Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  Caden’s gaze lifted to Rachel. Her eyes were cold, concerned, dark. She shook her head. If Girshmel wasn’t working for the Munros, then who?

  “How could I possibly be valuable to someone up here in the Highlands?”

  Silence fell flat around the table along with everyone’s gazes.

  “Girshmel is a warrior for hire,” Caden said, drawing her attention. “He could be working for any of the clans around us. And yer beauty alone makes ye valuable.”

  Meg frowned as if she didn’t believe his explanation.

  “Also the fact that ye’re English makes ye valuable, especially if they could ransom ye back to yer family.”

  “Did the man say anything else that you remember?” Rachel asked.

  “Nay, not that I could hear.”

  Rachel squeezed Meg’s hand. “Then let us talk of better things.”

  Meg had slid closer to Caden during the tale and her thigh brushed his. Even through the many layers of material, the rush of her nearness surged through him. He could imagine the milk-white skin of her thigh pressed against his own. As Ann and Jonet continued to describe the intricate process of preparing wool for weaving, he lifted a cup, his arm brushing Meg’s. The slight flush to her neck was the only sign that she appreciated his proximity. She didn’t move away.

  Meg laughed at Jonet’s quip about male sheep being as stubborn as men and bowed her head, causing a curl to escape the tight weave of pearls. A copper honey lock slid against the delicate skin on the back of her neck. The stray turn of silk bounced up and down along her skin as she tipped and tilted her head. If they were alone, alone and without the bloody feud between them, he’d chase that curl with his tongue, savoring the taste of her skin, her delicate flower smell.

  “What say ye, Caden?” Ewan asked from across the table.

  Caden swallowed hard past the dryness that coated his throat and tore his eyes away from Meg’s neck. Ewan’s eyes held mischief and the edge of jealousy. “My mind has wandered from yer fascinating conversation about sheep,” he replied, his teasing tone making Jonet huff in mock indignation. “What is yer question, Ewan?”

  Ewan stared at Caden for a moment. “About Jonet’s woven cloth. Would there be a market to trade it down in the Lowlands, for grain?”

  Meg glanced along the table. “Are you low on grain? Was the harvest not good?”

  The talk around the table melted away. Angus choked on his ale at the far end, leading to a fit of coughing and cursing as Bruce tried to whack his back. Meg leaned forward across the table to see down to the end. Ewan’s eyes nearly fell from his face at the display and Jonet punched his arm.

  “Is he well?” Meg asked. “Perhaps I should check on him,” she said, leaning back. If not for Angus’s cough, she would have surely picked up on the tension in the suddenly still hall.

  “Old Angus is always coughing.” Ann indicated Meg’s plate. “Finish yer meal. He’ll wait.”

  Meg took another bite of meat. “Was the harvest a poor one, then?”

  All eyes drifted to Rachel Munro, who ate the last bite of venison on her plate. The crafty woman continued to chew as if her niece hadn’t just asked the most fury-invoking question she could.

  “Some harvests are large and some are small due to unforeseen circumstances,” Rachel said, her steely eyes daring anyone to throw the first stone. “Let us be thankful that the Lord provides this generous meat.”

  Meg murmured, “Amen,” and took another bite of roast goose.

  She leaned closer to Caden and the energy of her warmth flowed into him, making his muscles ache and his heart pound as if he were in battle. “I think,” Meg started, but then linked with Caden’s gaze and stopped. She sucked in her bottom lip for a brief instant, wetting its pink softness.

  Angus began to hack again.

  “I think…someone…” She moved her attention away from Caden, down the long table to Angus. “Should see about his coughing. Especially if it has been going on a long time. There was a man back home with a similar barking sound. He needed help. Perhaps Aunt Rachel could—”

  “I am quite exhausted, child.” Rachel rose.

  Caden and Ewan slowly stood after her, Caden more reluctant at having to break contact with Meg.

  “I think I will retire,” she said.

  Meg started to rise, but Rachel motioned for her to stay. “Perhaps you should speak to Angus about his cough.”

  “You know him?”

