Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

“Are ye certain?” Ilsa asked, but did not hesitate to sit in the chair that had been set close by the bed. “I am no healer.”

  “Dinnae need to be. Just watch him for fever, for too much pain, for anything ye think worthy of concern. I have been given a fine wee room in the keep where I will stay for a few days until he wakes and looks certain to heal. If ye have need of me, I can be fetched right quick.”

  The door had barely finished shutting behind Glenda when it was opened again and Sigimor walked in. He sat at the end of the bed and frowned at Ilsa until she felt like squirming in her seat. If he ever planned to get married, he was going to have to do something about that stare, she thought crossly, for no woman would be able to endure it for a lifetime.

  “Ye should have stayed abed longer, lass,” he said. “This fool isnae going anywhere for a while.”

  “Sigimor,” she said in a scolding tone, “Diarmot could be sorely injured.”

  “Nay, I dinnae think so. Glenda doesnae, either. Still, if ye must fret o’er him, may as weel do it here.”

  “So kind of ye. Has Tait returned?”

  “Aye. Followed the men to a wee village. I have come to see if ye got a good look at the fools.”

  “I did. I made certain I looked hard and long at them and their horses.” Ilsa proceeded to tell Sigimor everything she could remember about the men and their horses. “Do ye think catching them will be any help to us?”

  “Mayhap, mayhap not. We have found so little in our searches that we were beginning to think there was no enemy, that tis nay but a plague of accidents, and the beating was only a robbery. This was an attempt at murder, nay question about it. The one doing this is clever, though, or we wouldnae be running in circles as we have or doubting if there is any enemy at all.”

  “Ah, and so these men may ken nay more than who pays them for their work.”

  “Exactly, but that someone could lead us to another someone and on it goes.” He got up, kissed Ilsa on the top of her head, and started toward the door. “In truth, the who doesnae bother me near as much as the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “How this cursed enemy so often kens where ye or your laird will be.”

  Ilsa stared at the door he had shut behind him for a moment before slumping in her seat and cursing. Sigimor was right to worry about that. The concern had crossed her mind a time or two but, she was ashamed to admit, had not lingered very long. It was alarming to consider the matter even now, but she forced herself to do so. There was a traitor at Clachthrom. In fact, Diarmot’s enemy could actually be one of the people right here in the keep. She shivered for it meant no place was completely safe.

  “Ilsa! Jesu, the men! ’Ware the men!”

  “Hush, loving,” Ilsa said as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed and stroke his forehead. “Hush, ye are safe now.” She started slightly when he opened his eyes to stare at her, but saw that they were not clear and alert, that he was not awake. “Ye are safe.”

  “Nay, the men,” he said, then sighed and closed his eyes. “’Ware the men. Four of the bastards.”

  “Aye, there were, but they are gone now. Ye are safe abed at Clachthrom.”

  Diarmot continued to mutter about those four men for several minutes, but Ilsa finally calmed him. She knew he had not been completely conscious, but it was somewhat reassuring that he called her name and still held the memory of this latest attack. It would be nice if a few of those memories he had lost now returned, she mused as she retook her seat, but she would not hold out any hope for that.

  Gay slipped into the room carrying Finlay and Cearnach. Right behind her came Fraser with a tray of food and drink. Ilsa joined the two women by the fireplace, feeding Finlay as Gay fed Cearnach, and sharing a quiet meal with the women. It was not long before Ilsa found herself unable to stop yawning.

  “Ye didnae rest enough, lass,” said Fraser as she took Finlay into her arms.

  “Enough for now,” replied Ilsa. “I just need to see him through the night, or until he wakes and is sensible.”

  “Cursing o’er his aches and pains and the need to stay abed.”

  “Aye.” Ilsa smiled, then kissed each of her sons on their cheeks. “Howbeit, one good thing has come of this. We now ken for certain that someone wants Diarmot dead and we ken the four men who tried to accomplish the deed this time. Tis a start.”

  Fraser nodded. “A path to follow instead of just trying to find the cursed path.”

  “Quite so. I ken I can trust ye two to keep this quiet and I feel ye should be told. Someone at Clachthrom works for the enemy. As Sigimor said earlier, what troubles him is how this enemy so often kens where I or the laird will be. There is but one way, isnae there.”

