“Och, my bloody arse cannae take it! I know we are all anxious to return to home, but ye barely stop to let us take a piss,” he said through gritted teeth.
Ciaran reined in his mount and yelled for his men to stop. Lowering his voice, he smirked. “God’s teeth! Ye are a Highlander and a MacGregor, but if ye wish to rest to save your bloody arse… Donaidh and Seumas, ye scout and we will make camp,” he shouted over his shoulder.
***
Donaidh and Seumas were exhausted, but if scouting meant they could return to Glenorchy sooner rather than later, they would do anything their liege commanded. They searched the surrounding blanket of darkness to ensure there was no possible threat lurking in the shadows and were ready to return to camp when a horse whinnied.
“Didnae we just search that clearing?” asked Donaidh.
“Aye,” responded Seumas cautiously.
Both men separated and drew their swords, approaching the clearing from opposite directions. Once they spotted each other, they dismounted. A horse as black as the night pawed at the ground. With the full moon above, the creature cast an eerie glow—as if the beast itself was under some ancient spell.
Donaidh advanced carefully. “Is that someone upon the ground?” he whispered to Seumas.
The beast jostled his reins and pawed at the ground.
“Take caution,” Seumas murmured. “It may be a trap.” Giving the horse wide berth, he poked at the mass on the ground with his sword. Seeing no apparent movement, he stretched out his leg and kicked it with his foot. “Hold the mount steady and I will turn him over.”
Donaidh secured the black beast as Seumas reached down and flipped the darkened figure. “Och, the laddie fell from his mount.” Kneeling down beside him, Donaidh placed his ear to the youth’s lips. “He lives. Help me get him to his feet.”
Sheathing their swords, they each grabbed under an arm and brought the lad to his feet. “He is still out. Lay him back. ’Tis too dark to see how badly he is injured. We will take him back to camp,” said Seumas. Reaching out, he clutched the reins of the black beast and spoke in soothing tones. Once the mount calmed, he nodded to Donaidh. “Try again to get the laddie on his mount. Lift his feet.”
Donaidh had no sooner hefted his feet than a blood-curdling scream cut through the night. “Sèimhich, lad! Ye took a tumble from your mount. We arenae going to harm ye,” Donaidh assured him. Kicking and bucking, the boy tried vigorously to release their hold. He let out an agonizing moan before he again lost awareness. Hastily, they secured him to his saddle. “Seumas, have ye seen that horseflesh? Do ye think the lad a thief?” Donaidh gripped the reins and started to lead the black horse back to camp.
Seumas grunted. “I donna think ’tis the laddie’s mount. ’Tis prize horseflesh. I wonder where he got him.”
“Mayhap he was reiving from the bloody Campbells.”
***
Ciaran, Aiden, and Calum watered their horses and tethered them to a tree. Aiden started a fire, and Calum pulled out their provisions. They had been in this situation so many times before that Ciaran rarely had to assign tasks. Everyone knew his responsibilities well. Ciaran had been in many a battle with these men, and they always watched each other’s backs. They were dependable and he held them in the highest regard.
Aiden and Calum were sitting quietly around the fire, and it did not surprise Ciaran that no one wished to converse. After hearing all of the chattering women at court and their peacocks floating about, the silence was soothing.
Ciaran approached the fire and handed his brother a wine sack. “And how is your arse?” he asked, sprawling out on his own blanket.
“Ye laugh, brother.” He took a long swig of wine and handed the sack to Calum.
“Aiden, lass, when are ye going to don your skirts? Mayhap Aisling wears the trews, aye?” Ciaran jested.
Calum spit the wine from his mouth but tried to cover his actions with a cough.
“Ye know, if I wasnae so sore right now, I would take ye both to task.” Aiden fell back on his blanket and moaned.
Something gnawed at Ciaran’s gut, and he could not quite place his finger upon it. “Donaidh and Seumas should have returned by now.”
A scream pierced the night, and all of the men jumped to their feet. A few moments later when a whistle rang out, Ciaran sheathed his sword and let out the breath he held. He strode toward his men as they led their mounts into camp.
