by Terry Spear
“Who are you?” a man asked, stalking toward her with a purposeful stride, his looks similar to Niall, the same stubborn chin wearing a light sheen of whiskers, but a scar marred his cheek. The same auburn hair, except streaked in places by the sun. His intense look and the deep, angry timbre of his voice left her slightly dazed. Or mayhap it was the fever. His eyes the color of burnt umber narrowed when he reached up to grab her. His lips pressed together in a thin, straight line.
His huge hands grasped her arms and pulled her from the horse, nearly causing her heart to stop. His fingers pressing against the brat still covering her sent a scorching flame through the woolen cloth and touched her skin. ‘Twas the fever, naught more.
“Stealing my horse, Lady?”
He…he seemed familiar somehow. Like Niall, and yet she couldn’t remember.
Niall grinned, seeming to take the man’s actions in stride. “No one but you can ride the ornery creature, James. Think you that you have met your match?”
Her heart fluttered. She should have known by the arrogant tilt of his stubborn chin and the way he carried himself with a rugged elegance that he was the laird of the castle.
James grunted and cradled Marsalis in his brawny arms. “If she is a Dunbarton, you have brought the devil down on our heads.”
He stalked back toward the keep, holding her tightly against his hard chest, not allowing her the freedom to struggle or to keep a modest distance. Although she relished his touch and didn’t wish to get away, or mayhap she did but she was too weak and her mind with fever too muddled to know it.
The men all cleared out of his way.
His mother ran after him, her small footsteps pounding the pavement. “She is ill, my laird. Keep that in mind.”
“I should lock her in the tower for…” He glanced down at Marsali. His heated gaze locked with hers. Heavens, he was a powerfully handsome man.
For an instant, emotions warred in those pools of umber—concern, anger, a hint of fascination—and if she didn’t know better, recognition. ‘Twas truly the fever making her so confused. For ‘twas a gift she normally had to know other’s feelings before even they did oft times. But her mind was playing tricks with her now.
His gaze shifted to the plaid blanketing her, and his dark brows rose. “She has even stolen my brat!”
Though he sounded just as angry as before, a trace of humor reflected in his voice. Mayhap he was not as brutish as he appeared.
Niall laughed. “Mayhap that is why your horse accepted her, cousin. He thought she was you.”
James made a half grunt and lunged up the stairs, taking two at a time as if he had to get rid of his charge before she scalded him. “She should not be in the chamber reserved for Catriona who is—”
His mother interrupted. “Catriona is not coming for a fortnight, and I make the bedding arrangements. The young mistress will stay in the quarters she has been assigned.”
His head whipped around to face his mother. “What say you of Catriona? You mentioned it before, but I did not believe—”
“I will speak to you later concerning the matter, James.”
He gave his mother a stern look. “I should have been apprised of the situation at once.” He gave Marsali a cursory glance, refusing to look into her eyes again.
She should have looked demurely away when he had chanced to catch her eye before. But she would not cower before His Lairdship. ‘Twas like staring down a mean-hearted dog. If she gave in, he would win. Well, not that this Highlander looked like any sort of dog, but—
“What if this woman is the lowest of servants? She should not be staying in the chamber reserved for Catriona.” James scowled at Marsali, and this time, he dared her to look at him with the same kind of fierce determination. She obliged, although her eyes blurred slightly from the fever. She thought his lips turned up just a hair, but she could not be sure.
“She wore the finest of woolen garments, my son. This one is not a servant.”
Somehow, Marsali knew that. At least she was gladdened to hear the news.
Although James seemed to hold only contempt for her, he carried her close to his heart, which beat against her ear with a thunderous roar. His touch was gentle, but firm, his actions and his words not the same. Did he put on a show for his clansmen? What did he intend to do with her?