  “A spy,” said Gay. “A cursed traitor. And we will keep it quiet, ne’er fear, for we ken it could warn the bastard. Howbeit, we will also keep ears and eyes open.”

  “Thank ye.” Ilsa moved back to the bed, stared down at Diarmot, and gently brushed a lock of hair from his face.

  “Dinnae fret, lass,” Fraser said as she and Gay paused on the other side of the bed. “He will heal.”

  “Aye, I think he will.” Ilsa smiled a little. “I just hope that, when he wakes, he hasnae forgotten me again.”

  Chapter TWELVE

  Diarmot slowly opened his eyes. He felt as if he had been trampled by a warhorse. In fact, he felt very much as he had when he had finally regained his senses after the near-fatal beating of a year ago. There was one immediately evident difference this time, however. He remembered everything.

  Cautiously, he turned his head to look at the woman sleeping at his side. She was fully dressed and sprawled on top of the blankets. A few scratches and a bruise marred her fair skin and the shadows of exhaustion tinged the skin beneath her eyes. He looked down at the delicate hand resting upon his arm and saw a few more scratches and cuts, remnants of her valiant struggle to help save him. The sight of her upon the ledge with him had not been a dream, he thought. She must have found him and run for help. All too aware of how he had treated her since her abrupt arrival at Clachthrom, he had to wonder why she had bothered.

  His wife, he thought as he looked at her face again, admiring the thick curl of her dark lashes. Passionate little Ilsa Cameron, now MacEnroy. Diarmot could now recall most all that had passed between them before hard fists had pounded those memories into some dark hole in his mind. He had tried to resist her allure because of her passionate nature, only to revel in that same nature once he had lost the battle to hold her at a distance. Their farewell was clear in his mind, their lovemaking as well as his promises to be with her again.

  How it must have hurt her when he did not return, did not even send word. He winced to think of all the ways he had hurt her since she had appeared in the church. Diarmot thought it was just his luck that, when he would like to suffer a loss of memory, he could not. It was no wonder she had spoken no words of love since their marriage. He would not be surprised to find he had succeeded in killing all the love in her heart.

  Tentatively, he moved his other arm so that he could place his hand over hers. Despite the aches and pains he felt, he could still move and that was a relief. He was battered but not broken. That meant he would not be helpless for long. Soon he could renew his search for this shadowy enemy who had tried so hard to kill him and Ilsa.

  But, what to do about Ilsa, he wondered as he watched her begin to awaken. Diarmot now understood why she stirred his blood, why he had often needed to remind himself not to trust her, and why, despite all his efforts to keep her tucked away in some remote corner of his life, he had become more and more entangled with her. His mind may have forgotten her, but not his heart. It was no wonder he had spent so much time confused and fustrated. When she finally opened her eyes, he smiled at her and tried not to be hurt by the wariness that darkened her expression.

  “How do ye feel?” Ilsa asked, not sure what she should read into his almost tender expression.

  “As if
someone staked me to the ground and a score of heavy lads danced a reel on top of me,” he replied.

  Ilsa smiled briefly. “We didnae think anything was broken.”

  “Nay, I am fair sure I am still in one piece. Tis just a verra battered piece. How do ye feel?”

  Before Ilsa could reply, there was a rap at the door. She quickly went to open it, both relieved and slightly disappointed when Geordie entered. Diarmot would no doubt welcome the man’s assistance. Although a part of her wanted to stay and explore this apparent change in Diarmot’s demeanor, another part wanted to flee from the chance that she would see more than there was and make a fool of herself. She decided to listen to her cowardly side and, murmuring a few vague remarks about needing a bath and a meal, she fled the room. The soft look in Diarmot’s eyes had given her hope, but she had felt hope before only to have Diarmot crush it. It was far past time that she gained some sense of caution.

  “Astonishing what a clean body, clean clothes, and a full belly can do for a mon,” said Diarmot, leaning back against his plumped-up pillows while Geordie tidied the room.

  Geordie nodded, paused to look at Diarmot, and scratched at the black-and-gray beard stubble upon his somewhat prominent chin. “What is a wonder is how a knock upon the head can bring back the memories stolen by a knock on the head.”