“We found a lad in the clearing. We think he fell from his mount—well, that mount.” Seumas pointed to the horse, shaking his head in nonbelief. “When we tried to pick him up, he screamed as though death were upon him. I think his ribs are broken, but at least he is still out cold.”
“Donaidh, Seumas, secure the horses. Aiden, help me move him close to the fire,” Ciaran ordered. Pulling the boy from the horse, they carried him to a blanket and gently lowered him to the ground. When Ciaran pushed back the hair from the lad’s face, his eyes widened with concern. “Och, his eyes are blackened, his lip is cut and swollen, and he has swelling to the face. And ’tis only what we see. That must have been one hell of a tumble.”
Aiden grabbed a blanket and handed it to him. “Here. Lay this under his head.”
Lifting the lad’s head, Ciaran positioned the cover carefully underneath. “We should check for other injuries.” He started by squeezing the injured lad’s arms to check for broken bones, but as he applied pressure, the boy started to moan.
“Ciaran, the blackness is probably a blessing for now. If he awakens before first light, we will give him some ale for the pain. I think it may be better to check him on the morrow. Then we can see to what extent he is injured,” offered Aiden.
“Aye.” Ciaran shook his head regretfully. “There is naught we can do now. His pain will be much on the morrow, though.”
The men arranged their bedding in front of the fire while Ciaran took first watch. He knew the path home had been too clear—well, the lad was not at fault. Ciaran would do what he must. If the boy could ride on the morrow, he would take him to the next village and ensure he received proper care. The lad was breathing heavily now and would probably sleep through the night.
Glancing over at the dark horse, Ciaran wondered where he came from. The mount was clearly prize horseflesh. They were at least a day’s ride from the English border. Surely, the lad knew better than to steal from an English lord. All Ciaran needed right now was to have a band of men searching for their prized mount. He certainly did not want trouble. All he wanted was to return home to Glenorchy where a warm bed and Beathag welcomed him. He smiled at the thought.
He walked over to the fire and nudged his brother. “Aiden, ’tis time.”
Letting out a sound of displeasure, his brother rolled over. “Nay, Aisling, I need a few more moments.”
“Aiden, get up, ye daft fool.” Ciaran nudged him again with his foot—not so friendly this time.
“Och! God’s teeth! I am awake!” Placing his hands over his eyes, Aiden groaned.
“Quiet or ye will wake the men.”
Aiden rose for his turn to stand watch and Ciaran took his place, listening to the fire making popping noises well into the night. He loved to sleep under the stars—not exactly for an entire fortnight, but for a night or two. In fact, he was not even aware he had fallen asleep until sunlight beamed in his eyes. When he opened them, Seumas sat next to the boy with a troubled expression.
“He just started to stir. I believe the pain is setting. He seems to be aware.”
Pulling himself to his feet, Ciaran walked around the ashes of the fire and knelt beside the lad. He had seen that the youth’s injuries were severe by the firelight the past eve, but in the light of day… He gave the boy a little nudge and he cried out in pain.
“Seumas, we have nay choice. We need to know how badly he is injured or if he can
travel. Grab an arm and let us sit him up.” Supporting the lad by the upper arms, they placed him into a sitting position. “Can ye speak? Ye fell from your mount. Do ye understand?” Ciaran waited for his answer, but the boy was unresponsive.
“Do ye think he is injured in the head?” asked Seumas with concern.
“Nay. I have seen head injuries before,” said Ciaran, studying his bruises. “He isnae injured in the head.”
***
The pain was unbearable. Was someone talking to her? Head injury? Rosalia was trying to make sense of it all. She needed a moment to compose herself. Her vision was blurry, and it felt like a dagger was stuck in her temple. She let out a moan as she lifted her hand to her head. Opening her eyes, reality started to creep back in. The last thing she remembered was… falling from Noonie. She searched around the men, the very large men, and spotted several horses tethered to a tree. Noonie was there, but who were these men?
