Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  Sean frowned at Angus. “Is the guard away?”

  “Yes, m’laird.”

  “Why are you not with them?”

  “I felt it best to bring Jinny up here to tend your wound.” He peered around for a look. “Good Lord, we must bandage that straight away.”

  “Aye.” Jinny placed her fingers on either side of the cut and cringed. “’Tis a nasty gash. We’d best put some leeches on it while you’re still bleeding. Then I’ll have to sew you up.”

  Sean took another draw on his whisky. “Do what you must. I’ve no time to be waylaid by a wound of the flesh.”

  Angus grumbled under his breath. “Do you ken who attacked?”

  “Nay. They wore bucket helms. I managed to knock one off—thought I recognized the brigand from the fete—one of the snakes who attacked me during the footrace.”

  The man-at-arms combed his fingers through his unruly grey hair. “You mustn’t keep leaving without a guard. ’Tis dangerous for any man, especially a man of property such as yourself.”

  Sean didn’t care to be lectured by someone who’d been withholding secrets. “And whom do you think attacked me?”

  “I’ve no idea, m’laird.”

  “Nay? For all I know you had a hand in it.”

  Jinny stopped with a leech held in her fingers. “Angus would never do anything—”

  “What are you saying?” Angus held up his hand to stifle Jinny’s rebuttal. “Are you accusing me?”

  “I heard you talking to Murdach in my solar. I ken there was no error when my coin went missing.” Sean batted Jinny’s hand away. “I ken an ugly deception has taken root under my own roof.”

  Angus stammered and spread his palms.

  Sean stood. “Tell me I am wrong.”

  The older man hung his head. “I made a promise to your father I would never reveal his secret.”

  Sean smashed the cup of whisky and sent it flying into the hearth. “Bloody secrets!” he bellowed. “Are they what nearly got me killed?”

  “N-no, m’laird.”

  Sean drew his dirk. “My father had secrets that he could not relay to me, his only son?”

  Angus pulled down his collar and offered his throat. “I made a promise to a dying man.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “His son has my fealty and I will gladly lay down my life for him, but I will not renege upon his father’s wishes.”

  “Merciful Lord.” Jinny crossed herself while her voice trembled. “Please, m’laird.”

  Sean watched the blue vein in Angus’s neck pulse. If he sliced his blade across it, the henchman would bleed out before his face hit the floor. “I will tolerate no backstabbing in my clan.”

  “Nor will I, m’laird.”

  Jinny tugged on Sean’s arm. “Please sit. You’ve had a terrible ordeal.”

  “Quiet, woman.” Sean narrowed his eyes at Angus. “Because my father requested your silence upon his death bed, I shall make this one allowance. But moving forward, there must be no secrets between us. If I discover one more deception, you will be hanged, make no bones about it.”

  Angus released his collar and bowed his head. “Yes, m’laird.”

  Glancing between the two, Sean frowned and took his seat.

  Without a word, Jinny applied the leeches while Angus stood at attention. Sean studied the man he’d known all his life. As before, he didn’t believe him a traitor, but something wasn’t right. By God, he would tolerate no deception within the clan. Sooner or later, someone would make a mistake. That’s when Sean would attack and heaven help anyone caught. They would not be long for this world.

  Unrest twisted in his gut. He would not sit idle while the Dunollie guard chased his attackers. “Make haste, woman. Angus and I shall follow the guard at once.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gyllis was a tad disappointed when Sean didn’t pay a visit the next day. Brother Wesley had kindly propped her up on the pillows for the afternoon, where she leafed through John’s Bible. After having read her storybook a dozen times, she relented and gave in to her brother’s urging to read something to enrich her soul.

  She looked up when her door opened, her stomach fluttering in hopes that it would be Sean, but Helen’s radiant smile brightened the cell. Gyllis put down her book and opened her arms. “Praise the heavens. I’d thought you’d forgotten me.”

  Helen wrapped her in a warm embrace. “Not at all. Have you not received the missives we wrote?”

  “Aye, I have, but ’tis not like seeing you.”

  “I ken.” Helen sat on the stool beside the bed. “Unfortunately there aren’t any inns nearby, or I’d spend an entire sennight with you.”