  “Aye.” Diarmot grimaced. “Some, but nay all, nay yet. Still, I have some apologies to make, especially to my wife.”

  “Aye,” Geordie agreed as he picked up the tray that had held Diarmot’s meal and started out the door. “Tis a shame ye were near killed so soon after signing them papers and so lost a year with the lass.”

  Diarmot stared at the door as it shut behind Geordie. Although he had not been making any accusations, the man’s words had abruptly stolen away the peace Diarmot had been feeling. He slumped against his pillows, suddenly all too aware of every one of his aches and pains. All of his doubts and fears had returned as well. He did not want to be suspicious of Ilsa, but that made him even more determined to be wary. Diarmot had trusted blindly before and it had cost him dearly. He would not do so again.

  Ilsa groaned softly as she woke up and she became all too aware of how much her body ached. She was not as battered as Diarmot, but she had pushed herself hard, too hard, in her efforts to save him. Opening one eye and looking toward the window, she saw that it was morning. Once assured that Diarmot was awake, sensible, and not severely injured, she had bathed, eaten, and collapsed into bed. Exhaustion had demanded such a long sleep, nearly a full day’s worth, but she still felt a pinch of guilt. If nothing else, the children would wonder where she was and, after seeing their father so badly injured, they needed all the comfort and reassurance she could offer.

  As carefully as she could, she sat up. If the aching stiffness she suffered was any indication, she would be walking like a very old woman for the next few days. If she had known that one of her duties as his wife would be dragging her husband up a cliff, she would have married a much smaller man. Just as she managed to inch herself around until she was sitting on the side of the bed, Gay arrived, and Ilsa breathed a sigh of relief. Although she hated to admit it, she was going to need some help in getting dressed.

  “Weel, ye look like ye were dragged through the brambles backwards, ye do,” said Gay as she set a tray of bread, cheese, and cider down on the chest next to the bed. “Sore?”

  “Aye.” Ilsa winced as Gay helped her stand up. “Stiff, too.”

  “I am nay surprised. Did ye think ye were Sigimor that ye could haul that large husband of yours about and nay suffer for it?”

  “I couldnae let him die.”

  “Nay, ye couldnae, though considering how he has treated ye, I doubt many women would have blamed ye.”

  Ilsa smiled faintly as Gay helped her walk to the bowl of water set near the fire so that she could wash herself. “There is at least one reason to keep the ill-tempered fool around.” She caught Gay watching her intently as she rubbed her teeth clean with a dampened rag. “What troubles ye?”

  “Ye like him in your bed, dinnae ye?”

  “Och, aye. He makes me burn. The passion that brought us together to begin with is still there, still strong. I have told ye before, Gay, what was done to ye had naught to do with passion. Twas an attack, an assault. From what ye said the other day, I thought ye understood that now.”

  “Aye, I think I do begin to understand, most times. Soon it will be all the time. Diarmot’s anger made me fear for you, yet ye went to his bed night after night and came to no harm. Even if he is bellowing, he ne’er strikes ye. Every time he touches ye, I can see no sign of him using his strength to hurt ye. Tis so different from all I kenned, I am slow to believe in what I see.”

  “Those men—”

  “I dinnae mean just the men who hurt me. My father was cruel to my mother. My sisters’ husbands are cruel to them. My father never hesitated to raise his fist to any of his children. I have spent my whole life seeing men being cruel, harsh, and brutal to their women. Then I came to stay with you and saw little of men and women together. Now I begin to see that what I had accepted as the way of things isnae completely true.”

  “Nay, it isnae,” Ilsa replied as, with Gay’s help, she shed her chemise and began to wash herself. “Far too common, but nay the only way. Ye must ken by now that my brothers would ne’er raise a hand against a lass. Neither would the MacEnroys. I believe we can trust Lady Gillyanne’s word upon that.”

  “Aye. Watching her with her verra large husband was good for me, too. That laird is a hard mon, so strong he could snap her wee neck in a heartbeat, but she has nay fear of him. It didnae take me too long to see that he would rather cut out his own heart than hurt his wife.” Gay smiled. “Oh, the mon is rough in manner and speech, so the care he has for his wife may nay be that clear to see, but tis there. And, once, I neared them as they were climbing the stairs to their bedchamber. He was fondling her rump like some rough mon at arms, but Lady Gilly was giggling. And then,” Gay clasped her hands together, held them close against her breasts, and sighed.