Someone asked her if she understood. Her eyes met his, and she could not answer because something clicked in her mind. It was him—the man from court who pitied her. She would recognize him anywhere.
“Can ye stand?” he asked with concern.
Rosalia did the only reasonable thing that came to mind. She nodded. The man grabbed her under the arms and attempted to pull her up. When she yelped and took a sharp intake of breath, he lowered her back to the ground.
“Seumas, help him hold up his arms. I will remove his tunic,” the man ordered.
Her eyes widened in panic as an even more terrifying realization washed over her. She became instantly awake, fully aware of her surroundings. What if he discovered she was a woman? This situation could end in nothing short of a disaster.
“Donna worry, lad. Once I remove your tunic, we will check if your ribs are broken or bruised. Mayhap all they need is to be bound.” The man he called Seumas hefted her arms, and he started to pull up her tunic.
She thought she squeaked. “Nay, I am fine. There is nay need—” she coughed.
“Lad, I willnae hear it. I need to see your…”
God’s teeth! Was that her tunic up over her breasts? She’d bound them before she left Mangerton, but she was not sure if the bindings remained intact. Rosalia tried to search his expression as swiftly as he yanked the tunic down.
Turning his head, he coughed. “Seumas,” he choked out. He nodded for Seumas and his men to take their leave. His massive body blocked her frame, and she did not think his men had seen her. At least, she hoped not. He stood over her, his hands on his hips, and she was silenced by his dark expression. He whipped around and started to fold blankets and gather supplies. His actions made her nervous and his jaw was clenched tight.
Without warning, his angry gaze swung over her. “When I pulled up your tunic, I was expecting a lad. Ye apparently have some daft reason to be traveling alone dressed in a lad’s clothing with that prime horseflesh as your means of travel,” he curtly stated, pointing at Noonie. “I will have the tale. Now, lass,” he ordered.
Rosalia studied the man in front of her. She found herself completely at a loss for words and did not have the strength to look into his judging eyes. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she lowered her head, staring at her hands. She did not want to be a watering pot, but she had been through so much and did not need him as an added complication.
His expression softened and he cupped her chin gently, searching her upturned face. “Lass, if I wanted to harm ye, it would have been done. My men and I journey from court, and I must know if someone gives chase to ye,” he spoke in a soothing tone, successfully disarming her with his smile, but fortunately not robbing her of her wits.
“I have wasted your time and willnae keep ye further from your journey. Please leave me my mount and I will be on my way.” She spoke with as reasonable a voice as she could manage.
He let out a long, audible breath. “I can see ye are going to be difficult.” He smiled blandly. “First, I must check ye for injury. Now… I can either do it or have my men return and watch me do it. Ye decide,” he said, his lips twisting into a cynical smile.
There was an uncomfortable silence and then Rosalia reluctantly nodded her head in consent.
“A wise choice, lass. I must cut the bindings to check your ribs, but I have supplies to use for binding if there is a need.” He pulled out his dirk and started to lift her tunic.
She gasped, reaching out and grabbing his arm. Nervously, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Wait… I donna know your name.”
“I am Laird Ciaran MacGregor of Glenorchy.” A smile played on the corner of his lips. “Will ye gift me with your name?”
She was not sure where Glenorchy was, but hopefully it was far enough from her home that he would not recognize her name. She glanced down for a brief moment to decide whether or not to speak it. After further consideration, there was not much he could do with a first name. “I am… my name is… Rosalia,” she said quietly.
“Rosalia?” He cast a questioning gaze and then his face split into a wide grin. “’Tis a beautiful name.” He partially lifted her tunic but left enough material to cover her breasts. Taking out his dirk, he cut her bindings. “Now I must touch ye to check your ribs.” He hesitated, waiting for her response.
She nodded her consent.
He applied pressure and she inhaled a sharp breath. Stepping around her, he bent down behind her. “Rosalia, I am going to check your back.” He paused for her response.
“Aye,” she whispered.
