A pounding on the door caused all of them to jump and startled the babe. Gretna went to the door and leaned close. “Ian? Alexander? Graham?”
“They sent me,” called out an unfamiliar voice. A man.
“Who are ye?” She stepped back from the door, glancing around the room for a weapon should she need it.
“One of the new guards. They bid me come and protect ye. Let me in, m’lady.”
Liar. She glanced back at Catriona and Mercy, who had joined her in the sitting room. Catriona shook her head as she lowered herself into a chair.
“Ye can guard the room with yer back to the door. I’ll open it for no one other than my husband.” Gretna eyed the bar across the door. Heavy and thick, it should easily hold off one man. With her stare locked on the entryway, she backed across the room to the hearth and snatched up the fire iron to use as a weapon just in case.
“Smoke,” Catriona whispered, pointing at the door. A wispy gray tendril filtered up from between the tapestry and the base of the door.
“The bastard started a fire.” Gretna rushed to the bedchamber, grabbed two pitchers of water, and ran back to the door.
Kicking aside the tapestry, she sloshed the contents of both pitchers under the crack of the door, then shoved the cloth back in place. She fetched a bucket of wash water from beside the bed and used it to thoroughly wet the bunched-up weaving and the base of the door. Heart pounding, she backed away, staring at the soaked mess and praying she’d managed to put out the fire or at least slowed it until one of their men returned.
“Gretna!” Ian roared, pounding on the door and stamping his feet. “Open the door!”
Relief nearly knocked her down. She hurried to lift the bar. Ian stormed in, Finn in one arm, Rory and Evander at his side. Sutherland followed close behind with Willa and William.
“Praise God, ye’re all right.” Ian grabbed her up against his chest and kissed the top of her head as he held her close.
“The nursery?” Catriona asked as she hugged Willa and William. “Please tell me all my bairns are safe.”
Sutherland nodded. “They’re fine. Alexander is fetching Nanny with Grant and Maxwell, and Fenna is bringing wee Effie. Graham found Ramsay and will be here soon as well. All the bairns will be safe in this room.”
Clutching Finn, Gretna found herself overtaken with relieved sobbing. She lowered herself to the couch and pulled all her sons close. “I was so afraid I’d lost ye. So verra afraid.”
“We’re fine, Mama,” Evander reassured as he pulled away and stood beside Ian. “And we’re going to help Da catch that bastard. I swear!”
Gretna smiled as she squeezed her brave son’s arm. She’d not comment on his calling Ian, Da. She’d just accept it for the blessing it was. “I know ye will, son. I feel so much safer with the three of ye here.”
“If I wouldha had my pistol, the son of a bitch would be dead right now,” Ian swore. He pointed back at the door. “He ran as we topped the stair.”
“’Tis a good thing ye heard him trying to set the fire,” Sutherland observed as he kicked the soggy tapestry and scorched remains farther away from the door.
“He bade us let him in,” Gretna said. She nodded at poor Catriona, growing paler by the minute. “But we refused.” Strengthened by the knowledge her loved ones were safe, Gretna pushed up from the couch and helped Catriona back to bed. “Into the bed with ye, lass. God bless ye. This is no way to recover after having a bairn.” She cast an eye over at tiny Maisie, sleeping soundly in her cradle. “Mercy and I will be just outside with the children, aye? Call out if ye need us.”
“Aye,” Catriona said as she settled down into the pillows.
Commotion out in the sitting room warned Gretna that Nanny, the youngest twins, and Effie had arrived. Graham had arrived with Ramsay, and Alexander had also brought along Fenna and another maid for reinforcements against such an army of young ones. Gretna smiled. No wonder the man was chieftain.
Ian met her at the bedchamber door as she closed it behind her. “I need to go back down and help Graham and Alexander. Sutherland’s gone to fetch Sawny and Tom to guard the door. No one will get past them.”
Sawny Fitzgerald had been nothing more than a twelve-year-old kitchen boy ten years ago when he and his best friend, Tom, had helped Catriona escape her evil brother’s clutches. Their quick-wit and wiles had saved their mistress. Sawny and Tom were now well respected, high-ranking MacCoinnich guards.