  “And then, what?” Ilsa pressed when Gay did not continue.

  “And then he called her ‘my joy,’” Gay replied in a soft voice. “Such little words, but the feeling behind them ran deep. Ye could hear it in his voice.” She shook her head and began to help Ilsa dress again. “I realize I am indeed mending in heart and mind for I found myself wishing that, some day, a mon would speak so to me.”

  Ilsa was pleased beyond words that Gay was recovering so well from the brutality she had suffered, but she also felt a deep stab of envy. “That ye would wish for such a thing shows clearly that ye are healing.” She sighed as Gay finished lacing her gown and gently urged her to sit down upon a stool. “And, ye are right, it would be a wondrous thing for any lass to hear.”

  “Ere he lost his memory, Sir Diarmot must have spoken to ye that way,” Gay said as she brushed Ilsa’s hair.

  “He did. Such love words are naught but a dim memory now.”

  “Does he ne’er soften, ne’er speak sweet words?”

  “Weel, I dinnae ken if ye could call what he says sweet. When passion grips him, he forgets he doesnae trust me, that he thinks me a liar and a possible threat. Aye, when his blood is running hot, he doesnae speak love words, but he does utter some verra earthy compliments. And, when sated, he rarely returns to his accusations, insults, or angry words. There is a truce between us for a wee while.”

  “That is a good thing, isnae it?” Gay asked as she finished braiding Ilsa’s hair.

  Ilsa cast a wry look at Gay as she slowly stood up. “Aye, but it could also be simply that he wants to feed his monly needs and suspects I might cry him nay if he spouts too much of his cynical, e’en insulting, nonsense. I threatened as much in the beginning.”

  “Possibly. Then, again, I think there are a few lasses about Clachthrom who would be willing to feed those needs if ye kicked him out of your bed.”

  “Not if the
y wish to celebrate their next saint’s day,” drawled Isla as she started out of her bedchamber.

  Gay laughed briefly as she fell into step beside Ilsa who was headed toward the great hall. “Weel, I wouldnae scorn his passion. I ken some say the way to a mon’s heart is through his stomach, but I suspect the path lies a wee bit lower.”

  Ilsa grinned, then shook her head. “With Diarmot the path lies buried in his memory. When he first awoke from his sleep this time there was a look in his eyes that made me think he remembered me, that his new injuries had knocked his memory back into its proper place this time. Then Geordie arrived.”

  “Ye shall have to see if the laird has recovered his memory when ye return to his bedside, then,” said Gay as they entered the great hall and walked to their seats.

  One of the serving women hurried over to set out bread, cheese, apples, and two tankards of goat’s milk, so Ilsa said nothing in reply. Ilsa savored a thick slice of the bread covered with thick honey, and almost smiled at the growing look of impatience upon Gay’s face. The girl was definitely recovering from her ordeal and the grief it had brought her.

  “Ilsa, ye are going to return to your husband’s bedside, arenae ye?” asked Gay.

  “Oh, aye,” replied Ilsa. “Tis a wife’s duty to tend to her husband when he is ill or injured. I will return to sitting by the bed watching him sleep. Later.”

  “Later?”

  “Aye, after I eat and after I see the children. Mayhap after I tend the herb garden, as weel.”

  “That could take all day.”

  “Indeed it could.” She smiled when Gay laughed, but then grew serious. “I ken I havenae been all sweet smiles and acceptance, but I have done my best. I understand what troubles him and have been most forgiving despite his unkindness and insults. Weel, I have just saved the fool’s miserable life, and if he cannae bring himself to trust me, to believe in me, after that, there isnae much else I can do. Tis clear I cannae turn cold on him, but I willnae struggle to prove myself any longer. As of today, I intend to walk my own path. No more fretting o’er how to get him to remember me, trust me, or care for me. When, and if, my husband sees the truth, then he and I can resume our marriage as it should be. I will still be his wife, share his bed, love his bairns, and tend his household, but I willnae keep trying to make him see the truth. I believe tis now his turn to prove himself to me.”