The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  “Aye.” The elderly woman appeared flustered. She knew this English woman was a prisoner of the laird. Yet she could not help liking her. It was all so disturbing. “It is time for ye to return to the laird’s chambers, m’lady. On the morrow we will begin to scour the scullery.”

  “As you wish.” Leonora got slowly to her feet and meekly followed Rupert from the room. As she did, she noted a peg on which hung several cloaks. At the first opportunity, she would steal one, to add to her hoard beneath the pallet. She could not be expected to survive the Highlands with only the clothes on her back.

  “I will need more servants to prepare the evening meal,” the housekeeper announced to those who were on their hands and knees in the scullery, early the next day.

  “I would be pleased to help,” Leonora said.

  The housekeeper was so startled, she could think of no polite way to refuse such a generous offer. Since she had joined them, the prisoner had volunteered for every difficult duty. “Aye. Ye will follow me, then.”

  Leonora and the others trooped out of the scullery behind Mistress MacCallum, with Rupert and Flame following. As they moved along the hallway, Leonora noted every turn. This fortress seemed to be a maze of darkened passageways and heavy doors leading to more darkened hallways and cavernous rooms. But she had begun to familiarize herself with them.

  In the huge kitchen, whole pigs were being roasted over hot coals, and a deer was turning slowly over an open fire.

  Leonora stepped up beside a lass kneading bread, and began to help. When that was done, she moved to a tray of partridges being prepared for the fire and sprinkled them with dried herbs.

  She glanced around and, seeing no one watching her, slipped a small, sharp knife into the pocket of her gown. Then she continued working. Soon, caught up in the pleasant smells and familiar work, her sunny smile and easy chatter won the confidence of the kitchen maids as easily as her hard work and determination had won over the other servants.

  “Would the laird like tarts tonight, Mistress MacCallum, or puddings?” one of the servants asked.

  The housekeeper paused, considering.

  “Why not both?” Leonora suggested.

  The housekeeper looked at her in surprise. Then, nodding slowly, she replied, “Aye. Why not indeed?” She turned to the serving wench. “Let the lady help ye with that, lass.”

  Leonora gave a smile of relief. She had worked up a tremendous appetite this day. At least, if she was allowed to help with the cooking, she would be able to satisfy her hunger with palatable food.

  Rupert, alone by the door, pressed a hand to his stomach. So many wonderful meats roasting. So many delightful sweets baking. Just when he thought he could bear it no longer, Leonora surprised him by crossing to his side.

  “I thought you might like to try this.” She handed him a steaming tart.

  “Did you read my thoughts?” he asked. Biting into the pastry he closed his eyes from the sheer pleasure of it. “I have ne’er tasted anything like it, my lady.”

  “Then you shall have another. Gwynnith,” she called.

  The servant limped over, and Leonora whispered, “See that my fierce guard has another tart.”

  It seemed a most pleasant duty to the lass, as she carried a tart to the young guard. Their fingers brushed when she handed it to him, and he glanced at her in time to see her lashes lower in a most becoming fashion. With his gaze still fixed on her, he popped the tart into his mouth.

  “Thank you, Gwynnith,” he murmured.

  “You are most welcome.” Her cheeks bloomed with color.

  They both looked up as the door was suddenly thrown open and Dillon strode furiously into the room. The sound of laughter died on the servants’ lips. Heads came up sharply. Rupert chewed furiously, hoping to swallow the evidence of his indiscretion.

  Dillon’s voice was unusually harsh as he confronted Leonora. “Woman, I have been searching everywhere for you. Why are you not in my chambers?”

  Her head lifted defiantly. “You gave your permission for me to work with the servants. And it should be obvious why I am not in your chambers. I am here, helping Mistress MacCallum with the cooking.”

  The servants, hearing her sharp retort, shifted uncomfortably. No one had ever dared to speak to the laird in such a manner.

