The Devil in Plaid

by Lily Baldwin

  “I don’t need to ask what ye’ve both been up to,” Jamie began, “but I do have to ask if ye’ve lost yer mind, Abby. If I had a sister like Esme, I would think twice about a dalliance on the battlements after dark.”

  Abby drew in a sharp breath. “Please don’t tell Esme, my laird. She will never again allow me to set foot from the keep.”

  He gave her a stern look, but then he turned to the young man. “Ye’re awfully quiet. What is yer name?”

  “Thomas,” the young man replied, at last meeting Jamie’s gaze. “Please, do not punish Abby or tell her sister. I will take whatever punishment ye see fit, my laird. Put me in the stocks. Take the strap to my back.”

  At least he seemed to truly care for Abby.

  Jamie fought to keep a smile from his face. “I do not think any of that will be necessary, lad. However, I will put ye to work. Report to the training fields bright and early. War is at hand, and I can use a strong lad like yerself.” Then he turned to Abby. “Yer lady is going to be busy tomorrow. She is taking on her duties here in the keep. Ye will assist her.” Furrowing his brow, to ensure he looked as threatening as possible, he said, “I need both of ye to promise me that ye will not see each other or speak to one another for a full week as penance.”

  “I promise,” Abby blurted out.

  Thomas bowed at the waist to Jamie. “Aye, my laird. I promise as well, and thank ye for being so merciful and wise and—”

  Jamie shook his head. “Enough, just get ye both to bed.” They scurried past him. “To yer own, separate beds,” he called after them.

  Apparently, there was nothing like intruding upon the clumsy affection of youth to cool his own desire. He shook his head at the young couple retreating into the keep, then strode back the way he’d come. Taking a last breath of fresh air, he turned away from the night and wound his way down the stone stairs. When he reached the door to his chambers, he quietly eased it opened. The fire in the hearth crackled. Candlelight illuminated his quarters. His gaze was drawn to the bed where he could see her small outline beneath the blankets. He let his plaid drop to the floor before he climbed in beside her. “I’m glad ye’re back,” she whispered.

  He pulled her close, nestling her in his arms. “Goodnight, Fiona,” he crooned softly in her ear.

  She nestled closer to him. The feel of her soft, round bottom renewed the ache in his body. He longed to taste her lips, to feel her skin, but he would restrain himself until he knew she was truly ready, despite the pain it caused him.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  When Fiona awoke, she glanced around the room. Jamie had already risen. She stretched, then wiped the sleep from her eyes. Sitting up, she rested her head in her hands, still hazy in her mind. And then it dawned on her—today, she could begin her duties as Lady of Làidir. Instantly, she was wide awake and nigh leapt from bed. Like her mother before her, Fiona thrived on staying busy and viewed her role as one of honor and duty, not entitlement. The idea of feeling useful again fueled the pace at which she crossed to the door that led to her own chamber where she found Esme and Abby still dressing.

  “I was just coming to wake ye,” Esme said as she tied the end of her long, blonde plait. “Ye’re looking bright this morning.”

  Fiona smiled. “Jamie has given me leave to take up my duties around the keep.”

  “Làidir could certainly benefit from yer fine skills.” Esme smoothed her hands down the front of her belted green tunic. “Shall I find Julia and have her gather the servants together in the great hall for ye to address?”

  Fiona shook her head. “Nay, I will give direction to servants as needed. But would ye ask Julia to let everyone know to expect me today, especially the cook? Do either of ye recall her name?”

  “Mary,” Esme answered. “I met her yesterday. She seemed pleasant enough.”

  Abby stepped forward then. “Do not hesitate to put me to work today.”

  Fiona canted her head to the side as she considered Abby’s exuberance. “Ye’re particularly obliging.”

  The young maid shrugged, a nervous smile playing at her lips. “Ye know me, I’m always obliging.”

  Fiona and Esme exchanged glances before Esme cast her gaze heavenward. “She changes like the wind, this one. I never know what to make of her. Where would ye like to begin, my lady?”

  “Help me dress, please. Then, after we break our fast, we will start in the great hall. The woven rushes need some sprucing. The sconces are coated with wax. And the bare stone walls are an eyesore.”

