The man moved forward, drawing his sword. With two powerful steps, Keir walked right up to him, his arm already cocked, and slammed his fist into his face. Normond howled, dropping his sword. It clattered to the floorboards as blood gushed from his nose. Maybe the new break would straighten it. “Don’t draw your weapon in our keep,” Keir said, standing over him. “Unless ye wish to feel more pain.”
Rab crossed his arms over his chest. “Who is the woman ye brought?”
Kicking MacInnes’s sword away, Keir turned to his brother. “Grace Ellington, of Aros Castle on Mull. She is a talented healer and saved me from a tainted wolf bite.” He lifted his plaid to show the still-pink puncture wounds on his thigh. “And Mairi Maclean is wed to the chief of the MacNeils of Barra and about to birth her first child.”
Behind him MacInnes swore, spitting into the rushes strewn about the floor.
“Lachlan doesn’t have the time it would take for me to lay siege to Kisimul Castle to claim her. The castle has never been breached, and the woman would likely give birth on the way here.”
Rab nodded, tugging gently on his beard. MacInnes stood, a bloody cloth to his face. “Mairi can heal,” MacInnes said, his voice altered by the plugging of his nose. He jabbed a grimy finger toward Keir as he yelled. “If Rab’s boy dies, ’tis your bloody fault for not bringing Mairi.” The man scooped up his sword and continued out of the keep into the bailey.
“Rab,” Keir said. “Tell me ye didn’t agree to him wedding Dara?” His sister was a warrior herself, and was attracted only to strength, but the type of strength Normond MacInnes displayed was sloppy and petulant.
Rab shrugged. “Dara came to me. Said she wanted to marry him. I gave her my blessing.”
“Mhac na galla.” Brodie cursed low, his arms crossed to mimic Keir’s brother.
Rab swung around toward him, eyes wild. “If he will make Dara happy, I don’t care what he is.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, raising his shoulders to rotate them up and behind. “I have enough trouble to worry over.” Keir watched for signs that he’d have to talk his brother calm. It seemed Rab lost his sense more easily these days, lashing out with rage and suspicion until Keir could talk him into reason. But Rab shook his head as if clearing it.
“How is the lad?” Brodie asked.
Rab rubbed hands down his face to clasp his neck firmly, like he might want to break it. “Not well. Dara sits with him and brings him all his meals, trying to persuade him to eat. Though he didn’t touch food today.”
“Och, Rabbie,” Keir said. He laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Let Grace see if she can help him.”
Rab’s face lifted into a smile. “I would reward ye for your journey, brother. I can send for three fair lasses to bathe ye. A night of heavy swiving will make up for the wolf bite and renew the Devil of Dunakin.”
“I’m too tired to deal with three frightened women,” Keir said.
Rab shook his head, his grin turning into a leer. “I took a turn with Jane, Malcolm’s widow, and told her ye were vigorous and kind when between a lass’s legs. She said she’d like to find out for herself, and I’m sure she can entice two curious friends who like a little danger.”
“Nay,” Keir said.
Brodie smiled broadly. “Send her my way. I can be vigorous and kind, too.” He took a swig of ale from a tankard that had been set on the table by another housemaid who scurried away. Keir watched her go, wondering what she’d say to all her friends about Rab suggesting they take turns with Malcolm’s widow.
Rab squinted at him and looked toward the stairs. “Nay? Perhaps ye crave a different flavor tonight?” He turned to Keir. “I was rather hoping ye hadn’t claimed her. Despite her weak constitution, Grace Ellington looks delicious.”
His words tightened within Keir’s gut, even though his brother didn’t look like he could stay upright, let alone swive. “She’s in my bed,” Keir said, with the inflection that she was going to stay there. “Ye wouldn’t like her anyway, Rab. She’s a Sassenach.”
“Ellington does sound English,” Rab said, frowning. “And yet ye trust her to treat my son?”
“Her sister is wed to Tor Maclean, the chief of Aros on Mull. She has an English tongue but a Scottish heart.”
“A Scottish heart?” Rab said and laughed. “A Scottish lass wouldn’t have fainted from seeing severed heads.”
