by Willa Blair
“What do you intend to do with me?” she asked at last, afraid and hopeful at the same time. It was too much like the last question he’d asked her this morning: “And what’s to be done with me?” She recalled the dismay that had filled her at his question, and her certainty that Colbridge would torture him for information, then kill him. But only after she’d healed him again and again, and only after he’d given up his secrets to his tormentor.
So now it was her turn to wonder. Despite his threats a few moments before, she had sensed no real animosity in him. She’d been treated well since arriving at the Aerie. Her dream of a home, with people who cared about her, perhaps a family of her own, rose unbidden to her mind, and with it came a familiar lump in her throat. She was tired, she thought, to let that longing overwhelm her now. She folded her arms under her breasts and kept her eyes on the flames. She heard Toran move from the door to stand behind her. She tensed as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. He turned her gently, but irresistibly, to face him.
“What should I do with so beautiful, so valuable, a prize?” he murmured, almost to himself.
His deep blue gaze ensnared Aileana as completely as his hands. She knew she should be outraged at being called a prize. He’d done it before, on the way here. Did he truly see her that way? She refused to be chattel any longer, and would not allow him to treat her so. But she found she could not summon her ire. One of his hands left her shoulder and he lightly touched her cheek, then slowly slid his fingers down her throat to her collarbone. There, he hesitated, and Aileana held her breath until he moved the hand back to her shoulder.
His simple touch sent shivers dancing and nearly undid her. That frightened her enough to break the spell he wove. “Please, don’t,” she asked. “Let me go. The Healer is not to be touched.”
“Aye, I heard ye tell Brodric MacAnalen the same thing. Did ye learn that from Colbridge?” Toran asked, slowly stroking along her collarbone with his thumb. “Or is that what he told his men, to keep them from...hurting ye?”
Aileana shook her head. She could try to force him away, but she felt less and less able to summon the energy as his touch ensnared her.
“Have ye spent the last two years without any human feeling? Without a simple handclasp between friends?” Toran’s tone dropped along with the hand that he slid slowly down her arm and back to her shoulder. “Without the embrace of a lover?”
Unfamiliar, liquid sensations trickled into her very core from the places where Toran’s warm fingertips touched her. The heat radiating from him nearly matched the heat from the hearth at her back. As Aileana melted into his gentle seduction, she let her head fall back in enjoyment. Toran’s breath warmed her cheek as he slowly lowered his mouth. His lips were soft as they skimmed lightly over hers, questioning, not quite demanding. He dipped his head and his tongue left a trail of damp fire along her throat, then moved back to breach her defenses and probe her mouth, leaving behind a faint peaty taste. Of whisky? His teeth nipped gently at her lower lip, and his mouth caressed the small pain away. Her body’s answering eruption of need finally burned away the haze of desire building in her. No. This could not be happening.
Shocked at her body’s willingness to succumb to his seduction, Aileana turned her face away from his gentle assault, summoned her Talent and found her Voice. “Let me go,” she commanded, as tears welled in her eyes. Never had she desired a man’s touch like this. Never. But she had no choice. She had to remain untouched. As long as this man believed her talent depended on it, she would be safe.
To her relief, he obeyed, though his slight frown betrayed his puzzlement. His hands dropped to his sides and she stepped back, putting some distance between them. “It’s late. You must leave.” She gestured toward the door, not daring to risk her Voice again, trying not to look again at the man who breached her defenses with such ease. But she could not control her willful eyes.
The dazed expression on Toran’s handsome face evaporated, to be replaced with one more neutral, yet not without lingering warmth. “Aye, I must.” Aileana froze as he glanced toward the bed, then back at her. But he made no move toward her, and she found she could breathe again when he murmured almost to himself, “’Tis been a trying day and ye’re tired. Sleep well, lass.”