Slowly, he touched her back and then pulled down her tunic. He walked over to his mount and returned with a sack. Sitting down, he dumped the contents in front of her. “I donna believe anything is broke now, but ye do have bruised ribs.” He ripped pieces of cloth into sections. “Binding will help the pain.”
It was apparent he had done this many times before. She continued to study him and stare at his broad shoulders and the corded muscles on his frame. He was much bigger than she remembered him being. What was the matter with her? She was injured. He just reminded her of James. Sure, that was it. Even though James never seemed to make her breath quicken when he glanced at her. Then again, perhaps it was the pain in her ribs. She wondered if she’d hit her head.
“Where are your men?” she asked, glancing around the small clearing.
“They are around. They will return when I call for them.” He grabbed the strips of cloth and gently lifted her tunic. “Are ye able to hold it up?”
“Aye,” she grunted. He wrapped the strips of cloth around her and bound her ribs, tying off the strips. For someone who was so incredibly large, his touch was surprisingly gentle.
“That should help the pain in your ribs, and this should help the pain in your face,” he said, holding up a salve. “May I?”
“Aye.” She felt the heat rise in her face. Thankfully, the color was masked by the bruising—at least, she hoped it was. He applied the salve to her bruises and seemed naturally kind. She would be sure to thank him before she took her leave.
“There, all finished.” The beginning of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth. He gathered up the remainder of the supplies and bundled them back on his horse. Returning with a wine sack, he sat down beside her and offered her a drink. “Do ye think ye can ride, Rosalia?”
She choked. This was not wine. It was… stronger, and it burned her insides.
“Careful. ’Tis my own ale.”
Plagued with a coughing fit, she felt like her throat was on fire. She hastily handed him back the wine sack and he repeated his question. “Aye, I can ride. I thank ye for seeing to my injuries, my lair—”
“Ciaran,” he simply stated.
“Ciaran. Ye and your men have my thanks.” She tried to smile, but her lip cracked open. Instinctively, she raised her hand and placed her finger to her sore lip.
/> “It will heal with time.” He hesitated, measuring her for a moment. “Rosalia, I must know. Is your husband giving chase?”
“Husband?” Her voice unintentionally went up a notch. “I donna have a husband. I am nae wed.” Why would he ask if she had a husband?
A strange look crossed his features before he quickly masked it. “If ye arenae wed, then who did this to ye, lass?”
Lowering her head, she stared at her hands. “Again. I must thank ye for caring for me, but donna let me keep ye from your journey. I am sure ye and your men wish to return home. Mòran taing.” Thank you very much.
***
“Mòran taing?”
Did she think he would honestly leave her here to fend for herself? Maybe he should. That would surely teach her a lesson. Did she not realize the dangers of traveling alone? If she were his sister or even his wife, he would throttle her. He briefly wondered where that idea came from. No matter, he would take her to the next village and see to it she received care.
Her sudden, jerky movements pulled him from his thoughts.
“I havenae had an opportunity… What I mean to say is… I need a moment to…” Her flush deepened to crimson and she looked away from him.
“What?” Ciaran realized from her actions what she was trying to convey. He stood and held out his hand. “Let me help ye up. Can ye walk?”
“Slowly, but I can walk.” Taking his hand, she stood and held her ribs. Unsteady on her feet, she took a step back. He caught her by the elbow to assist her and she waved him off. “Nay, please. I can do it myself.”
He watched her take unsteady steps into the trees. When he’d lifted her tunic and noticed a woman’s breasts, several thoughts had come to mind. Why would a woman cut her tresses and dress in a lad’s clothing? And when she spoke her name, something clicked in his mind. Ciaran had a vivid recollection of the woman at court. Her troubled face still haunted his dreams, but when she’d graced him with a smile… Due to the extent of her bruising he was not sure she was the same woman, but he would pull the truth from her eventually. He did know there was only one logical reason for her actions. She was running from someone or something. He most definitely did not need a woman’s woes to keep them from returning home.
Temptation in a Kilt Page 3
