When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  She was floating near the rocks. He tore away the weeds and revealed her face, hovering just above the water. Her lips were blue as smoke, her lashes black against the pallor of her cheeks, and there was an ugly dark bruise on her forehead.

  Malcolm scooped her into his arms, still half wrapped in weeds, and carried her to the beach. He laid her down on the sand and set two fingers against her throat. She was cold—very cold, more like a marble statue of a woman—but he felt the faint beat of her heart fluttering under his fingers. She didn’t wake. He frantically pulled away the kelp that bound her, tossed it aside. She was delicately made, tall and slim, and clad only in a linen shift and a plaid.

  A MacLeod plaid.

  Shock went through him like lightning, and his breath caught in his throat. He stared down at the face of his clan’s worst enemy, a MacLeod, here at Dunbronach. What would the elders say? What would they do? No MacDonald of Dunbronach would lift a finger to help a MacLeod of Iolair, and if a MacLeod ever dares to set foot on Dunbronach land, he can expect naught but death . . . He heard Dougal’s acid words again in his mind.

  But this was an injured lass, not a warrior. She wasn’t invading—she was hurt, needed help. He looked along the beach. Besides the unconscious woman, he was the only one here. No one else had seen her.

  He stripped the plaid off his shoulders and wrapped it around her, covered the blue and green of her offending plaid with his own MacDonald colors, but it wasn’t enough to warm her. He began to chafe her wrists. “Wake up,” he murmured urgently. “Wake.”

  “Who’s that? Is someone there?” Malcolm spun in surprise. Diarmid MacDonald stood behind him, leaning on a stout stick, staring into the air. The red, black, and green of his plaid was faded with age, but it still glowed proudly in the morning sun. A frill of white hair stuck out from under his bonnet, and his eyes were milky with blindness.

  Malcolm looked down at the bruise on the woman’s face. No doubt she was injured elsewhere as well, perhaps had broken limbs. If he didn’t help her, she’d surely die. He was a gentleman, a lawyer. He couldn’t let a lass die for an ancient slight no one even remembered.

  “Here!” Malcolm called to Diarmid. “I need help.”

  Diarmid turned to the sound of Malcolm’s voice and used his stick to make his way slowly down the beach. “Is that you, Laird?”

  “Aye,” Malcolm said again when Diarmid got closer. “I found a lass in the water.”

  “Och, are ye certain of that? I heard the seals. It might be one of them, or a mermaid, or a selkie, or just a shoal of herring . . .”

  “You can see she’s human,” Malcolm said impatiently. “She’s alive, but just barely.”

  The old man grinned. “Can’t see anything at all—been blind for forty winters,” he said mildly. He reached Malcolm’s side and carefully lowered his old bones to the sand. He reached out, found the woman’s face, and gently ran his hand over her closed eyes, her nose, her mouth, his brow furrowing. “It’s not someone I know, and it’s most certainly not a seal. D’you know her, Laird? Is she a MacDonald?”

  Malcolm swallowed hard and shook his head before he remembered the old man couldn’t see the gesture. What would Diarmid do if he knew she was a hated MacLeod? Malcolm looked at the old man’s heavy stick, imagined his kindly face twisting as he raised it . . .

  “Nay, I don’t know her. We need to get her warm. She’s injured. There’s a bruise on her forehead, and—” He had no idea what else.

  “Aye, we’d best see to her. Bring her along to my hut,” Diarmid said, and got to his feet to lead the way.

  Malcolm gathered the slight weight of her in his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder, her wet hair soaking his shirt. She flinched, a mere flick of movement under her eyelids, but she didn’t stir. He stared down at her face. She was beautiful, this enemy. The bruise was black as night on her dead-pale skin. There were more—he could see them now, marring the perfection of her long neck visible above the edge of her shift. Heaven only knew what damage lay beneath the thin garment. He carried her carefully.

  Diarmid’s hut was set a dozen yards back from the beach, a ragged affair made of rocks, driftwood, and bits of cloth. Yellow grass grew like shaggy hair on the walls and covered the roof. Diarmid opened the door and waited for Malcolm to duck under the low lintel and carry the lass inside.