  Rachel stepped away from the table. “Of course.” She studied Meg, her eyes flicking to Caden. “Angus Riley courted me when I was fresh to the Highlands. Alec stole me right from under his nose.” Though Rachel walked away, regal as a queen, her soft but firm voice carried to Caden and those nearby. “I doubt Angus would let me talk to him, let alone pray over him.”

  “Well hell,” Ewan said and glanced down the table to Angus and back to Caden. “Not such an ancient feud after all,” he said and then caught himself.

  Too late; the words were out. Jonet, Ann, and Ewan stared at Meg. Meg watched Rachel pass the wall with the tapestry. The woman ran her hand over the weave before turning down the dark hall toward the stairwell.

  Meg turned to Caden. “That tapestry. The one depicting the beginning of the Munro and Macbain feud shows an injured woman.”

  Caden took a sip of his ale. He must give her enough truth to think she knew it all. Enough so she wouldn’t think he was hiding anything. “An ancient accident that the council likes to recall.”

  “Did she die?” Meg asked.

  “Unfortunately.”

  “There were two clans involved?”

  Bloody hell! Caden set his mug down casually. “Aye, Macbains and Munros.”

  “Oh.” Meg glanced at Ewan as if she suddenly understood his comment. “Best to smooth out new misunderstandings before they reignite the past,” she said and rose.

  “Where are ye going?” Caden asked.

  “To meet the council and my almost-uncle.”

  Upon seeing her moving their way, the three council members stood and walked to the hearth. Meg changed direction and followed.

  Jonet laughed. “They’re running from her.”

  Caden frowned at Ewan. “Perhaps they’re worried they may slip and tell the lass there’s a feud and that she’s in the bloody center of it,” he said pointedly.

  Ewan rubbed his face with his hand. “I think I’m done for the night.”

  “I better follow,” Caden said. “Who knows what they’ll say when cornered?” Then what would he do? He watched her sway gently across the thrushes. She’d find out soon enough, but not bloody yet.

  …

  Meg had chased them clear across the room, but unless they made a spectacle of themselves brushing past her, she’d cornered them. “I am Meg Boswell. I understand that the three of you are very important to this clan.”

  The three men glanced warily at one another.

  “You are the council?”

  “Aye, we are,” the man with a patch over one eye said. When the silence piled awkwardly between them he bowed his head stiffly. “I am Kenneth Macbain, a distant cousin to Caden’s father.”

  Meg curtsied.

  The man turned pink. “Kenneth. Call me Kenneth, or Ancient Kenneth.”

  “Ancient as in wise,” Meg said.

  “Ancient as in old as Hades,” the third man said, pulling on his gray-streaked beard until he winced, then grabbed his mug from the mantel over the hearth.

  Grumpy old men were often the funniest. “And you are…?”

  “Bruce Fenegin.” He stifled a belch.

  She bowed her head and turned to Angus. Should she admit that she knew his name?

  “Angus Riley,” he said and tipped his head, though his gaze wouldn’t meet hers for more than the briefest of seconds. Did the man still love her aunt? Poor soul.

  Bruce belched and murmured an excuse. Kenneth stared at her with his one sharp eye. Angus watched the flames and drowned another cough with ale
. Meg sat in a chair and the three followed. She felt comfortable with them. She’d grown up in the company of her older aunt and uncle and their few peers from the village. Older folk loved to tell stories and all one had to do to win them over was to listen. Maybe then she could get close enough to help Angus with his cough.

  “So ye are here to visit,” Kenneth said.

  Angus coughed into his hand. Dry, like brittle wind; not a good sound.

  “Yes, until my aunt returns for me.” If she could only touch Angus, she’d know for certain what ailed his lungs. From the way he squelched the cough, Meg didn’t think he’d like her probing him with questions…or her hands. He seemed to pretend the cough wasn’t there.

  She turned to Kenneth. “Has your eye been injured long?”

  “Aye.” He leaned back in his chair. “’Tis a bloody tale.”

  Meg matched his posture, a technique for dealing with difficult patients she’d learned from Aunt Mary. “I would like to hear a bloody tale.”

  Bruce laughed and farted at the same time. The poor man must be puffed up with gas. She’d send him some marjoram on the morrow.