What if she could make this man care for her? What if she could get his clan and hers, if she were a Dunbarton, to cease their hostilities? She felt no animosity toward these people, and she could very well understand his being angered with her, first, because his people didn’t tell him she was staying in his castle. Second, because she had tried to steal his horse. And third, because she had stolen his brat.
Closing her eyes, she snuggled tighter against the powerfully-built warrior and thought she heard him groan and curse simultaneously under his breath. Mayhap she could steal his heart as well?
Nay, she knew now the fever had thoroughly addled her mind.
****
James glanced down again at the petite woman cradled in his grasp as he carried her to the chamber adjoining his own. Her temple was swollen and purple, her eyes blackened, and the rest of her skin flushed with fever. Yet despite the discoloration, she seemed oddly familiar—the way her sea green eyes boldly challenged him, the way her tongue licked her dry lips—he shook his head. He’d never met the lass before.
Although she was fair whereas his beloved sister, Seana, had been dark-haired, she was much the same way, spirited, ill with fever, and could die like his sister had done in the blink of an eye. And for what? Because he had forbidden Seana to run off with the Dunbarton’s great nephew? For over a century there had been bad blood between their clans. There wasn’t any way he would have permitted his dear sister to marry the enemy. Now she was dead. As was the lad she had wished to marry.
James scoffed at himself. Had he allowed Seana to wed, mayhap she would be alive today.
Whatever animosity he felt for the Dunbartons had naught to do with this young woman, he reminded himself. If his mother and the healer could make her well, he gave his blessing.
Her hair draped over his arms in silky red-gold masses, and he imagined the ladies must have washed the seawater from the strands. A faint aroma of lilacs drifted to him, and he tried not to breathe in her subtle fragrance. Although her eyes were clouded with fever, they taunted him, defied him, capturing his gaze more than once.
‘Twas ludicrous that he should feel anything for the lass. Yet just the way she held his gaze and would not look modestly away and the way she snuggled closer to him like some wanton woman, turned his body into a raging fire. ‘Twas because he had left the lasses alone for the past several weeks in anticipation of wedding and bedding the fair Catriona that this lass was setting him ablaze.
When the lass should have been afraid of him, what did she do? Stared him down like a Highlander readied for a sword fight. Would her tongue be as sharp as the looks with which she speared him?
She barely weighed anything more than an empty sack as her body burned with fever. ‘Twas the reason she had made him so hot, naught more. Although he could not account for the stiffening of his shaft. She was soft and feminine, smelled like a wee bit o’ heaven, and…well, no wonder she had made him as hard as the steel of his sword.
But the business with Catriona was another matter. “What did Catriona say about not arriving on time? Was there some difficulty? Is she ill?”
His mother clucked. “‘Tis all the lass’s doing, James. She is not ill and gave no reason for delaying the journey. Mayhap she is shy.”
“Not Catriona.” Not the way she came willingly to his bed or beseeched him to join her in hers. Which bothered James overmuch. What was the reason she had delayed seeing him? He had made her well aware he had turned down the other ladies and wished to see her promptly. Shouldn’t that have endeared her to him?
Niall cleared his throat, and James glanced back, not realizing his cousin was still following him. “Jam
es, if the lady is not betrothed or from a clan we do not get along with, would you mind if I…well…” He shrugged and nodded at the feverish woman.
His younger cousin could not be meaning he was interested in her.
“Nay,” James said sharply.
“Why not? You are not interested in her.”
James blew out his breath and stalked into the chamber adjoining his. “The lady is near death.”
Niall snorted. “She has too much spirit to die on us.”
“We have no idea which clan she is from, let alone if her da would be willing for you to court her. Or what status she holds, even though she wore the finest of gowns.” James gave his mother a searing look.
“My da is dead,” the feverish woman said when James laid her in the bed.
“Died in the shipwreck?” James asked, his brows furrowed while his mother hastily covered the lass. He hovered over the bed, wanting to know now who the woman belonged to even more than he wished to know Catriona’s reasons for not coming to see him. After all, if the lass were from an enemy clan, it would put them in a bad way. “Who are you, lass?”