  “Och, I’m tired already,” Esme said with a wink. “Ye ken I jest. I can’t wait to roll up my sleeves and get to work!”

  “Come on,” Fiona called, hastening back to Jamie’s room to dress. Làidir was like a blank canvas and she the artist bursting to create. There was much to be done, but Fiona knew that by the day’s end, the MacLeod fortress would be magnificent.

  Fiona sat at the high dais, awaiting Jamie. A messenger from his cousin had arrived just as supper was starting. Knowing that the laird and his captains could be delayed for some time, she bade everyone enjoy the meal. She, alone, abstained, waiting to share the venison stew and crusty bread with her husband.

  While she sat, she happily scanned the hall. Fresh rosemary had been sprinkled on the rushes. The candle drippings had been scraped off the walls and sconces. She had found stacks of tapestries of varying sizes and themes rolled together in a room off the kitchens. They were taken out and beaten. Now, they adorned the walls, adding color and interest in every direction. Already, the room felt warmer and voices did not echo so loudly off the high ceiling.

  Earlier in the day, she had sent some of the youngest children out to the meadowland beyond the fields to pick flowers. An hour later, they had returned with armfuls of yellow gorse, bell heather, and white mountain avens. Now, each of the trencher tables boasted a large vase bursting with brilliant color while several bunches hung along the walls to dry. Their scents mingled with the herbed rushes and trenchers of fine stew.

  Steam rose up from the wide, wooden platters scattered among the tables. The scent of bannock, fresh from the ovens, made her stomach growl. She had worked out the week’s menu with Mary, a wiry woman with gray hair at her temples, who at first did not appear excited to have Fiona poking around in her kitchen. But by the end of their discussion, Fiona was certain Mary had warmed to her.

  As far as Fiona was concerned, the day could not have gone better.

  Coming up behind her, Jamie pressed a sudden kiss to her cheek. “My laird,” she gasped, smiling, her heart racing at the sight of his sculpted physique and penetrating eyes.

  “I’m sorry I was delayed,” he said before taking his seat next to her.

  Matthew and Alasdair joined them moments later.

  She watched expectantly while Jamie scanned the room. When he turned and looked at her, a proud smile warmed his face. “Thank ye for all ye’ve done today.”

  She smiled at his compliment. “Ye need not thank me, Jamie. Yer servants have done the lion’s share of work.”

  “Aye, but under yer gentle direction. I do thank ye, Fiona, and not just for bringing out the tapestries and the flowers and…” He paused, inhaling deeply. “And the wonderful smell.”

  Soft laughter fled her lips. “We sprinkled rosemary onto the rushes.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Ye’ve brought me back to the happy days of my youth when both my parents still lived.”

  “There is more that I wish to show ye,” she said. “On the morrow, will ye take a tour of the kitchens with me?”

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips. But then she noticed the looks he exchanged with Alasdair and Matthew.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  All lightness fled Jamie’s face. His brow furrowed. “Kenneth’s men have landed on the shores of Loch Ewe. Yer father’s army is also ready to march.” He held her hand in his. “We must ride out and meet them. We’ll bring horses and wagons and the necessary supplies Ke
nneth could not bring over on the ships that carried his men.”

  “How long will ye be gone?” Fiona asked.

  “Three days. Alasdair will ride with me. I leave Matthew here to assist ye.”

  A knot formed in her stomach. “When must ye go?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Within the hour.”

  “Tonight?” she exclaimed, heartsore at not having another night to spend with him. But then she squeezed his hand. “Forgive my outburst. It was selfish.”

  He leaned close and brushed his fingers down her cheek. “I will return to ye as soon as I am able. I take no pleasure in leaving yer side.”

  She sat straighter, trying to keep her thoughts on duty and honor. “What ye do is for the good of our people.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I will miss ye.”

  She now regretted that they had not consummated their union. What if something happened to him? Her chest tightened, making it difficult to draw breath.

  “Do not fash yerself,” he crooned in her ear. Then he leaned close and pressed a tender kiss to her lips. “I will return to ye, and I’ll bring home an army.”

