His smile widened slightly as he regarded her, and she knew guilt must be evident on her face.
“You are not the first to think of such tactics,” he said.
She wondered why he—the son of a powerful earl—had also resorted to trickery, but while he usually wore an amused smile, she was quickly learning there were depths to him and as many shadows as followed his older brother.
“We will leave for your home with a small escort,” he said. “No one will wonder that I would lose you.”
His expression went straight to her heart. As she had always felt out of place, so, apparently, had he.
“Thank you.”
“I think this afternoon you can go down and see your foal, though.”
“She is not mine,” she said.
“Rory gave her to you.”
“He will not be so generous when I do not do his bidding.”
“He keeps his word. He will send her to you when she is old enough.”
“You admire him.”
“Aye, I do. He follows his own star.”
“So, I think, do you.”
He shrugged. “I am nothing.”
Before she could reply, he left her, the words leaving a sad echo in the room.
Chapter 9
Felicia stayed away from the foal as long as she could. She did not want to say good-bye.
She coveted the foal with all her soul. She had never had a horse of her own. Everything at Dunstaffnage belonged to her uncle.
But it was not her foal. And never could be.
Not wanting appraising eyes on her at the table in the great hall, she took supper in her room. She asked Moira for only bread, cheese, and soup, saying the fever had sapped her appetite. She had learned that these items were the least offensive of all the food.
How she would like to help Moira improve the life here. She liked Archibald, and even the tight-lipped Douglas. Every man and lad had been kind to her.
And the household was in deep need of care.
She ate, then put on her cloak and went down the steps. She passed by the kitchen. Several servants were darting in and out. She found two apples and a knife. She cut the apple in quarters, then passed the great hall where some Macleans were eating. Their number was much fewer than it had been the previous night, and, unlike other meals, there was none of the customary hum of conversation or boasting. Macleans were dead this day.
A shudder ran through her. She had always believed there was only one side to the feud. No more. An innocent village had been attacked. Rory Maclean might well be engaged in a battle with troops from Dunstaffnage. Thank God that Jamie wouldn’t be with them.
She could not bear the thought of the Maclean and Jamie crossing swords.
The Maclean does not mean anything to me.
She repeated the words over and over, but she soon realized saying them did not make them so. She did care. A suffocating sensation tightened her throat as she realized how much.
How could that happen so quickly?
Jamie and Janet had known each other for years, but it was not until Jamie’s father pressed him to take Janet for a wife that he offered for her. She had no doubt that he cared deeply for Janet now, but it had not been immediate.
Was it the appeal of forbidden fruit? Of all the men in the world, a Maclean would be the most impossible match for her. She sighed. It could also be, she admitted, that no one had ever before displayed any interest in her. Perhaps any man’s kiss might have had the same effect.
She reached the stables and stopped first to feed Janet’s mare the quarters of one apple, then she continued on to the stall where the new mother and baby were stabled.
The mare smelled the treat and nickered softly, then moved to take the apple from Felicia’s hand. The baby followed on long, awkward legs.
Felicia reached over and stroked the foal’s long, silky neck. She truly was beautiful. Her eyes were huge. “You are going to be a fine mare,” Felicia said. “I wish …”
The loud piercing sound of the alarm horn cut through the night. Riders approached!
Felicia’s heart pounded against her rib cage.
Rory Maclean had returned. Or was it a party searching for her? Would the Campbells send a party here? Certainly not after raiding a Maclean village?
It had to be Rory. Her heart tripped at the thought of seeing him once more, even though she knew it would make escape even more difficult. Would he still entrust her to his brother?
She left the stables and entered the great hall, taking the steps up to the ramparts. There she joined the sentry and looked down.
She counted ten horses, each carrying two people. Several horses dragged litters behind them. Men and women walked beside them.
The order was given to open the gates. She quickly descended and ran out into the bailey as tired horses and exhausted Macleans—men and women, several carrying bairns—entered. Macleans poured from the great hall and other buildings.
Moira and Robina joined her, as Archibald approached them. He was walking, holding the reins of a horse following behind him. He stopped, wearily, walked around to the saddle, and assisted a woman and young girl in dismounting.
“We have wounded,” he said to Moira who quickly moved to check each litter.
“My brother?” Lachlan asked Archibald as they helped villagers dismount.
“He stayed behind to search for several villagers who ran when the Campbells raided the village,” Archibald said. “The healer was killed, and crofts burned. There was no shelter left for these people.”
“Take them into the great hall,” Lachlan said.
“I can help Moira,” Felicia said. “I learned much from the healer at …” She stopped herself before she said Dunstaffnage.
Moira obviously heard and looked up. “God save ye, milady,” she said gratefully.
Lachlan’s startled expression gave her pause. Was it because she had stopped in mid-sentence, or because she had claimed to know healing?
But Lachlan said nothing. Instead, he picked up a young girl from a litter and carried her inside. Moira was occupied with a villager who had a huge gash in his shoulder.
