by Willa Blair
Table of Contents
Highland Healer
Copyright
Praise for HIGHLAND HEALER
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Highland Healer
by
Willa Blair
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Highland Healer
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Linda Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-678-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-679-6
Published in the United States of America
Praise for HIGHLAND HEALER
Winner (as Warrior) of the 2011 Marlene,
Paranormal Category
“A captivating hero and heroine and a deft plot make this a must-read historical romance.”
~Rebecca York
~*~
“Lose yourself in this lush, romantic adventure by a new and gifted author.”
~Kathryn Johnson, author of the award-winning
The Gentleman Poet
~*~
“Start reading and the rest of your day is shot. Definitely a winner!”
~Chassie West
~*~
“A unique story with just the right mix of romance and action—a truly enjoyable historical.”
~Elizabeth Ashtree
~*~
“Being of Scottish descent, I greatly enjoyed the graceful interweaving of Scottish history and sense of place with the heartwarming love story.”
~Nancy Baggett
Dedication
To Ruth Glick (Rebecca York) and the rest of her awe-inspiring critique group: Chassie West,
Toby Devens, Elizabeth Ashtree,
Kathryn Johnson (Mary Hart Perry),
Nancy Baggett, Cronshi Englander,
Binnie Syril Braunstein, Connie Hay,
and Joyce Braga.
You've freely shared your wisdom, experience and humor. Thanks for your inspiration, encouragement, and occasional kick in the pants when I needed it!
~
And to Eileen Buckholz, who opened the door
all those years ago and dared me to walk through it.
~
And especially to my heroic husband.
Though he dedicated his life to his country,
he gave his heart to me.
Through all the years we’ve been together,
he has believed in my talent and supported my dream.
Most of all, this book is for you.
Acknowledgements
To misquote John Donne, no book is an island. Hours of research and soul searching by the author go into every one, along with ideas, techniques, and critique from others. This book is no exception.
The list of people I need to thank, in addition to the awe-inspiring authors mentioned in the dedication, includes the members of the Washington Romance Writers, the RWA Online, and the San Antonio Romance Authors chapters of RWA for inspiration, classes, speakers, and support.
I especially want to thank my fabulous TWRP Editor, Sarah Hansen, and my Beta reader, Dr. Lisa Benton-Short. You both saved me from myself throughout this book with your insights and eye for detail.
More thanks are due to my local color and dialect consultant, Lisa’s husband, Dr. John Rennie Short. Any mistakes are entirely mine. Thanks, too, to the maternal member of the family, Bonnie Benton, who read the book after Lisa and has cheered me on ever since.
And finally, thanks to Tina Lynn Stout for cover art that blew me away. She listened to what I wanted, then gave me even more than I dared hope for.
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, 1516
They brought the man into the tent on a makeshift stretcher, bound and unconscious. A hunting plaid of muted earth tones draped over his broad chest and across one muscular shoulder, where it fastened to his tunic with a simple brass pin. Quartz crystals decorated the open ends of a braided gold torc at his throat. That fact alone, that jewelry remained on his person, told Aileana that he was being accorded special treatment, not robbed like the common soldiers fallen on the field of battle. He would be a warrior, probably a laird, of the clan that Colbridge fought today.
She nodded for the stretcher bearers, two of Colbridge’s strongest men, to put their burden down on the long table she used for her surgery. As her assistant Ranald limped in behind them, she saw guards standing just outside the tent’s entrance and wondered how strenuously her new patient had objected to his captivity.
Ranald stood by the entry but his gaze stayed on the man on the table until the stretcher bearers left. “He’s a chief.”
Those few words explained both the man’s presence here and his appearance. A valuable prize indeed, deliberately captured rather than killed. No small feat in the heat of hand-to-hand combat where killing came easy. Capture was not. Impressed, Aileana bent to determine the extent of his injuries.
“Make sure he lives,” Ranald cautioned. “Colbridge brought this one to us during the battle.”
Aileana straightened up and frowned in surprise toward the entry, but Ranald had already left her alone with her patient. She turned her attention back to the man on her table. He was another victim of Colbridge’s ambitions. Like her. And like her, one with no chance of escape.
His soft linen tunic and leather breeches were of better quality than she’d seen on the other captives. Blood matted his shoulder-length dark hair and streaked both the side of his face and one strong arm revealed by a torn sleeve. She needed to remove the tunic and the torc around his neck to be certain his wounds were clean. But she did not want to turn him yet and possibly worsen other hurts she could not yet see. The strap that secured a sword’s sheath lay buckled across his chest. The weapon itself was missing. Aileana supposed that one of Colbridge’s men had claimed it, or even Colbridge himself.