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Fiona left the pantry, heading back into the kitchen. “Mary, I noticed the stores of willow bark and sage are running low. Otherwise, the herb cupboard is well in hand.” Fiona smiled at the cook. “Not that I am surprised. Ye keep a well-stocked pantry, to be sure.”

  Mary blushed at her praise. Dusting off her hands, she passed Fiona a wooden spoon. “Taste the pottage I’ve made for the warriors’ dinner.”

  Fiona crossed to the pitfire over which hung a large, steaming pot. She deeply inhaled the coiling scents of rich meats and thyme before dipping her spoon into the stew. “Delicious,” she affirmed to the cook.

  Mary nodded. “Good. Those men have been training night and day. I only pray their skills are not needed.”

  Fiona made the sign of the cross and whispered a similar prayer before she reached over and patted Mary’s hand. “God is on our side. Remember that in yer heart.”

  Tears flooded the cook’s eyes. “If only I can count on his forgiveness.”

  Fiona shook her head. “But whatever for?”

  Mary swiped at the wetness that had escaped the confines of her lids. “When I learned our laird had chosen ye as his bride, I had wicked thoughts. I didn’t want ye here. I prayed ye wouldn’t come.”

  “Hush now, Mary. Don’t fret,” Fiona soothed, pulling the cook into her arms. “Trust me when I say my prayers were the very same.”

  Mary smiled, laughing through her tears. “I suppose we’ve surprised each other.”

  “We certainly have,” Fiona said warmly.

  Mary cleared her throat and stepped back, patting her face dry with the bottom of her apron. “Now, then, where were we? Oh, I’ve planned a special feast for the evening meal in honor of our laird’s return.”

  Fiona’s heart leapt with excitement. “He did say we might expect him today. I only pray he’s not been delayed.”

  “My lady!”

  Fiona and Mary both turned.

  Matthew stood in the doorway, his breaths coming in great heaves. “There was an attack on a group of cottars settled an hour’s ride west of here. Warriors already race to their aid. I’m leaving now to join them.”

  Fiona nodded, wiping her hands off on her apron. “I’m coming with ye.”

  “Nay,” he blurted. “What I meant to say, my lady, is…well…Nay! ‘Tis too dangerous.”

  Fiona walked past him. “I will not yield. Do not waste yer breath.”

  She rushed to the herb cupboard and seized a basket off the shelf, which she filled with dried Hart’s Tongue, meadowsweet, goldenrod, butter, and strips of clean linen. “Ye’ll need a healer, which I am.”

  Matthew shook his head but did not try to stop her. “I do not ken what Jamie will say, but let us hurry!”

  Fiona bent low in the saddle, urging her mare to keep up with Matthew’s powerful black stallion. Together, they thundered up a steep hill. When they reached the top, Fiona’s heart sank. Tears stung her eyes. Billowing black smoke writhed above huts being devoured by roaring flames. Mid-summer crops were crumbling to ash. Warriors moved among the rubble and charred earth, searching for survivors.

  Choking back sobs, she charged down the hill. When she neared the destruction, she slid off her horse and darted toward the nearest warrior. He looked up at her approach. Bushy brown hair framed his ashen skin. His face was pinched with anguish.

  “Please tell me they’re not all dead,” she cried.

  He held out empty soot-streaked hands. “We’ve found no one.” He pointed to a nearby hut, consumed by fire. “’Tis my home.” His lips trembled. “I do not ken if my wife and daughter escaped.” Then his eyes shot wide. His nostrils flared. Without another word, he turned and seized Fiona’s mare, swinging up in the saddle. Then he sped off toward the woods.

  Her mind raced, and her heart drummed in her chest as she scoured the grounds, searching for any sign of life…or death.

  “Matthew,” she screamed, racing toward a fallen woman whose legs protruded from behind a tree. When she reached the body, Fiona dropped to her knees. “Please, God,” she rasped and swept aside the woman’s tangled flaxen hair to press her cheek to her chest.

  “She breathes,” she announced to Matthew when he arrived with her basket of supplies in hand. Fiona snatched up a linen strip and blotted the dark red trickle seeping from a gash on the woman’s temple. Then she noticed a ragged tear in the upper arm of her tunic. Folding the thin wool back, Fiona gasped when she saw blood oozing from a deep slice in her arm.

