Highland Captive

by Mary McCall

  "What then?” she countered. “When you tire of me, will you give me to another Highlander, so I can whore for him, too?” His frown sharpened and she pushed on. “Mayhap you could sell me to the Vikings and make a profit, though my value is naturally lower, because I am no longer a virgin."

  She slapped a palm against her cheek and grinned. “Wait! I have a better notion. I could go into a convent and spend the rest of my days doing penance for the sinful life you have forced on me. Why, I could do penance for you, too.” She glowered at him. “Forget it, Duncan. I am going home."

  "Damn it, Alera, Laidirkin is your home now."

  She ducked under his arm and faced him, hands on hips. “'Tis not and you have no right to keep me."

  "Then I'll make the right mine.” He grabbed her and brought her flush against him. “I'll find Father Cunningham and wed you when we get back."

  She gasped and pushed against him. “Nay! You are cheating by changing the rules. You said you would not force me!"

  "I have changed my mind."

  A mutinous glower narrowed her eyes. “I will not say the words. I have a duty to Arundrydge. And I do not even like you."

  Wasn't this grand? He loved an Englishwoman and she tossed it in his face. “I am not overly fond of you at the moment, either. But I'll still not see you beaten dead. I doubt if I'll tire of your body, either. You can stay as my leman or stay as my wife, but you are never going back."

  "As long as I am here, I am naught but a slave.” She pounded a fist against his shoulder.

  "Aneuch! I'll not discuss this further.” He grasped her chin and bent over, holding her face within an inch of his. “I've given you a choice. Were you a Scot, I would seek out your laird and let him speak for you. When you come to your senses and decide to say the words, let me know. All you'll have to do is roll over. I'll be the one sleeping beside you. Until then you will make no more escape attempts and you will obey me. Or damn it all, I will chain you to the bed whenever I am away and treat you as the slave you

  insist upon calling yourself."

  The lass would strip the fur from the hide if she hit it much harder. Duncan shook his head and suppressed a chuckle. He stood with hands on hips and watched Alera beat a pelt and rant at her angel guardian. She had hung a string from trees near the stream to hold her poor victims. At least the lass had the sense to stand downwind.

  "The barbarian is a brute, Henry. He deliberately shames me by telling a priest ‘tis my choice to live in sin.” A cloud of dust and fur billowed her way with an unexpected wind change, and she coughed. “Well, he will eventually turn his back and I will be gone. But I refuse to live in filth until that time arrives.” She attacked the pelt with a vengeance and Duncan winced. “Would that this were your hide I thrash, Laird Ranald."

  "Ack, lass. ‘Tis lucky for you that is not my hide. I'd have to subdue you. Of course, it might be worth my while. I've enjoyed all your surrenders thus far."

  Alera gave the pelt one last vicious whack and spun about as if fully prepared to knock his head off. Her glower vanished, replaced by a worried frown. Throwing down her stick, she ran to him and prodded at the arrow stub protruding from his shoulder.

  Damnation, he had forgotten his nuisance wound. He brought up his hands to halt her. She knocked his hands away and inspected the injury, drawing in a barely audible sniff.

  Nudging up her chin, he saw tears in her eyes just before she jerked her head back and refocused on his shoulder. “We must get you inside so I can tend this."

  "Tears for me, Alera?” he asked quietly.

  "I told you before I cannot bear to see someone suffer,” she said in a tremulous voice. “Even if the afflicted is a barbarian brute. How came you by this injury?"

  "'Twas a hunting accid—"

  "'Twas a damn Gilmore,” Geddes interrupted as he and Kevin joined them. Both men spit on the ground as if the name were a blasphemy. “He meant to kill you, laird, and—"

  "I said it was an accident, Geddes,” Duncan said harshly.

  An angry glint flickered in Alera's eyes. “Who are these Gilmores?"

  "A clan of vipers,” Kevin replied. “We cannot ignore this, laird."

  "We'll not discuss this now,” Duncan commanded.