“What in God’s name was that explosion?” Gretna held tight to Ian’s arm. He’d not escape her again without telling her what had happened.
“That damned messenger brought a bomb into our midst.”
“A bomb?” Gretna recoiled as though the words themselves might explode. “How? Why on earth…”
“Because the cowards dinna like to fight us face to face.” Rage echoed in Ian’s voice. He flexed his hands as though anxious to take hold of his weapons. “They prefer burning homes at the edge of our lands, murdering defenseless folk caught out alone, and now, bombing the heart of our keep where we tend our wounded.” He jerked a nod toward the outer door. “That same bastard set the fire at that door. Once we catch him, he’ll rue the day he was born.”
Gretna wrung her hands, shaking her head. A bomb. Among the wounded. Among women and children. As Ian turned and headed for the door, she ran after him. “I’m going with ye. I’m sure I’m needed below.” She glanced back at the boys. All the children sat clustered around Mercy, Nanny, and the two maids. “Evander can help here and guard the others on this side of the entry. Can’t ye, son?”
Evander nodded but didn’t look all that certain.
Ian halted, scowling down at her for a long moment without saying a word. The muscles in his cheek ticked as his jaw hardened. “Perhaps, ye should.” He pulled in a deep breath, the furrow in his brow deepening. “Ye should know that old Elena is dead. She was one of those closest to the messenger’s pouch when it exploded.”
“I see.” Gretna supposed she should feel something because she’d been under Elena’s tutelage for years. But she felt nothing more than regret for the wealth of knowledge and experience lost. The ill-tempered old woman had refused to write anything down and had been a renowned healer for ages. But she and Gretna had never been friends or allies. Most of the time, Gretna felt the wise woman barely tolerated her. She lifted her chin. “Then I will be needed down there even more.”
“I suppose ye will,” Ian said with a resigned sigh. “Come then.”
“Please, wait just a moment.” She rushed over to the boys and gathered them into a fierce hug. “Mind yer manners. Listen to Nanny, Fenna, and Lady Mercy, aye?” She nodded at Evander, then arched a brow at Rory and Finn. “And dinna vex yer brother. Evander is in charge of the both of ye. Do ye understand me?”
They all nodded, each of them still subdued by the day’s events.
Gretna forced a reassuring smile, then hurried back to Ian.
“Bar the door,” he instructed Fenna as they departed.
The closer they got to the main hall, the stronger the burnt smell permeated the air. Gretna wrinkled her nose, somewhat relieved at the conditions she found as they exited the stairwell. Not knowing had fueled horrendous imaginings of what she would find.
Most of the damage was contained to the sitting area beside one of the hearths. Thankfully, the ancient stones of the floor, the hearth itself, and the nearest columns and wall had handled the blast well. The area had survived with nary a severe crack, just a few chipped places, and quite a bit of soot. The same couldn’t be said for the tables, chairs, and benches that had been close by. Piles of smoldering bits were still being gathered up and either extinguished or tossed into the hearth to burn.
As Gretna checked injuries, she discovered splintered wood had caused most of the damage. Elena’s fatal end had been particularly grisly. A large wooden shard had been driven deep into the woman’s chest. It was Divine Providence that hers had been the only death. Those alrea
dy being treated for wounds had fared decently enough. Most were only covered with debris and needed clean beds and bandages.
An increase in the general noise filling the hall drew Gretna’s attention to the front of the room. A sense of victory filled her. They had captured the wicked messenger. The vile man stood between a pair of MacCoinnich guards, struggling against their hold. She wiped her hands on her apron and moved closer. She’d paid little attention to the man before the attack. A better look was needed for this fool who had invaded them and dared commit such a heinous deed.
Alexander, with Graham and Ian on either side of him, waited as the guards forced their prisoner to stand before him. As soon as the man drew close enough, he lunged forward and spit at Alexander. “Ye dinna belong here! Ye’re no’ a Neal!”
The guards yanked him back a step, and one of them bent the man double with a punch in the gut. “Mind yer manners, fool, else I mind them for ye!”