  “Set her down on the cot. My wife was Dunbronach’s healer, but she died in the Sickness. I suppose that means I’m the healer now, or at least ’tis so until a better one comes along. Young Peggy helps me when she has time. There’s not a soul among us who doesn’t have the work of two or three people to do now.” He poured water into the kettle and swung it carefully over the fire. “My nose is good, but you’ll need to be my eyes, Laird.” He went to the shelf that held pots and bundles of herbs. He opened them and sniffed, cocked his head and considered. “Ye say she’s bruised and cut? We’ll need yarrow, sage, and vetch. Comfrey as well,” he said. “Is anything broken? Her arms or legs, or her skull? We may need driftwood for a splint if she’s broken her bones, and kelp.” He paused and tilted his head. “Would ye by chance have any whisky?”

  “Aye, a small flask,” Malcolm answered. “Will it help her?”

  Diarmid grinned. “Can’t hurt, but I meant it for me. ’Tis a cold morning for the time of year, and my bones ache.”

  Malcolm handed over the flask and waited until Diarmid swallowed a long draught. “Is she bonny?” the old man asked.

  Malcolm scanned the pale face. “Aye, Diarmid. Very bonny.”

  “Dark or fair?”

  “Dark,” Malcolm said. Her hair was a skein of black silk, tangled, wet, and shiny.

  “Tall or short?”

  “Tall.” And slim as a fish. She’d be graceful on her feet.

  “Not a MacDonald lass, then,” Diarmid pronounced. His gnarled hands touched the plaid that covered her, and Malcolm held his breath. “What plaid has she?”

  “That’s my plaid, for warmth,” Malcolm said, his cheeks heating with the lie, his hands hovering ready to snatch her away from the old man if he discovered the sodden MacLeod plaid. “She’s wearing nothing but her shift.”

  “We’d best have it off her,” Diarmid said, and Malcolm looked at him in surprise. “I’ll need to check her for injuries. Take off your own shirt—it’s dry and warm and it will cover her decently. Put it over her for modesty as ye remove her wet things. I’ll fetch some water to wash the salt off her skin.”

  When the old man stepped away, Malcolm unwound the telltale MacLeod plaid from her body and hid it beneath the cot.

  He untied the laces that held her shift closed at her throat, the silken cord wet and stubborn, and uncovered her delicate collarbones. He opened the laces wider and slid the garment lower, revealing her shoulders and the slopes of her breasts. Her skin was like ivory, white and very cold, marred by scratches, cuts, and bruises. For a moment he couldn’t look away. He concentrated on pulling his shirt over his head. What if she suddenly woke, found a half-naked stranger bending over her, a MacDonald? He watched her closed eyes for a telltale flutter, but she didn’t move. His shirt was warm from his body, and he carefully laid the garment over her from neck to knee. He reached beneath and slid her shift down. His fingers grazed the side of her breast, and he swallowed. Even if he was a gentleman, he was a man as well. Every touch, every accidental brush of his fingertips against her bare flesh, cold though it was, sent sparks through his veins. It was no more than concern for her, and the fact that his own boots and breeches were wet and cold. He touched the pulse point at her throat, checking again. Her heartbeat was a faint whisper, and he frowned, fearing it would stop. She hadn’t stirred, and keeping her alive was all-important, a point of honor and chivalry, the codes he lived by. He protected the wronged and injured—it was why he’d become a lawyer, and it was also why he wasn’t a good one: he wasn’t ruthless enough, his uncle said. He was kind and careful. He’d aided ladies in distress before, but never for an
ything more dire than a torn hem, a dropped fan, or a broken heel. This was life or death, not vanity or mild inconvenience. His heart climbed into his throat, lodged there, as inch by inch he concentrated on carefully removing her clothing, fearing she had more dreadful injuries than mere bruises. Her wet garment resisted, clung to her icy flesh as he worked it past her waist, over the swell of her hips, down the length of her legs. At last he tossed the sodden shift aside and turned to Diarmid.

  “We’ll need to feel her limbs, look for broken bones and injuries,” Diarmid said. “Better a man with sight should do that, Laird. I don’t want to cause her any pain.”