  Gyllis adjusted her shoulders so she wouldn’t have to twist her neck. “How long will you be able to stay?”

  “Just the afternoon and Mother sent an entire army to escort me across Loch Etive and home again.”

  Gyllis laughed. “At least you are in the company of a retinue of brawny knights.”

  Helen twisted a lock of her dun hair around her finger—the color always reminded Gyllis of honey. “I suppose so.” She lowered her gaze along with her frown.

  “Whatever is wrong?” Gyllis hadn’t seen that woeful visage on her sister’s face often.

  “Nothing, really.” Helen smiled. “’Tis just Ma didn’t send any noble knights along—just the same old dreary guards from Kilchurn Castle.”

  Gyllis laughed. “You mean Sir Eoin MacGregor isn’t with you?”

  She unwound her hair. “Afraid not.”

  “Why, how utterly heartless of him.”

  Helen sighed. “Honestly, I haven’t seen Sir Eoin in some time.”

  “Where has he been?”

  “How should I know? No one tells us lassies anything.”

  “Some things do not change.” Gyllis chuckled and placed her hand atop Helen’s. “My, ’tis good to see you.”

  Helen smiled, but it wasn’t her usual sweet grin. It was guarded. “And how are you, my dearest?”

  Gyllis bit her lip. Though she and Helen could always tell each other their deepest secrets, a tickle at the back of her mind told her not to talk about Sir Sean. Things were only beginning to blossom between them and, presently, she didn’t know if his attentions were because they had been dear friends and he felt sorry for her. Yes, she’d sensed his genuine fondness and delightful kisses, but things were so different now. She had an illness that very well could leave her a cripple for life. No man would ever want to marry a cripple. No. She would keep her meetings with Sir Sean to herself. She’d lock away any happiness that he imparted and, for the first time in her life, would refrain from thinking about the future.

  She ventured to look at her legs, covered by a blanket. “I’ve gained a bit of use of my hands, but my legs are generally worthless.”

  “That is awful.” Helen folded her hands in her lap. “Do you think the monk’s treatments are helping?”

  “Gradually—but not fast enough for me.” Gyllis clapped. “I would prefer not to talk about me. How are things at home? Mother?”

  “Mother is worried half to death about you, but recently she’s been busy running the keep. Duncan took Lady Meg to Edinburgh to spend midsummer at court with King James. It seems the king always requires something from our brother.”

  “Aye, and his wife could no longer bear for them to be separated, I’m sure.”

  “I’d agree. Being apart makes it rather difficult for them to produce…ah…more bairns.”

  Gyllis burst out with laughter and cupped her hand over her mouth. “You do surprise me at times, Helen.”

  “Well, ’tis the truth.” She smiled—now a warm, genuine smile. Gyllis realized all her sisters were rather pretty—funny she hadn’t thought much about it before. “Alice and Marion are the same, still at that age where they’re driving Mother mad with their silly remarks and back talking.”

  “Aye, I remember when we were ten and six.” Gyllis chuckled. “We were hellions.”

  “We we
re for certain. God bless Ma, she lived through it.” Helen glanced to the corner where John had rested the lute sennights ago. “Have you been playing?”

  Gyllis held up her hands. “I’m afraid my fingers have not yet found the dexterity they once had.”

  “Perhaps it would be soothing if I played for you?” Helen’s eyebrows raised, as if asking for permission.

  “Please do.”

  Easing into the pillows, Gyllis closed her eyes and listened to Helen’s magical fingers. Of all her sisters, Helen was definitely the most talented with the lute. She plucked the strings with such lithe grace, the music came alive. And when she sang, it was as if larks had joined together in a heavenly chorus. The music moved Gyllis, sent tingles up her spine. She had missed Helen’s company, though she wasn’t yet ready to return home. Besides being an invalid, she’d rarely see Sir Sean if she went back to Kilchurn Castle.

  Mid-strum, John entered with Mevan, Kilchurn Castle’s man-at-arms. Helen rested the lute on the bed and greeted John with a warm embrace. After they’d exchanged pleasantries, John gestured to the guard. “’Tis time to away home. I’ve arranged for your transport to ferry you across Loch Etive giving Fearnoch Forest a wide berth.”

