A Highlander’s Terror (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

She worked busily, tying on poultices and overseeing the tent as she did so. She ordered water dispensed to all the men and told the three who sat around the worst-afflicted man's place to help them drink.

  “Observe how to hold it,” she said, illustrating with a man closest to her, who was flat on his back, unable to sit up fully. “Hold it so the man can sip. Don't submerge him.”

  Harsh laughs echoed round the room and Amabel smiled. It was so much better in here than it had been when she had arrived. In the place of raw suffering were chuckles.

  I think we can make things better in here.

  She saw how Glenna sat with a young man who seemed to have a broken bone in his forearm. She watched her wet his hair and try to question him, to find out whether he had a fever. She thought he likely did.

  “Glenna?”

  “Yes, milady?”

  “Willowbark's on the table.”

  Amabel watched her friend nod and she found she was smiling.

  I am enjoying this.

  It was the last thing she would ever have planned, to find joy working in a field infirmary, but the happiness lifted her.

  She was busy holding a man against her chest, trying to ease the pain in his head, which was badly bruised and likely needed a compress to help the swelling, when she heard someone cough.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Milady?” someone said humbly.

  “What?” she said, knowing who spoke without looking as his voice echoed in the marrow of her and flowed through her heart like warmth.

  “You have noticed it's late? Please, stop for some broth.”

  Amabel sighed. She looked up and noticed that the field was orange with low sunshine. It must be past four in the afternoon and she hadn't had any lunch. She turned to the man and tried to ease him up.

  “Here. We'll sit you up like this,” she said, reaching for a roll of spare bedclothes. She was glad they were at least well-stocked.

  She stood, sliding off the wickerwork.

  “I am a bit weary,” she admitted. In truth, she was almost collapsing. Her mind pulsed and she had to shake her head to clear her eyes.

  She felt a hand on her shoulder and noticed absently that she was being guided towards a chair. She wanted to find the strength to object but, somehow, she was suddenly drained. She allowed the strong, firm hand to press her, unresisting, toward the seat in the center of the room. She sighed.

  “I am a bit tired,” she murmured, covering her eyes with a weary hand.

  “I'm certain of't,” the familiar voice growled. “Now, eat. Here.”

  Amabel tried to push away the bowl he held, but he thrust it toward her and, to her surprise, pressed a ladle to her mouth.

  “Please, my lady,” he said. “You are starved.”

  Amabel sighed. “I'm weary, yes. Nevertheless, I don't recall becoming too soft in the head to hold a spoon to my own mouth. Thank you,” she added as he passed her the spoon. She heard a canvas creak and realized he had settled on the stool.

  She looked up at two big eyes watching her. She laughed. “I am sorry,” she said.

  “No,” he whispered. “No. You must never be sorry. I cannot believe you...” he trailed off, shaking his head with amazement.

  “You can't believe I'm sitting here in an innkeeper's dress with farmhand boots on, up to my arms in body fluids?”

  He shook his head as she replied and she laughed.

  “No, milady,” he said. “I can't believe you wanted to come.”

  She felt his words flow into her and touch her feelings. She coughed. She was not going to cry.

  “Of course I came,” she said harshly. “What was I supposed to do? Wait about wailing and thinking you departed? In the realm of the heavenly singers?”

  He laughed. “They don't want me, milady.”

  Amabel grinned despite her tension. “I can imagine not.”

  He grinned at her. “No choir wants me.”

  “I can imagine.”

  They both chuckled. In the background, Amabel caught sight of the priest and hoped he would just ignore them. She was happy. She didn't want anyone to move her along.

  “You're staying here?” he asked her. He had passed her the bowl and Amabel sat with it in one hand, tasting it with the other.

  “Mm. Yes, I am,” she said, swallowing the thick stew. “In the town.”

  “In the town!” He stared, unbelieving.

  “What?” she said, feeling amused.

  “You cannot do that!”