  Malcolm swallowed the lump in his throat. He began with her arms, taking them out from under his shirt one after the other—they were long and delicate, the muscles under the skin firm and sleek. There were bruises and scrapes, but the bones were sound. He slid his hands over her legs from thigh to toes. He stopped at her left ankle. It was swollen. He took Diarmid’s hand and placed it on the joint. Diarmid frowned as he touched it, his gnarled fingers gentle, his brow furrowed as he explored the injury. At last he nodded. “Sprained, but not broken,” he pronounced. Malcolm let out the breath he hadn’t even known he was holding.

  “My wife used to wrap the skin of an eel around a sprain,” Diarmid mused. “As it dries, it tightens and holds the joint still.” He made a face. “But I can’t bear eels, so we’ll wrap it in a strip of linen instead.”

  Diarmid slid his hands over her abdomen, checked for injuries, his face bland as any Edinburgh physician’s, and found nothing. “Lift her if you please, Laird, so I can check the back of her.”

  Malcolm leaned her against his shoulder, held her like a sleeping child as Diarmid ran his hands over her shoulders and back. There were bruises and cuts, but nothing life threatening. The old man frowned as he put his hands on her head. “She has a lump the size of a tern’s egg on her skull.”

  “Is it serious?” Malcolm asked. Diarmid tightened his grip on her head, and she flinched in Malcolm’s arms, though she didn’t wake. Malcolm glared at the old man for causing her pain, but Diarmid grinned.

  “That’s a good sign. She’s not so far gone she can’t feel pain. We’ll get her warm, let her rest, and see if she wakes.”

  He asked Malcolm to fill several bladders with hot water and put them into the bed next to her to warm her, directed him to bathe each cut and bruise with the herbal salve he’d mixed by scent. Then he sat back.

  “What do we do now?” Malcolm asked.

  “We wait until she wakes so she can tell us who she is, how she came to be in the water. It should be an interesting tale.”

  Malcolm swallowed. She’d wake screaming, finding herself amid her enemies. Surely she was someone’s wife, or daughter, or sister. She may have bairns at home who were crying for the loss of their mother. He glanced at the discarded shift. The lace that trimmed it was French, the linen soft and expensive. She belonged to someone—nay, not just someone: a MacLeod. What if her kin came looking for her, found her naked and injured? The MacDonalds of Dunbronach were a ragged clan of old folk and children, in no condition to defend themselves against fit Highland warriors.

  He was their laird, sworn to protect them, and yet this injured lass needed his protection just as much, if not more. He stared at her waxen face for a moment, so still and cold.

  “’Tis too soon to fret, Laird,” Diarmid said, as if he’d read Malcolm’s thoughts or could see beyond what mere eyesight could convey. “She’ll have to bide here, since we shouldn’t move her just yet. I’ll keep an eye on her, so to speak. I’ll need a few supplies and Peggy or Beitris—the lass might be affrighted if she wakes alone with only an old man, a stranger, for company.”

  Malcolm frowned. He supposed he could hardly keep her a secret. He got to his feet and bent to retrieve his own plaid, but stopped. He couldn’t take it from her. She needed the warmth of the thick wool. She needed his shirt as well.

  “She’ll need some clothes,” he said aloud.

  “Aye. And bring whisky back with ye, Laird, if you please.”

  Malcolm took her shift—to be washed—and grabbed the wet weight of her MacLeod plaid from under the bed. He hesitated in the doorway. “She’s under my protection, Diarmid. No matter what.”

  Diarmid smiled. “Of course, Laird. None shall harm her. ’Tis Highland custom to honor our guests. I’ll tend her like she was my own daughter.”

  Malcolm stepped out into the morning light. The wind off the sea was chilly, and he was clad only in his breeches now, naked to the waist, having left the lass most of his clothing. He stared at the MacLeod plaid in his hands.

  He had to hide it.

  Beside Diarmid’s hut was a wee byre, and a single skinny cow cast a baleful look at him over her shoulder. Her manger stood empty, and he pushed the plaid under it and covered the dirt floor around it with fresh straw. Then he filled the trough with hay for the cow.

  “Upon your most solemn oath, I hereby swear you to secrecy,” he told the cow in formal legal tones, but she snatched a mouthful of hay and ignored him.

  Malcolm walked back up the beach toward the castle, shirtless, with the salt-caked shift over his arm. Dougal would be waiting for him, and like Diarmid, he’d see the potential for a fine tale in the lass’s unusual arrival.