Carefully, she undid that clasp and the one at his belt, and let the heavy leather and the end of the plaid fall aside to dangle off of the table out of the way. Next went the simple pin at his shoulder. Only then did she notice the pattern of his plaid. It appeared similar to the one most of the rest of the captives wore, but not exactly the same. She did not know enough about Highland clans to know what that meant. She laid it aside. With regret, she took her looted French scissors Colbridge had gi
ven her from the pocket of her dress and began cutting the tunic from the man’s upper body.
After each snip of the blades, she lightly touched each area she revealed and let an awareness form in her mind and within her body, focusing on the soundness of each part beneath his summer-bronzed skin and firm flesh. She laid one palm against his chest, feeling the strength of the heart that beat within, the rise and fall of his breathing. She slid her hand down his ribs onto his belly. Strong muscles there, and no harm done. She moved to his arm next, relieved to find the cut moderate. His arm would be sore from a grazing blow by the flat of a blade that had left a gash, and be lucky to be no worse for the battle. It took little of her Gift to mend such a shallow wound. The Healing tingled as her fingers traced the edges of the cut. He would recover to fight again if the head wound had not addled his brain—and if Colbridge let him live.
She moved to his head and took a deep breath, gathering her strength for what could be a very difficult mending. He had escaped death so far, but the blow to his head might have destroyed his mind. Or only part of it. Her fingers clenched. The empty ones were the worst. But the need was strong in her to repair and restore—to heal. She could not stop now any more than she could stop breathing.
She slowly placed her hands along both sides of his face, then drew them up over his forehead into his hair, listening. The force of will that she encountered nearly sent her reeling. Relieved, she gently cradled his head and slid her hands to the back of his neck. Other than a shallow cut at the back of his scalp from the blow that had knocked him out, she could sense no deeper bleeding that would threaten his life or his mind. She mended the broken skin with a few gentle touches, glad that he had taken no further harm. He would awaken soon, with a massive headache. She would soothe that away when he could speak to her and she confirmed that his mind was whole.
She stood back and for the first time really looked at the man. What she saw took her breath away. Strong of limb and clean-lined, he boasted the massive shoulders and arms of a warrior. Despite the bindings that held them together palm to palm, she could see that his hands were large and calloused, probably from wielding one of the heavy longswords—claymores they called them here—as well as other hard work. Fine, dark hair swirled lightly across his heavily muscled chest and trailed down his flat belly to disappear beneath the leather trews that covered narrow hips and muscular thighs. A strong pulse beat in the brown column of his throat. And his face, under the blood and grime of battle, boasted even features: the nose unbroken, lips full, and eyelashes long and dark where they rested on high cheekbones.
As she regarded him, she fought the urge to caress his face with her fingertips. Tiny laugh lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed the only trace of the person within. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine his smile. Her Talent did not help her with that. Though she often wished it would show her the past or the future, it persisted in showing her only the now and the needs of her patients, no more. Until he awoke, she would not know the color of his eyes, nor the temper of the spirit that dwelled within his massive body. She moved to her chair and sat down to wait.
****
Toran became aware of his surroundings slowly. First came the pounding in his head, painful evidence that he was not dead after all. He should be glad, he supposed, and would be when the infernal hammering stopped. Then he realized that his hands and feet were bound. He was a prisoner? How the devil had he allowed that to happen? His nostrils flared and he fought to remain still in case someone watched. Try as he might, he could not remember. His head hurt too much to concentrate. Instead, he kept his eyes closed, and listened intently for any sound that would give away the presence of a guard. The faint whisper of soft breathing told him someone else waited nearby. Distant shouts and clangs pierced the silence. Did a battle still rage?
What had happened to the two men who’d come with him to meet with the MacAnalen laird? Had they escaped, or were they dead on the field of battle?
He carefully tested the strength of his bonds and found them damnably sufficient to restrain him, at least for now. Focusing inside himself to gingerly catalog other aches, he tried to recall the last moments of the battle that brought him here. The usual residue of physical violence remained in the arms, shoulders, back, and legs, all of which were old companions, and none of which brought back any particular memories of the fight. Suddenly, he noticed cool air on his skin, skin that should not have been bare to any breeze. For a brief moment, he hoped he was wrong about being a prisoner. If he’d been stripped and left for dead on the battlefield…but nay. If that were true he wouldn’t be bound.
A soft cough startled him and his eyes flew open. He was surprised to see rough-spun cloth peaking over him, blocking the anticipated view of the sky. He turned his head slowly against the pain to survey the rest of his surroundings and saw a lass dozing in a chair set against the wall of the tent.