  Kenneth narrowed his good eye. “Ye seem like a slight thing. I’d not have ye pale and fainting over the details.”

  Meg laughed. “I have yet to succumb to vapors over blood and gore. I’ve tended a few fresh injuries.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Kenneth said. He propped his hands on his knees. “Very well, then. I was but ten and twenty, young, brash, full of strength.”

  Bruce snorted and Angus chuckled. She turned her gaze to Kenneth, though out of the periphery she watched Caden relax against the hearth. Her heart picked up a pounding beat, but she feigned complete attention to Kenneth’s description of the battlefield.

  “We rode along Loch Tuinn one winter morn after riding the Macbain perimeter.” He paused. “Something we do—” he moved his fingers in a circle “—ride the perimeter of The Macbain’s holdings to watch for interlopers.”

  The fire cast a warm glow to Caden’s sun-bronzed skin. Meg pushed her focus back to Kenneth.

  “And then out of nowhere above us, the bloody Mun…the bloody enemy—” Kenneth swooped his hand down in the air “—charged down upon us.” His eye grew round and his arms more animated until Meg found herself caught up in the old warrior’s vivid tale of good versus ultimate evil. Details of slashing and swinging brought additional insight and corrections from Bruce and Angus.

  “How many limbs were lost?” she asked.

  Bruce screwed up his face to think. “At least six by my count.”

  She shook her head, sad and in awe.

  “And a mace caught my eye.” Kenneth flipped up the eye patch, showing a badly scarred, stitched-shut eye socket.

  Meg stood to peer closer. “I’d have done a better job stitching.”

  Angus coughed into his fist and Bruce laughed. “Angus didn’t have the steadiest fingers even then.”

  “I’m sorry, Angus,” she said and touched his arm. Instantly, Meg assessed the man’s lungs. They were stuffed with taint, thick as pond mud. St. John’s wort brewed in hot wine or water could help some. She’d ask Aunt Rachel for help. She patted his arm. “You did just fine.”

  “I was torn apart myself.” Angus slid up his tunic to reveal a long, white scar that spanned his chest. “I got this at the same battle.”

  “And I this,” Bruce said and showed a jagged line along his inner thigh.

  “Bruce, ye old bull, keep yer kilt down.” Kenneth snorted and yanked Bruce’s kilt back down. Bruce turned red while Kenneth, Angus, and even Caden chuckled.

  “Quite impressive wounds, sirs. And to think you all survived to tell the tale.” She shook her head, causing another curl to come down to tickle her neck. Good thing she didn’t plan to attend court with hair so desperate for freedom.

  Caden had quieted behind her yet his gaze warmed her. She tucked the strand but kept her attention on the three elders.

  “That can’t be your only tale of bravery,” she said. And indeed it wasn’t. Kenneth, Angus, and Bruce continued with story after story of battles of yore. They tried to one up each other continuously until she fell into a fit of merriment. The three attracted a small crowd with their flying hands and wide flung arms as they began to reenact the contests of strength and stealth.

  She laughed again and leaned back in her chair. Caden still stood slightly behind against the hearth. Meg glanced in his direction and caught his eye. He was so handsome, like a gallant knight. She almost sighed. What was wrong with her? She certainly hadn’t drunk enough ale to elicit such thoughts. She smoothed a hand over her fluttery stomach and wet her suddenly dry lips. His grin faded.

  “Meg will choose!” Bruce hollered over the boasting and raucous laughter of the younger warriors.

  All eyes turned to her. “Choose?” What was it that she should be choosing? “How could I ever choose?” she asked playfully, surmising from the way Angus winked and Kenneth pointed to his own chest that she was to choose amongst the three old warriors. “What are the criteria?” she asked, mirth tearing her eyes.

  “The most brave,” Kenneth said.

  “The most cunning,” Bruce answered with a belch.

  “The most knightly,” Angus said.

  “The most humble,” Caden added from his spot, causing the room to erupt in a pounding roar of deep chuckles and whoops.

