The Highlander

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  “That is better, my fine lady.” He fisted a handful of her hair and lowered his mouth to hers. When she tried to evade his lips, he tightened his grasp and held her still.

  “And when I have had my fill of you, you and the lass will become the latest victims of the mysterious marauding savage. And I will be the one to comfort Dillon Campbell, not only on your deaths, but on the certain deaths of his brothers, as well.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, a cruel, chilling sound, that suddenly seemed to die in his throat. The hand holding Leonora relaxed its grip. Leonora tilted her head up to stare at him. There was a look of surprise in his eyes. Then he stiffened slightly and began to topple forward. Leonora took a quick step aside, barely avoiding the full weight of his body as it fell. When he landed on the ground, she could see a small, deadly knife embedded in his back.

  Across the clearing, Flame’s bloody arm dropped to her side. In a weak, rasping whisper, she said, “You are free to run now, Englishwoman. I’ve no strength left with which to follow you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “W hat are you doing? Nay! Free me!” In a panic, Flame fought against the arms that pinned her.

  “You are chilled. You must let me wrap you in my cloak.” Leonora struggled to restrain the wildly thrashing arms and legs that beat against her. Despite the severity of Flame’s wounds, the lass fought until there was no strength left.

  Some time later, bruised and battered, Leonora managed to subdue her long enough to examine her arm. The cruel gash had caused her to lose far too much blood. Graeme’s knife was buried to the hilt in her shoulder. When it was removed, the wound ran red with a river of blood.

  Using the strips of her petticoats, Leonora applied a tourniquet to stem the flow. She quickly poured a liberal amount of spirits from a flask she had found lying in Graeme’s bed of animal furs, then wrapped the entire arm and shoulder in layers of white wool, and bound it tightly in the remnants of tattered gown.

  “You had best run while you can,” Flame said.

  “I am not leaving you.” Leonora bundled the lass into Graeme’s furs, sheltered beneath an outcropping of rock. Neither wind nor rain nor cold would touch her here.

  “But you must. When my brother discovers us gone, he will come searching. Mark me well, Englishwoman. Dillon Campbell will not rest until you are once again his prisoner.”

  “Hush.” Leonora would not allow herself to think about the consequences of her actions. She knew well enough that she was forsaking her last chance to escape. But how could she abandon the lass now? It was unthinkable.

  She lifted the flask to Flame’s lips and saw her shudder as the spirits trickled down her throat.

  The lass’s teeth began chattering uncontrollably. Shock. Leonora had seen enough wounded after a battle to recognize the signs. After the chills, a fever would soon rage through the girl, leaving her fighting for her life. Leonora shuddered as another thought struck. She had seen, too, the dead that littered the fields after a battle, due to unclean wounds. Flame would have to battle two demons: fever and infection.

  Taking the blood-soaked cloak from Graeme’s body, she draped it around herself to cover her nakedness, then went in search of dried sticks for a fire.

  A short time later, as she coaxed fire to the kindling, she heard Flame’s voice, weak but still commanding. Moving to her side, she saw the girl’s eyes widen with surprise.

  “Still here…Englishwoman? Why do you not…escape while you have the chance?”

  “You saved my life, Flame. How can I do less for you?”

  “But—”

  “Hush now.” Leonora placed her fingers over the wounded girl’s lips, then brushed the damp hair from her forehead in a gesture of tenderness. “Sleep, Flame. Conserve your strength. The struggle is not yet over. Soon enough, you will face the battle of your life.”

  In the darkness of the dense forest, it was impossible to discern day from night. Through a canopy of tangled leaves and vines, Dillon saw the faint light of a distant star.