  Dillon allowed his withering glare to roam over her until she flinched beneath his scrutiny. Could he see the weapon she had concealed in her pocket? Had he guessed her plans?

  With his gaze still fastened on Leonora, he bellowed, “Has the woman been giving you a full measure of work, Mistress MacCallum?”

  The housekeeper hurried across the room and stood beside Leonora, hoping to diffuse the temper she could read in Dillon’s eyes. “Aye, m’laird. The lady puts us all to shame wi’ her hard work.”

  With no flicker of emotion, he said to Leonora. “You will come with me now to my chambers.”

  “I have not finished the—”

  His fingers closed around her arm and he propelled her forward. “Now, woman. When the laird summons, you do not hesitate.” To Rupert, he said, “I will not need you again, lad, until the morrow.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The boy swallowed the last of his tart and watched as Dillon hauled his prisoner toward the stairway.

  An uncomfortable stillness settled over the room and its occupants while they fretted over the fate of the Englishwoman. For these last few days, she had been like one of them. Now she had been snatched away, to become once again a prisoner of their laird. More than a few felt a wave of pity for the woman.

  Even Flame found herself wondering why her brother always seemed in such a foul temper when he was around the prisoner. Though she despised the English, she had to admit she had been unable to find fault with this woman’s behavior.

  “Come now.” Mistress MacCallum clapped her hands and motioned for the servants to get back to their chores. “The laird will be wanting to sup soon. Heaven only knows how many more soldiers will be at table this night.”

  For Flame, this brief reprieve meant she could hurry to the stables and ride across the meadows for a blissful hour of freedom. As was her custom, she slipped away unnoticed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “H ave you charted your escape route yet, woman?”

  Leonora’s heart stopped. Swallowing, she glanced at Dillon’s angry profile and hoped she sounded sufficiently innocent. “I do not know what you are saying.”

  “Do not play with me, woman. I know what you most desire.” Though he turned on her, he was careful not to touch her, for to do so always brought him a fresh jolt. “And I know now why you offered to help Mistress MacCallum.”

  It had come to him on his long ride across a Highland meadow, after recruiting more soldiers for his cause. With blinding clarity he had understood what the female was plotting. Would he have not done the same in her place? he thought with grudging admiration.

  “I will grant you this. You are a clever female.” Aye. Too clever for her own good. Now he would have to assign even more men to guard her. Men he could ill afford to spare. And all because he’d been tricked into allowing her to roam Kinloch House freely, under the guise of helping the servants. “By now you have probably noted every door, every passageway, every means of escape.”

  When he’d realized what she was plotting, he had ridden like the wind. His relief at finding her calmly working in the kitchens had been so great, he was still reeling from it. He had half expected to find her gone.

  “I would have to be ten people to do all the things that you accuse me of.” She had no choice now but to continue to deny all his accusations, no matter how dangerously accurate they may be.

  After the sound of so many female voices, the silence of the hallway seemed ominous to Leonora’s ears. She moved along beside Dillon, her footsteps dragging. The climb up the wide staircase was as daunting as climbing a mountain. She was certain that he had found the food and weapon she had hidden under the pallet. That must be why he
was aware of her plans. By the time they reached his chambers, she found herself tensing as she waited for him to open the heavy door.

  Once inside, Dillon stormed across the room to the side table, where he poured himself a goblet of ale. She glanced around, expecting to see her cache exposed. There was no sign of it. Could it be that he had not discovered it?

  Seeing her pallor, Dillon filled a second goblet and handed it to her. She lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. The warmth of it flowed through her veins, restoring her flagging energy.

  Feeling his dark gaze upon her, she walked to the fireplace and stared into the dancing flames. She should have known that Dillon Campbell would not long be fooled.

  She jumped at the sound of his voice, low and angry, beside her. “It was clever of you to smear the dirt upon your person so that I would believe you had actually worked with the servants.”

  She stiffened, but said nothing in her defense. In his present state of mind, he was beyond believing her. Instead, she quickly emptied her goblet and set it aside.