  “Has something happened in the forest?” Gyllis asked.

  John gave her a stern look as if she hadn’t the right to ask her question. The intensity in his eyes made her shoulders rigid. Something had happened for certain.

  Helen bent down and embraced her. “Next time I’ll see if we can stay longer.”

  Gyllis kept her eyes on John. “I’d like that.” She held her tongue until Helen’s footsteps echoed down the passageway. Thank heavens John didn’t leave her to fret alone in her cell. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We received word of an outlaw attack in the forest.”

  He was going to force her to draw it out of him, but she had to ask. The gooseflesh rising on her skin was warning enough. “Is Sir Sean all right?” Gyllis nearly choked on the words.

  John let out a long breath. “He escaped with only minor injuries. The crier stopped by to warn us of the danger. Dunollie men are after the culprits now. If I ken Sir Sean MacDougall, they will be brought to justice before this week is through.” John pulled the latch.

  “But—” Before she could finish, John closed the door. Gyllis stared for a moment, hating her damned legs. What on earth could she do to help? Balling her fists, she pounded her useless thighs. There she sat, incarcerated within the walls of a priory while Sean rode into unimaginable danger.

  She smoothed her hand over the Bible in her lap and closed her eyes, offering a silent prayer for his well-being. What did John mean by minor injuries? And when would she see Sir Sean again? Please, dear God, watch over your servant Sean MacDougall, and lead him home to safety.

  ***

  Sean wasn’t one to let a few stitches and a bruised arm set him back. Besides, spending a night tracking was what he needed to cement his priorities. He’d not taken the cattle thieving seriously enough and the brigands had the gall to attack him. It was the slap in the face he needed.

  With the dawn, Sean and Angus lay on their bellies, staring down at the outlaw’s camp.

  “Only four,” Angus said.

  “If I’d just attacked the Chieftain of Dunollie, I’d be a bit less conspicuous,” Sean growled.

  Obviously they didn’t expect retaliation. The bastards were sloppy. Nestled within a glen, their morning fire was like a beacon flickering through the light mist. For the past half mile, Sean could practically smell the roasting meat. The MacDougalls had them surrounded. All Sean needed do was give the signal. But he was more cautious than that. Were they stupid or were they luring Sean and his men into a trap?

  Only four men. Regardless, they do not stand a chance.

  Sean slid back and mounted his horse. Drawing his sword, he gave the signal by holding it straight up above his head. Bellows erupted from the men charging down the hillside. The bastards barely had time to draw their weapons and face the onslaught. Fifty to four were unbeatable odds.

  Sean called a halt before the fighting began. “Throw down now.”

  The leader faced him. “Throw down so you can run us through? I’d rather you gave me a fighting chance.”

  Once again, he recognized the man’s face—aye, he was sure of it now. This was the same man who’d attacked him during the footrace. “I’d be running you through this day regardless.” Sean dismounted and Angus followed suit, sword at the ready.

  The man’s gaze darted to the right. Sean followed that gaze, straight to a MacDougall guard—Gawen was his name. Sean gave the guard a stern stare to let him know he’d not missed the interchange, then he focused on his prisoner. “Why did you attack me in the forest?”

  The scoundrel spread his palms and smirked. “I see a man with a horse as finely outfitted as yours and I ken he has some coin in his purse.”

  The smug look on the bastard’s face made Sean’s blood boil. He closed his fist. With a roar, he slammed it across the animal’s face. The man careened to his arse, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. He swiped an arm across his lips and eyed Sean. With a bellow, he jumped up, brandishing his sword. Sean skittered aside and disarmed him. The laggard was no match for Sean’s years of training. The other mongrels dropped their weapons. A mangy lot of mutts they were. Sean yanked the bastard’s arm and spun him into a hold with his sword leveled against his neck.

  “I’ll be paid my due respect the next time you address me,” Sean growled. “I’ve seen you afore. Now tell me why you attacked me during the footrace at Dunstaffnage.”

  The man spat blood, squirming in a futile attempt to break free. “Don’t kill me.”

  “I need to know. Why?”

  “He paid us a crown.”

  Sean pushed the blade until it drew blood. “Who?”