Toran turned and strode to the door, but paused before grasping the handle. He seemed fully in command of himself, with a trace of his usual arrogance restored, when he told her, “I’ll have a man outside, of course.” Or perhaps it was merely simple courtesy she saw there, as he continued. “If ye should need anything, ask and he’ll see it provided—and keep ye safe through the night. Have no fears, lass. No one will disturb ye.” With that, he opened the door and left her, closing the heavy oaken barrier softly but firmly behind him.
She heard him call for a guard, and soon thereafter the low rumble of male voices penetrated her door as he issued orders. Then silence descended. So, she would be guarded. Treated as a guest and a prisoner, it seemed, until Toran decided her fate. Aileana wiped her eyes and slid the robe off her shoulders, still flushed with the power of his touch. So small a thing, but it had unnerved her more than years of blood and grime and gore. She slipped into the luxury of a real bed, mindful of the temptation it represented. Comfort, stability...and the embrace of a lover. Perhaps there was more danger here than she’d imagined.
****
As he strode away from the Healer’s chamber, Toran puzzled over what had just happened between them. Something she’d said, or done, hovered on the edge of recollection. Whatever it was, she’d done it before, damn it. He recognized the fog plaguing his mind. He’d been this confused in her tent after talking to her. This muzziness was why he’d decided to post a guard outside her door. He hadn’t lied to her. Having Davie there should give her a sense of safety until morning, and he could call for anything she needed. But it had also occurred to Toran that he didn’t want her wandering the keep at will during the night. She’d done something to him, something he didn’t understand. He shook his head in exasperation as he opened the door to his spacious chambers. Whatever it was would occur to him eventually, he thought, dismissing the concern for now. Tomorrow would come all too soon, and he needed to get some rest before it did.
The fire in the large hearth warmed his room and cast dancing shadows on the walls. This had been the laird’s chamber for as long as the Aerie had stood. The big bed had been crafted by his great-grandfather. The tapestries on the walls were the work of several generations of clan ladies plying their needles, and depicted different seasons of life in the Aerie. The lairds had allowed no reminders of battle in their private chamber. Toran continued the tradition. Here was where he came for solitude and peace, and both would benefit him after the events of the last few days. He suspected that there would be little enough of either in the coming weeks.
If Aileana was right and Colbridge still lived, then he would march on the Aerie, and when he learned that he could not overrun such a stronghold by main force, he would lay siege with his ragtag army. That would gain him naught but a long, hard winter camped on the glen, slowly freezing or starving to death while the Lathan clan bided well, warm and fed in its fortress. Toran was confident in his defenses, and the history of the Aerie gave him no reason to doubt the safety of his clan behind its walls.
He unbuckled his belt and unwound the plaid that he habitually wore at home from his body, then kicked off his boots. Dressed only in his shirt, twin to the one the Healer had cut to rags, he added more peat to the fire. The Healer…at that thought, he stripped off the tunic and stood naked, letting the firelight illuminate the new scars on his upper arm and forearm, still pink and shiny from Aileana’s healing, that mixed in with old white scars from battles long past. Toran had taken wounds severe enough to know that these new injuries should not yet be healed, not even such minor wounds as the ones Aileana had made on his forearm. Baffled, he twisted and turned, examining every inch of skin that he could see for more of Aileana’s handiwork. N
othing. There were no other new scars anywhere visible to him. He flexed his shoulders and arms, trying to sense the tightness of any new scars on his back and shoulders. Again, nothing. He ran his hands over his buttocks and the back of his thighs. Nothing tender, nothing scarred that hadn’t been there two days ago. His fingers found a new ridge on his scalp. That brought back the memory of the headache and Aileana’s soothing hands. Perhaps he did owe her something. Then he stretched out on the bed to watch the flames dance, letting his mind wander.
The Healer. Aileana. What was it about her that drew him so? And what powers did she have that left him so befuddled, so willing to do as she wished? Even now, he ached to bury his hands in the mass of her hair. Her skin, where he’d touched her, tantalized him, heated and soft. The memory of it sent fevered blood surging through his body. And the sweetness of her mouth…Toran shook his head, trying to dislodge all thought of her from his mind.
