by Amy Jarecki
Ian clamored down the tower stairs. Bethag came from the kitchen with a two other women on her flank. Ian ignored the prickle at the back of his neck. He scanned the hall for Merrin. He hadn’t meant to leave her alone, but he needed to check on Alexander and she was busy ministering her tincture. He’d thought a few minutes above stairs shouldn’t matter—besides, Bran was there.
Alexander traipsed down the stairs behind him. “Bloody hell, how long have I been abed?”
The hall was a shambles with straw and bodies everywhere. Ian spread his palms. “No’ too many folks were willing to help, given their fear of Merrin’s mark.”
“Deplorable,” Alexander said and marched ahead.
Ian looked to the rafters. If his brother had given Merrin a bit more support before he took to his bed with fever, it would have made things far easier.
Clansmen and women began to cluster around the stairwell, everyone commenting on how good it was to see the laird up so soon after the ague struck him. Oh how easily their attitudes changed once their chieftain was solidly on his feet.
Bran burst through the hall door. “Alexander? This is a surprise. I did not expect to see ye in the hall for days.”
Alexander fisted his hips. “No fever’s going to keep me abed for long.”
Ian puzzled at Bran. “Where’s Merrin?”
The big man looked like he’d been kicked in the knee. “I thought she was with ye.”
Friar Pat’s walking stick clanked through the kitchen door.
The holy man was mobbed at the entrance. Ian tried to push his way through, but the door was completely blocked.
He craned his neck to see over the tops of heads. “Friar. Did ye see Merrin in the kitchen?”
Pat glanced back over his shoulder. “Nay, she’s no’ there.”
Ian spun around, looking for Bethag and her following. Damn, damn, damn and double damn. The woman was nowhere to be seen now things had turned for the better.
“Ian, ye and Merrin are to be congratulated. The tincture worked,” Alexander hollered over the crowd.
Ian pounded his fist on a table. “Where is Merrin? Has anyone seen her?”
A lad pointed. “I saw her and that big dog running for the back gate. She was crying too.”
Ian snapped his gaze to his brother. “This is Bethag’s doing, mark me.”
Alexander fisted his hips again with that same powerful look their father used. “Go after your woman. I’ll dig to the bottom of this menacing disrespect.”
Ian pushed out the door. How long had Merrin been gone? Spying the stables, he took a quick detour. He could cover more ground with a horse. He raced inside and nearly ran over a lad with a rake.
The boy scurried out of Ian’s way. “Ye want to ride, m’lord?”
“Aye, and I’m no’ your lord.”
“Yes, sir. How about a chestnut Galloway?”
“Just give me a fast mount—a stallion. Put a bit in his mouth and forget the saddle.”
“In a hurry, aye?” The lad’s eyes popped, but he snatched a bridle off the peg and marched into a stall door.
“Thanks.” Ian took charge of the reins and launched onto the stallion’s back. The horse bolted before he found his seat. Ian gripped with his knees and the stallion raced toward the back gate. Only problem—It was closed. Ian relaxed his legs and tugged on the reins. “Easy, boy.” He called to the sentry, “Open the gate.”
The horse reared and kicked his front hooves. Bloody hell, this colt is hardly broke.
The portcullis opened and Ian lowered the reins to give the stallion his head. Ian steered him toward the path to Fladda—the only place Merrin could hide.
***
Gar trotted beside Merrin, his tail wagging as if he thought running through a forest with branches slapping at his face was fun. Merrin gasped for air, tears still streaming down her face. The cramp in her side felt like someone had skewered her with a dagger. She slowed to a fast walk, swiping the tears from her face.
She’d tried to be helpful. She’d done everything she knew to cure the ague, but there were so many people. It would probably take all the known herbs in the north of Scotland to cure every one of them. And yet she was blamed for it.
Merrin dragged her feet. She’d watched the coast of Skye across the sound and knew she had to be nearing Fladda. With any luck, the tide would be out and she could walk across the caol. If the tide was in, she’d swim. She could sleep in Niall’s workshop and cook in the hearth—winters might be a bit rough, but she’d figure it out. She was tough. Anything was better than staying at Brochel Castle and listening to their evil taunts.
