Highlander The Demon Lord (Highland Warriors Trilogy Book 3)

by Donna Fletcher

  Her sincere confession slammed at his heart and tore at his gut. That someone had robbed her of the joy of collecting a few paltry stones infuriated him. “I have no want to take the stones from you. You may collect as many stones as you wish, but you will obey my orders.”

  “Aye, I will,” she said and was surprised when he asked about the stone she had found.

  “What design does this stone hold?”

  “One I believe made by man, not nature,” she said, handing it to him.

  “Roark,” he shouted as soon as he saw the design and the warrior hurried over.

  Adara watched as Roark’s eyes rounded upon seeing the stone.

  “See if there are any more about,” Warrick ordered.

  Roark nodded and rushed out, shouting orders.

  Warrick hated to do what others had done to her, but he had no choice. “I have to keep this, Adara, for now. I will help you find others.”

  “What is it I found?” she asked, thinking the stone just might have something to do with the man who tried to kill her husband.

  Warrick hesitated at first, not wanting to involve her in it, but he wanted her to understand why he took the stone from her and only the truth could explain that.

  He held the stone up, the etching facing her. “This is a rune symbol. The Vikings paint or engrave on their shields when they go into battle. It represents victory.”

  She shook her head. “I do not understand. The Vikings are no more a threat to the Highlands. Some have even settled in a few of the isles far north well over five years ago when Denmark conceded Orkney and Shetland to Scotland, or so I was told.”

  “Someone spoke to you of the Vikings? It was not a discussion you overheard?” He could understand if she overheard others speak of it, but being told? Who would have discussed such a thing with a servant?

  “A woman I met by the stream where I took things to be washed. We talked of many things, Vikings one of them.” She shook her head again, her mind churning. “Does this mean that whoever seeks to harm you is a Viking?”

  It was the second time today that she was quick to fit pieces of the puzzle together. She possessed a sharp mind, something he had not expected, but something he admired.

  “Another piece to the puzzle,” he said.

  She sensed that he was talking about a much larger puzzle than just who had attempted to kill him. She made no mention of it, but kept the thought tucked away.

  No other stones with symbols on them were found by the time Warrick and Adara took their leave, but the search continued. Warriors followed them back to the village, Roark remaining behind to make certain a thorough search was conducted.

  “I can take you to the healer if you would like,” Adara offered once in the village.

  “You need food and rest after that walk,” Warrick said.

  She almost smiled, his words filled more with concern rather than his usual commanding tone. “Her cottage is but a short distance from here and the questions will not take long. I can eat and rest afterwards.”

  That he gave the idea thought almost had him shaking his head. He should be sending her to the keep to eat and rest after the walk into the woods and back. Yet he did not want to part company with her. He enjoyed having her with him and the thought annoyed him.

  What annoyed him even more was that the shield he kept around his heart was showing signs of decay.

  “We will keep it brief,” he said sternly.

  “As you wish,” she said, her hand reaching out to take hold of his and as he had done all day, his hand wrapped around hers holding it firm, and she realized she liked the feel of it.

  Warrick thought the same. He liked when she reached out for his hand, lacing her fingers with his or simply slipping her hand in his and his closing around hers. Her hand was soft. sometimes chilled and sometimes hesitant when it slipped in his. His heat chased any chill fast enough and the strength of his hand closing around hers settled any uncertainty. Surprisingly her small hand, so snug in his, began chasing an empty, bone-cold chill that had hold of him for far too long.

  The cottage they approached was small and looked in need of some repairs.

  “Is your clan so free of illness that no one needs your healer?” Warrick asked, seeing no one lingering about.

  “Jaynce admits herself that she is not a talented healer and encourages everyone to wait for Cyra’s visits, or if necessary to go see her.”

  “A new healer is necessary,” Warrick said, though he doubted he would ever find one as talented as Espy or Cyra.

  “I will go see that we do not disturb her,” Adara said and went to hurry ahead of her husband.

  Warrick did not stop her. He was aware that she hurried ahead to warn the woman of his presence, otherwise the healer might take a fright.

  “Jaynce, it is Adara,” she said, tapping on the door and pushing it open. She stepped inside with a smile, wanting to ease any worry the healer may have when she learned Warrick was there to speak with her. “Jaynce,” she called out again concerned when she saw that the woman lay on her side in her bed, fully clothed. She hurried over to her, fearful she had taken ill and placed a hand on her shoulder.

  Jaynce turned at her touch, dropping on her back, and Adara let out a scream.

  Warrick bolted into the cottage, his blood running cold at his wife’s horrified scream. He rushed to her side, taking her in his arms, pressing her face to his chest, shielding her from the dead woman whose eyes were spread wide, appearing as if she stared in abject horror, her throat sliced from ear to ear.

  Chapter 12

  Adara sat before the hearth in the solar with a tankard of cider clasped in her hands, her trembling gone, leaving a slight quiver in its wake. She could not get the terrible image of Jaynce out of her head. The intense terror in the woman’s eyes had reminded her of her own fright each time she had been taken to the torture chamber. Terrified, always terrified, how much pain she would suffer or if she would meet death that day. Today Jaynce met death.

