Highland Jewel

by Markland, Anna

  “Am I a Jew?” she wanted to ask as she gulped air, glad she could breathe at last.

  “Ye’re alive.”

  Was she alive? She must be, but she closed her eyes, giving in to the temptation to slip back into pain-free oblivion.

  “Stay awake,” he said.

  The meager light revealed his anger. She followed his gaze and saw the front of her gown was torn. “Thirsty,” she rasped, trying to right the ripped bodice with fingers that refused to work properly. My throat is a desert was too difficult to manage.

  “I’ll get water,” another man said.

  Her rescuer covered the torn gown with a plaid, and she didn’t have the strength to fend off his hands as they wandered over her body. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid.

  “Do ye think ye’ve broken any bones?” he asked.

  She touched a hand to her head, wondering why it felt sticky. “Hurts.”

  “Aye. Ye’ve a nasty gash, but ye seem fine everywhere else.”

  She wasn’t fine, but she’d be dead soon, so it didn’t matter.

  The man who’d gone for water returned and knelt beside her to hold something to her lips. He was younger than the other man—and crying.

  “Dinna cry,” she murmured after a few sips of water. “What’s yer name?”

  He gaped, seemingly reluctant to tell her.

  Perhaps these weren’t friends after all.

  “’Tis yer brother,” one explained softly.

  “I’ve a brother?” she asked.

  Nay, I’d ken if ’twere true. They’ve mistaken me for somebody else.

  The kind man took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. “Do ye nay recognize me? I’m Garnet Barclay, the mon who loves ye.”

  “I’m pleased to meet ye, Mr. Barclay, and I thank ye for rescuing me from…”

  She couldn’t immediately think what it was she was being rescued from.

  “Let’s get her into the fresh air,” the man who claimed to be her brother said.

  “Aye,” Barclay agreed, taking hold of her arm. “Can ye stand?”

  “Nay.”

  Next thing she knew she was on her feet, held up by both men.

  “There’s a ladder,” Barclay said, taking each hand in his and curling her fingers round something rough. “Put yer foot on the first step.”

  She looked down, which made her dizzier. “I canna…”

  Someone took hold of her ankle and lifted her foot.

  She gritted her teeth when Barclay put his hands on her waist and pushed her body upwards with his own.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Ye’re doing fine. One more step.”

  The climbing was hard, but his body was warm and strong, and she liked the feel of it against her back. She must be a wanton woman. No wonder she’d been bound and gagged in a cellar.

  She cried out when bright light sent agonizing pain arrowing deeper into her skull.

  * * *

  Garnet kept his hands on Jewel’s hips until he was sure Murtagh and Jock had a firm grip on her arms. It wasn’t proper, but he was more worried about her confusion than propriety. As he levered himself out of the hole, he hoped she’d regain her wits once she had a chance to rest and get her bearings.

  Gray emerged right behind him. “She didna recognize me—her own brother. What did they do to her?”

  Jewel collapsed on the cold stone floor, evidently exhausted by the climb. She clutched his plaid to her breasts, and he was glad her degradation wasn’t visible to anyone else.

  “We must be grateful she’s alive,” he replied as Murtagh carefully sluiced her head wound with water. “’Tis deeper than I thought,” he admitted. “I suspect the blow stole her wits.”

  “Aye,” Murtagh agreed. “Very nasty. I’ll kill those bastards when I get my hands on them.”

  Garnet shook his head. “We canna worry about the fugitives now. I say we leave them to the dragoons. ’Tis unlikely we’ll find a friendly house in this area where Jewel can recover. I propose we ride for Blairgowrie.”

  “How far is that?” Gray asked.

  “Three hours, give or take,” Murtagh said. “But such a ride might worsen her injuries.”

  “We canna stay here,” Garnet retorted. “I’ll cradle her on my lap.”

  “Ye’d best take my horse in that case,” Gray replied. “Scepter canna carry two.”

  “Good thinking,” Murtagh said as Jock returned to the scene with the blacksmith’s sack of ointments and bandages.

