Ailsa knew that the single-armed claymore was a weapon that requires balance. Though of the sword family, it was not to be mistaken for the épée or the foil, that require the fighter to lunge. Like the sabre, the broadsword, with its double-edged, narrow blade, was designed to cut and to sever. An experienced warrior aims at his opponent’s legs and his head. Donald was a very experienced warrior. His first swipe was low, a wide sweep of his arm aimed at Alasdhair’s thighs. Alasdhair leapt back, countering with a downward swing that caught Donald’s blade, following through with a swipe back in the opposite direction that rent a tear in Donald’s jacket.
The men arced the blades through the air with all the force they could muster. Through his rain-soaked shirt, Ailsa could see Alasdhair’s biceps bulging. His filleadh beg swung out behind him as his sword arm travelled its treacherous path, his upper body following gracefully through, his legs and left arm braced to counter the movement. Forward, sweep, clang. Backward, arch, clang. The sound rang out, echoing back across the loch from the hills on the far shore.
Donald sliced the edge of his blade into Alasdhair’s abdomen, but his thick leather waistcoat saved him. As he leapt back, he lost his footing on the slick grass and slid, righting himself at the last moment, taking Donald by surprise with a rare lunge straight at the heart. If it had struck home, it would have been fatal, but Donald leant back, away from the blade, stumbled and fell. Desperately, he tried to swipe with his own blade while prone on the ground, but he had not the strength. Alasdhair stood over him, the point of his claymore pressed against his heart. Donald’s eyes widened as he confronted death. Then the blade was withdrawn. ‘Bastard,’ Donald cursed under his breath. He knew it was not a reprieve. Alasdhair Ross wanted him maimed, but more importantly he wanted him alive. He wanted him shamed.
Donald fought with renewed ferocity. Both men dripped sweat, their breath forming little clouds of steam in the damp air. The scent of wet plaid and leather and churned-up grass mingled with the unmistakable smell of battle. A hot red smell, raw and visceral.
Alasdhair was exhausted. His sword arm and his shoulder burned. His thighs ached. Sweat seared into his eyes, obscuring his vision, but he clenched his teeth and resolutely closed his mind to everything but the contest. He had wanted to kill, but from the moment their swords met, he had known that death in a fair fight was too honourable an end for Donald McNair. Living with defeat would be far harder for him to bear. Alasdhair shook the sweat from his eyes and concentrated anew.
The end came quickly. Alasdhair slashed high at Donald’s neck. Donald’s blade met his, and forced it downwards. Summoning all his strength, Alasdhair leapt forwards as Donald leapt back, and the blade sliced through Donald’s left thigh to the bone. A crimson flower blossomed instantly through Donald’s trews. He fell with one long scream to the ground, dropping his dirk and his claymore.
Alasdhair threw his broadsword aside and rushed over to Ailsa’s side, his chest heaving from his exertions. ‘Are you hurt? Did he harm you?’ He pulled her to her feet, his eyes searching her face anxiously. ‘Dear God, Ailsa, please tell me I got here in time.’
She nodded, unable to speak, for now it was over, the shock of her ordeal was making her tremble.
‘What is this?’ Alasdhair gently touched the bruise on her cheek.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘The bastard hit you.’
‘He did, but I took no other harm, I promise.’
‘Thank God.’ Alasdhair crushed her against his chest. ‘Thank God. I thought—I kept thinking, the whole time it took me to get here, that I’d be too late, that he’d—thank God you are safe.’
He smelled of sweat and blood. She could feel his heart thumping like a hammer on an anvil inside his chest. ‘Thanks to you,’ Ailsa murmured, closing her eyes just to relish the feeling of being alive and being safe, of being saved from a terrible fate. ‘I thought I was seeing things when you emerged from nowhere like that,’ she said, with a shaky laugh. She reached for his hand and rubbed the back of it against her cheek. ‘I don’t know how you found me, but I am eternally, deeply, truly grateful that you did. Thank you, Alasdhair.’
