The room was cold. The fireplace held only ashes.
He saw her surprise.
But he saw no reason to explain that he did not intend to stay here, that he merely wanted to hold the clan together until Patrick returned.
She poured water from a pitcher on the table into a tankard and handed it to him.
He took a sip, then drank it thirstily.
“You need tending,” she said.
“Nay, it is but a scratch.”
“Why do men always believe they are indestructible?”
He could not stop a small smile. “Oh, I do not believe I am indestructible, but a slingshot?”
She raised an eyebrow. “A slingshot?”
“From a lad.”
She sighed. “And what did you do?”
“He was trying to protect his friend against Campbells. ’Tis difficult to be angry.”
Something flickered in her eyes, but he was too tired to try to define it.
“I will make one of Moira’s poultices,” she said. “They seem to work wonders.”
“The lass needs you more than I.”
“Her mother is there.”
“I only need sleep.”
“You need a bath as well.”
He was only too aware of that.
“Do you not have a manservant?”
“Nay. I am accustomed to caring for myself. And I have been home only a short while.” The heat was intensifying in his arm, as was the insistent throbbing.
Janet poured water into a washbowl, and found a folded towel. She dipped it into the water and returned to his side. She felt his face, and her hands felt cool and comforting against his hot skin.
He saw her worried frown above him, then she said something and left the room.
Rory did not want her to leave. Her hands had been gentle. So gentle. For a moment, he no longer felt alone.
He tried to sit up, but he could not quite manage it. Tired. He was so tired.
Fear pulsed through Felicia.
She had seen fast-moving infections before. He had been injured slightly, and like most men had not the sense to do anything about it. Instead he had pushed himself until he could barely stand.
He’d looked terrible when he’d entered the room, yet he had been gentle with Alina and more than kind. It was obvious that he had true concern about his crofters.
She had never seen her uncle treat his tenants kindly. He cared about their production, no more. If they did not produce, he forced them off the land. Jamie hadn’t liked it, but there had been little he could do, other than vow he would not do the same when he became the Campbell chief.
She prayed Jamie would never change.
But now her worry was all for her enemy. Her uncle’s enemy. Jamie’s enemy.
Felicia hated leaving him but knew the infection required immediate attention. She hurried down to the kitchen. She knew now where to find Moira’s herbs.
Together, she and Robina boiled water with the herbs, then soaked linen cloths in the earthy smelling mixture. Before long she was back in Rory’s bed chamber with a hot poultice.
“Maggie,” he mumbled when she leaned over him. “Maggie.” His voice sounded as if it was coming straight from hell.
She uncovered the wound. It had been small, but now an angry red covered much of the arm. She placed the poultice on his arm, and he threw it off.
She tried to wake him, but she could not.
Felicia replaced it and lay down on the bed next to him, holding it firm. She listened to his labored breathing, heard the beating of his heart, felt the heat from his skin.
She knew how quickly infection could kill.
She prayed for a Maclean.
Jamie listened to William, the Dunstaffnage steward, with outrage.
“My father intended Felicia to marry Morneith?”
“Aye.”
“And she knew it?”
“She knew there would be an escort to take her to Edinburgh late next week.”
“I know Morneith,” he said, his stomach roiling at the thought of his cousin marrying the man.
“Your father said the king wished the alliance. He could no’ say no.”
Jamie knew now why he had been sent to London on an errand that meant little. His father knew he would oppose the match, though he could probably do naught about it.
“Where did she disappear?”
“Near the Cameron property.”
“It is also near the Macleans.”
A muscle twitched in William’s face. It was obvious that he’d also considered the possibility that the lass had encountered Macleans. It would be his head if anything happened to her.
Where would she have gone?
To find him? If he knew his cousin, she’d probably headed to London. She would know he would do anything he could to help her, even see her out of the country. What would she do if she could not find him? But if she had tried to reach London, he should have encountered her along the way. There was but one road.
His gut tightened. Macleans were not above abduction and ransom. Or murder. If they happened to run into a Campbell …
He would find out whether a woman was being held at the Macleans’ keep. If not, he would travel back to London and try to find her. She was brave and smart, and she had a huge heart. Janet had come to love her as much as he. It had been an added bond between them.
For a moment he wondered whether Janet could have been involved in any way, but he dismissed it. She did not have Felicia’s recklessness.
He would find Felicia. And he would start at the Macleans.
Chapter 11
Pain raged throughout his arm.
He was hot, so hot.
Maggie stood in front of him in a flowing blue gown, her lovely, long blond hair blowing in the wind, her soft brown eyes full of laughter.
“Catch me if you can,” she said and ran toward the Sound of Mull.
He ran after her, laughing at first because he knew he could catch her. But the faster he ran, she ran even faster. It was as if she had wings rather than legs.
She turned and beckoned him, teasing him as she often did. He increased his pace until his heart beat so loudly it could surely be heard in Edinburgh. But still he could not close the distance between them, and she was nearing the cliff that overlooked the sound.
