The Love of Her Life (Highlander Heroes Book 6)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Alec laid his plaid on the floor, against the door, and stretched out, grimacing a bit as he was made to feel evidence of today’s battle, his back and shoulder aching. He sighed, hoping Malcolm showed more progress on the morrow, hoping to be on the road soon. He was too long gone from home.

  He’d been tempted recently by some idea that they might actually return to more warring, could have stayed embedded with those armies involved in today’s fight. But he’d given his notice to the MacKenna when he’d joined up with them last spring that he was bound for home soon. Jamie MacKenna, himself, had said the same, had said no man should be expected to be removed from his own home too long at one time.

  “Until we bring these nobles to the same side of the table,” MacKenna had said, “the war isn’t going anywhere.”

  And, too, Alec had promised his army they were destined to be home before the summer ended. He would keep to that plan.

  When he’d been very still for quite some time, another noise joined that of the rhythmic snoring. His brows lowering, he realized that the healer was crying. Seemed only one louder sob had escaped and gained his notice. Listening intently, he imagined the rest were being forced into her pillow or that rough blanket, the sound barely perceptible, muffled almost successfully.

  I’ve had already my life’s love. I haven’t more to give.

  Henry’s father, then, must have been one hell of a man.

  Alec supposed this might explain her regular pinched-face expressions. Sadness was so often joined with bitterness, in his experience.

  KATIE MIGHT HAVE SUNG her joy when she was awakened by the injured man, Malcolm, just as the sun began its ascent. She climbed quickly from the bed she shared with Henry at Malcolm’s low moan and stood beside the table, laying her palm against his forehead. No fever, or any that concerned her. He moaned a bit and Katie bent over the wounds, evaluating them. They could be wrapped today, she decided, pleased to have left them to the air for so many hours. She was satisfied thus far that no angry redness showed around any of the marks.

  The man woke further and just as Katie straightened away from her inspection, his huge paw struck out, circling tightly around her neck. She could do naught but squeak, pulling at his hand, as she was lifted onto her toes. She abandoned her efforts to wrest his strong hands away and reached for him, pulling at his hair with all her might as her feet were lifted completely off the earth.

  The rude man, Alec, was awakened and came quickly to her aid, wrenching Malcolm’s hand away at the same time he jammed an elbow onto Malcolm’s arm.

  “Jesu! Malcolm, what the—”

  Katie was freed, dropped really, that she released the tufts of hair she’d yanked and fell to the ground, clutching her neck.

  “Bluidy hell, Malcolm!” The one called Alec cursed, crouching at her side. “Och, lass, are you harmed?”

  Katie lifted her hand between them, closing her eyes, willing him away.

  He hesitated, but did back away, standing at Malcolm’s side. “Bluidy arse, that’s the healer!” He growled at his friend.

  “Tha’s no healer,” Malcolm mumbled, his voice rusty.

  “Knock it off. Do you ken the battle yesterday, the fireballs they hurled?”

  “Aye.”

  Katie took a deep breath, shifting to stand. A hand appeared before her, the rude man extending his to help her rise. She ignored this and stood on her own. But she wasn’t completely foolish, that she remained at his side, using his broad shoulders as a shield, as she peeked at Malcolm.

  “He’s definitely feeling better,” Alec surmised. “More broth?”

  “Aye. And today I’ll bind the cuts.”

  Alec MacBriar punched lightly at Malcolm’s shoulder. “And he’ll behave himself, showing thanks to the woman who saved him,” he ground out a warning to his friend.

  “What?” Groused Malcolm, his eyes closed again. “Healers ain’t bonny. Thought she was the cause of all the pain. Beautiful creatures usually are.” He tried to sit up.

  Katie stepped forward, instinctively pressing him back down on the table. “Are you daft?”

  Alec added his hand to the effort, pressing down on Malcolm’s chest. “Dinna get up yet. No’ until she says.”

  Katie allowed. “You certainly can sit up, but not straight away, using all your abdomen muscles to rise. Let him pull you up, but be warned, it’s going to hurt, the hacked rib.”