  Looks Familiar

  Her head was stuffed with the feathers from a thousand pillows. Opening her eyes intensified the jagged sliver of pain in her skull. The man cradling her in his strong arms was doing his best to shield her from the jarring movements of the horse.

  She should ask where they were going, but lifting her head from his shoulder required too much effort.

  His scent was comforting, his words of reassurance soothing, though she had no idea who he was. How was she to believe he loved her?

  He insisted her name was Jewel and his was Garnet. Such fanciful notions. He must be a poet.

  He tucked his plaid around her more tightly when the rain began, and she snuggled deeper into the safe cocoon of his embrace, hoping she hadn’t uttered her thoughts aloud.

  * * *

  Jewel deemed him fanciful. Aye, he’d harbored fantasies about the coincidence of their names, but that all seemed a long time ago.

  Garnet assumed she’d sustained the blow to her head when they dropped her into the dungeon. The injury had evidently stolen her wits, and he could only hope and pray she regained them once the wounds began to heal. On the other hand, he’d heard it said the mind sometimes chose to forget, and he had no way of knowing if she’d been violated by her captors. Only on their wedding night would he…

  Despite his determination not to become aroused, a pleasant tingling stirred at the prospect of lying safe in a featherbed, thrusting into Jewel’s wet heat. But that dream might never come to fruition now, though it made no difference to him if she’d lost her maidenhead to criminals. If he’d been more cautious and not preoccupied with confronting Murtagh, she’d never have been kidnapped. He resolved to make it up to her with a lifetime of love.

  He thirsted to lavish kisses on her bruised face, lacerated wrists and bandaged head, but didn’t want to resurrect memories of physical abuse and fear. Lovingly cupping her breasts was out of the question, despite the overwhelming urge to do so.

  No one spoke as they journeyed north. Only the distant cawing of crows intruded into the silence. Spooked from the heather, hares bounded away.

  The stern set of Gray’s clenched jaw indicated his inner turmoil—he believed the fugitives had raped his sister.

  Angry sadness kept the eyes of every Highlander intent on the path.

  However, Jewel seemed content to be cradled in his arms, even nestling closer when the drizzle began.

  “Ye’re safe with me,” he told her for the thousandth time.

  “I ken,” she murmured.

  He inhaled deeply, taking her response as a good omen.

  His feelings about returning to Blairgowrie were mixed. He’d envisaged a difficult homecoming even before Jewel’s kidnapping. The sorry tale of his misadventures in Amsterdam would confirm his mother’s long-held belief all Protestant countries were agents of Satan. He expected to be reminded a hundred times of her dire warnings.

  To compound the uncertainty, he was bringing home the love of his life, the woman he wanted to wed who didn’t know him. In addition, his escort consisted of a troop of Highlanders who may have participated in the destruction of his ancestral home.

  He reined Crown to a halt within sight of the manor house. “Barclay Grange yonder,” he declared.

  Jewel’s brother seemed to wake from his trance, startling Aristotle snoozing on his lap. “Bigger than I thought,” he muttered.

  A wave of relief rolled up Garnet’s spine. Jewel was in no fit state to care about his home, but he
was glad he hadn’t brought her to a ruin. The house and gardens looked well cared for, the huge expanse of windows clean and intact. The surrounding fields were dotted with grazing sheep and lambs. His family had evidently prospered in his absence.

  Seeing the house again conjured happy memories. His upbringing had been strict, but he and his sisters knew they were loved. His parents had done their best to provide for their brood, despite the hardships caused by the destruction of the manor house and the loss of their livestock. The injustice had pervaded their early years, but hadn’t destroyed the Barclay family.

  It felt good to be home, despite the difficulties that lay ahead.

  “This place looks familiar,” Murtagh grunted, scattering Garnet’s fledgling optimism to the four winds.

  * * *

  She stirred, suddenly aware it was no longer raining and they’d stopped.

  “I’ve brought ye home,” Garnet said.

  The unusual hint of uncertainty in his voice was puzzling. He seemed to be waiting for her reply. “’Tis grand,” she said truthfully. “Big windows.”