  "We will discuss it,” Alera countered. “If a snake slithers across your path, you should kill it. Geddes, bring a bucket of fresh spring water to the laird's chamber. Bring some ale, too. Make sure it is old ale. Kevin, bring me some yarrow, yellow burdock, and mandrake root. Come, Duncan. We will go to your chamber. I will tend your injury while you discuss retaliation with your men.” She tugged on his arm.

  He pulled her back. She placed her fists on her hips and glared at Geddes and Kevin. “Why do you just stand there? I have told you what I need to tend your laird. Now do as I bid."

  Geddes scratched his head and looked toward the tattered pelt. “Are you going to let her tend you, laird?"

  "I'm wondering the same thing, considering the lass is not overly fond of you,” Kevin added. “Almost tore the fur clean from that hide."

  Alera bowed her head and flushed bright red. Duncan gave his men a barely perceptible nod and they left.

  "I apologize for issuing orders to your men. I am sure you have a healer whom you would prefer—"

  "Wives can issue orders, Alera."

  She met his gaze then took a step back. “I am not your wife."

  He took a step forward. “That can be remedied."

  "I will not let myself care for you,” she said, a note of panic in her tone.

  "You already do."

  Alera shook her head. “I will not marry you. I have duties I must—"

  "You have excuses."

  She wrung her hands. “Do you wish me to tend your injury or not?"

  Duncan released an exasperated sigh. Damn it all, the lass must care for him. She cried when she saw his minor wound. “Aye, lass. Come."

  He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her softness against his side so her delicate scent could mingle with the air he breathed.

  She gasped and jerked away. He turned to order her acquiescence. A mixture of confusion and fear crossed her face, and she shook her head.

  "I...ah...forgot the pelts.” She rushed over to the pile of furs and grabbed them up. She held them as a shield in front of her and rushed past him into the keep.

  Duncan grinned. By Saint Andrew, the lass cared for him.

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  Seven

  Thank the Almighty, the beeswax had finally overridden the pungent odor of lye soap. Struan looked across the hall and shook his head. Alera was polishing another coat of wax into the long tabletops. If she didn't stop her cleaning soon, he truly would meet his maker on the morrow. He would die from exhaustion caused by watching her work. “Alera, lass, stop your cleaning for a spell and come pass some time with an old man."

  Her polishing rag stilled upon the huge oak table. She cast a wary gaze toward the hearth area where Struan sat. “I have much to do."

  The guarded look was back in her eyes. Struan thought he knew what drove her. “'Tis the sixth coat of wax on that table, lass. You're cleaning over places you have already done. If you scrub the floor again, we'll surely see the dirt beneath the stones. You have not stopped for almost three days, and you look so bone-weary, you're tiring me out.” He gave her a rueful look. “Besides, I wish to speak with you before I die."

  "About what?” she asked, suspicion in her tone.

  "Highlanders and their ways."

  Alera snorted and set her rag in motion. “My mama told me all I need to know on that subject."

  "Then mayhap you will tell me why you have not told the laird you're one,” he said in Gaelic.

  She froze. Then she raised fearful eyes and glanced around the hall.

  "I thought so. We're alone, lass. Come have a seat.” He waved her over.

  Alera placed her rag beside a block of wax on the table, crossed to the hearth, and primly
sat on a chair facing Struan. She stared at her hands clasped in her lap. “How did you know?"

  "Well, lass, I knew you looked familiar, but we've never met. Then there came that guarded look, like the one you're wearing now, when the laird said he would wed you if you had a drop of Highland blood. He asked you who your mother was. You told a familiar tale but no name. I got to thinking on what you said.” He gave her a wry look. “I never met Bradana MacKay, but one thing marks you, lass."

  "My heathen blue eyes,” she whispered.

  "Aye.” He nodded. “Though most folks here about call them MacKay blue. All hell will break loose when the laird realizes who you are. He'll have your uncle here in a snap. Knowing the MacKay, he'll likely be speaking for you."

  "Please do not tell Duncan,” she pleaded, anxiously meeting his gaze.

  "I'll not have to. If I reasoned it, so will he. You saved my life and I'm grateful.” Struan patted her hand. “Thought you might need a nonjudgmental ear, so I'm offering mine. You're bound to be feeling shamed after the laird told everybody that living in sin is your choice. Why did you refuse him?"