  At first, the trail left by the woman had been easy to follow. Brambles and briars held bits of hair and clothing. Reeds were trampled. Thickets pushed aside. Now, in the blackness of midnight, it was impossible to find a single clue. Earlier, there had been an eerie silence, as though something evil had roamed at will, disturbing the creatures of the forest. Now, however, insects hummed and night birds cried. These normal sounds gave Dillon no comfort. Though he tried not to think about the mysterious deaths of so many of his people here in this forest, it was impossible to hold such thoughts at bay. They crept, unbidden, to torment him as he plodded onward, staring into the darkness, straining to hear anything that might alert him to the presence of Flame or the woman.

  He lifted his head. Had that been a voice? Or the cry of a bird? He couldn’t be certain.

  Creeping through the brush, he caught the faint scent of wood smoke. Fire. Somewhere up ahead, someone else shared these woods. He moved out at a faster pace.

  When she touched a hand to Flame’s forehead, Leonora was alarmed by the fire that raged. She had anticipated a fever, but the lass’s entire body seemed consumed by flame. Had she cleansed the wound carefully enough? Would a single careless act cost the lass her life?

  After fetching water from a nearby stream, Leonora dipped a remnant of her tattered gown into the gourd and began to bathe Flame’s face and neck. As she worked, she murmured words of comfort.

  “You must fight, Flame. Do battle against the fever that strives to claim your life.” She dipped the cloth in cold water, wrung it out and laid it against a fevered cheek. “Can you hear me, Flame? You must fight this thing. You are young and strong. You must not be overcome by this fire, else, even in death, Graeme will have won.”

  The thought of Graeme, and the evil he had committed against so many helpless women and children, brought a lump to her throat. Had it not been for this wounded lass, she would surely have been his latest victim. She felt tears sting her eyes and blinked them away. How could she permit such weakness, when this brave girl was fighting so hard to live?

  Though she was weary beyond belief, Leonora continued her ministrations, hour after hour, fetching cold water from the stream and bathing Flame, all the while murmuring words of encouragement.

  “Fight, lass. Do it for Sutton and Shaw.” She saw a flicker of movement behind the closed lids and realized that at least part of what she was saying was getting through. She leaned closer, her voice growing more urgent. “Fight for Dillon. And for yourself, Flame. Fight as you have never fought before. You must not let down your guard. Because to give up the battle now is to die. And you have so much to live for.”

  Leonora shivered in the predawn chill and burrowed deeper into the folds of her cloak. Despite her best intentions, sleep had overtaken her, and she slumped over the unconscious form of the girl who lay swaddled in fur beside her. One hand dipped into the gourd of icy water, causing her to jerk awake. In that brief moment, she caught a flash of movement in the brush and in her confused state thought that it was Graeme, rising from his shallow grave of leaves to claim her. Snatching a tree branch as a club, she struggled to her feet.

  “God in heaven, what have you done?” Dillon’s gaze darted to his sister, lying at Leonora’s feet.

  “Dillon. Praise heaven—”

  Without waiting for a reply, he charged at her with the fierceness of a wounded bear. Leonora was helpless against such a ferocious attack. Though she lifted the club in her defense, it was swept aside as if it were no more than a mere willow switch.

  Dillon drove her back against the trunk of a tree, both hands closing tightly around her throat.

  “I should have killed you as soon as we were free of your father’s castle,” he muttered thickly. “What was I thinking of? You are the devil incarnate!” His eyes blazed with uncontrolled fury. His thumbs pressed against her delicate flesh, cutting off her breath. “I curse the day I met you, woman. And now that you have killed m
y sister, you shall share her fate.”

  “I did not—” Choking, coughing, sputtering, her words were stilled as he tightened his grasp.

  Though she clawed at his hands and struggled with all her might, she could not budge this giant who held her in a death grip. Her vision blurred and she felt strangely light-headed. Her hands, which had been wrapped around his, now dropped limply at her sides.

  She closed her eyes and gave up all attempts to struggle. Death would be infinitely better than the loathing she could read in his eyes. She could no longer bear to be the object of Dillon Campbell’s hatred. For now, with death nearly upon her, she could finally admit the truth to herself, which she had struggled for so long to hide. The truth was, she cared too deeply about Dillon to endure his contempt.