Felicia followed Lachlan into the great hall. Lachlan gently lowered the girl onto a table, and Felicia leaned over to look at her.
The child could have been no more than eight years old. Her leg was bloody and crooked. She regarded Felicia with pain-filled eyes, yet did not utter a word.
“Her name is Alina,” a woman who had followed them inside said. A small dog whined and tried to jump up on the table.
“How was she injured?” Felicia asked.
“A Campbell on horseback ran ’er down when she ran out to get the dog. Did it on purpose, he did. I would have left the cur, but Alina would no’ hear of it.”
A Campbell deliberately ran her down.
Pain twisted inside Felicia. Was it a man she knew?
She looked at the ugly wound. The bone had obviously been broken.
Moira joined her and stooped down to look as well. “Ye are a brave lass,” she told the child softly.
“Will I lose … my leg?” Alina asked in a quavering voice.
Felicia looked at Moira. If there was no infection, there was a chance the leg could be saved, but that was unlikely. At the very least, she doubted the lass would ever walk properly again.
“I do not know,” she said honestly.
Approval flickered on Moira’s face. “There are herbs for poultices in the kitchen,” she said.
“I can mix poultices, if Robina will show me where they are.”
Moira looked unsure. “Why do you no’ stay with the young lass while I go and show Robina what to do?” Before Felicia could protest, Moira was out the door, pushing Robina ahead of her.
The dog whined and tried to move closer to his young mistress.
“What is your dog’s name?” Felicia asked, trying to divert the lass from her pain.
“Baron.”
“A nobl
e name.”
Alina’s mother snorted. “He is nothing but trouble, that one.”
“Nay, he is the best dog in the world,” the child said.
“Then we must take good care of him,” Felicia said. “I will see that he is fed.”
The child’s face brightened despite her pain. “Mither blames him, but it was no’ his fault.”
“I will get him some food and take him to my chamber so he will not be underfoot,” she said. “Is that acceptable?”
“Aye, milady,” Alina said uncertainly.
“You will have him back. I swear.” Felicia looked at the mother.
She picked up the dog and went into the kitchen. Moira had put Robina to boiling water on the fire. Several knives lay in the fire as well, the steel glowing red. Felicia shuddered, knowing what was coming.
“I thought I should get the dog out of the way,” she said. “I will take him to my chamber and be back down to help.”
“We will have to seal the wounds,” Moira said.
Felicia struggled to keep the bile from rising into her throat. She had performed the task once before when the healer was elsewhere, attending a birth. It was a task she had hoped never to repeat.
“I know,” she said. “She can use my chamber,” she said. “She will be more comfortable, and I would like to look after her.”
Moira’s lips spread into a smile. “Nay, milady,” she said. “She can have the chamber next to yours. No one is there.”
“Lord Rory?”
“I dinna think he will object,” Moira replied. “I dinna know what to think when he returned, but he is a mon who cares about his clan, I think.”
Felicia grabbed several large chunks of bread and filled a bowl with water from a pitcher and took the dog upstairs to her chamber. He attacked the bread as if he’d had no food in days.
Felicia closed the door and hurried back to the great hall. Lachlan stood next to Alina, murmuring something to her and getting a pained smile in return. The hall was filling with the injured. One man was moaning, but the other injured crofters were stoic as fellow clansmen tended to their injuries. Moira moved from one to another, with a pail of poultices.
“Your Baron is fed and happy,” Felicia told Alina, who tried to smile. Her face twisted in agony when she moved her leg. Felicia found a clean piece of linen, dampened it, and cleaned around the wound. When she finished, Moira had returned.
“I must try to set the leg,” she said. “Lachlan, carry the child up to the laird’s chamber next to milady’s.”
Lachlan looked startled but nodded. He picked the child up with obvious tenderness, wincing as he heard a small smothered moan. Felicia, Moira, and the child’s mother followed him up to the laird’s chamber.
The spacious chamber was still covered with dust but it had a great bed, which was certainly far superior than using the floor in the great hall.
Lachlan put the lass on the bed, then stepped aside.
“Lord Rory said he had something to help dull pain,” Moira said, “but we canna wait. We donna know when he will be back, and I must try to set the leg.” She leaned down. “’Tis going to hurt, lass.”
Alina tried to look brave.
Moira gave her a piece of wood to bite down on and knelt beside her. “Hold her tight,” she said to Lachlan.
Felicia clamped her lips together, as Lachlan held the child’s slight body down, and she took Alina’s right hand. “Squeeze,” she said. “As hard as you can.” Alina’s mother hovered at the other end of the bed, obviously intimidated by the room and those working to save her daughter.
Moira pulled on the leg, and Alina bit down hard on the piece of wood, but Felicia saw the silent scream in her eyes, then the child went limp.
“She is unconscious,” she said.
“Thank God for small mercies,” Moira said. “Hurry and get me a knife. Mayhap we can finish this before she wakes up.”
Felicia ran back to the kitchen and took one of the knives from the coals in the fireplace. There had been six. Now there were three. Others were performing the same task.