  She joined the laughter. What a wonderful group. She’d never felt so included. As the room quieted, Meg tapped one finger against her lip. “Hmmm…how to choose? You all have terrible scars.” The three elderly warriors nodded. Kenneth even flipped up his eye patch. “You are all the bravest warriors I’ve ever heard of.” To that snorts and murmurs came from the younger men.

  “How about us, lass?” Kieven called from the back.

  Caden’s perusal wafted over her like the touch of silk on skin. “Tonight I judge the wisdom and experience acquired through a lifetime of strategy and battles.” With her words Angus, Bruce, and Kenneth puffed up even more if that were possible.

  Meg huffed in frustrated resignation. “Alas, I cannot rule for one against the other two. You three are cunning, brave, and strong.” She stood and sunk into a deep curtsey. “I choose each of you.” She rose and they bowed. “I know under the protection of the three of you, I would always be safe.”

  Kenneth grinned. Bruce shuffled his foot in the rushes. Angus just turned red. Meg’s contentment took in the whole audience. “I’m afraid these exciting stories have thrilled me to exhaustion.”

  The room grumbled.

  “I will see ye to yer room, lass,” Donald called. He stepped forward and then hastily stepped back when another hand firmly grasped her elbow. Meg’s breath hitched and her stomach flipped at the contact. From the strength, self-assurance, and fresh pine smell emanating from the man, she knew it was Caden.

  They walked up the long, dark flight of stone steps in silence. They were alone. Would he kiss her again? He held a taper to throw back the shadows. When they stopped at her door, she turned to him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  The flame cast shadows over his face.

  “For the first time in my life I’m not checking constantly over my shoulder. For the first time I am free.”

  Cold, restrained anger pulled at his features. He didn’t look at all like someone who had just been thanked. Forget him kissing her.

  “Caden?”

  He reached around and pushed open the door to her chamber. He grabbed her elbow and steered her into the room and yanked the barrier shut between them. Meg stared at the solid oak as she listened to his boots fade down the corridor.

  …

  Caden stormed down the steps to the great hall, which had nearly emptied after Meg’s exit. He headed for the doors, somewhere away from the sweet smell and thank-yous of his bloody beautiful captive.

  “Lovely lass,” Bruce called. “And quite bonny.”

  “That one’s got spirit,” Angus
agreed. “Not afraid of a little blood.”

  Bruce belched. “She’s a healer.”

  “She’d make a good Highland bride,” Angus said.

  “Hard to believe she’s a Munro.” Kenneth lifted his mug to his lips.

  Caden’s words started low. “Yet she is a Munro, favored niece of Alec Munro, your sworn enemy.”

  Kenneth’s mug stopped in midair, his eyebrow quirking up over his good eye.

  Bloody hell! They’d been so easily won over, all of them. “Yet the three of you and the rest treat her like Stewart royalty.”

  Angus hushed him. Caden turned toward the glowing embers in the hearth and kicked them, sending sparks and ash snapping in the pit.

  “I believe,” Kenneth said, “’twas your order to treat her like a guest.”

  Caden certainly remembered that order. As a guest, Meg wouldn’t try to escape, making life easier on everyone—everyone except him. Now he had Meg thanking him for rescuing her, smiling and lowering her long lashes at him as she talked about never being free until now.

  Free? Ha! What was freedom anyway? He had surely never witnessed it. There was no freedom being raised as a future chief. There was no freedom from the quest to feed his clan, from the faces of starving children that haunted his dreams. Freedom was a false sensation. Meg would learn it soon enough. She’d learn it and her smile would die.

  “I know what I said,” Caden ground out, trying to hold onto his fury. He had to get outdoors into the night air, where he could breathe again. “Rachel will leave on the morrow, she’ll negotiate with Alec, and Meg will be gone within a week. Don’t get attached.”

  “Don’t be getting yourself in a temper,” Bruce said.

  “Aye,” Kenneth added as Caden turned and strode toward escape. “Or else someone will start to think you’re the one getting attached.”

  Chapter Seven

  26 November 1517—Melancholy Thistle: drooping pink thistle head, flowers in summer. Decoction of the flowers or root in wine to dispel all melancholy diseases.

  Find the Scottish variety as it is the most potent for dispelling doom. I must find an honorable Highlander to show me the best locations.