  He seemed then disinclined to move, that Katie stepped around the table and prepared another bowl of broth and medicine.

  Alec lifted him once more, Malcolm winced now with his consciousness, and Katie persuaded him to drink from the bowl.

  He fussed with every swallow, making faces and rolling his tongue out with distaste.

  “Stop with that,” Katie chastised, much as she might her own son. “I’m not pouring fire down your throat.” She felt Alec MacBriar’s gaze on her but dared not meet his eyes to know if he disapproved or not of her scolding.

  Henry came to the table then, roused by their talk, sleepy and curious. Katie was sorry that she missed their morning chat, as it was nearly as lovely as their nighttime ones. Normally, they would remain abed, upon first waking—Henry was at his loveliest then, groggy and sweet, and so very innocent—and their talks then were some of her favorite, hushed and still as the sun rose, his thoughts and questions so endearing and sweet. That’s when they spoke of his father, and her own life as a child, and often events that had happened the day before, for the questions that had come through the night.

  An hour later, Katie and Henry had seen to their morning ablutions, and had broken their fast with more of the thin stew. She did begrudgingly offer some to the two men, but this was politely declined by Alec.

  “Today is wash day,” she told him, indicating the tall standing basket of soiled clothing between the bed and her work counter. “And I’ll need to get about to check my traps.” Hopefully, any of the dozen or so contraptions she’d set around the nearby woods would have yielded more than the lone hare she’d snagged yesterday.

  “You launder out in the creek?”

  Katie nodded.

  “Go on then,” he allowed. “I’ll have my men scout the traps.”

  When he wasn’t scowling at her, or instigating trouble with her, she thought him quite handsome. She didn’t dwell on it though, had some impression that he thought himself handsome as well. His hair was very dark, almost black, and chopped unevenly, as if he’d cut it himself or had allowed someone else without know-how to do so. At the creek yesterday, when he’d harassed her so effortlessly, she’d noticed that it was thick, and she thought it might want to curl if it were longer. She’d been wrong about his eyes though, or the dimness of the cottage had lied to her. They were not black at all, but a very dark hazel, with golden flecks near their centers.

  She wondered if he ever smiled, speculated if such a thing, coupled with that square jaw and indeed the very aura of power and vitality that oozed like honey from a hive, brought many females boldly to his side. Mayhap the braver ones would stay there, undeterred by the simmering fury, kept in check often, but always so near, just under the surface. Realizing she was glowering at him for all this conjecture, she shook herself and collected the basket and the precious ash lye soap—payment from the fletcher’s wife for delivering her of a healthy bairn, but sadly, near its end after several months of use—and tipped her head toward Henry, that he came along with her.

  The big man smacked at Malcom’s shoulder. “Behave yourself for a bit, will you?” And he followed them out of the cottage.

  Katie set up her chore at the creek’s edge, as she did every week. If they owned more pieces of clothing than their pitiful collection, she might only be required to do this every other week. As it was, they regularly stretched the wearing of each garment to two days, or three when necessary or allowed by some rare cleanliness.

  If she lived nearer the village, she might enjoy the company of other women, about the same chore, mayhap
also once a week. But she did not, and they weren’t a kindly group, those women. She knew they considered her a witch. Yet, they never hesitated to call upon her for her skill and weren’t they astonished when she’d managed to save the life of the young lad, Ewan, when he’d taken with the sweating sickness in her first year here? Sadly, that had not helped them see her any differently, had not pierced the general perception that any person who practiced healing must also practice some magic as well. As if she’d the time for such nonsense. As if she’d not miraculously put herself in some greater and safer circumstance if she had such capabilities.

  She used the washing paddle on her gowns and kirtles and Henry’s small tunics, letting the badly soiled aprons and breeches soak while she worked from cleanest to dirtiest.