  She raised her stubborn chin. “Because I have a duty to provide a good overlord for Arundrydge and I must kill my uncle."

  Struan shook his head. The lass had set her mind. The Almighty knew nothing was harder to unset than a stubborn woman's mind. Especially a MacKay lass with revenge on her mind. He would have to change her way of thinking, of course. The lass was Gifted. Surely fate had sent her to Clan Ranald. How could he get her to trust him, though?

  He scratched his grizzled head and peered at her. “What would happen to Arundrydge if you had been killed? Who would King Henry give the holding to?"

  Alera frowned. “'Twould probably go to my cousin, Daryl."

  "Do you trust this Daryl? What kind of man is he?"

  "Aye, I trust him,” she said with a wistful smile. “He has always been like a brother to me. He is a loyal and fierce warrior."

  "Would he make a good overlord?"

  Alera hesitated, and her frown deepened. “Aye."

  He had her now. Struan grinned broadly. “Then it seems to me that by staying at Laidirkin, you could do your duty and not risk being beaten to death."

  "But I must still kill my uncle.” Resolution drew her brows together. “He is a slimy serpent and deserves to die. You will have to accept my word on this matter."

  As if the gentle lassie could hurt a flea. He was doing well to keep from cackling. “You said you think of this Daryl as a brother. Does he consider you a sister?"

  A disgruntled snort emitted from her dainty nose. “Of course. He has always looked out for me and gotten me out of mischief."

  "Well, if the man cares for you as a brother, then ‘tis likely he already knows of your uncle's treachery. ‘Tis my guess your uncle is already dead."

  Alera swallowed hard. Struan was right. Daryl had probably killed Uncle Mortimer when he returned to the keep and found her gone. She still needed to find Papa, though. Daryl would help her. What if she made it home and Duncan came after her? He and Daryl might fight. She might lose one of them. Why did she suddenly care if she lost Duncan?

  This was too much to think on with Struan in front of her looking like he was ready to gloat. She frowned. “I will have to think on this."

  "Let me give you one more thing to think on. The laird is a domineering man. I know he bruised your pride. But has he ever hurt you?” He held up a hand. “Do not answer. Just think on it. Now, go clean yourself up and rest while you're thinking. You look damn puggled from exhaustion."

  "I promise I shall consider what you have said, Struan.” She stood and patted his shoulder. “And if I do not see you in the morn, I hope you have a pleasant hereafter."

  "And I'm hoping you're the new Lady Ranald by the time I'm resurrected. Laidirkin has not been this clean since the stones were fresh-laid. The clanswomen are lax since Lessa died."

  Alera favored Struan with a tired smile and put away her cleaning supplies. She went up to Duncan's chamber and opened Lessa's chest. Just as she picked up soap and cloth to bathe, her stomach grumbled. She headed for the kitchen behind the keep.

  She couldn't tell Struan what madness drove her cleaning frenzy. She wasn't looking forward to the next few days, either. After she had dosed Duncan, he hid the phial of feverfew and mandrake root. The no-good barbarian wouldn't tell her where he had put pain-relieving potion. Her cleaning was a manically futile exploration. She had kept it up to keep her mind off her body's changes.

  She hadn't slept well the last few nights and not just because Duncan kept her passions burning. She felt strained and tense. The ache in her lower back had increased all day, and a nagging headache dulled her wits. Her fluxes weren't like other women's. Without the numbing effect of the potion, she would be bedridden by nightfall.

  At the kitchen, she begged an oatcake from the cranky cook, Edeen, then headed over to the stream. “The woman must not know what seasonings are for, Henry. If Duncan means to keep me, then he better do something about the food."

  Arriving at the stream, she found an area blocked off by enough trees to afford her privacy. She sat upon a boulder, nibbling on her oatcake.

  A caw broke Alera's reverie. She shaded her eyes and gazed upward. Two chicken hawks frolicked in the sky—swirling, swooping, and soaring in a rousing game of got you. The larger hawk soared downward, plunged into the water, then swooped up to land upon a rock on the opposite bank. His mate followed. They plucked at each other's feathers and nuzzled.