Brodie’s eyebrows shot up. “Perhaps we should ride Jane out there right now and see how she fares.”
“Dara wouldn’t faint,” Rab said.
“Dara’s a trained warrior,” Keir said. “Grace has probably never seen a severed head, let alone forty of them, half-rotted, their eyes plucked out.”
Rab tugged his beard, which had grown scraggly. He used to keep it neat, along with his dress, but much had changed, his mind tainted with bitterness. Brushing off Brodie’s suggestion and Keir’s defense, he looked back to the steps. “Rouse her, and bring her to Lachlan’s room. See what she can do as our new healer.”
Keir’s mouth tightened. “She is here only to cure Lachlan. After that I will return her to Aros.”
Rab shook his head. “We will need her here.”
“I gave her my word as the Devil of Dunakin,” Keir said.
“Bloody hell, Keir,” Rab yelled, yanking the hair near his temples, the gesture making him look unsound. He breathed deeply through his teeth, like a wild beast. After a long moment, he collected himself and stared hard at Keir. “If she cures my son, ye can take her home. If she cannot, and my son dies, your oath to her is broken, and she will remain at Dunakin to atone for her failure.”
Keir glanced toward Brodie, who gave the smallest shake of his head. He would get Grace off Skye if the worst happened, and Keir would deal with his brother. “I will see if she’s awake after I bathe,” Keir said. He’d give the lass a little more time to refresh before sending her into the sickroom.
Rab raised his arm to curve over his head, making Keir wonder if he was, in fact, drunk. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me if anything of consequence happens.” He sauntered off to climb the stairs. Would he dare to visit Grace in Keir’s room? Nay. Despite Rab being the chief, he, too, held a certain fear of the Devil of Dunakin, which Keir reinforced each time he brought Rab the head of another enemy.
Brodie walked with Keir to the soldiers’ quarters in silence. There wasn’t anything to say. It was Brodie’s turn to do his duty to further Keir’s reputation. His friend would be the one to tell the men about the thieves and how Keir had slayed them, how their mighty Devil fought off a pack of wolves and abducted a Sassenach to save Lachlan. The stories would become another part of the legend surrounding Dunakin’s Devil, the fiercest, most unforgiving demon to climb up from Hell.
Chapter Thirteen
If she hadn’t been able to lay a solid oak board across the door, Grace would never have succumbed to the lure of the warm bath. But the mouselike maid had left, telling her to lower the bar to keep from being disturbed, even though Grace was ensconced in the lair of the Devil of Dunakin. The maid hadn’t said “lair,” but her wide eyes and pitying glances told Grace that “lair” was exactly what she was thinking. Did she know that her home was surrounded by rotting heads? It might explain her scurrying.
“Ballocks,” Grace whispered and raised her arms to scrub with the fragrant soap Peigi had brought. Keir was the only thing in this place that didn’t make her want to run away screaming. That was obviously the reason she wished to know where he was.
Grace looked about the sparsely furnished room that she’d explored before her bath. She felt Keir’s presence in the black plaids and folded, bleached shirts stacked in a wooden chest at the end of the bed. They held his essence when she inhaled near them. Not that she was sniffing his clothes. Well, yes, she was sniffing his clothes. A woman had to use all her senses to gather information, especially when waking in a castle surrounded by heads on spikes. Spikes. God’s teeth.
The only adornment in the room was a sm
all portrait of a woman on the mantel who seemed to have Keir’s eyes. The bed was huge, sturdy, and draped in blankets and furs. It was the kind of bed a warrior like Keir would find comfortable. All these parts, combined with the maid’s pitying glances, reassured Grace that she was in the only safe room in Dunakin Castle. She held her breath, dunking way down to wash the soap from her scalp before leaving the now filthy water.
Grace squeezed her sopping hair and rose, wrapping up in one of two bath linens Peigi had left. She sat on a wooden stool before the built-up fire and ran fingers through the wet tresses. Good Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Ava would never believe the tale of wolves, thieves, the apothecary woman, and heads on spikes. And then there was Keir Mackinnon, a fierce warrior of mountainous strength with a conscience that kept him from slaughtering a family of wolves, killing a band of starving thieves, and stealing herbs from a frightened, old woman.
