by Amy Jarecki
Neither Niall nor Merrin were in the cottage when Ian placed the weapon on the table. He used the metal file to rasp away the rust and expose the blade’s edge. He found a jug of whale oil on the shelf and dribbled some on the whetstone. He passed the blade back and forth, using a uniform stroke. Like anything worthwhile, it didn’t pay to rush a sharpening job. The blade would reveal itself, shining like new when it was ready, and only the blade could disclose when it was sharpened.
The edge flickered in the light and Ian reached for a cloth, running it along the shaft appreciatively. He tested the blade with his thumb. Nearly there. “Ye’re a fine old weapon, are ye not?”
Merrin’s voice carried in through the window. “What harm is there? He should stay as long as he likes.”
“He needs to be with his own kind,” Niall argued. “Aside from being a fugitive, he’s highborn, not meant for the likes of us.”
“He’s wounded. Let him return to his kin when he’s able. He said himself, he needs to prove his worth to be accepted.”
“I think ye’ve become infatuated with him.”
Ian’s stomach turned upside down. How could Niall be so perceptive in such a short amount of time? Surely he wouldn’t have sensed Ian’s attraction to his daughter. Not when Ian was doing so much to dissuade her affections—aside from kissing her, of course. But Niall hadn’t been there when it happened—twice.
“Och. Ye’re always trying to find ways to keep me hidden. So what if I like him? He’ll be gone soon enough and I’ll be back to me lonely life with Gar on me heels, cooking and cleaning until ye need me no more.”
Ian exhaled. Thank heavens she harbored no false hope. That was for the best. He had far too much at risk to entertain an affair of any kind.
“I just do no’ want to see ye hurt,” Niall said.
“Aye? There ye stand running to Brochel every Wednesday and rubbing elbows at the castle. Can I not have a friend, just this once?” Ian froze while no one said a word. “He’s no’ afraid of me, Da. And he’s near me age. Please.” Her tone had gone pleading and soft as a whisper. “Do no’ send him away afore he’s ready.”
Ian’s heart twisted into a knot. Christ strike him dead on the spot. Poor Merrin. Poor, giving, selfless Merrin thought herself a demon, a marked woman. Nothing could be further from the truth. She was pure and delightful, beautiful—strikingly so. Ian should know. He hadn’t been able to think of much else since he’d been on Fladda.
And why couldn’t Niall see past all the superstitious hogwash at Brochel? Why had he stayed on Fladda where Merrin had no chance of finding a husband? Surely Alexander, his brother, laird of Raasay would understand…
The door creaked open. Merrin stepped inside and brushed her tresses away from her face. “Ian.” She blushed scarlet. “I thought ye’d still be out in the paddock.”
***
Servants were clearing the dishes from the afternoon meal when the ram’s horn blew, announcing a ship sailing into Brochel Cove. Not as agile as he once was, Friar Pat called to the sentry up on the battlement rather than climb the tower’s winding stairs. “Can ye see their pennant?”
The guard cupped his hands around his mouth. “MacLeod of Lewis.”
Had old Ruairi seen fit to pay his nephew a visit? Pat doubted that, but ambled down the hill to the beach. In his great many years, one thing the friar learned well—a holy man’s presence always helped to ensure the crazy Scots kept their swords in their scabbards—at least until the parley had been uttered. But Friar Pat didn’t anticipate any posturing with an ally ship sailing into the bay. Nonetheless, he’d stand beside the laird and welcome the guests, as he had done for over forty years.
Alexander and his henchman, Sir Bran, nodded as Friar Pat waddled in beside them. “Have ye any reason to expect a visit from Lewis men?”
Alexander looked to Bran and shrugged. “We’ve both come up with nothing.”
Friar Pat fondly recalled Sir Bran as a lad. He’d been a gawky cabin boy for Calum MacLeod, but no more. The man was a beast—solid as a ship’s hull. He formed a daunting picture standing on the shore beside Laird Alexander, a strapping figure of a man himself with his red hair and beard. Friar Pat was often reminded how fortunate he was to be a servant to Clan MacLeod of Raasay.
The galley moored. Sir Rewan MacLeod splashed through the surf and Bran stepped forward with a mighty laugh. “I cannot believe Ye’re still alive, ye old roustabout.”
