by Mary McCall
"Thanks, Alera,” he grumbled. “Between you and Megan, I have two lost causes to fret over. The clan will think I grow soft."
Leaving her wrapped in his plaid, he walked to the hearth. He built up the stack of logs on the grate and tossed some peat upon the pile. Then he tendered a small flame. The fire gradually flicked through the peat, shooting out crackling sparks and catching the wood.
After fending off questions about Alera from Geddes and his clansmen who helped deliver the tub and many buckets of water, Duncan set a brimming cauldron over the flames. When the water boiled, he added a steamy stream to the tub until satisfied with the temperature.
He returned to the bed and unbundled Alera. A chuckle escaped him. How in perdition had he missed that puny dagger girded to her thigh? He snorted at his own ludicrous question. He had been leering at those glorious breasts. That's how.
He removed the dagger and its sheath and placed them upon a small table near the bed. Then he picked up Alera and carried her to the tub. She shivered slightly as he immersed her in the water up to her chin. Her long, heavy curls tumbled over the rim. Her slumber continued, though her tremors ceased as the warm fluid cloaked her flesh.
Responding to a knock, Duncan found his sister-in-law leaning against the doorframe. She had one pudgy hand pressed against her brow and the other pressed against her huge belly. Her breathing came in rapid pants and she wavered.
Duncan frowned and slipped an arm around her waist, lending support. “Damn it all, Marcail, what is wrong with you? You should have sent me word that you were not up to coming."
"I am fine, Duncan. Truly.” She placed a hand on his arm and took a deep breath. “I just got a wee bit lightheaded. Help me to a chair and let me catch my breath."
He guided her to a seat near the hearth and helped her settle. “You're as white as a new snowfall. Logan will wring my neck if anything happens to you or that bairn."
"Faith, Duncan. Do not tell him,” Marcail ordered, flashing him an annoyed look. “He is already driving me daft with his fretting. And I truly am all right."
Duncan went to a side table and poured water from an earthen-flagon into a cup then returned to Marcail. “Drink this."
"My thanks.” She sipped from the rim then gestured toward the tub with her free hand. “Who is she?"
Duncan leaned a shoulder against the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest. “Her name is Alera. The lass is English. I picked her up near the coast."
"Instead of maorachs?” Marcail's amber eyes sparkled full of mischief.
He grinned at her jest. “Minx, you knew they were not in season."
"Aye, but it got Logan out of my hair for the day. Her name is familiar. I will have to think on where I heard it.” Marcail ran her fingers through her tawny locks, looked back toward the tub, and studied Alera. Her brows snapped together in a fierce scowl. “Who beat her?"
"I'm not sure.” Duncan glanced toward the tub, and his jaw tightened with rage over Alera's battered state. If she survived, ‘twould be at least a week before he could enjoy her. “She escaped a Viking slaver, swam ashore, and was baiting a wild sow when I found her."
"You jest!” Marcail raised astonished eyes to his.
"Nay.” A smug grin crossed his face as he beheld Alera. No doubt about it—his new lady had grit. He clenched his teeth. What was he thinking? She wasn't his new lady. She was his leman. ‘Twas too bad she was English, because damn it all, she would be a woman worth keeping forever.
"She won, too,” he continued. “Goaded the beastie then split its skull open with a sword in a move your mother would envy. In addition to the bruises, she has a number of scrapes and scratches from the salt water and sand as well as rope burns on her wrists. Her feet are full of splinters and missing flesh. She's also half-frozen from the cold. She was garbed in only a wet, tattered shift, shorter than my plaid."
"I must admit to a touch of admiration for this Alera for making such a daring escape and surviving. How long has she been asleep?"
"Nearly four hours."
Marcail nodded. “If she fought those chilling sea currents along with the fears I would expect, she must suffer from exhaustion as well as exposure. Have you tried to wake her?"
"Not on purpose.” Concern softened his tone. “Even when she was awake, she barely shivered."