  She sighed. “Why ever not? I have means. I have a chaperone even.” She waved a hand at a slight dark-haired woman.

  He sighed. She could see he didn't like the thought of her staying alone in the town and it chafed at her as much as it moved her. He shouldn't feel that intense protectiveness toward her – she wasn't some helpless creature, but a woman able to fend for herself.

  Even so, she thought, tasting the stew, which was surprisingly satisfactory for a field kitchen – it was nice to have someone watching over her. She would have stayed on much longer than was sensible without him there to make her stop.

  “Sir,” she asked, frowning. She suddenly realized she'd not seen to his wounding. She was angry at herself for having overlooked him in the face of all the apparently more wounded around her.

  “What?” he asked. He looked up at her with a smile. He looked oddly hesitant and she loved the way his smile turned up at the edge like a hesitant young child stealing out the larder.

  “My obsession with cleaning up seems to have made me overlook you,” she said with a smile. “You don't look too badly wounded.”

  “No,” he replied to her unspoken entreaty. “I'll mend.”

  “I'm going to look at that, later.”

  He shot her a look. “It's mending,” he said tightly.

  She sighed. “You needn't hide it away,” she said gently. “I've seen worse you know.”

  “I'm fine,” he said. “I don't want to make you work too hard. You're drained.”

  “No, I'm not,” she said, feeling her impatience blossom. “You will go and sit in the mess tent and let me have a look at that head wound later.”

  He looked at her from under those heavy brows. She found herself smiling. He was so attractive that she found it hard not to give in just for the want of that smile.

  “You know it'll do better if someone cleans it properly,” she said.

  He sighed. “I trust you.”

  Amabel felt her heart twist. She reached out for him as his hand touched hers.

  His fingers closed around hers as they had in the stairwell, as they had in the dance and that magical night when they had been in the alcove, conversing.

  She squeezed his fingers.

  “I know,” she said softly. “I trust you.”

  He beamed. His eyes lit up and he leaned forward. Amabel tensed. He couldn't very well disgrace her by kissing her here, in the infirmary, in front of everyone...

  He sighed and put his right hand to her shoulder. She gripped it. They sat like that, with his breath soft on her face, somehow closer than kissing.

  “Come on, you,” she said in a low voice. “I need to see that wound.”

  He rolled his eyes but let her stand and push him down to the seat. He sat down and winced as she ran her fingers over the bandage, lightly.

  “Rufus,” she murmured. “This is a bad wound.”

  He flinched as her fingers slid across what felt like a line down the bone, lightly swollen. A crack.

  “I guess it feels like one,” he said in a strained voice. She found herself smiling.

  “I'm sure it does,” she said softly. “Now...let's get this unwrapped. I want to check that the wound is properly cleaned. We need to change this anyway,” she added, wrinkling her nose. The bandage was stiff with dried blood.

  She heard him hiss sharply with pain as she unwound the bandage and then she was patting down the wound with a wool wad soaked in brandy. He jumped and she felt a stab of guilt.


  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I am sure that hurts quite awfully.”

  “Couldn't have put it better myself,” he said through a clenched jaw. She chuckled.

  “Well, whoever bandaged this did a very good job. I'll just put some wool wadding in to pad it, and give you a fresh bandage now...”

  She talked him through it as she worked. Then, when it was done, she turned away. His hand came out to take her wrist. She gasped, feeling the warm, firm pressure of his fingers tightening around her arm.

  “Sir..!” Her voice was breathless. She could pretend to be affronted as much as she liked – in truth there was, along with the affront, a soft excitement growing deep within her.

  “Forgive me,” he said as he drew her round to face him. “I just had to thank you.”

  She looked into his eyes. She twisted her wrist in his grasp and he let go. “You don't need to thank me,” she said softly. Her heart was thumping in her chest, quick, fluttering, and intense.

  “I do,” he said softly. “You are here. It's...it's a blessing.”