‘It is thanks enough that I got here in time,’ Alasdhair replied gruffly. Now that he had her safe, the horror of what would have happened had he not found her in time was taking root in his mind. He had not allowed himself to think of anything other than success throughout his frantic race south. Only now that he had succeeded was he beginning to realise how very much it mattered. He could not bear the thought of her coming to harm. Just imagining it was making him nauseous. His arms tightened around her.
Struggling to sit up, Donald McNair let out a low howling moan of agony. ‘I should help him,’ Ailsa said reluctantly, disentangling herself from Alasdhair’s reassuring embrace. ‘I would not like you to have his murder stain your hands.’
‘Let me take a look at him first.’
The Laird of Ardkinglass lay on the muddy grass, silent now, though the bulging of his neck muscles were testament to the effort he was putting into remaining so. When Alasdhair knelt down beside him, Donald made a desperate attempt to push him away, but his wrists were taken in a ruthless grip and held above his head. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, McNair, but I’m not going to allow you to extract your revenge on me by bleeding to death,’ Alasdhair said grimly. ‘Ailsa, come here, take that little dagger of yours and cut his trews as high up as you can, so we can see the wound.’
Ailsa shakily did as she was told. The claymore had cleanly sliced a long diagonal cut across the front of the leg. The bone was not broken. She realised belatedly that Alasdhair must have exercised incredible control not to have done more damage. Blood oozed sluggishly from the wound.
‘The blood does not spurt. You did not sever anything vital,’ she said to Alasdhair, glad for the training at Shona MacBrayne’s side that would allow her to repay a little of what she owed Alasdhair by saving Donald’s life. Much as she wished Donald dead at this moment, she knew it would sit very ill with her conscience later. She had never loved him, but she had intended spending her life with him, and she had given promises to that effect. It was not wholly his fault that he lay here with his lifeblood staining the grass. She forced herself to inspect the wound more closely. ‘We will need bandages, and something to stitch it with.’
Alasdhair was already hurriedly discarding his waistcoat and hauling his shirt over his head, using his dirk and his teeth to rip the cotton into long strips. ‘I’ll take a look in his saddlebag, there might be some whisky there, and he is likely in sore need of it, though he doesn’t deserve it.’
‘If there is whisky, I can find a better use for it than to pour it down his throat.’ Ailsa took the pin that held her arisaidh in place at her breast and fashioned it into a needle, then rose to pluck some horsehair from the tail of Donald’s own steed. ‘Hold him,’ she said tersely to Alasdhair as she took the bottle Alasdhair proffered and returned to Donald’s side, pouring the neat spirit over the wound, causing Donald to scream in agony. Her face set, she then concentrated on the grim task of stitching the two flaps of skin together.
Alasdhair watched her closely, anxious about the toll such a stomach-churning task would take on her already stretched-to-breaking-point nerves. As soon as she was done, he edged her out of the way and competently bound Donald’s leg himself, using the bandages that were once his shirt. At some point in the process the Laird of Ardkinglass lost consciousness.
‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ Ailsa said, watching as Alasdhair tested the tightness of the binding.
He wiped his hand across his brow, leaving a smear of blood. ‘You’re not the only one who has benefited from the knowledge of a fey wife. My first job in the New World was on a plantation where they used slave labour. An old woman there, one of the slaves who had been brought originally from Africa, taught me the basics. Of course, she was mostly employed tending the wounds made by the whip,’ he said bitterly. ‘There, I think
that will do.’
As Alasdhair turned his attentions to Donald’s henchman, who was only now getting groggily up from the ground, Ailsa sat back on her heels to watch him. His back glistened with a sheen of sweat. His hair clung to his neck. He was a beautiful shape, broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. Even though he was exhausted, he walked with an animal grace that sent his plaid swinging from side to side. He paused to stretch his arms high above his head, rolling his shoulders to ease his aching muscles. They flexed and rippled under his skin. His back was lightly tanned. Except … Alisa could see long thin stripes of paler flesh snaking across his tan. Only three of them were deep enough to ridge. The scars were very old, or very well healed.
She made her way over to where Alasdhair was kneeling on the grass, cutting the sleeve from the servant’s jacket in order to expose the wound. Alasdhair got to his feet. ‘I’ll need something else for a bandage,’ he said, frowning.