He had been playing with fire, there in her chamber. He could not have her. He knew better. He would not force himself on any unwilling woman, and she was not yet willing, despite her response to his kiss, his caress. Yet she tempted him; she had tempted him from the first moment he’d awakened and seen her dozing in her chair, sitting vigil over his unconscious body. She was beyond his ability to resist, but resist her he must if he meant to win her.
He needed her.
Since he’d first seen her, thoughts of other women had fled. He was no stranger to teasing the lasses, nor to pleasing them. Daracha had initiated him into his manhood many years ago. A few others, then Fia, his childhood friend, who had left the clan after he’d refused to consider taking her to wife. He regretted her anguish. Lately Coira, who would not take kindly to being set aside. But until he resolved this burning need for Aileana, until he resolved her place in the clan, there would be no other for him.
Something more than the hospitality owed a guest, or the care owed a captive, held him in check. Must he keep her untouched so as to use her as a bargaining chip with Colbridge should the circumstance arise? Or to preserve her Talent for his clan? He had never heard of such a thing, but he could not risk it until he knew more. This damnable ignorance kept him from the bliss he’d come so close to tasting...everything he so fiercely wanted from her, with her.
Bargaining chip...fah! Toran knew he was deceiving himself. He could not imagine the circumstance under which he would willingly give her back. Aileana was a puzzle he had to solve before her presence here drove him to madness. No, not before he solved the puzzle of the Healer...and of the woman…nor after, would he give her up.
He wanted her, of that he had no doubt. But it wasn’t just upholding his clan’s traditions that restrained him. She was different. Something about her made him consider her future and the clan’s. Rather than ravishing her, loosening her braid and thrusting his burning hands into her wealth of hair, he had tried to content himself with a gentle touch, a few soft words. He’d known he couldn’t take her, not then, perhaps not ever, but once he’d seen her in the firelight, he’d had to taste, to touch, to know, what he might never have.
He was a damned fool.
With a muttered curse, he heaved himself off the bed and pulled on his shirt, trews, and boots. He picked up the woolen plaid, then dropped it. The cold of the night air would cool the fever in his blood. He would inspect the guard on the ramparts, check on the horses, even wander Senga’s garden, anything but stay where he was. He slammed the door on the way out. There was no peace to be found in his chamber tonight.
Chapter Six
Ranald paced the floor of the Healer’s tent, waiting for Colbridge to wake up from the restorative sleep Aileana had laid on him. Night had fallen long since. Day was still far off, and Ranald feared that once he delivered his news, he’d not see it, nor the light of any other day, ever again.
The raiders had taken Aileana.
Colbridge had killed men for lesser tidings than that.
Delivering the news of the loss of the MacAnalen would be perilous enough to the messenger, but Aileana! Ranald feared he was counting his last hours.
Was she safe—or even alive? No, he could not think that. She had to be alive and well. Surely he would know, down in his bones, if she were gone from this world to the next.
Colbridge stirred on the table and groaned. Ranald stiffened, not daring to take the next step. His blood turned to ice in his veins. He held his breath as Colbridge sighed and settled. Long minutes passed before Ranald allowed his muscles to unclench. How despicable for a seasoned warrior to quake like a child before a raging parent. Even though it had been two years since he’d been fit enough to fight, he knew better than to exhaust himself this way. He resumed pacing, slowly, carefully, silently, around the interior of the tent to the entrance. He lifted the covering flap aside and looked out into the night.
The notion tempted him, but he could not just walk out of camp. Colbridge’s guards would stop him before he got beyond the firelight. And where would he go? His own clan was broken, destroyed by Colbridge’s forces in the battle that had nearly cost Ranald his leg, and his life. If not for the work Aileana had done on his bad leg after she’d recognized him, he might be dead, or so lame as to have no way to support himself. Truth be told, he did not want to leave her. He could no longer imagine his life anywhere but at her side, working with her. No, he could not leave, not without knowing her fate.