  The man, Alec, was speaking with Henry. They stood many feet away, and Katie could not hear what was being said. She imagined her son was once again quizzing the man about this, that, and the other thing, as was his way, his mind ever whirring with curiosity.

  A soldier stepped through the trees after a while and spoke with Alec. Henry stood between them, his head tipped back and moving left and right, unabashedly listening before he steadied his gaze on the newcomer with fantastic awe.

  Katie pursed her lips and lowered her head to the laundry task. Likely, she’d have no help from her son while these men remained near.

  When a shadow fell over her hands and her work, she lifted her face to find the newcomer standing very close, having crossed the three-feet wide creek. His face was shadowed and outlined by the sun being directly behind his head.

  “The MacBriar says you’re no’ to cook today,” the soldier said. “We’ve plenty to share.”

  Good heavens. “You’re a woman.”

  The lady warrior snorted, leveling a distasteful look upon Katie.

  And owning as much amiability as that other one, Alec MacBriar, Katie decided, her shoulders slumping for this fresh hostility. Mayhap it was warranted, as her comment had likely come off as ignorant.

  “Sorry,” Katie mumbled. “I was...just shocked, that’s all.” She had to imagine the woman was accustomed to such reactions.

  Her voice as snarly as it had first been, the woman asked with some hesitation, “The captain—Malcolm—he’s going to be well, aye?”

  She’d known her literally but seconds but assumed concern was not a regularly used tool in her repertoire. Mayhap, it was Katie’s slight hesitation in answering that persuaded the woman to say, quite gruffly, “He’s holding us back. We need to get on the road.”

  That made more sense.

  “Aye. If there’s no fever today or tomorrow, I’m convinced he’ll recover well.”

  Katie stood, finished with two more pieces, walking over to set them with the others in the grass, away from the mud and muck of the water’s edge. Returning to the creek, she saw Henry perched on his haunches across from her, his gaze rapt upon the woman, his mouth still slack.

  Alec was gone now. The woman crossed the creek again and seemed to have no other purpose but to watch Katie and Henry, slapping her hand on her hip and tilting her head, giving some indication she did not cherish the duty.

  Katie planned on ignoring her then, the laundry in need of her attention, but this was not so simple. And when the woman turned her head, staring off upstream, Katie looked her over. She was remarkable, the sheer size of her as daunting as it was shocking. Equally astounding was the harshness about her. Plenty of miserable females Katie had known in her life, but none with this...manly severity—it must be manufactured, Katie decided, must be necessary, living in a man’s world as she so obviously did. Yet, she set herself apart, purposefully it must be assumed, as her costume was more striking than that of any man.

  Across her shoulders, under the straps of her leather breastplate, she wore a caplet of fur, which seemed only a nod to singularity or design as the piece could not be expected to provide any warmth, covering only the top of her shoulders. Otherwise her arms were bare, colored by the sun and honed into solid, muscled limbs. At her waist, she wore a leather belt, which supported her scabbard and several other hanging pouches, the narrow aged hide decorated with grommets of silver metal, the likes of which Katie had never seen. Incredibly, she wore breeches, which showed that her legs were long and well-proportioned to her great size, which meant they were not small. Her boots also were adorned, the tall brown leather festooned with tassels of black and blue threads, six or so on each shoe, scattered in random fashion about the laces. She was possessed of what Katie could only assume might have been a striking mane of dark brown, but Katie couldn’t exactly be sure. She only supposed at one time the woman had twisted the extreme length of it into many braids, not only one or two, but that she had not unraveled them in quite a long time; mayhap, she only bathed them as a whole, that they were just now solid and chunky streamers, matted and stiff.

  But all the accoutrements of her garb might as well have been invisible, as it remained that the most striking thing about her was her eyes. Even as she did not directly regard Katie now, she could see that they were large and round and showing so much white and were the palest and prettiest blue Katie had ever seen, a perfect summer sky, made lighter and brighter by the contrast of her deeply tanned skin. The lids of her eyes were oversized, which only served to make the entire eye so much larger in her face, not at all unattractive, save that they were set under brows that were almost too thick and, Katie had to believe, permanently crinkled.