When she returned, the child was still unconscious. Moira took the knife while Lachlan pressed down on the shoulders again in the event Alina regained consciousness. After the slightest pause, Moira touched the knife against the child’s wound. The skin sizzled. Felicia held her grip on Alina’s hand until Moira finished the grim duty, then tied the leg to a length of wood.
“I have others to attend to,” Moira said, her usually pleasant face drawn and angry. “The demmed Campbells,” she hissed. “May they all rot in hell.”
Felicia saw the same rage in Lachlan’s face.
She swallowed hard, not wanting them to see her own outrage and despair. “I will stay with her,” she said. “Alina’s mother and I.” She motioned to the woman to sit beside the bed.
“She can stay here,” Lachlan said. “I will arrange for pallets for the others.” Lachlan stood. His face was pale. His hands trembled slightly.
He left the room and Felicia sat on the side of the bed next to Alina. She wanted to be there when she woke. She wanted to reassure her. Alina had been so afraid. And so brave.
“Your husband?” she asked the woman sitting on the other side of the lad.
“He stayed back at the village with my lord,” she said. “My son … we have not seen him since the raid. He was watching the cattle.”
“I am sorry,” Felicia said. More than sorry. She was ravaged by guilt that her own people would do this. These people were not warriors. They were simple farmers, trying only to survive. Then she remembered the raid many years ago when the Macleans had done the same. How many times since had this been done to one or the other of the clans?
Would it never stop?
She sat next to the lass, uncaring that her gown was stained with blood. She reached over and took the mother’s hand, clasped it tightly as the two women united in their vigil.
Rory blessed the sun. The rain had stopped, and dawn came with few clouds. The sun followed, a glorious golden ball that dried the hills.
He and ten men from the village had searched during the rain-drenched night for the missing lads, though it had been a fool’s effort. He could not see anything much farther than the tip of his horse’s head. Still they had tried, covering the common area where the cattle had grazed just before the raid.
That they had found no bodies had been a hopeful sign.
Once the rain stopped and dawn broke, Rory and the others expanded their search. The boys had been missing a day and a half now. His heart ached. He should have returned home earlier. He should have known this could happen when he raided the Campbell cattle days earlier.
There were four small villages in the countryside around the main Maclean keep. Why had he not sent out forces to protect them?
He knew the reasons, but they did not comfort him. He had wanted to make peace in order to leave again. He had placed his needs above those of the Macleans, and others had suffered for it.
It did not help to know that Douglas bore blame, as did Lachlan. Neither were suited to lead the clan. Douglas’s job was to ensure that crofters paid their rents. And Lachlan? Lachlan had no faith in himself, nor did the clan have faith in him. No one had said anything to him, but he sensed something had happened while he was gone, something that had tainted the clan even more than the Campbell curse.
He had not been home long enough to extract that piece of information. There had been too many other problems.
Home. It was the first time he had acknowledged Inverleith as home in many years.
Rory and Ian, the rider who had accompanied him from the keep, searched in a pattern of ever-widening circles. The villagers, armed with bows and arrows and several pikes, followed on foot, combing each dip in the land, discouraged yet not giving up.
He stood up in his stirrups and looked around. To the left was a steep, wooded hill and a waterfall tumbling over rocks, making its way between clumps of gorse.
A tingle ran down his spine.
His legs signaled his horse into a trot. Ian, some distance away, followed.
Another movement ahead.
He shouted out, “Macleans.”
A small movement again.
Rory tightened his knees around his mount, and the horse went into full gallop. He looked back. Villagers, armed with pikes and bows, followed at a full run.
He approached the gorse carefully. He did not want to frighten whomever was there.
A stone hit him, making a gouge in his arm. Another hit the horse. The startled gelding shied, but Rory quickly regained control. “A Maclean,” he shouted again.
“Donna come closer,” a youthful voice shouted back.
“I am a Maclean. I am here to help. Your father is behind me.”
Slowly, a slender lad stood, a slingshot ready in his hand. He was obviously not going to go down without a fight, even with such an inadequate weapon.
Rory dismounted and walked toward the lad, his hands in plain sight. “You are John … or Alex?”
“Alex,” the lad said, his pale blue eyes suspicious.
“I am Rory Maclean. What of the other lad?”
“My lord?” The boy looked suddenly frightened as he saw blood drip from Rory’s arm.
“’Tis nothing, lad,” he said. “Where is the other lad?”
“He is hidden above,” Alex said. “He was wounded. A pike through his shoulder. He tried to stop them. I hid.” Self-contempt was in his voice.
“You brought him here?”
“Aye,” the lad said, his eyes downcast. “I saw the fires. I feared they would slay everyone, so I carried him here. Then I could no’ leave him alone.”
“You did the right thing.”
“The village. My fa? My mither?”
“Your father has been looking for you. He should be with us soon. Your mother and sister went to Inverleith with my men.” He did not say the lad’s younger sister was sorely wounded.
The boy’s eyes filled with tears. Angrily, he wiped them away. “Are the Campbells gone?”
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