She clapped her hands over her eyes and rubbed. Her toe caught on a protruding root, sending her stumbling forward. Flinging her arms out, she fell right into a muddy bog.
Flicking the mud from her hands, she sat. A frustrated shriek grated her voice box. Gar stood on the bog’s edge and wagged his tail as if he wondered why she’d thrown herself in the mud. “Ye can go ahead and say it. I’m clumsy as well as a wretched outcast.”
Something snorted behind her. Inhaling a sharp breath, she turned. A mob of feral pigs barreled down the hill. Gar barked and launched his body over the top of her head. Guarding her, fierce as a lion, he snarled at the giant pigs—the largest nearly twice his size. They stopped on their stubby legs and flicked up their snouts as if sniffing for danger.
Merrin pulled her dagger from her boot and stood. Facing the pigs, she slowly backed away. Gar stood his ground, snapping his teeth, putting on an impressive show of fearlessness.
Once her feet met dry ground, she called him. “Gar, come behind.”
The deerhound backed as the pigs sauntered forward. Merrin picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it at the biggest one. “Get away, ye mongrels!”
The big fella shuffled aside. Gar bounded beside her and she picked up another rock. The pigs stood and looked at her with beady eyes. She knew a mob would attack a small human if they considered her an easy kill. She put the rock in her pocket and grasped Gar’s collar, holding out her dagger with the other hand. Together they retreated until well into the trees, and then Merrin ran.
Her heart leapt to her throat when behind her, a beast crashed through the wood at an alarming pace. Could pigs move that fast? She didn’t look back to find out.
“Merrin,” Ian’s voice boomed over the snapping twigs.
Her head spun—one part of her heart wanted to run and the other wanted to shout for him to save her. But she’d made her decision. She couldn’t shirk from it now. She forced her legs to keep running.
But she couldn’t pump them fast enough. Her side cramped like her guts had been ripped out, mud sloshed through her boots and her lungs were on fire.
Ian reined his horse to a skidding stop beside her. “Merrin. Why did ye no’ stop?” He hopped down.
Merrin kept going, pushing her muddy hands through her hair. “Go back to Brochel, Ian.”
Dismounting, he rushed in and grasped her arm. “Merrin.”
She tried to yank away, but he held fast. “I said go.”
“Why are ye turning me away? What did they do to ye?” His gaze scanned the length of her. “Did they do this?”
She pulled as hard as she could and he released her arm. “I used ye to discover what it’s like to be loved—to be a real woman.”
Ian blinked, standing stunned as if she’d dealt him a savage blow. “Is that what ye think? Ye’re not a real woman?” He stepped into her, his pale blue eyes turning dark as coal. “Well, I’ve news for you.”
Merrin slid her foot back, but before she could blink, he had her wrapped in his arms.
“Ye’re a living, breathing, bonny woman.” His lips neared, dangerously close. “Ye’re more woman than any lass I have ever met.”
Merrin’s knees turned to mush, but she could not let him change her mind with his blasted charm. Not this time. “Ye belong at the castle…and I…” She gestured toward her muddy dress—the only o
ne she had and most likely would ever again own. “Me place is on Fladda. No one taunts me there.”
She tried to push away, but Ian’s arms of iron clamped her to his chest. Heaven help her. Fresh linen, a touch of horse and a great deal of spicy male. Merrin turned her head from his enticing allure.
He grasped the back of her neck and leaned in, kissing her temple. “I’m so sorry I left ye. Those dreadful women will be punished, mark me.”
Merrin shook her head. “I do no’ want anyone punished—I must face it. I’m a monster and I always will be.” She swallowed against the tears. She would not cry.
“Ye’re no monster—ye never were. Your tincture has worked. Alexander and the friar are both up.”
A gasp of relief caught in her chest. Thank heavens at least something had turned for the better. She blinked. She needed to stand her ground and be strong. She’d resisted him even though he chased after her on a shiny steed like a fabled knight.