The two henchmen embraced as if they were long lost brothers. Rewan slapped Bran’s back. “And how is your lady wife?”
“Enya’s busy as a hen with a dozen chicks underfoot.”
“A dozen?”
Bran grinned, standing proud as an eight-point stag. “Aye.”
“Where do ye keep them all?”
Bran gestured up the hill with his thumb. “Built onto me cottage near five year’ ago.”
Rewan pulled his bonnet from his dark locks. “Five year’? Has it been that long?”
“Longer, I’d reckon.”
Alexander stepped forward and offered his hand. “Sir Bran, ye can chatter with Uncle Ruairi’s henchman all ye like, but first I’d like to ken what brings him to Brochel.”
Sir Rewan turned his attention to the Raasay chieftain and shook his hand. “I’m looking for your brother.”
Friar Pat stared. Then he sucked in a gasp.
“Isn’t he on Lewis?” Alexander asked.
Rewan’s gazed focused on the friar. “Nay. He’s not.”
Friar Pat’s palms moistened as he fingered the large wooden cross he wore over his brown robes. The man in Niall’s cottage must be Ian. Heaven help me feeble mind, I even commented about the likeness to his father. Why hadn’t I realized it at the time?
Alexander shook his head. “We’ve not seen him on Raasay since he left for his fostering.”
“He absconded with Lady Janet—took her back to her MacKenzie kin, and then he ran.” Rewan continued to leer at Pat and inclined his thumb toward the castle. “M’laird, do ye mind if we have a word in private? There’s more I wish to say, but ’tis for your ears only.”
Alexander agreed and Pat took a step back, right into Sir Bran.
The big henchman waited beside Pat until Rewan and Alexander started up the hill. “Is something amiss? Ye look like ye swallowed a bitter brew.”
“I ken where Alexander’s brother is, and once Rewan explains his men shot Ian in the back, Alexander will ken too.”
Bran grasped the friar’s shoulders. “Ye mean Ian is the scrapper who washed up on Fladda?”
“Aye. I’ve only just realized.”
Bran’s gaze darted to the men climbing the hill. “Och, for the love of Christ.”
Friar Pat shook his finger. “Do not take the name of the Lord in vain, not even at a time like this.”
Bran pointed at a skiff. “Go quickly and warn him. I’ll see what I can do. Mayhap I can convince Rewan to a few tots of whisky and to stay the night.”
“I hope the lad’s conscious. Last time I saw him, he was dreaming with the angels.” Friar Pat stepped in the skiff while Bran pushed him into the bay. “Do what ye can and do no’ let on where I am. If Rewan asks, tell him I’ve had a bout of rheumatism…that wouldn’t be far from the truth.”
Chapter Nine
Merrin grasped the pot of honey poultice. “Pull up your shirt.”
Seated at the table, Ian looked up from sharpening his dirk. “No’ again?”
He’d done such a fine job on Niall’s old sword, Merrin leaned in and admired his handiwork. “Friar Pat told me to apply the salve morning and night, lest infection set in.”
“Infection? Och, all right. I do no’ want the fever to come back.”
The brawny Highlander surely wouldn’t care to spend a sennight or more on that straw pallet delirious with chills. “There’s a smart lad. Is it paining ye much?”
Ian set the dirk aside and tugged the hem of his shirt out from under his kilt. “I should say na
y, but I can still feel your da’s poker singeing me flesh.”
“It will heal if ye give it time.” Merrin eyed his weapon, hewn so smooth, she could see her reflection. “I’ve never seen a dirk so fancy. Are those real stones in the hilt?”
Ian turned the silver handle over. “Aye. Me da gave it to me after he returned from one of his privateering voyages. Said he’d taken it from a Spanish captain.”
She looked closer. The stones sparkled and reflected the candlelight like nothing she’d ever seen. “You’ve had it since ye were a lad?”
Ian nodded. “A warrior needs to learn to use a dirk afore he can master a sword.”
Though she’d become accustomed to being close to him, her insides still stirred when she caught his scent. All she needed to do was raise her chin and his lips would be eye level. Her palms perspired, her heart fluttered. Rather than completely embarrass herself, Merrin chose to admire his hands. His fingers were at least twice as thick as hers, but he cleaned his dirk with gentleness, obviously taking care of a fine piece that not only served as a weapon, but a precious heirloom.