"That is not good.” Marcail continued her visual assessment of Alera and wondered at Duncan's softening tone. What were his intentions toward this woman? She liked her brother-in-law and wanted him happy. But he was letting hate gnaw away at his insides. Could this Alera soften his heart? Why, it might just be time for a bait game of her own. She would lure these two into becoming a pair before they knew what she was about. Of course, knowing Duncan, he only lusted after Alera. Mayhap she should test the waters.
Marcail cleared her throat. “I take it you're planning to keep her, since you brought her to your chamber?"
"Aye,” he replied in a firm voice. “What does she need?"
Aye, he lusted for her. But lust could turn into love—with proper baiting. Marcail turned her head slightly, so Duncan wouldn't see her satisfied grin. “Well, you have her in the bath. Keep the water warm and leave her in until you're satisfied with her lip and tongue color. I did not know to bring my medicinals. I will go home and bring back some powder to ward off fever and make up a balm to heal the wounds and soothe her flesh. I'll mix up a potion of feverfew and mandrake root, too, should she awaken in pain."
"I'll send Geddes back with you to fetch them. You will stay home and rest."
Marcail rolled her eyes. Men had no sense of practicality. “Someone needs to tend her, Duncan. The next two days are crucial."
"She will be tended,” Duncan said in his you-will-damn-well-not-change-my-mind tone and frowned at her. “Tell me what else she needs."
Marcail compressed her lips to hide her satisfaction. Duncan meant to tend Alera himself, and one intimacy would surely lead to another. “She will need cool baths if she becomes too hot. A pallet by the fire with warm pelts if she becomes too cold—though body heat would do more good. She'll need to be coaxed to drink. Give her a half cup of water every hour and clear beef juices five to six times a day.” Marcail frowned. Alera was too still for her liking. “Try to wake her, Duncan. If she does not rouse, she may need Father Cunningham."
Duncan's brow furrowed. “I have fretted about the same thing and half-feared I would be tempting fate.” He faced the tub and demanded in English, “Alera, wake up."
No response came from the tub. Marcail snorted. “Faith, Duncan. Shake her or something. If she did not wake with you toting her around and dunking her in water, then a laird's order will not work."
Going down on one knee by the tub, Duncan shook Alera's shoulder and repeated, “Alera, wake up."
Swirls of warmth cocooned Alera. Her mind had shut off reality, creating a safe haven from her recent fears and pain.
She was a young girl of seven summers, chasing seagulls across the shallow waters of her cove at Arundrydge. Her parents walked along the shoreline and laughed at her antics. The wind caught the ribbons on a rose garland, which crowned her head. The lovely wreath of flowers blew into the sea. She swam out through the gentle currents to reclaim her prize
Her mama's scream pierced the breeze. Alera looked up and saw a giant fish rapidly swimming toward her. Frozen with fear, she watched the monster open his mouth and reveal sharp angry teeth.
A wave swelled from the calm waters and tossed Alera upon the beach, then receded back into the gentle tide. As she coughed and sputtered, her papa grabbed her up in a mighty hug. Her mama threw her arms around them both, sobbing with relief.
Papa looked out at the calm waters and released a ragged breath. “I do not know where that wave came from, Alera, unless your angel guardian blew upon the sea. You best thank Almighty God everyday for the rest of your life for giving you such a powerful protector."
Alera felt blissfully happy. Almighty God had gi
ven her loving parents, a wonderful world, and a mighty angel who would always keep her safe. She named him Henry after her godfather.
She began meeting Henry at her beach cove. She played games with him and shared all her ideas and troubles with him, too. He never would show himself, but she knew he was there, and she loved him.
The shoreline receded...
A voice with a musical burr called her name. She fought the summons, wanting to return to the beach and play with Henry. Water splattered upon her face, and she lost the battle.
Alera softly exhaled and opened her eyes to slits. A giant brawny warrior with flaming auburn hair and eyes that glittered like emeralds in the candlelight hovered over her, shaking her shoulder. He had saved her from some disaster, but she could not quite remember... Unless... Why, ‘twas Henry. And he was finally letting her see him.
She smiled and he stopped shaking her. “Well, thank the Almighty. I was beginning to think you dead, lass. Can you speak?"