Ian cupped her chin with his finger and turned Merrin’s face so she’d have no choice but to look him in the eye. Why did he have to do that? His gaze pierced through her, sapped her resolve.
“Come back to the castle with me. Alexander wants to thank ye.”
Merrin shook her head. “Can ye no’ see? Ye’re meant for a life in a big castle, working beside your brother, but ‘tis no’ the life for me. Ye must go back and leave me be.”
Ian dropped his arms. A cold shudder coursed across Merrin’s skin. This was it. This is what she needed him to do. Why did it feel so mercilessly wrong?
“And what if Ye’re with child?”
Merrin felt the blood drain from her face. A child? A breeze blew her hair away from her face. Again she could scarcely breathe. “It would be the most blessed gift imaginable.” Her words were but a whisper.
Ian reached for her hand and brushed his thumb across her palm—such a gentle touch for a warrior. “When I said I loved ye, I meant it. When I said I wanted to marry ye, I meant it.” His hand trembled—he was as upset as she, yet there was no anger behind his eyes. “Merrin—I will take ye to Fladda if that is what ye wish.”
“But I cannot force ye to stay.”
“I’ll stay because me heart is yours—and ye’re certainly no’ going to bring my bairn into the world without me.”
She swiped a hand over her belly. Was she with child? Her courses hadn’t come in a while, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d go for months without seeing them. Her mouth went dry. If she could bear Ian’s child, she would be the happiest woman in the Hebrides. If she could have Ian beside her—as a husband—well, Lord only knew how happy she would be.
“Do ye love me, Merrin?” The great, beautiful warrior stood before her, looking a bit shy—afraid, even.
“There’s never been a question of me love for ye, Ian.” She laced her fingers around the back of his neck. “I’ll love ye until I take me last breath on this earth.”
His mouth met hers with ferocious passion. Merrin closed her eyes and melted. She could have kissed him forever.
Chapter Thirty-two
Alexander MacLeod, second chieftain of Raasay, sat in his upholstered chair—the same large throne his father had occupied before him. He held a fist to his mouth and coughed. He hated the way sickness sapped his strength. Fortunately, this bout of ague ran its course quickly. Very few of the ill remained in the great hall. And they could thank his brother and Merrin for that.
Any reservations he’d harbored for the lass had vanished. His mother’s explanation of what had occurred upon Merrin’s birth, combined with her miraculous tonic, allayed his trepidation. If Merrin had the “gift”, God meant it for the good of the clan, no question.
Friar Pat lumbered up the dais steps and took a seat at Alexander’s right, as he always did upon hearing supplications.
Sir Bran pushed through the door, pulling Bethag behind him, his jaw set in a hard line.
The woman struggled against his grasp, wailing imperceptible woes. Why Bethag had to continuously cause a stir, Alexander couldn’t fathom. She’d been widowed for years and he’d done the right thing offering the woman and her son protection within the walls of Brochel. But no one cared to have her work beside them. She’d failed in the kitchens, failed as an assistant to the tailor. Alexander had next put her in charge of keeping the courtyard clean, which she managed to do without bothering others too much.
Bran released Bethag’s shoulder and she stumbled toward the dais.
Alexander folded his arms and frowned down at the pathetic hag.
She cowered, touching praying fingers to her lips. “Please, have mercy on a poor widow.”
“Did ye have mercy on a lass who worked through the night for the clan?”
Bethag held out her palms. “But I remember when her mother died, and the bairn’s red mark shone bright.”
Friar Pat pounded his staff on the floorboards. “And where is it written that a red mark always indicates the spawn of the devil?”
“It has always been so—ye ken I cannot read.”
“Silence.” Alexander sliced his hand through the air. “I cannot tolerate your treatment of a lass who tried to help us, no matter what happened when she was a babe—only a few hours old when the false judgment was passed. Ye shall be muzzled with the iron branks bridle for your gossip.”
Bethag recoiled, hands clutched to her chest. “Nay!”
Alexander stood. “I’ll no’ abide gossipers and slanderers in me keep. If any of the rest of ye disagree, come forward now and ye’ll have the same as Mistress Bethag.” He flicked his wrist toward the door. “Take her away.”