Without demur, Ailsa cut strips of cotton from her sark, allowing Alasdhair to deal efficiently with his second patient. ‘Could you go and fetch my horse for me? It’s tethered in the trees over there. I’ll just check on McNair,’ Alasdhair said. ‘Can you manage?’
She nodded, relieved to be spared any further contact with Donald, picking her way through the bracken as Alasdhair turned his attentions back to his adversary.
Donald was lying on the ground, unable to move and sweating profusely. With luck, Alasdhair thought, he was in for a long and painful recuperation. ‘You will regret this day’s work.’ Alasdhair stood over Donald in a deliberate mockery of the stance of a victorious gladiator. ‘If you ever walk again, the limp you’ll have will remind you of the wrongs you did.’
‘Bastard,’ Donald snarled. ‘You had not the guts to kill me when ye could have.’
Alasdhair swooped down to grab him by the throat, yanking him painfully upwards, so that Donald howled in pain. ‘Killing is too good for the likes of you,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I would not have you on my conscience.’ He leased his hold abruptly. McNair fell back on to the grass with a scream. Alasdhair turned on his heel and walked away. He did not look back.
‘We must stop by the inn at Stronmilchan and organise a cart to come and pick those two up,’ Alasdhair said to Ailsa when she returned. ‘Are you fit to travel? You look all in.’
Ailsa smiled wanly. ‘I am just a bit shaken, it is nothing to what I would have been if you had not rescued me.’
‘Don’t even think of it.’
‘I’m trying not to.’
She was pale, her eyes huge, almost black with fright. She looked barely able to clamber on to the horse, but once there she made a valiant effort to sit straight in the saddle, to smile through her frozen face, and his heart contracted again with the fear of what might have been. Alasdhair rode close to her all the short distance to Stronmilchan where the inn was a basic hostelry consisting of a stillroom where whisky was both distilled and consumed, and a stable yard with an enclosed barn in which passing drovers could sleep. Bidding Ailsa to wait for him, he went inside to make arrangements for a dray to be sent for the two injured men. He returned and glanced up at the sky, noting that dusk was just beginning to fall.
‘The nearest inn with proper accommodation is about ten miles away. I’m assuming you don’t want to stay here?’
Ailsa shuddered and shook her head. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said and turned her horse resolutely on to the road again. Too tired now to do any more than stay upright in the saddle, she followed Alasdhair back out of the village, barely noticing that he headed south rather than north.
The ferry tavern on Loch Awe was somewhat better equipped than the one they had just left. Ailsa was shown to a small bedchamber with a simple pallet bed. As was the custom for ferry inns, the landlord had his own still. As she stood forlornly in the middle of the room, unable to work up enough energy even to sit down, Alasdhair entered the room, carrying a glass containing a generous dram.
‘I don’t drink whisky,’ she demurred.
‘Take a little. It will help with the shock,’ Alasdhair replied, steering her over to sit on the edge of the bed.
‘I’m all right,’ she said, though she plainly was not. She was icy cold, and she couldn’t stop shivering, not just constant trembling, but sudden violent shakes that gripped her whole body. A tiny sip of the spirit made her cough, but it warmed a path down to her stomach. A second sip and she felt the tremors subside slightly. She put the glass aside.
‘Better?’ Alasdhair asked, looking at her anxiously.
‘A bit. Thank you.’
‘The landlady is sending up some hot water for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Ailsa said again. ‘That’s really thoughtful, Alasdhair.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing. What you did today, it’s everything.’ Ailsa swallowed the lump in her throat and dashed her hand over her eyes. ‘If you had not come …’
‘But I did.’
‘How? How did you know where I was, what had happened to me?’
Alasdhair frowned. ‘Later, we’ll talk later. You’re too upset just now, you need to rest, calm down.’
‘Because what you have to say will upset me more?’
‘Later, Ailsa,’ Alasdhair said firmly, closing the door behind him before she could object. She would have to be told of the part her mother had played in her abduction. She was clever enough, any road, to work it out for herself, but he did not relish having to confirm it. She had been through enough for one day.