"I thank Almighty God for you every day, you know.” Her brow furrowed as she noticed his plaid. “Papa is going to get upset when he finds out you are a Scot, but that is all right. He has gotten over such things before. Besides, all God's angels cannot be English."
Henry snorted. “Are you starting to feel warmer?"
"Sleepy, Henry.” Alera closed her eyes and sighed. “We will change your name later. King Henry might get upset if I keep calling a Scot angel by his name."
"What is she talking about, Duncan?” a female voice asked.
"I have no notion."
Alera lifted her eyelids a fraction and peered beyond Henry toward the puffy woman seated near the hearth. “'Tis a good choice. We will call him Duncan.” She cocked her head and frowned. “You know, I never knew angels had babies, but that must be where cherubs come from."
Having figured out that great mystery of the heavens, Alera closed her eyes on a smug grin and drifted back into the arms of Morpheus.
"Damn it all, the lass is daft!” Duncan exclaimed and stood up.
Marcail held her belly and laughed at his horrified expression. “Nay, she is exhausted. Alera must have been dreaming when you woke her, and her mind mixed her worlds. I, for one, take her remarks as a great compliment, since I look more like a cow than an angel."
Duncan looked at his sister-in-law and softened his expression. “Nay, Marcail, the lass was right about that. Even with the extra load, you look angelic. You do look like you're overdoing, though. I will send some of the clanswomen to help you out at home until the bairn arrives."
"I would rather you did not,” Marcail said in a somber note. “I do all right if I pace myself. You know the clanswomen are just beginning to accept me. I am hoping they will offer on their own when my time draws nearer."
Duncan struggled to hide his ire. His clanswomen were a jealous, suspicious lot since the English wreaked devastation upon the clan. They were slow accepting strangers, even other Scots. If he ordered them to help Marcail, they would, but their resentment would double. She would lose the grudging acceptance she had spent the last eight years earning. “I will hold off because you asked. I'll be checking on you, though. If I see you looking this exhausted again, I will issue the order and you will not sway me."
Marcail snorted. “You sound worse than Leo."
"I thought you had not seen him since the harvest festival last fall,” Duncan said, raising a brow.
"He and Artair stopped by on their way to Londontown."
"Why in perdition would they want to go to that godforsaken place?"
"Leo is determined to bring back his blue-eyed English rose. Says her eyes are so much like Mam's, ‘tis a sign from the Good Lord that she belongs in the hills. Artair is going to speed things along by tossing her across his horse if Leo tries to woo her again.” Marcail chuckled and shook her head over her elder twin brothers’ antics. “Artair said he did not want to spend any more time in England than he has to. He seems anxious to return to his post as Scotland's emissary to Arturia. I think he's found a woman there, but he is closed-mouthed at the present."
"At least one of the twins has a brain,” Duncan said sarcastically. “Leo needs to remember that English roses are a thorny lot."
Marcail glared. “I know you cannot be speaking about Lessa. She was one of the sweetest people I ever met. Though, I will admit the two of you were ill-suited to begin with. Besides, she was the only woman who befriended me here."
"I'll grant her that much,” Duncan conceded. “At least Lessa did not take after her mother."
"You mean Judas’ daughter. I swear Isobel would do anything for thirty pieces of silver.” Marcail glanced toward the tub. “I best get home, so I can send back the powders and balm. The sooner your Alera gets them, the better her chances for survival.” She stretched out her hands toward him. “Will you tug me up, Duncan? I fear I may be stuck."
Duncan helped Marcail rise from the chair and walked her to the door. “Geddes!"
"Aye, laird,” Geddes called, rushing up the stairs.
"Would you kindly take Marcail home and bring back what she gives you?” He looked at her swollen pale face and frowned. “And, Geddes, make sure she has plenty of wood and fresh water before you leave. I do not wish her toting anything heavy."
Geddes nodded and grinned. “I'll see Marcail has what she needs. But I'll not be taking on the duty of making sure the hard-headed lass does as you wish. You know yourself even Logan cannot get her to agree to do his bidding."