  “Nay, Dillon,” came a feeble voice.

  Dillon’s head came up sharply. For a moment, his mind had played tricks on him. Perhaps, because he wanted so desperately to shield his little sister from all harm, he had imagined that she was still alive.

  “Dillon.”

  Relaxing his grasp on Leonora’s throat, he turned to where Flame lay. Her eyes were open and burning with a strange, fevered light. Her words were little more than a whisper.

  “You are not dead? This witch did not succeed in her evil attempt?”

  “The Englishwoman…did not harm me. ’Twas Graeme. She stayed…to tend my wounds—she could have…left me to die.”

  He looked down at the woman who leaned against the tree, taking great gulps of air into her lungs. The bruises caused by his hands stood out in sharp relief against the pale flesh of her throat. Shame washed over him. Shame at what he had almost done to her. Shame that he had been so quick to condemn. Nay. If truth be told, eager to condemn. And why? The answer came instantly. He had been grasping for any reason to keep from caring too deeply about this woman.

  Running a hand through his hair, he whispered, “I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me, my lady. I…promise you I will make it up to you, somehow.”

  She could not speak. Her throat was still too constricted. Instead, she merely moved away from him and made her way back to Flame’s side. Sinking down to her knees, she picked up the cloth and pressed it to the girl’s forehead. Flame’s eyes flickered, and a weak smile came to her lips as she closed a hand over Leonora’s.

  That was how Dillon found them when he knelt beside them.

  “I never suspected Graeme.” Out of respect for his sleeping sister, Dillon kept his tone low.

  A deer carcass roasted over a blazing fire. Dillon had insisted that Leonora replace her blood-soaked cloak with his own heavy traveling cloak, which still bore the heat of his body in its folds.

  For the first time in more hours than she could count, Leonora felt snug and warm and safe. Safe. Odd, she thought, that it was her captor who made her feel safe. Yet sometime during the past hour, he had ceased being her captor and had become her confidant. Odder still, it was Flame who had helped them bridge the chasm that had always loomed between them. Once he discovered that Leonora had freely chosen to remain behind and tend his wounded sister, the last barriers between them had dropped away, to be replaced by an openness she never would have believed possible.

  “Graeme had every opportunity to kill,” Dillon muttered, more to himself than to Leonora. “Always volunteering to go to distant villages. When he returned, I never questioned the time it took. Since he had a reputation as a wencher, we all believed that he tarried with village wenches. When I think what he did…And what he almost did to you—”

  She touched a hand to his arm to still his words. “Hush. We will speak no more of it. I cannot bear to think of those who suffered at his hands.”

  “Aye.” But Dillon could think of only one. Leonora. He felt a fierce surge of pride that it was his little sister who had saved Leonora’s life. The knowledge that Leonora had been willing to give up her freedom in payment for that heroic act only increased his admiration for her.

  Dillon sliced a portion of sizzling meat and handed it to her. It was the easy sort of camaraderie between them that, until this moment, she could not have imagined.

  As she ate, Leonora thought she had never tasted anything so wonderful. How long it had been since she had eaten?

  Dillon handed her a flask, and she drank, feeling the warmth of the ale course through her veins.

  “I never guessed that Graeme hated me,” Dillon muttered.

  He glanced at her and she nodded, too weary to speak.

  “I accepted his friendship in the same spirit in which I gave mine. Without condition.” He shook his head in wonder. “To think I would have died for him. For a man who would have betrayed me.”

  “There are such men in every land, it would seem.” She took another sip, then passed the flask back to Dillon. As their fingers brushed, she glanced up and saw him studying her so closely, she felt a sudden rush of heat. “There are those among my father’s circle of friends who would betray him, as well.”

  “Aye.” Dillon’s gaze pierced her, as though suddenly uncovering a deeply buried secret. “We are not as dissimilar as we had first thought.”