More than enough. If he had not … Alasdhair ran a hand through his hair and rolled his tense shoulders before taking the stairs two at a time, in search of the tap room. Ailsa wasn’t the only one who would benefit from a medicinal dram of the landlord’s whisky.
It was not just a jug of hot water, but a tub almost large enough to constitute a bath that arrived, courtesy of the landlady and two sturdy dairy maids. Gratefully, Ailsa stripped off her clothes and stepped in. She soaped herself all over, rinsed with the aid of a pewter jug, then soaped again, letting the trickle of water soothe away the horrors of the last twenty-four hours.
If ever she had doubted her own mind, Donald’s abduction had set it straight. The very idea of being bedded by him—how could she ever have thought she could bear it? Sinking down into the hot water, it came to her, a simple fact, pure and clear as a mountain stream, sweeping over her with the same piercing clarity. Alasdhair. It was Alasdhair who had changed everything.
She loved him. It seemed so obvious. It felt so right.
She loved him. ‘I am in love with Alasdhair Ross,’ she said cautiously, as if trying the words on for size. They fitted perfectly, like a handmade glove. A glow that had nothing to do with the bath water suffused her body, lighting her from inside. ‘I am in love with Alasdhair Ross.’ Of course she was.
How long? How? When? Had it always been there, lying dormant these last six years? But, no, what she felt now was different. Very different. She felt this love with the essence of her being, as if it were a part of her that could not ever be rooted out. It was elemental, this love. It was here to stay.
She loved him. She was born to love him. She would die loving him. Strange that her mother had recognised it before she did, ironic that it was her mother’s attempt to separate her from Alasdhair that had brought her feelings for him to the fore.
She loved him. She wanted him passionately. She had never desired anything so much in her life as to make love to him; she longed to tend to him and to keep him safe as he had done for her today. He had ridden all this way to rescue her. He cared for her. Her heart grasped at this fact as a starving deer will rush to the first patch of green to emerge from the melting snow, but even as the fresh shoots of hope rose Ailsa saw them wither. He cared, but he would not, could not, love. He had told her that in no uncertain terms. Being an honourable man, he would feel guilty if he knew how she felt. She could not bear that.
Ailsa’s inner glow faded
somewhat as the reality of the situation began to dawn, but the newness of her feelings and the scale of them would not permit such melancholy thoughts to dominate. Not yet. She loved him so much. Ailsa closed her eyes, and allowed herself to dream.
When there was a tap on the door sometime later, she was almost asleep. Assuming it was the landlady come to remove the water, Ailsa got to her feet, grabbing the drying cloth that had been placed on the nightstand, and called out for the woman to enter. In the act of stepping out of the tub, she froze. It was not the landlady who stood in the doorway, but Alasdhair.
‘Oh!’ Ailsa lifted her other foot free of the water, but it caught on the edge of the tub.
Somehow Alasdhair made it from the door in time to catch her just before she fell. The drying cloth pooled at her feet. He found himself holding a damp, naked goddess. His arousal was instantaneous.
Hurriedly stooping down to retrieve the cloth from the floor, he attempted to drape it around her without looking. It clung to her skin. Her hair curled in tendrils over her back and her breasts. She glowed from the warmth of the water. He released her immediately, turning his back to the room. ‘There’s a mutton stew for dinner. The landlord assures me it is passable.’ His voice sounded strangled. He tried to clear his throat. ‘If you don’t want to eat down in the tap room, I’ll have them send some up.’
Clutching the cloth around her, flushing wildly, Ailsa grabbed her sark and pulled it over her head. ‘You can turn around now, I’m decent.’
She didn’t look decent, she looked delectable, the more so for being completely unaware of the fact. ‘Do you want some dinner?’ Alasdhair asked, keeping his eyes firmly on her face.
‘I’m not really hungry, to be honest.’ There was a smear of blood on his chest. Donald’s blood. More spots of it on his hands, too. Hands that had fought for her. She wanted to tend to him. She wanted to soothe him. She could feel herself blushing, but hoped he would put it down to her skin being flushed by the hot bath water. ‘I don’t like you having Donald’s blood on you,’ she said. ‘There’s a kettle of hot water on the fire there. You could use my bath.’
The Highlander's Return Page 13