Tenderly touching the side of her head where the bruise spread across the raised area the size of a hen’s egg, she squinted and stared at the bed. “I…I cannot remember.”
James settled his fists on his hips. “You remembered you have no da!”
“I…I do not know why I remember that.”
He looked at his mother whose wrinkled brow showed concern. She patted the woman’s arm reassuringly. “Leave her be, James. I will speak with her without your badgering her.”
“I want to know by evening meal who she is.” He gave the lass one last look, as harsh as he could manage. He wished the truth from the lass’s lips, and if he put the fear of a battle-enraged Highlander in her, he was certain she would speak honestly. Although the way the lass looked, her cheeks crimson, the bruise and swelling on her temple, her soggy eyes, he couldn’t help feeling a wee bit like a brigand. But he had his people to think about. If she was from an enemy clan—
“By evening meal,” he reiterated then stalked across the room and out the door. Glancing back when his cousin didn’t quit the bedchamber, he hollered, “Niall!”
Niall grinned and winked at the injured lass then followed James out of the room.
“I want you seeing no more of the lass until we know who she is. Leave her to Tavia and Mother’s care.”
“You do not truly believe the lass is holding out on us, do you, James?”
“Mayhap. What if Tavia frightened the lass about being a Dunbarton?”
“The lass does not appear to be easily frightened. I believe she cannot remember because of the bump on her head or mayhap the fever also.”
James scoffed, “You think she is the one for you no matter who she is, just because she is a bonny lass.” But he had to agree the lass didn’t seem to be frightened of him, despite the way he had acted. Being the laird of Craigly Castle was not an easy task. ‘Twas important his people respected and obeyed him, and he could not give in to the unbidden feelings he was having over the wee lass.
“Does she remind you of Seana just a wee bit?”
“She is too fair.” Although he got his cousin’s meaning well enough.
“Aye, but ‘tis the fever and the way she tried to steal away that reminded me of Seana, just as willful. I feared your mother was about to faint from upset, seeing the young woman so flushed.”
Not wanting to think anything more about his dear sister, James changed the subject. “I have clan business to attend to, and I will ask you to see to the villagers’ claims that the butcher has been overcharging them. But take some men with you.”
Niall frowned.
He knew that look. Niall didn’t wish to be coddled, but James would be damned if he would let his cousin go anywhere without adequate protection in these dangerous times. “God’s knees, you have run into trouble with the enemy once this day. Take a tail to ensure everyone’s safety.”
“Aye.” Niall glanced back at the chamber.
“And stay away from her, Niall. I mean it.”
“‘Tis not because you are interested in the wee lass, cousin?” Niall cast a smug grin then strode off before James could comment.
Of course, James wasn’t interested in some lass he knew naught about. The Dunbarton’s raids on his borders had to stop. And the lass, should she be a Dunbarton, had to be returned forthwith before new trouble erupted, particularly if she was a lady of import. Although he could use her as a bargaining tool. He shook his head. He would not use an injured woman to obtain peace with Dunbarton. Stringing up their scrawny necks was the only way to deal with the raiders.
Yet he couldn’t dismiss the feelings that stirred deep inside him when he had held the feverish woman close. ‘Twas like naught he had ever felt before for a woman he had only just met. Except—he shook his head. The lass he’d saved from the incoming tide had been but a girl, and he had never found her in all his searches.
He glanced back in the direction of the stairs. The younger lass’s hair was darker red, less golden.
This one had barely worn enough to be decent, and she had snuggled against his chest like a child under his protection. But her feminine curves and the sweet fragrance the ladies had bathed her in countered the notion she was a child. No, she was a voluptuous woman full grown—mayhap a wee bit frightened, bold, pleasing to the eye, despite the discolored knot on her forehead and blackened eyes.