  His eyes were on hers, warm and full of emotions so complex she could barely fathom them. She felt her heart tense with longing and then he stood. He took her in his arms and to her astonishment his mouth descended over hers.

  She felt her heart thump in her chest as his tongue explored her mouth. He drew her against his chest and she felt her own arms tighten around him, holding him close. Her body was shivering as his lips slid on hers, every part of her wound to a pitch of excitement.

  He leaned back and looked into her eyes. “My lady,” he whispered. “Forgive me.”

  She took his hands, trying to control her breathing. “There isn't anything to forgive,” she whispered back.

  He bent forward and kissed her again, lips slipping softly over hers. She wrapped her arms around him and held him close. She was flushed and she could feel her body responding to his, filling with that strange urgency, that rising, growing need.

  He stood back and smiled down into her eyes, stroking her hair.

  Then Amabel let out a long breath. “I should go,” she said. She stood and wearily levered herself to her feet.

  He stood back to let her pass and, very gently, she put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Take care,” she said gently. She walked past, blinking back tears she didn't fully understand.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SOME DISTURBING INFORMATION

  SOME DISTURBING INFORMATION

  It took two days before Rufus was considered ready to return. He waited for the cart-horses who hauled the too badly wounded after them. He turned to look at the troops who walked behind.

  “Lots of casualties, eh?”

  Blanchard said nothing. He just sighed. His face said it all. He still had a bandage on his forehead though his eyes had stopped swelling. He looked like himself again. Rufus gave a long sigh.

  “Well, we're almost home.”

  Blanchard nodded. “He's looking grim.” He nodded toward their commander. He rode at the front of the column, Rufus and Blanchard in the midst.

  “He's feeling badly,” Rufus said levelly. The man blamed himself.

  Blanchard sighed. “He didn't tell us all to come out here and inflict ourselves.”

  Rufus chuckled. “No, he didn't. He's not thinking clearly.”

  Blanchard rolled his eyes. “He'll not be alone...I think the last time my head was this addled was when I fell on the village field and some blighters kicked it for me.”

  Rufus couldn't help a laugh. It hurt his head so he held it in.

  “I won't ask.”

  “No,” Blanchard grinned. “I wouldn't, myself.”

  They both chuckled. Rufus found himself watching the knights who were riding behind the leading charger. They were all tired and riding slowly, all bandaged. Of all of them he could hardly see anyone who wasn't injured to some degree.

  He felt the wrongness settle on him and decided to ride to the head of the column. He had to speak to their lead officer. The man shouldn't bear all that unassisted.

  The ride took longer than he would have thought and by the time he reached the top of the column his head was aching sorely. He found his thoughts straying to Amabel as he rode.

  He had no idea how she thought of coming to find him here. It was so wild he could barely imagine it had happened and half-considered he'd dreamed the whole episode. She had stayed with them until the least wounded among them – and he figured in that head count – were ready to go. Then she had ridden back to the town and thence, presumably, to court.

  That lady is indomitable.

  He couldn't imagine anyone who could tell her what to do and, more to the point, couldn't imagine how anyone might wish to. She was a force of grand proportion and he would not think of it.

  He recalled how her hands had worked on him and he was at once moved and grateful that she'd intervened like that. He thought that he would not have recovered nearly so quickly without her. He was still smiling, recalling her cutting critique, when he reached the front of the column.

  “You're cheerful,” his commander said acidly.

  He sighed. “I suppose I am,” he said, quickly wiping off his grin. He realized at once how wrong it was for the situation.

  “Well, I don't mind,” he said aridly. “You carry on. At least someone's cheerful.”

  Rufus sighed. “How bad was it, sir?” he asked.

  The man fixed him with that flat gray gaze. It was like a sword striking his cheek and he flinched, the weight of the bleakness hurting his heart.

  “We have lost a fifth of them,” he said thinly.

