The Highland Chief

by Dana D'Angelo

  “How long will it take to arrive in Sco — at your home?” She couldn’t bring herself to name his homeland because it sounded so final, as if she might actually go there.

  “Three days,” Rory said, rolling his shoulders, and then bending his neck from side to side to stretch it. However despite his casual demeanor, he was alert. His eyes continually scoured the passing forest as if he expected something ferocious to come out and attack them. Before she had a chance to inquire about what he was searching for, the cart suddenly careened to the left, the unexpected movement throwing her off balance. His strong, muscular arms caught her. While he stopped her fall, his sinewy forearm grazed the side of her breast. A current of energy passed through her, an energy that was intense and steady and which left her feeling simultaneously hot and cold. He peered down at her, his surprised expression suggesting that he felt the electric tension as well.

  Time seemed to stand still as their eyes clashed, and she lost her ability to breathe. The area that he touched tingled and burned.

  Griogair let out a sudden shout, ending the sorcery that circled her and Rory.

  “I am sorry,” she mumbled over the roar of rushing blood echoing in her ears. Why was she so attracted to Rory? True enough, he was a captivating man with a fine physique. But it didn’t make any sense to her. Rory was her captor, her country’s enemy. Apparently none of that mattered when he was near. He scarcely had to touch her, and a liquid heat swirled up and down her length.

  “Are ye all right?”

  She nodded. The last thing she wanted was for him to think that she deliberately threw herself at him. Taking a shaky breath, she pulled away from him just as the cart came to a complete stop.

  “Get the horses, Griogair.” Rory gestured to a moss covered boulder.

  “Aye,” Griogair jumped down from his seat. He walked a short distance, and disappeared behind the large rock.

  A few minutes later, he emerged with two horses in tow. Now in the morning light, she had a clear view of the other man. While his brother was fair, Griogair was dark and solidly built; his muscles strained underneath his jacket while his powerful calves peeked out from beneath his plaid. The family resemblance was obvious, and both men were comely in their different ways.

  She studied their clothing, and noted that these Highlanders didn’t appear to come from wealth. While their great kilts and other clothing were well made, the materials were old and worn. They had a number of items attached to their belts, from a dirk to a small leather pouch that hung loosely at the center of their kilts. In addition to that, they possessed dangerous swords that they strapped to their backs. Suddenly she was reminded that she was among lethal warriors, and she needed to tread carefully.

  “Will I be riding the pack horse?” she asked, her tone cautious.

  “Nay, ye will be riding with me,” Rory said. “The pack horse will stay here with the cart. The auld horse is too exhausted, and willnae survive traversing the Scottish terrain.” He jumped off the cart. “Come,” he said, offering her his hand.

  “I can dismount by myself,” she said, shaking her head. She didn’t want him touching her again. Not when every contact with him threw her off kilter.

  But she moved too slowly for him. Before she could protest, he wrapped his large hands around her hips, lifting her easily off the cart. The now familiar heat shot through her and she gasped.

  He settled her gently on the ground, although he didn’t immediately release her. For a brief second, his green eyes settled on her lips while a bemused expression blanketed his face. But then he shook his head as if to dismiss her from his mind.

  Griogair handed the reins of one of the horse to Rory. “I left Duncan’s horse still tethered to the tree.”

  “Guid,” Rory said, taking the reins. He tilted his head to the pink sky. “He should have left the castle by now, and will likely be retrieving his mount soon.”

  He pivoted, and without saying another word, he lifted her up and settled her atop his horse. In the next moment, he mounted quickly behind her and urged the beast forward. She scarcely had enough time to hold on when the sound of hooves thundered in her ears.

  They rode at a gallop, leaving everything familiar behind. The forest on either side of them became a blur of green. She prayed that Duncan had left her mother and Fyfa unharmed. She also prayed for an opportunity to escape from her captors.

  They continued at a breakneck speed for a long while. But then Rory shouted to Griogair, and they slowed their horses down to an amble.

  Rory relaxed his grasp on the reins, releasing one hand to rest it at her hip. While she should have brushed his hand aside, she felt his touch strangely pleasant and comforting.

  Darra winced inwardly at the absurdity. This was not a good idea to become too comfortable with her captor. Moving away from him as much as she could, she allowed the cool autumn air to pass between them.

  ***

  Rory shifted behind Darra, aware that a part of him was inconveniently awake, and rearing for action.

  It was foolish to be lusting after the lass, he told himself sternly. She was English of all things. Still, it was difficult to ignore the temptress who sat directly in front of him. And with each inhalation, he caught the heady scent of roses and sandalwood. The women from the hills used plain soap and water, but Darra’s perfume was exotic and teased his senses. Was her skin equally scented?

  Her hair, which was the color of sun bleached straw, hung down her graceful back. When he saw her last night, he wasn’t able to clearly observe her features. But now he saw too much of it, and he wished that the darkness once again concealed her visage. Yet he knew that he had to merely close his eyes, and a picture of her smooth oval face would come to mind.

  A moment before, she rested her head against his shoulder. Every breath she took felt like his own. The lass was tired enough that she didn’t realize that she sagged against him. Not that he minded. It had been too long since he bedded a woman, and the feel of Darra’s soft body nestled against him felt pleasant. He shook his head, irritated with where his thoughts were leading him.