He tried to call out to her, to stop her, but his words were lost in the wind, and her form began to dissolve in front of him.
“Maggie!” He reached out in supplication. To bring her back. To stop her headlong flight into the sound. All he found was mist.
“Rory?”
A voice. Soft but insistent.
Maggie?
“Rory?” Louder.
Not Maggie’s voice. Maggie was gone.
He moved again. His arm was aflame.
“My lord.”
He forced his eyes open. His lids were heavy. Every movement required enormous effort.
Still he opened them, wishing instead to go back to the darkness, to the dream of Maggie standing in front of him.
He tried to focus. A lass. Red curls had escaped from her braid and framed her face … the woman calling him back to consciousness sat on the narrow bed next to him was Janet Cameron.
Another image flashed through his mind. Arms around him, holding him. He had relaxed in them, felt comforted by them.
“Rory?”
She should have been gone. But now he remembered that Lachlan had not followed his order. She had been here, caring for a child.
“The child?” he asked.
“Alina is better,” she said. “Moira and Robina are looking after her. You kept pulling off the poultice. Someone had to stay here.”
He remembered. He had felt a presence next to him. Warm. Gentle. He had thought …
He did not know what he thought.
Janet Cameron stood. Her gown was stained with blood and something else, probably the mixture used in the poultice. She went to the table an
d returned with a cup. “You must be thirsty.”
He was. He tried to sit up, and it took every ounce of determination he had. He looked at his arm, but it was covered with a poultice.
“I wish to see it,” he said.
She started to shake her head, then surrendered. She carefully untied the poultice and swabbed the discharge with the towel. The arm was swollen, the small wound ugly. The skin surrounding it was hot to the touch.
“A slingshot,” he said with disgust.
“A small wound is often more dangerous than a large one if not attended. And it is far better now than it was yesterday,” she said. “Moira’s potions are wondrous. She said she would teach me.”
“Yesterday?”
“You have been asleep more than a day,” she said.
A day!
It could not be. He could not have slept so long. There was much to be done, and Janet … she was to be on her way home.
Yet he felt comfort in her presence, and now he realized she had stayed with him these past hours.
“I was to return you to your family.” It seemed all the devils in hell were foiling him in that effort. Every day delayed, though, added risk to his clan. There was no way he could defend his Macleans against a combined campaign of Campbells and Camerons, especially since both of these clans had influence in the Scottish court.
He knew he probably could not travel yet, and though he tried not to recognize it, he felt a sense of belonging with the lass, as though she was somehow meant to be here.
The notion was part of the fever. A delusion.
She replaced the poultice carefully, her fingers sure, gentle. Even then, every touch sent streaks of pain up his arm.
“You must be hungry,” she said when she completed her task.
He was not, but he knew he needed nourishment. “Has no one been here looking for you?”
“Nay,” she said.
He closed his eyes at that. Something was very wrong, but he could not ken what it was. Not now. His head pounded as if a dozen men with hammers were striking inside his skull.
“My thanks, Lady Janet,” he said.
Her cheeks flushed. But then the room was warm. Or was it just him?
“I will fetch some soup,” she said.
“Tell Douglas I wish to see him,” he demanded more forcefully than he’d intended. He was in no position to give orders.
She stood her ground.
“Aye,” she said, “if you swear not to try to stand.”
It was an easy thing to pledge. He was as weak as a newborn kitten and had no wish to demonstrate that truth in front of her.
He nodded.
She still hesitated, then turned and left the room.
He did exactly what he had pledged not to do, but he had to test himself. He swung his feet to the side of the bed and tried to sit again. You can do it. You have to do it.
He sat there a moment, using every reserve of strength he had.
He had to be strong for the Macleans.
A moment passed, or was it hours? His head ached, and his arm protested the slightest movement.
The door opened, and Douglas entered. “Thank God you are better,” the steward said.
“I think it is more to do with Lady Janet and Moira than God,” Rory said. “How are the others?”
“We have not lost another Maclean.”
Rory closed his eyes in relief. Janet had said the lass was doing well, but …
He posed the question uppermost in his mind. Janet had said no one had asked any questions, but he could barely fathom that. She had been here a week now. “Have there been any questions about Lady Janet?”
“Nay. It feels strange. I thought we would have had a visit from the Camerons by now. A search party.”
It did not make sense, and Rory did not like things that did not make sense.
“We should send the lass home,” he said.
Douglas was silent for a moment. “She has been here nearly a week now,” he said. “If we return her now, there could be consequences. Her reputation will be ruined. And we cannot spare the loss of another man for an escort.” The steward frowned. “It was a poor decision on my part,” he said. “I should not have agreed to the scheme.”
“I should have taken her back myself, fever or not,” Rory said. “Do we have anyone who can make his way safely into the Cameron properties and try to get information?”