  Malcolm wasn’t a man accustomed to telling lies. The law was truth. But for the first time in his life, Malcolm MacDonald, lawyer, laird, and honorable gentleman, found himself making up a tale to explain why there was an enemy lass in Diarmid’s hut.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  If one thing could be said of the Dunbronach MacDonalds, it would be that they were kind. They welcomed strangers and friends alike when they happened to arrive, which they rarely did. On this occasion, not a single one of the MacDonald elders, not even Dougal, could recall an instance when a guest had arrived by sea, badly injured.

  And they were curious folk as well. The lass’s arrival stirred up a great deal of speculation, especially since their new laird, Malcolm Ban himself, had rescued her. Dougal had taken swift advantage of the situation and was already hailing the incident as a heroic deed.

  The seanchaidh had been at breakfast when Malcolm had returned from his wee walk by the sea clad only in his fine Lowland breeches and boots, without his shirt or his plaid, displaying the naked breadth of his manly chest. Even more remarkable, he was carrying a very pretty lace-trimmed garment over his arm. The laird had paused in the hall just long enough to ask Beitris if she knew where he could find a clean gown as close in size to the shift as possible. He asked her to wash and mend the garment, and disappeared into his chamber without another word of explanation, leaving the elders and Beitris to wonder just what their new laird had been up to before the sun was even awake.

  Dougal had gone upstairs to learn the full story. He returned from the laird’s chamber to tell Beitris—his wife—and the other elders a fantastic tale about a lass plucked insensible from the sea, saved by the laird from certain death. He couldn’t say why she’d come wearing only a shift. He only knew she was biding with Diarmid, who was tending her injuries.

  This prompted young Glenna, thirteen, to run off at once to see the lass, leaving the clan to examine the filmy nightgown, so finely spun it might have been made of gossamer and magic. The sight of such a fine garment made Catriona MacDonald sigh and suggest the lass might be the sea maiden herself, returned to Dunbronach early to grant the laird his wish.

  She fell silent when the laird hurried down the stairs, freshly washed, shaved, and dressed in his Lowland best—a fine lace neck cloth, a full-skirted coat in sober gray velvet trimmed with dark green, and matching gray breeches over polished black boots—and strode out the door again without a word.

  And the MacDonalds did what any curious and kindly clan would do—they followed him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Glenna MacDonald slipped into Diarmid’s hut without bothering to knock. “Hello, Diarmid.”

 
“Glenna,” the old man said, acknowledging her. She laid a basket of fish on the table and crossed to look at the woman still asleep in Diarmid’s bed. “Is this the lass the laird found?”

  “Aye,” he said, stirring a pot of broth over the fire.

  Glenna looked at the still form of the dark-haired creature under the MacDonald plaid. She lifted the bottom of it, and found a perfectly ordinary pair of feet. She peered at the delicate toes, but there was no webbing between the digits. She wasn’t a mermaid, then. Glenna felt a slither of disappointment. The woman didn’t move, so Glenna poked her leg. “Is she dead?”

  Diarmid chuckled. “Nay—she’s asleep. Even a blind man can see it’s her and not me ye’ve come to see, child. How did ye know she was here?”

  Glenna brought a stool close to the bed, sat down, and stared at the woman. “The laird returned from his morning walk with only half his clothes, with a woman’s shift over his arm. There’s been plenty of talk. Och, she’s bonny. Where’s she from?”

  “I dinna ken. The laird found her by the water as you see her—half-drowned.”

  Glenna leaned forward, touched the woman’s hand gently, running her grubby finger along the smooth white skin. There were no webs between her fingers either. Then another idea struck her. “Maybe she’s a selkie.”

  “Maybe she is at that. Then she’ll like a fish stew, won’t she?” Diarmid murmured pleasantly. He took the fish out of the basket and began to clean them.

  “Where’s her sealskin?” Glenna asked.

  “The laird said she was wearing naught but her shift,” Diarmid said. “He didn’t say anything about a sealskin.”

  “But he wouldn’t know, would he? If she was a selkie, she’d have taken it off and hidden it when she came on land so she could walk about like a human lass.”

  “Aye, I know the tale, child. Did Dougal tell ye about selkies?”