  “Jesus Christ.” The man’s fear stank like a steaming pile of cow dung. “I don’t ken his name. Black hair—an ugly bastard—wore leather breeks.”

  Sean nodded to Angus. “Tie them up. We’ll take them back to Dunollie and hang the lot at dawn on the morrow. Give them a chance to atone to the maker for all their evil deeds.”

  “Please, m’laird, have mercy on a poor beggar,” the miserable leader whined.

  Sean threw him to the ground. “Would you have been merciful had your mace knocked me from my mount last eve?” A guard wrapped a rope around the man’s wrists and Sean sheathed his weapon. “I think not.”

  ***

  By the time the Dunollie guard arrived at the castle, the sun had set. As a warrior, Sean had gone days without sleep before, but his limbs were heavy with exhaustion. His shoulder throbbed—hurt like the devil. “Take the prisoners to the dungeon,” he bellowed, then he pulled Angus aside. “Do not allow Gawen anywhere near the prisoners. If he tries to visit the dungeon, throw him inside and he’ll hang with the others.”

  “Gawen, m’laird?”

  “You heard me.”

  Pushing into the keep, he yelled louder, “Jinny, I need your salve and a flagon of whisky in my chamber. Now.”

  He loosened his sword belt as he climbed the stairs. When in God’s name had he aged? He strode into his chamber and tossed his weapons on the bed. Life had been a mite easier before he’d become a chieftain. Chasing a mob of thieves provided good sport, but digging into the Dunollie coffers and acting the part of lord-high executioner soured his stomach.

  Jinny dashed in with her basket. “Do not tell me you’ve torn your stitches, m’laird.”

  “What would you do if I had?” He pulled off his doublet and shirt and sat in the chair in front of the hearth.

  She set her basket on the table and crossed her arms. “Don’t you be patronizing me, m’laird. You may be lord of this keep, but ’tis my duty to see you do not succumb to the fever or worse.”

  Groaning, Sean leaned back. “’Tis but a scratch, woman.”

  “Aye? You should have let my Angus track down
the brigands. Look at you, you’ve purple bags under your eyes,” she hissed. “Goodness, oh my goodness. Your shoulder is a sight.”

  Sean glanced down at the swollen mass of purple flesh. “Quit your bellyaching and slap some salve on it—you ken, the concoction that eases the pain.”

  She fished in her basket and pulled out a pot. “You need to rest your blessed shoulder.” She leaned forward and sniffed. “At least it is not putrid—yet.”

  “Did you bring up the whisky?”

  “Aye.” She swabbed on a glop of smelly goo.

  “Well, are you planning to keep it to yourself? A man could die of thirst whilst you dawdle.”

  She reached into her basket and pulled out a flagon. “Here, since you cannot wait.”

  “You’re a good matron. A swipe of your ointment and a few strong tots of MacDougall whisky, and I’ll be fit to fight on the morrow.” He pulled the stopper and took a long drink.

  “Bloody men,” Jinny whispered under her breath.

  “Aye, that’s too right. Where would the lassies be without men to look after them?” The whisky hit his empty stomach and burned.

  Jinny finished rubbing and examined her work. “You’re going to have a nasty scar.”

  “Good.” He took another healthy swig. “The lassies like scars.”

  “Oh do they now? I thought you might be done with your womanizing.” Jinny stoppered her pot. “And what about Miss Gyllis Campbell?”

  Sean’s eyes flew open. “What about her?” If Jinny had been a man, Sean would have jumped to his feet, fists ready for a fight.

  But Jinny chuckled. “Look at you, you big bear of a man. You’re smitten. You used to be quite free with the lassies, but I haven’t seen a one catch your eye in months.” The matron looked mighty proud of herself. “And I’d reckon all those trips to Ardchattan have had something to do with it.”

  He grumbled into the flagon and drowned his next words. So what if he liked her? Christ, he’d already said he loved her. But did he love her like that? Sean glanced up at Jinny. The damned woman looked like she’d just swallowed the best plum duff ever made. “So? Gyllis needs me.” Her crutches were leaning against his clothing trunk with the sheepskin pads around the armrests. Thank God something was working as it should.