“Aye. Fergus is married to a Cameron. He has taken food to her family before.”
“Send him today. Give him whatever he needs. I do not want him to be obvious. Just to listen and report back as soon as possible. Tell him there will be no rent due this year.”
“Aye.”
“Does he know that Lady Janet is here?”
“Aye. He was with us on the raid, but he will say nothing.”
Rory had been away too long to know who could be trusted and who could not. But he trusted Douglas’s assessment.
Still, it was only a matter of time before word leaked out, if it had not already.
“Send him now. What about the Campbells? Can anyone enter there?”
Douglas shook his head. “I know of no one, but Archibald may.”
“Talk to him. In the meantime, keep an extra guard. No one is to go in or out unless I know about it.”
“Aye, my lord.” Respect had crept into those words this time. Rory noted it, but he did not care.
“And the lass?”
God’s eyes, but his head ached. Nearly as much as his arm. And, he feared, his heart. He would never forget the look in her face as she tended Alina. The tenderness. The compassion.
Then the warmth and life she had transferred to him as she lay against him.
He was sickened by the thought that she might pay for that compassion. She could have been gone, but she chose to stay and help care for the wounded. And himself.
What if she were blamed for his actions? Until now he had thought mostly of the harm to his clan.
But now he was beginning to realize the great harm that might well come to her on her return.
“It should be up to her,” he said finally.
“And if that decision is damaging to Macleans?”
What was the worst possibility? An innocent ruined because of an action by his clan, or his clan attacked and persecuted because of the good intentions of a few men.
Where did his loyalties lie?
The Macleans. The walls whispered the answer. He should be their protector. Was that not why he had returned?
Yet he could not abandon a lass because of his clan’s misguided actions.
“I want our men to train harder,” he said. “I want them to start storing grain and food within the walls. They need to be prepared for a siege.” He paused. “But I will give myself to hostage first. I will allow no harm to come here.”
Douglas stared at him for a long second. “We need you, Rory.”
“You need peace more,” Rory said. “How will the Macleans react?”
“They will know we have a lord back,” Douglas said.
Felicia returned to Rory’s bedchamber with hot soup. She heard voices and hesitated before going in.
It should be up to her.
And if that decision is damaging to Macleans?
I want our men to train harder.
For the first time, she realized what she had done. In fleeing headlong and stubbornly staying here, she might well be responsible for their deaths. Moira. Lachlan. Rory. Robina. Alina.
She’d heard it said that the Campbells had been searching for a woman when they raided the village. They had been looking for her. Reason enough to destroy a village. At least for Campbells.
When Alina was first brought in, Felicia had been struck with guilt that her clansmen had committed such acts. But now she knew her own actions—her own blind thoughtlessness—could bring much worse upon the Macleans, as well as her own clan. Her desires—freedom from a wretched marriage—had cost other people far mo
re than she’d ever expected.
Now she had to leave, not to escape to London, but to return and to try to put things right. It no longer mattered what happened to her. Alina’s life mattered. Moira’s life mattered. Rory’s life mattered.
She heard the weakness in his voice, the pain not only of his wounds but of the decisions she had forced him to make. He had been willing to sacrifice his life for her.
For her.
No, not for her. For Janet Cameron, the daughter of a neighboring clan, which, while not completely an ally, was not an enemy, either.
How could she now tell him who she was?
She thought of the acceptance she’d had in the past days, the feeling of worth she’d gained by it. How could she now brave the hatred and disgust sure to come?
There was but one thing to do. She had to leave and return home before anyone discovered where she had been. She would tell William that she had been hiding in caves all this time and be there in time for her father’s escort. She had three or four days. No more.
At least she’d had a taste of life, of passion. Regret warred with determination, despair with acknowledgment of what had to be done. She balanced the tray with the bowl of soup, a tankard of ale, and bread and knocked, then entered.
Rory was sitting up on the bed. As before he wore no shirt, only hose, and they molded his lower body well, too well. They clung to his muscled stomach. She dared not look lower.
Sweat dampened his face, which was rough with new beard. His jaw was clenched, as if it took every bit of his concentration to remain upright.
His mouth softened as he saw her, but there was a hard glint of resolve in his eyes.
“Douglas, leave us,” he said. “And make sure our man leaves immediately.”
“Aye, my lord,” Douglas said. He bowed to Felicia. “My lady,” he said. “We are all grateful.”
She had not thought she could feel worse.
She placed the tray on the table and watched him struggle to rise. “Stay in bed,” she ordered.
“Nay, there is much to do.”
“More reason for you to rest. You cannot help anyone if you get worse.”
He paid no attention to her but struggled to his feet. He swayed, and she moved to his side. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and stumbled rather than walked to the table. The reliance startled her. The laird was not a man to lean on anyone, even now. His touch sent now familiar frissons of heat steaming through her. He looked at her through pain-clouded eyes, but he could not hide the attraction any better than she could.
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