  “Aye,” he chuckled. “We need as much light as we can get in Highland winters.”

  It was gratifying her opinion mattered, though she didn’t understand the reason.

  “My parents live here,” he explained.

  “They’ll be happy to see ye,” she replied. “Have ye been away long?”

  “Aye,” he growled, his good humor gone.

  The fear she’d felt in the cave closed her throat. “Will they mind yer bringing me?”

  “Nay,” he said quickly. “My married sisters and their families live here too, so ’twill seem overwhelming at first. They’ll calm down when I explain ye need peace and quiet after what happened to ye.”

  “What did happen?” she asked, bereft that she recalled nothing of how she’d come to be lying injured in a black hole.

  His arms tightened around her. “We’ll speak of it later. The bairns have spotted us.”

  Homecoming

  Garnet’s nephews approached, cautiously at first then with more confidence when they recognized him. “Is it ye, Uncle?” they asked at once, clinging to his legs. “Who’s she?”

  Gray appeared at his side and took Jewel from his lap so he could dismount.

  “And who’s he?” Ian asked Garnet. “And who are…”

  He put his arm around his eldest nephew’s shoulder and gathered the others to him. “There’ll be time enough to explain everything. Let me see how much ye’ve all grown.”

  They carried on bombarding him with questions as he hugged them, until they noticed Aristotle. When they turned their attention to petting the puppy, Garnet glanced at Jewel. Her furrowed brow indicated lingering pain, but the bemused smile on her face warmed his heart. “I’ll introduce ye later,” he said, relieving Gray of his burden.

  “They’re taken with yer dog,” she remarked to her brother.

  “He isna my dog,” he replied. “Do ye nay remember he belongs to the Guthries?”

  She tightened her grip on Garnet’s neck. “The Guthries?”

  The panic in her eyes convinced him they’d have to go slowly. “Aye. Time enough for that. Here comes my sister.”

  Beaming a smile, Sissy waddled towards them. With tears welling, she reached up to cup Garnet’s face. “Praise be ye’ve returned. We’ve missed ye.”

  He bent to kiss her cheek. “I’ve missed ye, too, and I see there’s another wee one on the way.”

  She mopped the tears with her pinny. “Aye. I’m hoping for a lass this time.”

  “Ye’re the spitting image of Mam,” he said.

  She smiled, staring hard at the bandaged woman he was carrying, and there was no mistaking the curiosity in her glance.

  “Our guest is Lady Jewel Pendray, from Ayrshire. She sustained a blow to the head and needs to convalesce.”

  Sissy bobbed a curtsey, evidently impressed. “Pleased to meet ye, Lady Pendray. Any friend of my brother’s is welcome. Do ye have brothers?”

  “Nay,” Jewel replied.

  “I’m her brother, Gray Pendray.”

  Red-faced, Sissy frowned at Gray, then curtseyed again, clearly nonplussed. “Mam and Margaret are in the house. I’ll let them know to prepare a bed for Lady Jewel.”

  When Garnet followed, his older sister emerged from the dwelling. If Sissy was a replica of their mother, Margaret was as tall, lean and spare as their father. A hint of a bump at her belly indicated she too might be with child, but he couldn’t be certain. She hadn’t looked pregnant scant days before her sons had been born, whereas Sissy…

  Margaret’s smile said she was glad to see him, but there would be no tears. Like her sire, she kept her emotions under careful control.

  “Ye’re a sight for sore eyes,” she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her skirts. “And who’s this lass?”

  He made the introductions again, not surprised when there was no curtsey forthcoming.

  “We’d best get her inside.” She narrowed her eyes at the Highlanders. “Who are these men?”

  “Our escort,” Gray explained. “Retainers from home. They’ll set up camp in yon field, if that’s all right with Mr. Barclay.”

  Margaret shrugged as she strode off. “He willna care. He’s dead.”

  As if sensing her bearer’s knees were about to buckle, Jewel whispered, “I can stand if ye need to put me down.”