  She shivered at the intensity of his words. Mistaking the movement, he scrambled to his feet. “You are cold, my lady. I will add to the fire.”

  “Nay.”

  Despite her protests, he hurried away to gather more wood. When he returned a few minutes later, he found her sound asleep, her head pillowed against a rock.

  Very gently he lifted her and stared down at her face, so beautiful in repose. He brushed a kiss over her lips and felt a rush of heat that left him shaken.

  He carried her to the nest of furs where his sister slept fitfully, gently set her down and covered her. Leaning his back against the trunk of a tree, his gaze moved over the two women who lay side by side. So dissimilar. And yet so alike. Strong, proud, brave. Headstrong and foolish. Loyal to a fault.

  Strangely enough, these two very different women had become equally important in his life.

  Early-morning sunlight filtered through the leaves, bathing the damp forest in a hazy glow.

  Leonora awoke and lay very still, struggling to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. Somewhere close to her, a fire raged. Why had Dillon moved her so close to the flame?

  Flame. She lifted her head. Not a fire. Flame. Lying beside her, burning with fever.

  The girl’s head rolled from side to side, while she muttered incoherent words of distress.

  As Leonora scrambled to her feet, Dillon’s head came up. Though he had nodded off, he was instantly alert. “What is it?”

  “Flame. The fever is worse.”

  “What can I do?”

  She handed him a hollowed-out gourd. “I will need water to bathe her.”

  Dillon returned with water from the stream and watched as Leonora knelt beside his sister. After unwrapping the dressings, she poured spirits from the flask over the festering wounds and examined them closely. He saw her frown of concern when she touched a finger to the raw, puckered flesh.

  “Are the wounds clean?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I pray they are. I used what little I had to cleanse them.”

  He helped her wrap the wounds in fresh dressings. Then he and Leonora took turns bathing Flame’s heated flesh. By the time the sun was high overhead, the lass had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep. She lay in the mound of furs, as still as death.

  Flame’s stillness was far more frightening than had been her thrashing around.

  “The fever grows worse.” Dillon’s big hand rested on his sister’s cheek. For a man of such size and strength, he was incredibly gentle.

  “Aye.” Leonora tried to keep the fear from her voice.

  “What more can I do?”

  “You have done all you can, Dillon. She is in God’s hands now.”

  “You sound like Father Anselm.” He turned to the woman who knelt beside him. A more devoted nurse he had not met. She was fighting for Flame
as fiercely as any mother.

  All day, Dillon and Leonora had eaten sparingly, and rested not at all, while tending to Flame. Though he coaxed Leonora to sleep a while, she had adamantly refused, saying she feared Flame would soon reach a crisis.

  “Either the fever will break, or—” When she realized what she had almost said, she caught herself and added haltingly, “The fever shall soon break. I know it.”

  “Aye.” Restless, he got to his feet and began to pace. He hated this helpless feeling. “Perhaps I should return her to Kinloch House, where she would have her own bed, and servants to tend her, and Mistress MacCallum’s healing herbs.”

  “Aye, all of those would help. But I fear she would not survive the ride on horseback. The jarring motion could tear open her wounds, and she could bleed to death. I think she is better off here, Dillon.”

  Her words, spoken softly, had a soothing effect on him. He stopped his pacing and turned to her with a weak smile. “I am not thinking clearly.” He took her hands in his and studied the way they looked, so small and soft in his big palms. “I am grateful that you are able to think for both of us, my lady.”

  She clasped his hands and struggled to ignore the sensations that curled along her spine. “Rest a while, Dillon. I will wake you if there is any change.”

  “Nay.” He shook his head. “I have a need to be busy. I will tend the fire and see that we both have something to eat.”

  He touched a hand to her cheek. “Lest I have not told you, my lady, I am most grateful for all that you do for my sister.”

  Long after he had walked away in search of fallen logs for the fire, she continued to feel his touch against her cheek. And was warmed by it.

  Chapter Eighteen