  The question was why? The answer seemed easy. Jaynce had to have known something, seen something. But what? What could the healer have possibly seen that someone did not want known?

  Warrick draped a blanket over his wife’s legs, tucking it in at her waist. She had not stopped shivering since discovering the healer and he was concerned. He had whisked her away and ordered one of his men to get Roark and another to stand guard in front of the healer’s cottage. The thought foremost in his mind, to get her away from the hideous scene.

  He raised the tankard of hot cider, that she had yet to drink, to her lips and ordered, “Drink.”

  Adara held the tankard to her lips, but did not drink. The brew too hot to drink too fast and her stomach not at all eager to receive it.

  Warrick dropped down in front of her. “You need to warm yourself. Drink.”

  “It is too hot and my stomach unwilling.” With a slight shake of her head, she voiced her concerns. “What could Jaynce have seen or known that had been worth taking her life?”

  There were times his wife appeared as meek as a mouse, then she would do or say something that proved otherwise, like now. Even though upset, she had the wisdom to see the obvious.

  “I do not know, but I intend to find out,” he said, standing. “You will stay here until I return and rest, drink the hot brew, and stay warm.”

  She nodded, hearing him but her thoughts were elsewhere.

  Warrick saw the distraction in her eyes and leaned down, taking hold of her chin. “I mean it, wife. I best find you here in this chair when I return.”

  She shivered, a chill grabbing hold of her and before she could respond, he muttered something she could not make out and went to the hearth.

  “Do you have a shawl?” he asked, adding a fresh log.

  “I do. Uncle Owen gave me his wife’s shawl.” She watched him balanced on his haunches, making sure the flames caught the new log before adding another one and adjusting that one until the flames lick
ed at it sending it ablaze.

  “Where is it?” he asked, dusting his hands off when he stood.

  She stared at him. He was tending to her, seeing that she kept warm, caring for her. No one had ever cared for her that way. “In my stitching room.”

  “I will have a servant fetch it for you,” he said and walked past her to the door. “And remember to stay where you are.”

  Adara sighed when she heard the door click closed and reached over to place the tankard of cider on the table beside the chair, then rested her head back. She silently admonished herself for such a silly thought. He cared nothing for her. He simply did his duty as a husband.

  It is your old, foolish wishes, dreams, and hopes that have you thinking this way, she silently chided herself. She had often wished that one day she would meet a man who would care for her, perhaps even love her. She had not given such a possibility thought until she had met Maia. The woman had opened possibilities to her, the hope of a better a life, one where she would be loved.

  Wishes, dreams, hopes, did they ever come true?

  She shook her head. Her musings would get her nowhere.

  She let her eyes drift closed and was instantly assaulted by the image of Jaynce, her eyes wide, her throat—she shook the horrible scene away. She could not imagine the horror the woman must have suffered. Her brow wrinkled, thinking about when she had entered the cottage. There had been no signs of Jaynce struggling with anyone. Had someone surprised her or had the person been known to her?

  Adara sat up in the chair, her thoughts gathering quickly. There had been no blood anywhere but in the bed. Jaynce had been in bed when this happened.

  Adara stood and started pacing. Something was not right about the whole thing. If Jaynce had screamed, someone would have heard her, her cottage not far from other cottages. What could have happened?

  She recalled Espy’s caution. Be watchful, Jaynce is a caring person but lacks the skills of a good healer. She has asked me more than once to identify a plant. One sniff is all it takes for a wise healer to know.

  Her confusing thoughts brought wrinkles to her smooth brow. What was she missing? There was something there she could not quite grasp, yet poked at her. She stopped pacing and closed her eyes and the scene came rushing back to her, only this time she did not chase the vision away. She looked around.

  There had been partially eaten food on the table and two tankards. Adara hurried to the door, swinging it open, and the servant standing there jumped back. Adara did not pause, she rushed right past the startled woman, ignoring the shawl the servant held in her hand.

  A swirl of wind ruffled her hair and snapped at her cloak, sending it billowing around her as she ran through the village. Wide eyes and shocked stares followed her, but she paid them no heed. Her only thought was to get to the cottage.

  “Two people got past my warriors. I want to know how and why,” Warrick said and continued, silencing Roark before he could speak. “No excuses will be tolerated. I want to know who failed to do their duty.”

  “I have never given you an excuse and I will not start now,” Roark said. “I began a search of this area upon our arrival since it was not a stop included in your plan. It was a matter of time before we would have reached that campsite, which was what probably precipitated the attempt on your life. They must have been watching and realized their time was short to see the chore done. They hastened their task and when met with failure hastened their departure. As for the healer’s murder, it would seem reasonable to believe the attempt on your life and the ending of hers is somehow connected.”