Grace let the heat from the flames prickle against her face and watched them dance. “What a horrible, bloody life you must live,” she whispered. She’d realized, when they’d arrived at Mallaig, that the Devil of Dunakin Castle was more than a boastful name. It was a position within the Mackinnon clan, a role Keir must play, building up the legend of the vicious warrior without compassion or mercy.
“And I should hate you.” Or at least attempt to escape, though she had no idea how to escape an island in winter and a castle surrounded by severed heads. She sighed and turned slowly before the flames, warming each part of her. Her hair dried in wavy curls as she spread the heavy tresses, her mind tumbling around plans that ranged from futile to ludicrous. The floorboards were freezing, and Grace hopped quickly over them to don the borrowed smock Peigi had left. Grace looked at the ratty, muddied gown she’d taken off. It was hopelessly ruined after days of surviving and traveling, and her small trunk was back in Kilchoan. She huffed and took her wool stockings to the bath to wash, hanging them over a chair before the fire. Opening Keir’s trunk, she pulled out one of his shirts, throwing it on over her smock. It reached below her knees.
“It will have to do for tonight.”
Bam! Bam! Bam! “Keir!”
Grace jumped, a hand pressed to her heart, spinning toward the door as a woman’s angry voice cut through the thick wood. She yelled several heated phrases in Gaelic, which Grace couldn’t understand, except for the curse words, Keir’s name, and possibly something about a broken nose. Whomever she was, she was as mad as a swatted hornet and felt she had instant access to Keir despite the lateness of the hour.
“He’s not here right now,” Grace called. She frowned, walking to stand a foot from the door.
There was a pause. “Who the bloody hell are ye?” the woman asked in English. “And where is Keir?”
“I am Grace Ellington, lately of Aros Castle on the Isle of Mull. And you are…?”
“Ye are a Sassenach,” she said, as if it were an accusation.
“Yes, I am English. And who are you?” Grace said, punctuating each word with her clipped tone.
“He doesn’t bring Mairi Maclean, but he brings a Sassenach. Mo chreach!”
Grace’s hands fisted in the loose fabric of Keir’s shirt, her face growing red. “Well, it is obvious you are a loud muck-spout, but what the bloody damn hell is your name?”
“Open this goddamned door!” the woman yelled.
Grace crossed her arms over her chest. The woman could swear that Maclean warriors from Aros were surging over the moor to rescue her, and Grace still wouldn’t open the door. “No.”
“Ye are a coward,” the woman said.
“Firstly, you haven’t told me who you are. Secondly, it’s the middle of the night, and lastly, this castle of horrors is surrounded by decaying heads on spikes. You see cowardice. I see bloody common sense.”
“I cut off one of those heads,” the woman said, her voice full of pride.
“A fourth reason I’m not opening this door.” The woman was either a murderer or a female warrior. A warrior? “Are you Dara Mackinnon, Keir’s sister?” Grace asked, laying her palms on the thick barrier.
Heavy footfalls neared the room, and the woman switched back to Gaelic as she yelled at someone. Grace pressed her ear against the door when a man answered. “Keir?” she whispered.
“He deserved it, Dara,” Keir said. “Ye should not wed him.”
“’Tis none of your bloody business. He’s a mighty warrior,” she answered.
“So he says,” Keir replied. “But he didn’t anticipate my punch, and he seemed entirely too interested in Mairi Maclean to be faithful to ye.”
Dara answered in Gaelic and traipsed off down the corridor. “Grace?” Keir called.
Without hesitation, Grace lifted the bar, letting it fall slowly to the ground to lean against the wall. She pulled the curved iron handle, swinging the door inward. Keir filled the doorframe, darkness behind him, broken by a splash of light from a candle he held. It illuminated his face, his beard trimmed neatly, hair damp. He wore a clean shirt, and she was close enough to him to smell pine soap. “You bathed,” was all Grace could think to say.
His gaze slid along her hair and down her form. “As did ye.” He reached in to catch one of the curls that twisted over her shoulder. He dropped the lock and studied her. “Are ye well?”
