taken ill?

  No. Not ill. Her shoulder pained her to the point of biting back a scream, to the point where tears sprang to her eyes when she attempted to move even slightly. If she’d been possessed of a tool with which to remove her entire arm, she might have used it.

  Though that would have been little better than exchanging one agony for another. Even now, her mind in a haze of anguish, she knew this.

  What had befallen her?

  And where was she?

  The latter question sent her eyes moving over the room. She’d never seen it before, though that should not have come as a surprise. She knew enough to recall her arrival in Beauly, and she recalled struggling to find her way to Iona.

  She’d never made it to Iona, had she? Something had gotten in the way. Something had stopped her, though the memory was still hazy and broken thanks to pain which beat relentlessly against her addled brain.

  The first thing she noticed was how fine everything in the bedchamber seemed to be. Fine, yet long unused. There was a thin layer of dust on the small table at her bedside, upon which a candle had been left. There was not much left of it now, tallow having dripped and hardened in a pool around it, the flame little more than a faint flicker. It had been burning for some time.

  The coverlet which had been spread over her was embroidered, heavy, soft beneath her fingers. But old, a bit moth-eaten at the edges, what might once have been a rich green now faded to something closer to the color of spring grass. Years of sitting beneath a sunny window must have done this. Though the window was somewhat grimy, as if it had not been washed in years. Perhaps it had not been. It might be that she was the first person to lie upon this bed in a great many years.

  There was a door opposite the foot of the bed. Large, wooden, featuring carvings which she could not make sense of in such dim light. The bed was carved as well, with heavy tapestry hanging from its posts. Tapestry which had been embroidered as her coverlet was.

  A grand house, then. Only a grand house would feature such a door, such a bed, such grand tapestries. To the right of the door was a fireplace in which a small blaze burned. Yet it did little to warm the room or to lessen her fears.

  Someone had cared for her, was still caring for her. There was a wooden chair at her side—large, heavy, with a high back decorated in lavish carvings and a cushion of what appeared to be velvet. Had someone been seated upon it? The person who’d set the fire, who’d lit the candle?

  Who’d dressed her wound? Yes, there was a wound upon her shoulder, one which had been cleaned and bandaged. She wore her own shift, though it smelled as if it had recently been washed and hung out in the sun. The jacket she’d worn was missing, along with her tunic, and her skirts hung over the foot of the bed.

  They’d been washed, as well, though there was a dark stain still visible against the grey. A blood stain.

  She’d been shot.

  Yes, it all came back to her now. Leaving the mare behind when it became clear the horse could not climb the increasingly rocky, steep hills. Losing her pack along the way, dropping it as she climbed. Hiding, cowering behind the rocks. The massive dog all but nipping at her skirts, terrifying her until she’d had no choice but to hurl a rock at its head. The man who’d threatened her, demanding she show herself. A stranger, rough-sounding and angry. It must have been he who’d shot her.

  The images which had raced through her mind in those agonizing moments. Imagining the man who pursued her to be a murderer, a thief, one who’d think nothing of taking a young woman’s virtue before taking her life once he’d tired of her. Cowering, whimpering behind the trembling hand she’d clamped over her mouth. Cold, acrid-smelling sweat rolling down her face, down the back of her neck.

  And then? After he’d lost patience at trying to lure her out, he’d shot her.

  What man would behave so? When she was nothing but an unarmed, weak woman, frightened half out of her wits and hopelessly lost in an unknown country? She might have thrown rocks, but what were they when compared to a pistol? The coward.

  With a soft cry of pain, she pushed herself up on her right arm, the arm which had not been injured. Oh, she hurt everywhere. Her lower back—yes, she’d struck it when she fell, along with her head. That was the last thing she recalled before slipping into unconsciousness, a bright pain in the back of her head which nearly matched the screaming agony in her shoulder.

  It took every bit of her determination to sit up in spite of her heavy, aching head. She held onto her left arm, keeping it still as she slowly moved her legs over the side of the bed and touched the cold floor with her bare feet.

  The slightest bit of pressure on her right ankle made her hiss, sucking breath through clenched teeth. Yes, she’d twisted her ankle, as well, scurrying away from that frightening dog. For a moment she’d imagined it coming from the very bowels of Hell, all teeth and red eyes.

  How was she to move about when she could not walk? Her ankle was terribly swollen, all purple and blue and twice the size of the other. She was weak, as well, dreadfully so. Perhaps she’d bled a great deal—and if she’d been asleep for long, she’d not eaten in all that time, either. Little wonder the slightest movement made her wish she’d never risen from the bed. Little wonder she’d dreamt of hunger.

  What was she to do? How could she ever leave this place if she could not walk, much less use her right arm for fear of leaving the left hanging painfully at her side?

  And where would she go? There was no telling where she was, where she’d been taken. Where Iona’s home was located in relation to where she now was. How she would find her friend.

  How she would escape.