Though he’d never dared tell her, he’d stayed with Colbridge to be with her and watch over her. He owed her so much, and she needed him to help her, to be her eyes and hands on the battlefield once the fighting ended. And to protect her. He felt certain Aileana did not know that he stood guard outside her tent on the nights the men celebrated their most recent victories. Let them have their camp followers, or the women of the villages they destroyed. He had kept the few away from Aileana who had dared consider her their prey, or who were drunk enough not to care about the consequences. His presence served to remind them what they stood to lose if they violated the Healer—to be left with only the rough surgery and bandages of the other healers to save their lives.
She had to be found. He needed to plan, to think of a way to avoid his otherwise certain fate when he broke the news to Colbridge. Ranald dropped the flap and turned back to regard the man on the table. He had to persuade him that there existed a way for Ranald to play a part in finding Aileana, in getting her back. If he could no longer fight, surely he could do something. But what? He didn’t know who had taken her and the MacAnalen. Likely she’d been carried off to this Aerie that he’d heard the men talking about. No other strongholds existed close by, and who else would be so daring?
Their raid was surely a message to Colbridge. To persist in his conquest would be foolish against a clan so bold as to steal into an armed camp and retrieve the captured laird and a woman, and to free the rest of the prisoners. Most important to least important, in their barbarian eyes, Ranald supposed, a sign that they could act against an armed camp without heed to its defenses, and take whatever they liked. They could not know what treasure they’d stolen when they spirited Aileana away.
Colbridge suddenly snorted, and sat up, blinking. “What...where...” he mumbled, then looked around the tent, still groggy from his rest. He rubbed his face with one hand, and that seemed to wake him up even more.
Ranald stood, silent, determination overriding his fear, waiting to be acknowledged. “Ah, now I remember,” Colbridge continued, talking now to Ranald. “I was injured. Aileana did her magic, did she?”
“She did, sir.”
Colbridge shrugged his shoulder, then lifted his hand over his head and brought it back down. “It all seems right enough. So, then, how long did I sleep? Where are the men? What news?”
Ranald steeled himself. “You slept the day away. ’Tis past midnight, and the camp is quiet—now.”
Colbridge did not miss the hesitation or the inflection in Ranald’s voice.
“Now? What do you mean, now?”
/> Might as well get it said while Colbridge was still bleary and had no weapon to hand, Ranald thought. That might save him.
“There was a disturbance midday. Raiders came for the MacAnalen. They took him, and...”
“What! They came right into my camp and took my prize prisoner? Where were my men? How could this happen!”
“That’s not all they took.” Ranald rushed to get the words out before Colbridge’s temper got worse. “They took Aileana and set the other prisoners free.” Ranald held his breath, waiting for the eruption that would signal his doom.
Colbridge’s sputtering stilled as Ranald’s words sank in. Ranald watched his eyes narrow as he absorbed their meaning. “They took the Healer? And the MacAnalen? Out of an armed camp? And freed the rest of the prisoners, too?” Colbridge’s voice grew louder and higher with each sentence as he repeated Ranald’s news, disbelief plain on his face. Suddenly his teeth clenched and his face flushed scarlet. “Where are the guards? Bring them to me! I’ll have their heads!” he shouted as he stood up, then swayed and grabbed the table edge for support.
Ranald reached to steady him and had his hand batted away for his trouble.
“No!” Colbridge gasped, and straightened up. “How can I prevail without her? Men are going to be wounded and die. I need her!” Suddenly, he grabbed Ranald around the neck, and growled, “Where ever she is, you’re going to help me get her back, do you understand?”
“Of course,” Ranald rasped, fighting to be still, trying not to provoke Colbridge further. Despite his weakened condition, Colbridge was entirely capable of crushing a man’s throat with one hand.