  Rufus stared. A fifth! That was ten men. Of the wounded, some weren't likely to walk. He had not had any idea the losses had been so great. “We're overcoming insurrection?”

  “We quashed it,” he said with a voice that sounded like sword striking shield.

  “Good.”

  He rode silently alongside him for a way. He couldn't stop thinking about Amabel and he knew that he'd probably start smiling again. To his surprise, his commander smiled at him.

  “You seem like you recovered well.” he sounded glad.

  “I did,” Rufus said, wonderingly.

  “I heard there was some assistance,” he said.

  “You did?”

  He nodded. “The men were all quite tight about it. I questioned them, but they had interesting tales. Apparently, a vision from the outermost reaches of their feverish dreams condensed and healed them. I asked the priest what in the devil he's been putting in those poultices, to make them hallucinate so well, but he was secretive.”

  The smile wove through Rufus, amusing him.

  “It's true, my lord,” he said. “I saw it myself.”

  “You did?” he asked. “You also had an enchanted poultice? Well, for compassion's sake give me some.”

  Rufus laughed. “You don't need to hallucinate, sir. She exists!”

  “Now I doubt that your head's as healed as the physician suggested.”

  “No, really,” Rufus insisted, wondering if the man honestly thought they'd all lost their minds on the priest's new poultice. “Her name is Amabel.”

  He stared.

  “Lady Amabel?”

  “You know her?” Rufus was surprised.

  He chuckled harshly. “I don't know her, man. I've heard of her, though. We all have.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, she is, as I said before, feverishly lovely. No wonder all the fellows think they're hallucinating now.” He shook his head. “But what's she doing?”

  “She thought we needed assistance,” Rufus said.

  His commander nodded. “Well, she was right.”

  “Yes, she was.”

  “We could do with any assistance we could get,” he added wryly. “A new cart would be nice. I had to take this one on loan from the abbey.”

  “I know, sir,” Rufus supplied.

  “I know that's not the sort of help she was do
ing,” he added grimly. “But we are in a mess. I'm glad to have you here, by the way. An experienced individual.”

  “I am, sir,” he agreed.

  “Now, we need carts,” he said. “I need men. We need armor. And yes, we did need someone to deal with casualties,” he added with a sigh. “Though why the perdition she thought she was the one to do it, I've no idea. It's not the task for ladies.”

  “No,” Rufus supplied. He found he was surprisingly angry about that. The lady had risked much to come here. He could at least acknowledge her help.

  “No need to look at me like that,” his commander chuckled. “I'm telling the truth.”

  “I suppose,” Rufus said thinly. “But you have to admire the lady.”

  “I do admire the lady,” he agreed. “So do all of the court.”

  “But?” Rufus had an idea he was going to say something. Anything on the subject of Lady Amabel was of interest.

  “But she's promised to Lord Callum.”

  “No.”

  Rufus stared at him. It wasn't possible. How could it be? If she was, he would know – she would say...

  “It's true, good sir.”

  It felt as if the whole world had stopped.

  He looked around. He was deaf and blind. Nothing made sense to him. He couldn't see or hear or feel the saddle under him. He had no sense of anything. Was there sense in anything?

  “I'll join the end,” he said.

  He rode to the end of the column. He couldn't ride up here. He didn't want anyone to see him and he didn't want to see anyone. He was as shaken as if that sword had struck him.

  He rode past the men riding up to the hill. He passed the carts of the wounded men. Some of them smiled at him – they recognized him as the instigator, somehow, of their surprise assistant.

  He joined the rear of the column and didn't blink.

  A man rode up and he turned to hear the hoof beats. It was Blanchard.

  He turned away sharply. Whatever the man had to say to him, he didn't want to hear it.

  He didn't want to hear anything anymore.

  The depth of his reaction surprised him.

  “You've only known her a week.”

  He sighed. It didn't matter. He already felt closer to her than to anyone else he'd ever known, he trusted her.