  Scarcely able to breathe, he set her on her feet, keeping an arm around her waist so she could lean on him. “Daddy’s dead?” he shouted to Margaret’s retreating back.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Did ye nay ken? A year gone.”

  The urge to retort that no one in his family had sent a single reply to any of his letters when he’d first gone to Amsterdam…and besides, he’d been in prison—but he could hardly blurt out that alarming fact. The recriminations stuck in his dry throat.

  “’Tis all right to cry,” Jewel whispered as he scooped her up again. The genuine sorrow in her words gave him strength. When she shyly kissed his cheek, he wanted to bury his head in her breasts and cry like a baby.

  “I was never close to my father,” he admitted. “But I should have been here.”

  “Ye canna blame yerself,” she soothed.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat when his mother appeared in the doorway, arms folded across her copious bosom.

  * * *

  Mrs. Barclay fussed over her like a brooding hen and she was soon soaking in a tub of hot water in front of the kitchen fireplace.

  She was nervous about her nudity at first until Garnet’s mother assured her the bairns had been told in no uncertain terms not to enter the house. “Garnet’s gone to see his father’s grave,” she added. “The young lad—Gray is it?—he’s with the Highlanders who accompanied ye.”

  The kind woman bathed, salved and rebandaged her head, tutted over the many bruises covering her body—which came as surprise to her as well—and chivvied her daughters to heat towels, make the bed with the best linens and keep stirring the broth in the cauldron suspended over the fire.

  It should have been soothing, but she fretted, aggravating the headache. She couldn’t explain the bruises, nor the gash on her head, nor who she was. “Garnet says my name is Jewel,” she murmured. “But I think he made that up.”

  “The lad who says he’s yer brother confirms it,” Mrs. Barclay said softly. “And my son obviously cares about ye. He wouldna lie.”

  It was pleasing to think Garnet liked her. She’d begun to feel drawn to him, but mayhap that was simply because he’d rescued her. A lass couldn’t be attracted to a man she didn’t know. Could she? “He told me a fanciful tale as we traveled—about the reason for my name—but I think it was more to keep me awake.”

  “Tell it to me.”

  “He said my mother named me Jewel because during some rebellion years ago she spirited away important jewels from a castle in the Highlands.”

  Mrs. Barclay dropped the soap a
nd made a sign across her body. “Saints alive! Ye are the daughter of Hannah Kincaid?”

  “Ye ken the story?” she asked.

  “Aye. Every Highlander loyal to the king kens it.”

  “’Tis true then?”

  “Aye, but dinna fret too much about remembering it all right away. We’ll get ye to bed. Rest is the best cure for everything.”

  The bath was enjoyable but the hot water drained what little energy she had. Before she knew it, Mrs. Barclay had rubbed her dry, pulled a linen nightdress over her head and tucked her into bed.

  * * *

  Garnet knelt in the grass in the family graveyard amid the bones of generations of his ancestors, and stared at the cross marking his father’s final resting place. “I didna ken,” was all he could think to say.

  His mother had vehemently opposed his decision to go to Amsterdam, but his father was proud his son had been recruited by the Dutch East India Company. It was the one and only time he’d ever heard a word of praise from his sire. He couldn’t recall another instance of Domnall Barclay overruling his wife.

  “I never really kent ye at all,” he admitted. “Unlike Jewel and Gray who speak of their father like a friend.”

  He resolved to strive for the same kind of relationship if ever he sired bairns. “Ye’d like Jewel,” he told his father. “Her mother was Hannah Kincaid. Aye. Imagine. I’m in love with the daughter of a true Scottish heroine.”

  “Do ye truly love her?”

  He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, got to his feet and opened the gate for his mother. “With all my heart, but ’tis my fault she was kidnapped.”

  She sat down heavily on the stone bench tucked in the shade of a gnarled oak. “Ye’d best tell me the whole story.”

  He sat beside her, gripped the edge of the bench and let everything spill out, from the catastrophe of Amsterdam to the relief of finding Jewel in the bottle dungeon.

  Emotionally drained, he stared into nothingness, until she patted his hand. “And what will ye do if she doesna regain her memory?”