The hall erupted in a low grumble. Yes, iron branks hurt, and restricted a woman’s tongue so she couldn’t talk. But that was better than a sentence of burning. Alexander didn’t care to burn any woman—though Bethag had wanted to do exactly that to Miss Merrin.
Friar Pat stepped in beside him. “’Twill do her good to be put in her place.”
“Aye, but I do no’ ken if it’ll change the woman.”
“We can only pray it does.”
A sentry stepped into the hall. “I’ve a missive for the laird.”
Alexander fisted his hips. “What are ye standing back there for? Bring it up.”
The lad hastened to the dais and handed the letter to Friar Pat. After examining the seal, he gave it to his chieftain. “From Ruairi of Lewis.”
“Aye?” Alexander ran his thumb under the red wax. “Mayhap me uncle needs a tincture for the ague.”
He read and passed it to the friar, pursing his lips.
Pat scanned the note and shook his head, a deep frown darkening his features. “Will he never give up?”
“Ian wants to build a home on Fladda—but I’d rather have me brother at Brochel. We can use his sword.”
Pat tugged on the rope surrounding his ample waist. “Fladda is no’ so far, and ’tis a good place for Ian to hide.”
***
Ian led Merrin into the workshop and sat her on a bench. “I hate to say it, but ye smell like a swine’s bog. How did ye end up covered in mud?”
Her head swooned with exhaustion. “I was running for Fladda, and the next thing I knew, me foot twisted and I was flying face first into the mud.” She pushed the heel of her hand into her forehead. “Worse, it was a real swine’s bog—a mob of feral pigs nearly had me for supper.”
Ian brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Ye should never have run without me. Ye could have been hurt or killed.”
Merrin nodded, though Ian would’ve had no idea what it felt like to face Bethag and her minions. “I think I’ll stay right here. I’ve had enough trouble to last a lifetime.”
Ian grinned. “Ye need a bath.”
“Aye, but I’m so tired I can hardly hold up me head—and besides, the barrel burned with everything else.”
“Then we’ll improvise—as ye did with me. Ye stay here and I’ll heat some water by the hearth. It will no’ take long, and then we’ll
rest.”
Merrin wanted to protest, but her aching muscles prevented her rebuttal. She let out a breath of air and her spine curved. She cradled her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Her lids were so heavy, she didn’t think she’d be able to open them again.
Everything had gone wrong. Mayhap not everything. At least her tincture worked. Thank ye, Niall. I felt your presence with me—at least I saw the castle and dined like a lady for a night. Her eyes opened, her heart fluttered and she rubbed the outside of her arms. How could she be thinking of self-pity at a time like this? Everything had not gone wrong. Iron pots clanged within the cottage walls. Ian honestly intended to stay. She’d given him every opportunity to turn tail and go back to Brochel, but he remained.
Not only was he there, but he was tending to her needs, as opposed to the other way around. She tried to stand, but her muscles hurt too much. She plopped her elbow on the workbench and rested her head in the crook of her arm. A moment or two with her eyes closed couldn’t hurt.
The next thing Merrin new, Ian was kissing her cheek, his stubble lightly scratching her skin. “Your bath’s ready, m’lady.”
She chuckled. “I’m no one’s lady.”
Ian tapped her nose, his eyes filled with love. “Ye’re mine—always will be.”
He warmed her heart in every way, but Merrin could hardly move. “Ian, I think I’m too tired for a bath.”
He pulled the string on her kirtle. “All ye need to do is sit here. I’ll manage the rest.” He got that dark, dangerous look on his face—the one where he eyed her and made her feel like the only woman in the world.
“I do no’ think I can do that either.”
He knit his brows. “What?”
“Ye ken.” She nodded toward his unmentionables. “That.”
“Ah.” He winked—such a wicked mind he had. “Mayhap we can do that after we’ve both had some sleep.”
He slid the kirtle from her shoulders. With a few more tugs, he pulled it away, neatly folded it and set the dress atop the workbench. It was mostly covered with mud.
The sleeves and hem of her shift were also filthy. Ian untied the bow. “Hold your arms up.”