  Dread sat on her chest, heavy, making it all but impossible to draw a decent breath. What would they want from her, this person who’d seen to her care? How could she repay them?

  There were means by which men expected women to repay them. She was old enough and aware enough of the world and its ways to know this. Never would she allow a man to debase her in such a manner.

  Yet she had nothing else to offer, which was why she simply had to go. Pain or no, she could not remain. Not with the notion of being forced into any manner of disgraceful acts plaguing her, making it impossible to breathe without wheezing through a tightening throat.

  When footsteps sounded on the other side of the heavy door, Tyra nearly yelped in fear. He’d returned, whoever he was. She knew without seeing him that the approaching person was a man by the heaviness of his footfalls, nearly stomping down the corridor.

  He came to a stop.

  She looked about her for a weapon, something she might use to keep him away. Now that she was awake, he might be eager to misuse her somehow. He would not, so long as she had any say in the matter.

  The door opened. A man stepped through, tall and broad with dark hair. A strong face, a nose slightly crooked, a wide jaw.

  Green eyes widened in surprise when he took in the sight of her, though this lasted but a moment. “Och, ye stirred a bit earlier. I expected ye would awaken soon, though not so quite so—nor so silently,” he added. “With a wound such as the one ye sustained, I would have expected quite a bit of shouting as ye sat up.”

  She could scarcely breathe. He spoke to her as though they were well-acquainted, as though she were not all but a
captive in this chamber. Well-appointed though it was, it was little better than a jail cell if she could not leave of her own accord. A cage.

  In his hands he carried a wooden tray. The enticing aroma of fresh, warm bread nearly brought her to tears and reminded her of how she hungered.

  Though hunger was not enough to lessen the intense, gripping fear which made her tremble until her teeth chattered. He was so very large, his hands the size of her head. A man of his stature was capable of all manners of harm to a slight lass such as herself.

  She would be defenseless against him should he choose to hurt her.

  Yet he brought food, meaning he intended to care for her well-being. What manner of man was this?

  He placed the tray upon the table beside the bed. “Porridge,” he grunted, gesturing to the bowl as if she could not see this for herself. “And bread. I suspect ye must be hungry.”

  He did not speak quite so roughly as the highlanders did, with merely the hint of a brogue. Why was that? Where had this man come from? Perhaps he was one of the vile, wicked men the sheriff had warned her of. Come from a faraway land. Perhaps he’d slaughtered the family who’d once lived here and had claimed it for his own.

  “Well?” he asked. “Have ye nothing to say? Can ye not speak?”

  Her mouth was dry as parched earth. She swallowed hard before attempting to say a word. “Who are you?”

  Not a muscle twitched in his face. Her question came as no surprise. “Ye had not guessed, then?”

  She had suspicions but did not dare voice them. Instead, she shook her head, praying a hard as she’d ever prayed before that she was wrong. That she was safe here, with this man. That she might find Iona, and soon.

  That he would not harm her.

  His generous mouth, which had been fixed in a scowl since the moment he’d stepped foot into the room, now twitched as though he held back a smile. “I am the man who shot ye, of course.”

  No sooner had he said it than a pair of enormous dogs walked into the room, dogs tall enough to reach their master’s hip. Yes, she recognized them, for she’d met one of their brethren in the hills. Dogs of that size could easily tear her to shreds. Her stomach, which had only just rumbled with hunger, now tightened until it gave her pain.

  The presence of the familiar dogs meant the man before her spoke the truth. Little surprise, truly, for his voice was the same as the one she’d heard in the dark. Warning that he would shoot.

  “And now, it would appear ye are a guest in my home,” he concluded. “And until ye are well, ye shall remain beneath this roof. With me.”

  Whether this notion pleased him or brought him pain was impossible to tell.

  It did not please the dogs, that much was clear. One of them growled, lowering its ears.

  Staring straight at her.

  5

  Chapter

  All of Dougal’s curiosity could now be assuaged. The woman was awake and able to answer the many questions he’d struggled with during the worst of her recovery.

  And if the look in her eye meant anything, she was furious and frightened. Again, the thought of a cornered animal came to mind, as it had in the foothills when he’d pursued her. No doubt even a slight thing such as herself could pose danger.

  Though she was hardly in any condition to pose a threat, unable to rise from the bed. At that moment it appeared as though she swayed slightly, already too weak and worn out to remain upright.

  “Ye ought to lie back again,” he grunted, gesturing to the bed and the pillows. He’d seen to her comfort, had taken great pains. As is making certain of her comfort would make up for what he’d done, as if an extra pillow or coverlet would be enough to balance the accounts between them.

  Color flamed to life in her pale cheeks, which only added to her loveliness. He was not made of stone. There’d been no ignoring her beauty when he’d cared for her, when he’d washed the blood from her long, thick, black tresses. When he’d sponged her smooth brow, her full mouth twitching now and then as if she’d wished to speak.