Her gaze traveled up his arms. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms rippled as he worked the blade in a circular pattern on the whetstone. She lifted her hand to touch him, feel his power, but gripped her fingers in a fist. He wouldn’t want her placing her hands all over him. What was she thinking?
Merrin stepped back and grasped the hem of his shirt. Her breath quickened. She admonished herself for such foolishness. She’d tended his wound countless times since he’d arrived. But that was before Merrin decided to take some hay to Tam this morning. Of course the horse didn’t need hay in summer when the grass in the paddock was practically knee high, but it had been such a wonderful idea to snatch a good peek at Ian in full daylight without his shirt, those inhumanly strong muscles bulging while he swung his sword at the post. As long as she could remember, Niall’s old sword had done nothing but rust by the cottage door.
But Ian brought it back to life. He wielded it like he’d been born to be a warrior. No wonder he took Janet from the tyrant and delivered her back to her loving family. A man with a physique like Ian’s who could make a blade hiss through the air and dance with it as if Mother Nature were whistling a tune on the wind. With a musket-shot hole in his back? Well, he most likely could do anything he pleased.
Ian looked like a god sparring with the pole. Even with his wound, he was impressive—fearsome. Power like his didn’t come from sitting in a chair. He’d been bred to be a warrior, trained since he was a wee laddie—and the fancy dirk he was sharpening proved it.
Merrin steeled her nerves. “It would be easier if ye took off your shirt since Ye’re no’ lying down.” She bit her lip. Had she been too bold? What harm was there in ogling his muscular back?
Ian didn’t blink. “All right.” He set the dirk down, and in one move the shirt was over his head and tossed on the table.
Merrin knew it was rude to stare, but holy fairy feathers and bogle’s breath and throw in some pixies as well. The day’s exercise had strengthened him. Veins stood proud on his chest, which rose and fell with each breath.
“Merrin?”
She tapped her tongue to her lip and stared at his masculine flesh. “A-Aye?”
“Did ye want to dress me wound?”
She snapped her mouth closed and met his gaze. Blast those pixies, he was grinning at her with a spritely twinkle in his eye. She glanced around at his bandages. “Oh. Yes.” She pulled away the dressing and examined Ian’s wound. That sobered her up. Though still seeping and red, the gaping hole was closing. “Sorry Da hurt ye carving the musket ball out and cauterizing it, but ’tis better than a slow death.”
She’d only touched him lightly, but Ian flinched. “Aye. I’m grateful.”
“We’ll see ye fixed up and ye can be on your way.” She glopped the poultice on her fingers, but hesitated. She didn’t like that idea in the least. Ian would be heading for Brochel soon—if only he’d not forget about her when he did. “I wish I could see the castle one day—ye ken, go there without the fear of being shunned…or burned.” She smoothed the ointment onto his back.
Ian hissed and arched. “Mayhap I could escort ye once I’ve made me place beside Alexander.”
Merrin’s heartbeat raced. “Do ye mean it? I could hide behind a curtain. I just want to see all the finery.”
The corner of Ian’s mouth turned up with a puzzled quirk. “Ye shouldn’t have to hide your bonny face.”
Merrin brushed her fingers across her mark. “I cannot risk being seen. Some still blame me for Mother’s death.”
“No one need know who ye are.”
Merrin gaped at him. All her life she’d dreamt about going to the castle, eating in the great hall and dancing into the wee hours. “Do not toy with me.”
Ian reached for her hand. Heavens, why did his touch always send her pulse aflutter? He studied her fingers—heaven help her, his chest still rose and fell with every breath. “I may have a number of inequities, but when I give me word, I honor it.” He closed his eyes and caressed his lips across her palm. “When I am able, ye’ll see Brochel and I’ll ensure no harm comes to ye.”
Merrin threw her arms around Ian’s neck and squeezed. “Ah, Ian, I cannot believe that ye came to us. Thank the heavens ye did no’ die.”