  “Will ye stop moving?” he demanded.

  Her spine stiffened. “’Tis not as if I have much space to begin with.”

  He snapped his mouth shut. When he allowed the lass to ride with him, he didn’t consider that she would put him in a constant state of arousal. It was now that he regretted taking Darra with him rather than her mother.

  “Why have you come to England to obtain a healer?” she asked. “Are there none in Scotland?”

  Rory let out a long suffering sigh. He didn’t want to converse with her, but she needed to know the details of his mission.

  “Your mother was correct. Eanruing MacGregon is ill, and the village healer couldnae help him.”

  Even now, in his mind’s eye, Rory could clearly see his father lying on his bed, his strength diminishing as each day passed.

  Eanruing had been like this for many days with no sign of his fever abating. Slick sweat had beaded on his forehead, and his skin was pale and sickly.

  “What can be done for him, Agnes?” Rory had asked the village healer, his tone low and guarded.

  She assessed him with her dark, serious eyes. Agnes was a petite woman that was well past her prime. She lived in the village, and came as soon as he had sent for her. When his father first fell ill, he refused assistance, telling Rory and everyone else that he was all right, that he had survived worst illnesses. And Rory believed him. Except this time, Eanruing’s sickness continued for many weeks. Then in the last few days, the fever started, and his health declined even further.

  A ray of afternoon light broke through the window, and cast a thin strand of light onto the stone floor. All six of his siblings crowded around the bed — Duncan, Griogair, Cailean, Ewan, and his two sisters Mairead and Kila. His friend Blane Cunningtoun, who fostered at Tancraig Castle, and who was like a brother to him, was there as well. Without looking at them, Rory knew that various
emotions flitted across their features. There was no need to speak since each of them recognized that Eanruing was fighting for his life.

  Agnes wrung the cloth in the basin and slowly shook her head. “I cannae say for certain, Rory,” she said. “However our clan willnae have anything tae fear as we now have ye as our Chief.”

  Chief. The address pierced through him like an arrow to his gut. He was no longer the Tanist but was the rightfully appointed Chief of Clan MacGregon. Only weeks before Eanruing decided to pass the clan responsibilities on to Rory.

  One of his sisters, possibly Kila, let out a low moan of distress. Meanwhile Blane stared at him, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

  “Can ye cure him, aye or nay?” Rory said, an impatient tic starting at his jaw. “Answer the question, Agnes.”

  She wiped her damp fingers on her apron, still avoiding his eyes. “Ye should have sent for me sooner.”

  “’Tis too late tae reflect on what I should have done.” Anger began to simmer in his chest. However the vexation was directed at himself — for indulging his father. “Tell me what else ye can do for him.”

  “Wait,” she nodded, her lips tightening into a grim line. “That’s all that ye can do.”

  The sympathetic noise that Darra made drew Rory out of his dark musings.

  “I’m sorry, what did ye say?” he asked.

  “Was there nothing that the village healer could do for your father?” she repeated.

  “Nay, she said that Eanruing was cursed, but I dinnae believe her blether,” he paused. “’Tis the reason why we need tae obtain a real healer.”

  Chapter 5

  The dull light squeezed through the closed shutters, allowing just enough illumination for Venora to take full assessment of her bed chamber. The MacGregon spawn had left hours ago, and she was tied to a chair, a strip of cloth secured over her mouth. She had tried countless times to scream after the abominable Highlander had left, but the cloth around her mouth effectively muffled any sound that she made. That and it sucked all moisture from her mouth. Fear and worry swirled within her as she suffered in tortured silence. But there was also fury surging in her veins. After what the MacGregons did to her family, they dared to steal into her home, and insist on her help?

  Venora glanced over at Fyfa. Somehow the maid had fallen asleep even though she was similarly bound to a chair. There was no way that she could have slept through all this.

  She cast her eyes heavenward. Forgive me, Arthur, she pleaded silently. She should have gone with the Highlanders instead of letting them take Darra. At least if Venora went with them, she would have ended her miserable life, and be with her beloved. She blinked rapidly, shamed by her display of cowardice.

  Her scrutiny fell upon the four-poster bed that sat off to the side of the chamber. It was the last place where Arthur had lain. She felt the familiar pang twisting in her chest, and a renewed sense of sorrow stabbed at her heart. She was a healer with a reputation for providing miracles. But in the end she couldn’t save her own husband.

  The image of Arthur lying in his bed floated to her consciousness, his pale face taut with pain and agony. All the things she had learned as a healer were useless. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to remove the image from her mind, but the picture remained as stark and real as if the nightmare was reoccurring.

  “Here, love, take another sip of this tincture.”

  Venora had brought the cup to his mouth, but he lifted his hand, blocking it. The liquid sloshed, sliding down his chin, and gathering at the hollow of his neck.

  “Arthur!” she cried, unable to contain the frustrated sob from her voice. This was her third attempt to administer the medication to him. She hurriedly grabbed a cloth from the side table and dabbed at the spilled medicine.