Oh, right. The fainting. She swallowed. “Why are there heads on spikes around Dunakin?”
“’Tis complicated.” Keir glanced behind her, reminding Grace that this was his room, after all. She moved aside and motioned for him to come in. They’d slept in the same cabin alone for days, so ushering him into his own room seemed no more scandalous. And if she wanted to figure out a plan for escape she should gather as much information as she could.
“Your sister seems…confident,” Grace said, watching Keir walk to the fire to add more peat, stirring it with an iron poker. Captured within four walls, he seemed too large, like a wild animal that should have the moors over which to run free.
“She’s…unhappy.” He stood, turning toward her, which made Grace’s heart skip a bit faster. “She would rather be a warrior than a wife but feels trapped in doing her duty. It has made her choose foolishly.”
Grace suddenly felt pity for the groom. She nodded, clasping her hands before her. “You broke someone’s nose?”
“Ye are wearing one of my shirts?”
Grace looked down, forgetting her question. “Yes.” She met his gaze, feeling her cheeks warm. “Peigi left a fresh smock, but my gown is in tatters.” She indicated the once lovely traveling costume. “I was cold, so I put this on. I will need a new costume in the morning.” She tipped up her chin. “Or do you keep your prisoners barely clothed?”
“While at Dunakin, ye are free to roam, but it would be safest for ye to stay on castle grounds, and in my room. No one would dare to enter my room.” His head tipped slightly to the side as he studied her. “And I think ye look quite bonny in my shirt.”
Keir’s gaze pulled at Grace. The tone of his voice plucked forward the memories of their brief evening together. And here they were, alone in his room, half clothed and clean from their baths. Heat trickled through her, making her skin feel extra sensitive where the linen feathered across her naked form. Freshly washed, she wondered how good his skin would taste. Had he thought about their intimate time together at all? God’s teeth. It didn’t matter. There would be nothing between them now. She needed to gain control over her wanton thoughts and flying pulse.
A door closed farther down the corridor, giving Grace the mental shake she needed. He is not to be trusted. She pursed her lips. “How is your nephew?”
“Lachlan is still alive, though even weaker from what my brother says. If I find ye a robe, could ye come see him now?”
“Certainly,” Grace said, rushing toward the small table where she’d dumped out her meager pile of possessions to find her comb. The herbs were wrapped in a cloth there.
Keir disappeared, returning within minutes. “This was my mother’s.
It is old but warm.”
“Thank you,” Grace said as he held it open for her. She frowned. One didn’t thank a captor. Keir’s hands slid along her waist as he wrapped the tie around front. Turning, she realized he still stood close. She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to the hollow of his throat, her heart beating wildly as if they were lovers. She stepped back and sniffed. “Whatever may have started between us in the cabin ended the moment you threw me over your shoulder.” There, the words were out. Ice water on the smoldering that continued to plague her. “I just want to make that clear.”
“As ye wish,” he answered, piquing her irritation.
“I didn’t say that was what I wished,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she lifted them. “You did. If there was anything at all, you ruined it when you lied and showed that you have no integrity by abducting an innocent woman.” She turned to stride to the fire as if she wore a court gown instead of an old robe over a man’s shirt. Luckily, he couldn’t see her shaky knees. For everything about Keir Mackinnon drew her in when he was like this. Gentle. Agreeable. Too handsome for her to keep her wits about her.
His stare was intense, snaring her as solidly as a serpent catching a bird with its gaze. “My actions are not always my own, Grace,” he said. “I’ve explained that.”
“Of course they are,” she said, throwing one arm out. “You can choose to not follow an order.”
“But I will not choose to let my young nephew die without trying to save him.” His voice was low. The fire crackled in the grate next to her as they stared at each other.
Wouldn’t she do the same to save little Hazel, her niece? She inhaled deeply and released it. “Before I help, I want to know why we are surrounded by the dead and decaying.”
He picked up the candle that he’d set on a small table by his bed. “They are defeated enemies. Their presence deters others from attacking Dunakin.”
The Devil of Dunakin Castle (Highland Isles) Page 11