Only a lass to guard him? Was he injured worse than he kenned, then? Nay, none of the all too familiar pain that came with serious wounds plagued him, thankfully, except the damnable throbbing that threatened to split his skull. So he gathered his strength and pushed up to sitting. The tatters of his shirt fell away from his back, leaving him bare from the waist up. Dizzy fairies whirled in a mad dance before his eyes, then settled and disappeared as he pulled in a deep breath and bit back a curse.
He turned carefully and looked around the tent. One entry, flap askew just enough to show a sliver of trees, sky, and movement when anyone walked past, but not to allow anyone outside to see within. He sat on a table crisscrossed by his plaid, and by his belt and his claymore strap, which must have been unbuckled to allow his shirt to be cut from his body. He groped frantically at his throat as another thought occurred to him. A relieved breath gusted from his lips. The Lathan torc remained around his neck. That his claymore was missing failed to surprise him. He reached into his boot. His dirk…ach, gone, too. Damn. Injured, without weapons, and in a strange camp. He’d seen better days.
The only other furniture was the chair occupied by the bonny lass. Even in his present condition, he could appreciate her beauty. Auburn hair fell in a thick braid over her shoulder onto the nicely curved breast of her deep green dress. Slumped in her doze, he could not be sure, but she seemed tall and slender. Her face was fair, with smooth skin and full lips. Toran wondered why she alone attended him, why there were no guards in the tent, and why he was restrained so lightly by leather cords instead of chains. In time, he could weaken and break bonds such as these. Did they think him so enfeebled by battle wounds that a mere lass could hold him? He didn’t ken whether to be insulted or embarrassed. But the question remained. What had happened to him and why didn’t he remember? Why was he here and not dead on the battlefield?
He needed to get a look outside. If he could move quietly enough so as not to wake the lass, he could peer out the tent flap. His boots were lashed together with enough slack between them to hobble him, but not to prevent him from walking in some limited fashion. He considered trying to remove them, but the bindings around his ankles were too tight, and even if he got the boots off, he didn’t want to lose them. He wouldn’t get far on bare feet, so he’d have to find a way to cut the cord between them. First things first. He started to stand, teeth clenched against the throbbing pain that movement caused. But the table creaked as he gained his feet. The lass stirred, then blinked, and with dismay plain on her face, noted his position, half on, half off the table.
“Oh! You shouldn’t be awake,” she said, smoothing her dress as she stood and moving quickly to the tent’s entry flap and peering out. Did she mean to leave or call the guards? He didn’t want her to do either.
“Wait,” he said, wincing. “I won’t hurt ye. I want to look outside.” He hoped his warning would allay any fears she might have. He kept his gaze on the entry as he stood the rest of the way up and hobbled carefully forward. He didn’t want to seem threatening by staring at her, though she was worth gazing
upon. As he approached, she stepped back. He pulled the flap a finger’s width aside and peered out. Aye, he was held in the invader’s camp, and things had not gone well for the MacAnalens. Judging by the few wearing MacAnalen colors that he could see, they, too, were bound in leathers, and talking to others beyond Toran’s line of sight. And those were the guards, he supposed, facing this tent, sitting by a small fire. He could see plenty of men around similar fires within view. Too many. And a few more practicing at arms. Even a brief glance was enough to show him that he’d not walk out of here easily on his own. He hoped that a lot of MacAnalens survived. The more there were, the better the distraction whenever his own men arrived to free him, and the better all their odds of getting away.
He sighed and turned back to the lass, who stood quietly by as he peered out of the tent. As he faced her, she backed up a step, but only one. It puzzled him that being left alone with a strange man seemed to cause her so little concern for her own safety. She was no match for him, even with him injured, bound, and weaponless, but she neither called for help, nor tried to escape the confines of the tent. Instead, he saw with pleasure, she stood tall and proud.
If she was meant as a serving wench for an important prisoner, he might yet enjoy this captivity.
“Now that your curiosity is satisfied, you should not be on your feet,” she said as she pulled him away from the entry toward the table. He nearly stumbled in the fetters, but her grip held firm, and he stayed upright. At the table, she urged him gently to sit, and then more forcefully said, “Lie down.” He moved to obey before he could consider objecting. Her voice held a tone of command that he found he could not ignore. He lay back, puzzled. As he did, the pounding in his temples reached a new crescendo, preventing rational thought. He tried to stifle the groan, but it escaped. “Damn,” he growled, lifting his bound wrists to his throbbing forhead.