  “I am sorry,” he said, giving her a tired though charming smile. It was a smile that had won her over when they first met, and any anger she felt dissipated. Arthur reached over and placed his hand on hers, the firm weight of it stilling her movements. He licked his lips as if he wanted to say something.

  “What is it?” she whispered, bending down to hear him.

  “Death awaits, sweeting,” he said, his voice faint. “You cannot help me.”

  She drew back in alarm. “Nay, my lord! Do not tell me this! You must drink this tincture that I have made. You will get well, you will see.” But even as she said this, doubts were creeping into her mind. The injuries that her husband sustained in his limbs were deep. He refused to die in the battlefield, and insisted that he return to Lancullin Castle. By the time he arrived, his body was depleted from the loss of blood, and the festering wounds in his legs.

  Venora tried her best to clean the cuts, but the next day tiny red streaks appeared on his pale skin. His breath came out in short pants, as if he struggled for air, and his heart slowed, beating faintly in his chest. Out of desperation, she summoned the village hag to chase away the Angel of Death. The witch arrived and immediately began to chant invocations, her incoherent words resounding in the chamber for long hours.

  “The grip of death on my lord is too much,” the old woman gasped. “I cannot do anything more for Sir Arthur. He will be dead within a day.”

  “Nay,” Venora said, shaking her head slowly. “You are lying.”

  And she truly believed it. The servants cast sympathetic looks at her, their expressions showing that they sided with the hag. But Venora was determined to prove that everyone was wrong. After all, she came from a line of great healers, and the healing arts flowed in her veins. Didn’t the hundreds of people she helped in the past attest to her abilities?

  “Get out!” she shouted to everyone in the chamber. Then she glared at the witch. “You are of no use to me.”

  One by one, the people filed out of the chamber, and she was left alone with Arthur. She moved to the side table to prepare another herbal concoction.

  “She was only trying to help,” Arthur said from his bed, his voice weak.

  “Nay ‘twas a mistake to bring that woman here.” She swiveled around, and gulped back a lump in her throat when she saw his pale, wane visage. Moving closer to him, she said, “Here, try this, my lord. I know it tastes bitter, but it will make you feel better.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across his firm lips. He lifted his hand and placed his palm on the side of her cheek. “Having you here by my side is all that I need to make me feel better,” he said.

  She set the cup down on the table and raised her hands to cover his. Closing her eyes, she felt the tears burn beneath her eyelids.

  “I am sorry that I cannot heal you from your suffering.” She dashed away at a tear that slipped down her cheek.

  His gaze shifted to the ceiling, his eyes appearing unfocused. “’Tis God’s will —”

  “You mean to leave me,” she choked out. “I — I do not know how I can go on…”

  “Venora,” he said.

  When she met his gaze, she saw sorrow and regret reflected in his depths. “My time is nigh, but you — you need to be strong … for Darra…”

  She gripped his hand more tightly as if she could pour her own life force into him, and keep him alive. But even as she held his hand, his strength began to fade. More tears fell, and she lifted her other hand to wipe them away. When her vision cleared, she saw that Arthur had fallen asleep. The lines of pain had smoothed away from his handsome face, and for once he seemed at peace.

  Reluctantly she took his hand away from her cheek and placed it gently at his side.

  She reached over to adjust the blanket when she hesitated. The steady rise and fall of his chest was strangely absent. Her heart skipped a beat. Hoping that it was merely her imagination, she quickly reached to feel the pulse at the side of his neck.

  Nothing.

  She staggered back, horror gripping her heart.

  “Nay,” she whispered brokenly. Then a wailing filled the chamber, the sound as desperate and pain-filled as an animal dying in the woods.

&nb
sp; As if a dam had broken, tears flooded down her cheeks. And all the sorrow that she held at bay burst forth with a fury that left her breathless and weak.

  In the end, the witch’s prophecy came true. The tincture that Venora made only helped to dull his pain and allow him to die in peace. Even though she denied it at the time, she knew that truthfully, there was nothing she could have done for him. And there was nothing that she could do to bring him back to life. And even though Arthur had insisted that she stay strong, she couldn’t do it. Venora fell into fit of despair, and through a twist of fate, Darra was the one who became the pillar of strength.

  With great effort, Venora tried to rebury her sorrow, but it burst through anyway. The hot tears burned down her cheeks while her heart wrenched in pain. However all her sufferings were muffled by the cloth barrier biting into her mouth.

  For too long she had wallowed in her grief and was consumed by helplessness. And in her shortcoming, she permitted her sole child to be taken away by Scottish savages.

  A noise at the door drew her attention, dragging her out from her terrible musings. She glanced over at Fyfa. The maid was awake and staring intently at the door.

  The door creaked open.

  “Oh!” a voice gasped. The urn that the young servant held in her hand tipped over to the side. The water splashed onto the floor, while the blood drained from the girl’s cheeks. She stared at Venora as if she was an apparition.

  “Get me out of here!” Venora yelled. But the sound that emerged from her covered mouth seemed as if she screamed underwater.

  Still, the girl understood what it was that Venora wanted. She set the urn on the floor, and rushed over to free them from their prisons.

  “Why are you tied, milady?”