  Seeing the way her head lifted, he knew his barbs had found their mark. That only goaded him into hurling more. “I was a fool to believe a noble Englishwoman would work alongside lowly serving wenches. Did you sit upon a chaise and demand tea and biscuits all day while the work went on around you?”

  She gritted her teeth and thought about all the things she would like to say to this Highland oaf, but she was far too weary to be goaded into a fight. Keeping her gaze on the fire, she lifted her head a fraction more, and stiffened her spine. She would not give him the fight he so obviously desired.

  Dillon drained his goblet and set it on the mantel, then faced her. She refused to look at him.

  “Aye. Turn away, lying English wench,” he muttered. “But it does not matter. I know what you scheme. And it will not work. You will remain my prisoner here until my brothers are free. I care not if your flesh rots and your father’s heart breaks. I care only for the safety of my brothers.”

  At the mention of her father’s heart, she turned on him, her eyes blazing with all the hatred she had stored up. “Aye. You care not that my father’s heart breaks. You claim to care only about your precious brothers. I am sick to death of hearing about them. I have seen the zeal with which you make your plans, Highlander. It is not their freedom that burns in your blood. It is the thought of battle. I see you and your friends, aye, even your sister, combing the countryside for men and arms. You lust, not for justice, but for the blood of Englishmen. To declare otherwise is a lie.”

  For a moment, he was rendered speechless by her outburst. His eyes widened as he stared at her. Then, without warning, the corners of his lips curled upward, and he began to laugh.

  It was not the response she had anticipated.

  The sound of his laughter fueled her anger. “You find my words amusing?”

  “Nay.” He wiped a tear from his eye and struggled to compose himself. But the laughter bubbled up again. “It is not your words, woman. It is you. Look at you.”

  He caught her by the shoulders and turned her toward the looking glass. She saw the reflection of her soiled gown, bearing the filth of the floor and the soot of the fireplace. Her hair hung in damp tendrils, curling limply around her face. When she caught sight of the flour that dusted her cheek, and the dirt that smudged her forehead and nose, she felt the beginnings of a blush at the base of her throat. Her own father would hardly recognize her.

  Dillon, too, was studying her reflection. So great was his desire to brush away the dusting of flour, he had to will his hands to remain at his sides. His smile faded as he reminded himself that this was all a sham.

  “You played your part well. Now, wash yourself, woman. Then we will go below stairs and sup.” His tone was abrupt, with no trace of the laughter from just minutes before.

  When he turned away, she walked to the basin and filled it with water from the pitcher. Her mind was awhirl with plots and schemes. Seeing Dillon’s gaze averted for a moment, she slipped the knife from her pocket and tucked it beneath the sleeping pallet.

  In her mind she went over her plan of escape. From the balcony, she had seen a door in the wall of a garden. A door that no one seemed to use. She would have to find out where that door led, for that was her door to freedom.

  Knowing Dillon watched her, she took a throw from the sleeping pallet and draped it around herself for modesty. She removed her kid boots, her gown and her petticoats. Wearing only her chemise, she began to wash. When she had finished, she lifted a brush to her hair and tried to arrange it, but her movements were oddly slow and awkward. The lack of food, the grueling work and the pain in her muscles conspired to weaken her. She gave up and turned her attention to her gown. With soap and water she began to wash the soiled areas, scrubbing at each spot until she was satisfied that the gown was presentable. Draping it across a chair by the fire, she decided to sit a while and allow it to dry.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead. She was so warm. No doubt it was the ale. It had dulled her senses, making it impossible to think.

  She drew the fur throw around her and curled up on the floor in front of the fire. She would not allow herself to sleep, for she could ill afford to further incur Dillon’s wrath. She would merely rest her eyes for a moment.

  Her lids closed. She could hear Dillon moving around in the sitting chamber, but she could not rouse herself. It felt so good to just lie there unmoving.