Ian’s warm hands ran down the length of her back. He chuckled. “’Tis no’ proper for a young maid to throw her arms around a man’s neck. Especially when he’s half dressed.” Making no move away, he grasped her waist, his eyes lowering to her lips. “It makes a man want to do…so many things.”
The tingling sensation churning in her bosoms felt so inexplicably good. His powerful, naked chest pressed against her breasts. How did that happen? She couldn’t recall, but he definitely was going to kiss her again. She moistened her lips and leaned closer.
“I cannot resist ye.” His voice was but a low whisper.
The last thing she wanted was for him to resist her. True, he would soon take his leave, but at this moment, Ian was in her cottage and in her arms. All restraint cast aside, this was her chance to connect with a living, breathing, unbelievably handsome man. “Ye do no’ need to. I want to experience life, Ian. I may never have a chance again.”
With a slight tilt of his head, he slid a hand up the back of her neck. His fingers threaded through her hair. Ever so softly, he touched his lips to hers. Merrin closed her eyes and melted into him, his taste spicy, exotic. She tried to imitate his motion, circling her tongue. Her body on fire, she rubbed her breasts against him, melting.
A deep moan slipped from Ian’s throat. He gently sucked. Merrin’s breasts ached so, she thought they’d burst. Something deep within screamed for more. She wanted her whole body to touch him. It would be ever so bold to swing her leg across his lap…she’d do it if it weren’t for the heavy skirts of her kirtle and the fact that Niall was only steps away in his workshop.
Ian traced his finger from the tip of her head down to the neckline of her bodice. She threw her head back at the heavenly tingling.
Voices.
Urgent tones.
Merrin jerked away, her eyes darting to Ian. He already had the sword in his hand. His face stone hard, wary.
Merrin silently wrapped the scarf around her neck and listened. Ian put his finger to his lips. She nodded. He carefully limped to the door, blade at the ready.
Ian reached for the latch but the door opened. Friar Pat’s eyes bulged. “Ian?”
“Och, friar, ye gave us a fright.” Ian lowered his sword and pulled the holy man into an embrace. “I’m so glad to see ye, old friend.”
The friar slapped Ian on the back, the poor warrior bellowing a pained grunt.
“I’ve come to warn ye.” Pat looked to Merrin and back at Ian, then over his shoulder as Niall crossed the threshold. “Rewan is on Raasay, looking for ye—or your remains.”
Ian stepped back. “Holy bloody hell.
”
Pat’s head bobbed. “Aye, me sentiments exactly.”
Ian slid the sword into its scabbard and plucked his dirk from the table, slipping it into his belt. “I must away.”
“Nay.” Merrin rushed forward, grasping the sleeve of Friar Pat’s robe. “He’s too weak to flee.”
Gar hopped up from his bed and slipped his body between Merrin and the friar, his wagging tail beating against her leg.
Niall crossed to the table. “’Tis time Ian took his leave. We’ve nursed him long enough.”
The room spun and Merrin pushed Gar away. Ian couldn’t leave now. He’d die. The henchman and his men would track him down and kill him. Besides, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye. Merrin yanked her cloak from the wall and grabbed a satchel. “I cannot let him go alone.” Gar rubbed against her thighs and whined.
Niall grasped her arm. “Nay, Merrin.”
Friar Pat placed a weathered hand on Niall’s shoulder. “She’s right. Ye all must leave.”
A loaf of bread in hand, Ian stopped. “Ye must be joking.”
The friar steepled his hands under his chin. “Ye ken Rewan will burn this place and kill them if he discovers they’ve helped ye.”
Niall threw up his hands. “Ballocks to that.”
After tripping over her dog for the third time, Merrin grabbed the oatcakes and sausages, shoving them into her satchel. “We must go, Da.” She shook her finger under his nose. “Ye see? ’Tis the only way.” She turned to Ian. “Pack the poultice and the bandages.”
“Bloody bogle’s breath,” Niall said, sliding his dirk into his belt. “I kent helping a man with a musket hole in his back would bring nothing but misery.”
Gar paced back and forth in front of the door, yowling like he’d been skewered. Pat held a satchel while Ian filled it with medicine and more food. “Ian is our son,” the friar said. “We cannot turn our backs on him.”
“He’s no bloody son of mine,” Niall groused, doing nothing to help.