  Warrick went to agree when he caught sight of his wife running toward him, her cheeks flushed red, her blonde hair swirling madly about her head, and her cloak billowing out behind her, for all to see the bump in her stomach.

  Worry rose up to jab at him and he hurried to her, catching her about the waist when he reached her. “What is wrong? Did someone try to hurt you? Is it the bairn?”

  Adara kept shaking her head at every question he threw at her while she let her breathing ease.

  Finally, she nodded when he said, “You disobey me again.” This time he shook his head. “And you admit it.”

  “For a good reason,” she said, her breathing having calmed enough for her to speak.

  “There is no good reason for disobeying me.” He got annoyed when she nodded, disagreeing with him.

  “It was imperative I speak with you.”

  “Something was more important than you obeying my word?”

  She nodded again and took his hand. “Come. I will show you.”

  He followed along with her, letting her have her way… for now.

  “You should see this too,” Adara said when they got near Roark and he followed behind Warrick.

  As she crossed the threshold into the cottage, she said a silent prayer for the healer that she would rest in peace and her killer would be caught and punished. She stopped at the table and pointed to the two tankards. “Someone was here with her.”

  “We saw that as well and assume it was the person who killed her,” Roark said.

  “But there are no signs of a struggle. Why did Jaynce not struggle? Why did she not scream for help?”

  “We wondered the same,” Warrick said. “You are not telling us anything we have not already surmised ourselves.”

  Adara stepped away from her husband, their hands parting. She pointed to the bed where Jaynce still lay. “She is in bed. Why is she in bed if someone was here? And her bed is soaked with her blood. She was killed while in bed, the bedding showing no signs of a struggle.”

  “You noticed all this?” Warrick asked, her astuteness continuing to surprise him. Never would he have suspected such cleverness from a servant lass.

  She turned her head away from the bed. “The horrid image would not leave my head either would the endless questions.”

  “Several questions still remain,” Roark said. “Why did she not scream or fight?”

  Adara turned and pointed at the tankard and the half-eaten oat-cake on the table. “I believe she ate or drank something that made her take to her bed and left her defenseless.”

  Warrick picked up the oat-cake and sniffed it and did the same with the wine. “If there is something in either of them, I cannot detect it.”

  “Espy could,” Adara said. “She told me that skilled healers could recognize a plant from its scent. Jaynce could not.”

  “Have Benet take both to Espy and explain the situation and see what she can tell us,” Warrick directed Roark.

  He nodded.

  “Anything else of such great importance that could not wait and had you disobeying me, wife?” Warrick asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  A reminder that she had yet to answer for her disobedience. Adara offered a quick apology. “I am sorry, Warrick, but I thought it imperative you know and besides, I feared if Jaynce had been given something then someone might accidently taste or drink of what was left.”

  How did he chastise her for being unselfish?

  “We will discuss this later,” he said.

  “As you say.”

  “Aye, wife, you would do well to remember it is always… as I say.”

  Adara remained silent, thinking it was best she said no more.

  “Wait outside for me,” Warrick ordered.

  Adara nodded and stepped outside, grateful for the chilled breeze that brushed her heated cheeks. It was the second time that day she had disobeyed her husband and the thought amazed her. How had she done that? She had always obeyed, but then if she had not she would have suffered a slap to her face or feel the whip of a stick against her arm or back.

  Warrick’s hands had never harmed her since meeting him, possessive at times, but tender at other times, and other times… the memory of what his hands were capable of sent a slow caressing tingle through her.

  She did not know what to make of her husband, more so, she did not know what to make of how she felt toward him. Did sh
e trust him? She had trusted others, only to be disappointed until finally she had trusted no one. She learned to keep to herself, be ever watchful, and say little.

  Of late, though, while her uncle was alive, she had been saying more than she ever had. Her uncle had had much to do with that. Unlike others, he had engaged her in conversation, asked her thoughts on things, encouraged her opinion. There had been a growing sense of safety with him, though a lingering doubt that it would last had nagged at her. Nothing in her life ever lasted, except for the fear that had been her constant companion. When her uncle died, that nagging doubt had been proven right again.

  Would the same happen with Warrick? Would she grow to feel safe with him only to have him disappoint her as so many others had?

  “We will discuss your disobedience, wife.”

  Adara turned at the sternness in his voice, worried at what he would do. When he stretched out his hand, instinct had her stepping away from him.

  Warrick bristled at the fear he saw flare like a flame to dry kindling in her eyes. How often had she felt the strike of a hand that instinct had her backing away from nothing more than an outstretched hand? And how often did he have to remind her that he would not harm her?

  As often as necessary.

  The unexpected thought had him slowly stretching his hand out to her once again. “I will not harm you, Adara.”

  Gone was the sternness in his voice replaced with a firmness that promised truth and had Adara stepping forward and taking his hand. His fingers closed around hers with a strength that actually comforted her.

  “I am sorry for disobeying you,” she apologized again.

  “How often have you said that through the years?” His question met silence and he asked, “I will have the truth, Adara.”

  She sighed. “More than I care to remember.”