He should not have held her so close. He should have had one of his other men carry her to the chamber. Yet, how would any that he put to the task have felt if they had carried the near naked woman tight against their chests?
His groin stirred with renewed interest in her. Shaking the image from his mind, he reminded himself any woman he would touch in such a manner would raise his shaft. So why did it happen again now, with just the thought of her in his grasp?
‘Twas time to get Catriona to agree to marriage, he decided.
When James spied Eanruig, he narrowed his eyes, irritated that his seneschal had not told him about the lady. ‘Twas understandable why Niall hadn’t. He was already smitten with the lass. But there was no excuse for Eanruig to have hidden the truth.
He strode across the hall and joined Eanruig, his countenance stern. He would tolerate no insubordination from his people.
“I will have a word with you about the lass, Eanruig, now.”
****
“You must not worry about James’s brusque ways, lass.” Lady Akira offered a goblet to Marsali. “Even if you are a Dunbarton.”
A harried woman screamed outside the chamber, and the sound of small scampering feet ran closer to the guest chambers. “Eilis! Eilis! You come right back here, you scamp!”
Eilis. Marsali barely breathed.
“Eilis! I shall have your hide, you willful lass.”
Lady Akira smiled. “Eilis keeps her mother running.”
Eilis. Now she remembered. Her name was Eilis. The name was fine, and she didn’t feel any shame in it. So why fear the Dunbarton’s name?
“I am not a Dunbarton,” Eilis said softly, picking at the blue wool coverlet resting at her chest. At least she hoped she was not.
“Then why were you afraid?”
“I…I could not remember who I was. When your healer seemed upset I might be a Dunbarton, I feared I was. But I am not.”
“You remember your name, dear?”
“Eilis.”
Lady Akira’s brows perked up.
“I…I guess ‘twas the mother calling for her daughter that helped me to remember it.” She was Eilis and not Agnes, her cousin. But why did she even think such a thought? Think, think. But the harder she tried to remember, the more her head splintered with pain. She still couldn’t remember her clan, only that she had a cousin named Agnes, and for whatever dark reason, she did not want to be her.
“Eilis of…?” Lady Akira asked.
Eilis shook her
head, but the pounding renewed, and she lay back still against the bedding. “I know not the name of my clan, only that it is not Dunbarton.”
Lady Akira observed her for sometime, not speaking a word. Tavia continued to wipe Eilis’s brow with a wet cloth, although she cast glances at the older woman.
Finally, Lady Akira raised her dark brows heavenward, gave an almost imperceptible smile, then nodded. “Mayhap your memory will improve before evening meal.”
Chapter Four
James barely had time to question his seneschal further about the lass when his mother approached. Thinking she had some word about the shipwrecked lass, he waited for his mother to speak. Her brown eyes sparkled, and her lips curved slightly upward, making him think his mother had good news. Yet her cheerfulness seemed subdued.
When she did not speak but wrung her hands, he frowned. Her actions were not what he wished to see. “She is a Dunbarton?” he fairly roared.
Several servants carrying fresh rushes into the hall stopped and watched him.
His mother shook her head. “She says nay. Her name is Eilis, which I believe.”
James thought about her name. Eilis. A good Irish name and since the MacNeill clan originally came from Niall of the Nine Hostages, High King of Ireland in 379, the name suited the lass.
“And the clan she hails from?”
“She remembers it not.”
James didn’t believe it for a minute. How could a woman know some things and not others? “And you believe her?”
“Aye. I have an idea, my son.” The glitter in her eyes told him she was up to some match-making mischief.
“What is it that you have in mind, my mother?”
“Until the lady has recovered and we can return her to her people, why not have her ‘serve’ as an enticement to Catriona to see you? Eilis is a lovely lass. Mayhap Catriona needs a nudge to encourage her to come forthwith?”
James considered his mother’s devious smile. “Aye, she might be jealous to learn I am considering another lass to wed.”