  “Ye done with your gawking?” The woman asked of Katie. She’d not turned her face to catch her staring, but somehow was still aware of Katie’s overlong regard.

  “Most likely not,” Katie answered, which was truth—and, she somehow knew, not at all detested, despite the woman’s sour tone. Why else would she have decorated herself so garishly but to draw attention? “Are there other women?” She wondered.

  The woman ignored her now, but Katie noticed Henry coming to his feet, idling over toward her. I’d like to see her ignore Henry. He didn’t ever make it easy. Katie almost grinned when Henry worked up the nerve to speak to the behemoth.

  “Were you always a woman?”

  Katie’s eyes widened, but she was quick to duck her head, hopefully secreting the bit of laughter that burst forth with her son’s unexpected query.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  Henry shrugged, likely not comprehending her exact question, that he pressed on. “Do you kill many people? You look like you do.”

  Good grief. Henry would get them killed if he kept that up.

  Surprisingly, the woman replied to this innocent query. “What’s a person look like when they’ve killed others?”

  “Mean. Angry.”

  “That what I look like, lad?”

  Henry nodded, Katie noticed. Her head was lowered, but her watchful regard was lifted to the woman and her son.

  “Aye. Do you have any sons?”

  The woman snorted. “Nae. I dinna like bairns.”

  “Can I hold your sword?”

  “You’d no’ be able to lift it.”

  “Can I touch it?”

  The woman shook her head. “Get on with ye. I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?” Henry asked with that scrunched up face of his.

  “Making sure your mam dinna run off.”

  Henry turned and regarded his mother. “Run off where?”

  “Screaming for help.”

  Completely misunderstanding her statement, Henry said, “For the washing?”

  The woman warrior leveled Henry with an impatient, be-off-with-you glare that was not well read by the boy.

  Katie was vastly amused.

  And then the man, Alec, returned, and dismissed the woman with a bare inclination of his head. But Henry was apparently not done with her and made to follow her into the woods.

  Katie jumped up quickly, calling out, “Henry. Stay here.”

  “He’s fine,” the MacBriar said, stopping directly a
cross the creek from her while Henry ignored her.

  “I don’t want him traipsing about with...” she stopped and bit her lip.

  Alec MacBriar raised a brow.

  “With Eleanor?” He frowned. “She’ll no’ harm him. He can meet the whole unit then. Give you a break.”

  Katie harrumphed and slapped her hands onto her hips. “I don’t want or need a break from my son.” Recalling his accusations of last evening, she added with some snap to her voice. “I need him to help with the wringing.” He stared at her, his expression inscrutable, that Katie found herself explaining, “We have a system, and it works better with the two of us.”

  He sent a frowning glance to the pile of cleaned but sopping wet clothing. “A system for wringing?”

  Obviously, the man had never been accountable for his own laundry, or if he was, suffered no aggravation that his hands were too small to effectively twist and squeeze all the water away.

  “Never mind,” she said. Ignoring him, she began the chore herself.

  The laird was still curious. “Two people can only make it better by cutting the time in half. But I canna imagine that your lad can be so helpful with this particular chore.”

  With her back to him now, she twisted her hose, and water dripped and fell onto the ground. “As I said, we have a system.”

  “Show me.”

  Katie turned, her brow furrowing.

  “C’mon, then. I’ll do Henry’s part.”

  She hesitated.

  He argued, as terse and gruff as she’d known as of yet, “I dinna imagine you want to spend too many hours on your laundering.”

  It would make for better and quicker drying. And since he’d yet to give her the promised coin.... “Very well.” She laid aside her hose and scooped up her best gown, which was only notable in that it was the least frayed and worn. But she was wary yet and stepped hesitantly toward him, squinting at the sun behind his head. He seemed only curious about her methods, taking the bottom end she handed to him. She walked backwards until the piece was stretched between them, Katie holding the neckline and shoulders of the heavy linen.