Gretna eased closer still, an ominous chill settling across her. The stranger had a crazed look in his eyes, a look that said he didn’t fear dying for his cause. She’d never seen him before. He was neither a Neal nor a MacNeilage.
“I canna decide whether to hang ye from the wall for all to see or send ye back to Angus Neal in a barrel.” Alexander glared at him. His eyes narrowed to slits as he tilted his head. “Since ye taught us a valuable lesson today, I’ll give ye the choice. Which way do ye prefer to die?”
“What lesson?” the man growled, hatred emanating from him.
“To trust no one,” Ian interjected. “And close our gates to only those we know to be loyal.”
The prisoner snorted. “Trust no one?” he repeated. “Ye’ve a witch in yer midst. With her bespelling ye, ye’ll never survive no matter who ye trust.”
Ian lunged forward, but Alexander held him back. “Not yet.”
“The lot of ye heel like dogs,” the man taunted. “At least Angus Neal doesna treat his men like lowly pets.”
“I vote for the barrel,” Ian growled. “Line it with spikes. We’ll seal him inside and roll it down the hillside. They can fetch him if they like, wherever it happens to land.”
“I agree,” Graham chimed in. “And if they dinna fetch it after a few days, come spring, we’ll set it afire to rid ourselves of it.”
Alexander nodded. “A fine idea, indeed. It shall be done.” He took a step closer, baring his teeth as he leaned toward the man. “Ye’ll be a lesson for all. A message will be sent to Angus to ensure they learn of it.”
The prisoner roared with a bloodcurdling cry as he stomped the instep of the guard to his right, then slammed his head back into the man’s face. One arm freed, he twisted and grabbed the distracted guard’s dirk, then dove for Alexander.
“Nay!” Gretna shrieked as Ian, with his dagger drawn, shoved forward and caught the slash of the crazed man’s blade down the side of his face and chest. Ignoring the injury, Ian caught hold of the fiend’s wrist before he could strike again and buried his blade deep in the devil’s gut, spilling the man’s bowels before stepping back and allowing the fool to fall to the floor.
“I guess it willna be the barrel for him after all,” Ian observed, wincing as he attempted to staunch the blood streaming into his left eye.
Gretna rushed to him, taking hold of his arm. “Over here with ye, ye damned fool! What did I tell ye about not getting hurt?” She was torn between holding him tight and sobbing or shaking him, ’til his teeth rattled. How dare he make her feel this way. “Down here on this cot so I can see how many stitches ye’ll be needing.”
“It’s not so ba—”
“Hush it!” She pulled his hand away from the bloody side of his face. The slash started well above his left brow, crossed over his eye, then split his face from the top of his cheek to his jawline. Praise God he had twisted in time to keep the blade from hitting his eye, although it did look as though the eyelid was slightly cut. The cut at the base of his throat might take a stitch or two, but luckily, his clothing had slowed the blade, and he’d not suffered from too deep of a wound. She peeled away the bloody edges of his waistcoat and tunic, checking all the damage.
“How bad?” Alexander asked from the other side of the cot.
“It’s not ba—” Ian started to say before Gretna cut him off.
“Since ye’re not the one lookin’ at this bloody mess, I’ll thank ye to shut it, Ian Cameron.” She pressed a folded linen against his face and put his hand atop it. “Dinna talk, and keep pressure on it so the bleeding will slow.” She lifted her gaze to Alexander. “Stitches and bandages will take care of it. A balm to keep away infection. He should be fine.” She swallowed hard, struggling to keep from breaking down into tears. “With all the bleeding, the wound’s cleansed itself better than I ever couldha.”
Alexander nodded, then rested a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “I’m indebted to ye, cousin. I know this isna the first time ye’ve fought at my side, but I do believe ye kept me from being gutted this time.” He shook his head. “Damned fool that I was, setting my blade on the table rather than sheathing it at my belt and keeping it ready. Ye saved me.”
“You wouldha done the same for me,” Ian said after a fearful one-eyed glance at Gretna.
“He doesna need to speak.” Gretna dampened a cloth with whisky and touched it to the shallowest end of the cut on his chest.
“Damn ye, woman!” Ian roared, flinching at the burn.