  Matthew bent down several feet away and yanked an arrow from the ground. “It just missed its mark.” Then he motioned to a rock near the tree. “I’d wager she fell when the arrow grazed her and hit her head.”

  “Then, she’s been rendered unconscious,” Fiona said absently as she took hold of the woman’s hand. Thick lashes fluttered against the woman’s pale cheeks. Fiona guessed they were near the same age. “What is her name?”

  “Holly,” he said. “She is Balloch’s sister.”

  In answer to her questioning look, Matthew told her, “Balloch is the warrior ye spoke to when we first arrived.”

  “They are here,” a deep voice bellowed.

  Matthew’s face brightened. “And here he is now.”

  From out of the woods, Balloch appeared, holding a young lass in his arms. At his side, with her arms wrapped around his thick waist, trudged a willowy-framed woman with long, red hair. Behind them more than a dozen people followed.

  Fiona jumped to her feet. “They survived,” she squealed to Matthew before racing toward the villagers. “Praise be to Mary and all the Saints,” she cried when she reached Balloch. The wee lass in his arms had hair every bit as red as the woman at his side, but her eyes were rich brown like his.

  Tears streamed down his rugged cheeks. “My lassies,” he said, his voice breaking. He pulled his wife close.

  Fiona’s face crumpled beneath the weight of her relief. She stood by and watched the families embrace and console one another.

  “Where were they?” she asked Matthew when he reached her side.

  “Jamie had the warriors dig deep pits in the woods hidden amid the bramble and thicket in case of an attack.”

  Balloch’s wife turned to them. Her blue eyes weary but relieved. “When we heard the watchtower bell, we hid.” Then her face crumpled. “It was dreadful, the shouts of the men and the roar from the fires. They searched the forest, but praise be to the good Lord, they did not find us.”

  “It was so scary, Da,” the wee lass said, turning big brown eyes on her father.

  “’Tis all right now, lass,” he crooned.

  Fiona nodded. “Yer da’s right, little one.” Then she stepped back and cupped her hands around her mouth. “If anyone has suffered injury, come forward.”

  Several people turned to her with scrapes that needed ban
daging while others just needed a shoulder to cry their fears on. She prayed with them, giving thanks to God for his mercy.

  “My lady.”

  Fiona looked down at Balloch’s daughter who reached her arms high. “Oh, ye sweet wee lass,” Fiona exclaimed, scooping up the child. She held her close, bouncing ever so slightly. Her wee body trembled in Fiona’s arms.

  “I was so scared, my lady,” she cried.

  Fresh tears stung Fiona’s eyes. “Ye’re safe now, sweetling.”

  Suddenly, the thunder of hooves drummed in the distance. Fiona sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Back to the woods,” Matthew shouted

  “It will be all right,” Fiona told the girl before handing her back to her mother. “Go,” she shouted. “Run!”

  Then she whirled around, her gaze fixed on the sloping moors. The pounding of the hooves matched the rhythm of her quaking heart. She held her breath, waiting. Then riders appeared over the hills, their banners flapping in the wind. “’Tis the MacLeod,” she shouted. Her heart nigh leapt from her chest. “Matthew, ‘tis Jamie!”

  She raced toward the riders. One broke away from the others, pushing his horse harder. Golden hair shone in the sun. “Jamie!”

  When he drew close, he slid from his horse. In breaths, moments, his arms were around her. He held her in a crushing embrace, lifting her feet clear off the ground. Then he set her down and cupped her cheeks. “Are ye all right? Are ye hurt? Why are ye away from the keep?”

  “I am well,” she assured him. “I came to help.”

  He kissed her lips, then looked past her to the destruction.

  “They’re all alive,” she told him. “Everyone survived.”

  Relief instantly shone on his face. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked with her toward the people who had turned back from the woods. As Jamie and Fiona drew near, the children rushed to their laird. Tears streaked their sooty faces. Jamie released her and knelt to the ground. He opened his arms wide in time for the collision of wee bodies against his chest. Closing his arms, he held them close. Fiona cried into her hand at the sight of Jamie embracing the children.