  Alera smiled at the mighty predators. Her thoughts roved to the eagle's landing near Arundrydge, and a wave of homesickness flowed over her. She missed her feathered friends.

  Mayhap this pair had come to nest in the area. “I wonder, my friends,” she whispered. “Will you understand me as well as your cousins?"

  The larger hawk stilled and peered at her across the small brook. She gazed straight into his eyes, releasing her I'm-lonely-so-come-meet-me warble.

  The smaller hawk turned her gaze on Alera then warbled at her mate.

  The larger hawk spread his wings, flew across the stream, and landed on another boulder several feet away from her. His mate followed.

  Alera held the male hawk's gaze but made no move toward him. She favored him with her I'll-share-my-meal warble and held out her arm.

  The hawk flew to Alera and perched on the proffered limb. She rubbed her forehead against his chest a few times and blew gently upon his neck. He brushed his head across her cheek then spread one wing around her head.

  "Ah, but you are a handsome warrior,” she said with an easy smile. “You must introduce me to your mate."

  The giant bird cawed. Alera slowly stood and walked to the low boulder. After greeting the female and offering herself for inspection, she sat on the boulder beside the pair and fed them the last of her oatcake from her hands.

  "I am glad to meet you both. I am Alera."

  The female trilled and fluttered her wings.

  "Aye. ‘Twas named for your cousin the eagle. Mama said a seer gave me the name, so I could spread my wings and leave the nest."

  The male cocked his head, peered at her, then warbled.

  Alera shook her head. “Nay, I did not fly. I was snatched away. I am from Arundrydge. There was an eagle landing nearby, and I have missed them. Mayhap you can be my friends while I am here?"

  The male hopped on her shoulder and nuzzled her cheek, and the female came to perch on her thigh.

  "We must give you names.” Alera studied the pair and smiled. “You are both great warriors of the sky. Baran is a fine warrior's name and Ceallach is a fine warrior-maid."

  Baran and Ceallach nuzzled her neck and fluttered their wings, accepting their new names and Alera's friendship.

  "Thank you. I shall try to meet you here tomorrow."

  The female warbled and moved from foot to foot then ducked her head.

  Alera grinned. “I know. ‘Tis the worst fare I have ever
eaten, too. Mayhap I can sneak into the kitchen while cook is out. I vow I know how to make an oatcake that goes down."

  She blew on their necks, and they nuzzled hers. Then the pair flew off and resumed their game.

  Removing her gown, Alera quickly bathed in the cold stream. The

  first cramp punched her belly as she got out of the water. Then a forceful chill shuddered through her. “Henry, please just get me to the hearth."

  She donned her shift and gown without drying off, picked up her girdle then hurried back to the keep—all the time clutching her womb.

  Duncan entered the hall behind several clansmen and halted. He glanced around, unable to believe the amazing transformation that had taken place.

  Alera had cleaned their chamber and rid the hall of rats, but by Saint Andrew, he had never expected her to make such a dramatic impact on the place. He glanced toward Struan, who sat by the hearth. The elder looked better than he had in months.

  "Can you believe this, laird?” Geddes called from the tableside. “Even the benches have been scrubbed and waxed."

  "Come look at the hearth,” Kevin said. “'Tis not an ash to be seen."

  "Where is she, Struan?” Duncan asked.

  "The lass was waning, laird. I sent her to rest,” Struan said. “She plans to weave rushes when the heather blooms. Also said something about taking down all the weapons, so she could whitewash the walls."

  Damn it all, was she played her role of slave to the hilt, or was she assuming responsibilities as lady of the keep? He never knew what to expect from the lass. “Who helped her?"

  Struan grinned. “Did it all herself."

  Kevin frowned. “I never heard of an English lady doing this kind of work. Think she is not truly who she says?"

  "The lass is truthful,” Struan declared. “I had a few chats with her over the last few days. Said a lady cannot direct servants if she does not know their duties. Then she said Clan Ranald should be ashamed for not taking better care of such a great building. Said her servants took pride in Arundrydge and were more exacting in its maintenance than she."