Served the man right. Scaring the life out of her. Her heart had nearly stopped beating as that dagger had slashed down across him. “Hold ye still.” Her voice broke. Damned if she didn’t need to weep out her feelings something fierce. She’d be lost if he died. A hiccupping sob escaped her.
“Shh… Forgive me.” Ian laid a hand on her arm. “I didna mean to curse at ye.” He peered up at her, then stretched to wipe the tears from her cheek. “Why do ye cry, love? Ye said I’d be fine.”
“Because I love ye, dammit! More than I should. And I dinna wish our child to know the pain of growing up without a father!” As soon as the words escaped her, she bit her lip, wishing she had never said them.
Ian’s uncovered eye widened, and he squeezed her arm. “What say ye?”
She pulled away, waving away the question. “Hush now. I need to fetch my basket, so I can stitch ye up and apply a balm to keep away infection.” Still ignoring him, she waved down a passing servant. “Fetch the fresh linens from the kitchen. Cook said another batch that she boiled and dried by the fire should be ready by now.”
“Aye, mistress.” The lad gave both Ian and Gretna a duck of his head, then bounded off in that direction.
“Gretna.”
While Ian’s voice was soft and low, it held a thunderous power. Reluctantly, she turned back to him. “Aye?”
“Ye carry my child? Our child?”
“Aye. ’Tis early yet, but I believe I do.” She gave up. She might as well tell him. Her body would betray her eventually.
His mouth snapped shut, and so did his eye that wasn’t covered. “I thought ye said the herbs ye drank each morning kept a bairn from seeding?” he whispered.
His question cut her heart swifter than any blade. She almost choked on the hurt welling up in her throat. He didn’t want the child. Maybe, he didn’t really want her either. Maybe, his words had all been a great lie to get him through the winter. Then he’d slip away once summer came. “Nothing but abstinence is for certain,” she said as she turned away. She refused to allow him to see how he’d hurt her. After all, she did have some pride.
“I see.”
“Just what do ye see, Ian?” She couldn’t help it. Her temper had always won out over her pride, and it demanded to have the last word. “Tell me, husband of mine, what do ye see? Do ye see a woman foolish enough to believe yer sweet words? A woman overjoyed at the thought of bearing the child of the man she loves?” She stepped closer, struggling to keep her voice low. “I’ll tell ye what ye see if ye look close enough. Ye’ll see a woman kicking hers
elf for ever trusting ye. Dinna worry, Ian. One divorce was easily obtained. I’m sure a second can be gotten before summer comes, so ye can be on yer way as ye planned.”
Before he could answer, she spun away and stormed over to the area of the hall where supplies were kept for the wounded. She got the attention of one of the maids, the older, awkward one who had shown herself to be quite adept at tending to injuries. “Flora! Master Cameron needs stitching, and his wound coated with the honey balm to prevent infection. See to it, so I can finish checking on these other poor souls, aye?”
“Ye wish me to take care of yer husband?” Flora repeated, doubt heavy in her tone.
“Aye. I said so, did I not?” Gretna snapped her fingers. “Be quick about it now. We’ve nay time to chat. Many need our care.”
“Aye, Mistress Gretna.” The woman bobbed a quick curtsy, grabbed up the needed materials, and scurried away.
“Gretna!” Ian had risen from his sickbed. He strode toward her, his wounds bleeding anew. “Ye will listen to me, wife. I can either shout what I have to say across this keep for all to hear, or ye can return to my side so I might speak with ye privately.”
“Ye damned fool, ye shouldna be up. Ye’ve started the bleeding again.” Gretna snatched up a cloth in each hand and held them out to him. “Hold these to yer face and get back to that cot. Now.”
“I willna do so unless my beloved wife tends me,” Ian continued in a dangerous tone. “I willna allow anyone but ye to touch me. Understand?”
He wasn’t lying—of that she had no doubt. Gretna latched hold of his arm and yanked. “Fine. Now come.” Stubborn arse. Well, she could be just as stubborn. She’d tend his wounds, but she’d not listen to anything he had to say. This time, she would know his words for the lies that they were.
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