  She must not fall asleep, she cautioned herself. She must be ready to sup when Dillon summoned her.

  That was her last coherent thought before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Dillon stood with one hand resting atop the mantel. His gaze was riveted on the flames.

  Sutton and Shaw. He believed, strongly, that they were still alive. If not, he would know it in his heart. But though he had faith that they were still alive, it was not enough. What condition were they in? He had seen proof of the cruel treatment of Scots prisoners in English dungeons. Every day that he hesitated was another day of torture for his brothers.

  A part of him wanted to raise an army big enough to destroy anything that stood in the way of their freedom. Another part of him wanted to slip away, alone, and see to his brothers’ safety as he always had.

  His army was growing. This day, another ten and five had pledged their arms to him. But it would be a fortnight or more before he would have the number necessary to meet the English.

  God in heaven, how he hated this waiting.

  His hand clenched into a fist and he turned away, intent upon venting his anger on his favorite target—the woman.

  Why did she vex him so? How was it that she had the power to rouse his anger one moment, and send him into spasms of laughter the next? What mystical powers did she possess, that all who met her fell victim to her charm?

  Though he had tried to ignore it, he had seen the reaction of the servants when he had spoken sharply to the woman. Already they were accepting her as one of them. And what of Rupert? The lad had every right to mistrust the English, yet he watched her with the eyes of an adoring puppy. Then there was Mistress MacCallum, as hardened an English-hater as any he had ever known. Yet she had told him that the woman had worked alongside the servants. What would induce the housekeeper to lie, if it was indeed a lie?

  He knew one thing. Nothing would soften his heart. So long as his brothers were held prisoner by the English, his heart must remain hardened against this female. Her fate was tied to theirs. Her treatment would be no better.

  When he entered the sleeping chamber, his gaze fell upon the figure huddled before the fire.

  “Woman, what are you doing? You knew we…”

  Puzzled by her lack of response, he paused and dropped to one knee. His throat went dry at the sight that greeted him.

  She lay in a nest of fur. The throw had slipped from her shoulders, revealing pale flesh barely covered by an ivory chemise. Her dark hair had fallen forward to swirl over one breast. Flickeri
ng firelight played over her, casting her in light and shadow.

  This was not the way she looked each night in his pallet. Always she had taken great pains to preserve her modesty, wearing not only her gown and boots, but always tucking the covers around her in such a way that no part of her was visible.

  He allowed his gaze to move slowly over her, savoring the vision. A more perfect creature he had never seen. From the slope of her shoulders to the pale, creamy throat. From the rise and fall of high, rounded breasts, clearly visible beneath the flimsy bit of fabric, to a waist so small his big hands could easily span it. From the flare of her hips to the expanse of long, shapely legs. She was exquisite.

  She sighed and moved in her sleep and he was startled out of his reverie by the sight of something that jarred this otherwise serene portrait. Catching first one hand, then the other, he turned her palms upward to reveal raw, bloody blisters.

  He was rocked by a rush of self-revulsion. He had mocked her and accused her of falsehoods. Worse, he had assumed that her silence was an admission of guilt.

  With great tenderness he pressed his lips to her palms, before lifting her in his arms.

  In her sleep she sighed and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her mouth against his throat. He stood holding her cradled against his chest, feeling a welling of tenderness unlike anything he had ever before experienced.

  He carried her across the room, deposited her on his sleeping pallet and drew the covers over her. Then he went in search of Mistress MacCallum and some of her precious healing ointment.

  Leonora stirred, but couldn’t seem to rouse herself. She could feel the warmth of the fire, but she refused to open her eyes just yet. She felt warm and snug and thoroughly refreshed. She could not recall having ever slept so soundly.

  Vague remnants of a dream seemed to be flitting through her consciousness. A sensation of being lifted in strong arms and carried like a child. A feeling of gentle fingers stroking hers. A voice, low and deep, murmuring half-remembered words of endearment.