  There had not been occasion to indulge in these observations, however, when the question of whether she’d lost too much blood had weighed so heavily. Only a handful of times in his life had he known such strain, such fear on behalf of another.

  On behalf of himself, as well, since this was no casual stranger. It would have been one matter if he’d discovered the lass on the side of the road or in the hills, if she’d been attacked by another the way Iona Douglas had. He would have worked just as tirelessly to spare her life, no doubt.

  But his heart would not have lodged so firmly in his throat were it not he who was responsible for her condition. He’d never so much as struck a woman in all his years. Now, here was a lass with a wound in her shoulder thanks to his foolishness.

  Eyes the color of a clear autumn sky burned as she stared up at him. “I shall do as I please,” she whispered, her chin jutting out. So fierce, this woman, which he supposed should come as no surprise. She’d been traveling the foothills on her own, after all, and in the dark.

  And rather than cry out in fear and beg for mercy, what had she done? She’d thrown rocks at him.

  And at his dog, who clearly had not forgotten. Dogs did not remember as men did, he knew, but it seemed the mastiff at his right recalled the scent of the woman on the bed. “Ye wounded my dog,” he murmured, nodding to Royal, who growled at the lass as though prepared to attack. He would not, not so long as Dougal held him back, but she need not know this yet. Not when he was unaware of what the lass was made of, how she would react. “Note the cut here, on his head.”

  “Your dog threatened me,” she whispered, her gaze darting back and forth between the dog and himself. She licked her lips, nervous. Either she was afraid of all dogs as a rule or had been deeply shaken by Royal in the hills.

  Rightly so, for anyone possessed of a scrap of intelligence would fear such a massive beast.

  “Ye ought not to have been trespassing on my land,” he countered. “And ye might have spoken for yourself, rather than allowing me to follow ye in the darkness.”

  “I knew not whether I ought to speak,” she whispered, still glancing to the dogs. Her hands twisted in the coverlet, fingers working the thick material to the point of nearly tearing it.

  Perhaps if she had not caused him such trouble, he would have dismissed them in favor of calming her. Yet he had ever been willful, had he not? Deliberately choosing that which might make his situation more dangerous rather than that which might ease the danger.

  This was not dangerous, exactly, though he suspected the wounded woman might be a danger once she regained her strength. There was a nervous, strained way about her, as if she might burst into violent emotion at any moment.

  “What did ye expect me to do, finding an intruder on my land?” he demanded, watching the way her hands moved, the way her eyes darted around the room. What did she search for? “With so many dangerous men roaming the countryside? Should I have turned a blind eye to your presence? Tis a wonder I did not fire my rifle at ye. I might have brought more men, as well. Or more dogs.”

  She flinched. “Yet you did not.”

  “I did not. I might have. Many men would have. Ye would no longer be alive.” He forced himself to fall back and take a breath when her gaze traveled to his hands, which he’d tightened into fists without knowing it.

  “If I lie back, will you remain where you are?” she asked in a weaker voice than before. What little strength she possessed was draining away with each passing moment, no matter how bravely she fought to remain upright.

  “I shall,” he nodded. “But ye must eat, as well. To regain your strength.” Even if he was not certain yet what he would do with her once her strength grew and her body healed.

  He would manage the problem when it presented itself, he supposed.

  She gritted her teeth, grunting softly from the effort of working her way back along the length of the bed. Her left arm was useless, after all, and her c
olor had gone from pale to nearly grey. When she gasped when the pain was too much to bear, he took a step toward her, hands outstretched.

  “I told you to stay back!” Suddenly, the lass found her strength. She reached for the tray he’d brought and picked up the knife which he’d intended she use to butter her bread. A thoughtless action on his part, permitting something she might use against him, leaving it lying upon the table and within her grasp.

  “What do ye intend to do with that?” he asked, torn between irritation with himself and amusement at her sudden show of spirit.

  “What do you think?” she growled. “I warned you to remain where you are. To come no closer.”

  “I wished to assist ye,” he murmured, one eye always on the knife. It wavered slightly with the trembling of her hand. “Ye were in pain. Dinna be stubborn.”

  “I do not wish for you to touch me.”

  “Tis a bit too late for that.” He ventured a single step toward her, then another. “Ye might as well accept the fact that ye are here, and ye are ill and need time to regain your health.”

  The knife lowered somewhat, as if she understood the truth in his words.

  Until the dogs advanced in step with their master, which caused her to raise the knife once again and draw her legs closer to her body. “Keep them away from me. I mean what I say.”

  “Ye would use the knife on helpless dogs?”

  “Helpless?” she scoffed. “I would call them many things, but helpless would not be one of them. Murderous beasts.”

  They were as docile and playful as bairns, his dogs, at least when conditions were right and they were not on the hunt. “They tend to dislike intruders.” He shrugged. “As do I. I cannot blame an animal for doing as it is trained to do.”