Duncan returned Geddes grin, remembering Marcail's unfinished wedding vows. “True, but I am not her husband. I am her laird.” He arched a brow at his sister-in-law. “She will do my bidding, or I'll chain her inside Logan's hut until the birthing."
"You're mean as a bear, Duncan.” Marcail smiled and gave his arm a pat. “You know I cannot agree to obey Logan now, or you would have nothing to roast him over. I hope your Alera recovers, and I agree with her. You make a wonderful angel, so I'll be thanking the Good Lord for you every day, too."
Duncan rolled his eyes.
Marcail chuckled and accepted Geddes’ arm.
After the pair left, Duncan closed the door. He walked over to the tub and stared down at Alera.
Except for the bruised and scraped areas, her flesh was taking on a creamy hue. A rosy tint pushed the blue from her lips, giving them a fuller, more appetizing appeal. Her breathing appeared full and deep. And her breasts glistened in the water, beacons to his lust.
He groaned as his loins throbbed. Had he ever wanted a woman this much? And damn it all, what was it about the lass that taxed his control? She was not the first beauty he had seen.
Shaking his head, he put the matter from his mind. He would receive no answers and his ardor would not be sated if the lass failed to survive.
Her hair had dried to a rich chestnut hue with golden highlights that shimmered from the kiss of the firelight. Dried leaves and a few twigs tangled in the lustrous strands, marring perfection.
He crossed the room to a screened-off area where two chests were hidden and took a comb from his departed wife's belongings. Returning to the tub side, he sat cross-legged on the floor behind Alera. Her delicate angel scent wafted toward him. He inhaled deeply, until her essence mingled with the very blood in his veins. “Ah, lassie, your scent lures me, too."
Lifting a small section of her hair, he gently combed the debris and mats from the thick silky curls—taking care not to break a single strand.
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Three
Duncan eased away from Alera, got out of bed, and tucked the covers under her chin. He breathed easy, assured now she would survive. She had fluctuated between fever and chills for four days while he maintained a constant vigil. When her fever raged, he bathed her with cool water. When the chills shuddered through her body, he warmed her flesh with his own.
His desire for the lass increased with each passing moment. Why had her survival become so important to him that he truste
d none other to attend her? He had no answer.
She slumbered peacefully now. And damn it all, he could only take so much temptation. All he had meant to do was warm her. But she had squirmed and pressed her soft flesh against him, expelling erotic little purrs. Lust surged through him until his entire body strained to the point of bursting.
He donned his plaid and grabbed a chunk of soap and cloth from his chest behind the screen. Then he left his chamber. If he didn't douse his ardor in the icy stream, his intimate knowledge of the lass's body would progress to carnal knowledge before the hour was out.
"Damn it all, I'll have her tonight,” he grumbled as he descended the stairs. “And ‘tis damned gracious of me to wait that long."
He entered the long hall. Several of his clansmen, along with Father Cunningham, stood about the dormant hearth near the rear door. They turned toward him and their conversation ceased.
"We would like a moment, laird,” Struan said in a wheezing voice.
Duncan eyed the frail elder who obviously had his dander up. Struan's pasty complexion and the yellow tinge that haloed his light-green eyes had worsened. All and sundry knew the elder wasn't up to a challenge but would issue one.
Duncan clasped his hands behind his back, braced his stance then nodded once.
"We want to know your intentions for the English lass,” Struan demanded. Several clansmen grunted and mumbled their desire for an answer.
"My intentions for the English lass are my own affair,” Duncan answered in a voice honed by annoyance.
Struan sputtered and wheezed. His face turned gray-blue with rage.
Logan, ever the mediator, stepped forward and pulled Struan back. “Kevin and I told them what you said about keeping her as your leman, Duncan. They just want to know if we should expect retaliation should the English learn of her whereabouts."
"And we do not need any more English sluts around here stinkin’ up our mountain,” Struan added, his voice raw with anger.
Duncan narrowed his eyes. “I'll be keeping the lass till I tire of her, and I'll not discuss this further."
"And when you tire of her, what then?” Struan persisted. “Will we have another English bitch sneering at us and living off our labors, or will she go back to that godforsaken country where she belongs?"
