Espy reached up, and gripped her grandmother’s wrist. “He will come for me.”
Cyra leaned down as she rested her hand over her granddaughter’s. “I will let no harm come to you, Espy.”
Espy gave a weak smile and shivered.
“You need to get warm.” Cyra quickly got another blanket from the chest at the end of the bed and after she made certain it was tucked tight around Espy, she went and got the chamomile brew she had left steeping. She quickly discarded the crushed leaves and went and sat on the bed alongside, Espy. She placed the tankard to her granddaughter’s lips and helped her to sip some of the brew. Espy drank eagerly and Cyra sat patiently, feeding her the brew until none was left and Espy’s eyes had closed.
Rain pounded the cottage and thunder continued to roll over the land. It was when a crack of thunder sounded as if it had hit the cottage and sent a shiver so strong through Cyra that she collapsed to the chair growing ever fearful.
He knew. Somehow he knew.
The beast of MacCara castle knew that Espy had returned.
The morning woke without the sun. Gray clouds lingered in the sky, though the rain had stopped. Cyra would have preferred the rain to continue, the downpour keeping people in their cottages and the beast confined to the keep. It would give her time to think of a way to convince Lord Craven that Espy should be allowed to remain with her. Though, the idea seemed senseless, Cyra had to try.
“Seanmhair.”
Cyra’s worried thoughts evaporated upon hearing her granddaughter call out softly to her, and she hurried out of the chair by the fireplace and over to the bed. Espy looked much too pale or perhaps it was the fresh scar that forced such a ghostly color.
Espy slipped a weak hand from under the blanket and reached out to her grandmother as she approached. “I do not want to put you in harm’s way.”
“Worry not about me. It is you that concerns me,” Cyra said and taking her granddaughter’s hand and keeping tight hold of it, she sat on the bed.
“I had no place to go,” Espy said a croak in her gentle voice as she tried to hold back her tears.
Cyra pressed Espy’s hand to her chest. “You do have a place. It is here with me. It is your home.”
They both heard the noise at the same time… the pounding of several hooves growing ever closer.
Espy’s hand tightened around her grandmother’s.
“Lord Craven will not take you from me again,” Cyra said and eased her granddaughter’s hand beneath the blanket. “You stay here and worry not.” Espy went to speak, but Cyra placed her fingers gently to her lips, stopping her. “Not a word and stay where you are.”
Cyra left her granddaughter’s side and grabbing her worn wool shawl from the back of the chair, she went to the door, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, then opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind her.
The sight that met her had her heart thumping madly against her chest and fear rushing through her, quivering her limbs until she thought for sure her legs would crumble from under her.
Lord Craven could put fear in the devil himself. He had always been a large man, though he seemed to have grown larger since his wife had died, his muscles straining against the black shirt beneath his plaid. But then it was whispered that he worked his warriors senseless on the practice field each day and that he could often be found chopping down trees in the woods and hoisting the felled tree on his shoulder and carrying it without help. Cyra believed some of what she had heard was possibly true while others mere tales. Seeing Lord Craven now, she wondered if perhaps it was more truth than tale.
“Is your granddaughter here, Cyra?” Craven demanded.
Cyra kept her courage strong, though it was not easy in the fierce warrior’s presence. While he had the finest features she had ever seen on a man, there was a fiery anger in his dark eyes that made one want to step back and keep a distance from him. He wore his dark hair shorter than most men, it faintly brushing the tops of his shoulders, and pulled back tightly and secured with a pewter clasp at the nape of his neck, that everyone knew had been a gift from Aubrey.
“Answer me!”
Cyra jumped at his snarling bark and her fear grew. He had six warriors with him. His intentions were obvious and Cyra worried that she would not be able to stop him from taking Espy from her.
“Espy is here and she is ill and needs tending,” Cyra said, keeping her voice steady and clear, fighting down the tremble that threatened to break free.
“Tending is not necessary for the punishment she faces for returning here when I ordered her to stay off my land,” Craven said and dismounted swiftly.
Instinctively, Cyra took a step back. She had forgotten how tall he was and with the added muscles, he appeared even more intimidating than usual.
“Did you think to keep her presence from me? Do you think I am ignorant of what goes on around me? I was alerted to her arrival as soon as she appeared on my land. Turn her over to me now or suffer the consequences,” Craven commanded, his last few words a near roar.
Cyra knew she was sealing her own fate as she shook her head and said, “I cannot do that, my lord.”
“Your granddaughter killed my wife and child. She deserves to suffer and suffer endlessly before she meets her death.” Craven took a quick step toward Cyra. “And I will see that she does.”
Cyra stood firm, fear quivering her limbs, but the need to protect her granddaughter keeping her strong. “Espy did all she could to save your wife and child. It was not her fault they died.”
“The physician said otherwise and I will not stand here and argue with you. Get your granddaughter out here—NOW!”
Cyra gave a slight turn of her head as his warm breath struck her face, his words having been delivered with such force. She did the only thing she could think of… she pleaded for her granddaughter to be spared.
“Please, Lord Craven, have mercy on an old woman. Espy is all the family I have left. Please, I beg you, do not take her from me.”
“Aubrey and our unborn bairn were all the family I had and your granddaughter took them from me. I will spare her not an ounce of mercy for what she took from me.” Craven turned and signaled to his warriors and the six men dismounted and stepped forward. He raised his voice again. “I will not tell you again to bring her out here to me.”
The door suddenly opened. “I am here.”
Cyra turned to see Espy leaning heavily on the door and went to take a step toward her.
“No, Seanmhair, this is my fate to face,” she said softly.
Cyra reached for her arm when Espy stumbled slightly as she took a weak step forward. Tears rushed to fill Cyra’s eyes. She never felt so helpless in her life. Instinct had her stepping forward and wrapping her granddaughter in her arms. They would have to pry Espy away from her. She would not let go.
“Let her go, Cyra, or I will rip her from your arms and care not what happens to you,” Craven ordered.
Espy eased away from her grandmother, though not before pressing her cheek to hers and whispering, “I love you, Seanmhair.”
Tears slipped down Cyra’s cheeks as she watched her granddaughter approach Lord Craven.
Espy struggled to take each step and when she stopped in front of Craven, his face blurred, her legs lost what little strength was left in them, and only one word passed her lips before her head fell on his shoulder and her body collapsed against him.
“Help.”
Chapter 3
Craven’s arm caught Espy around the waist. She lay limp against him, her body feeling so frail in his arm that he thought his strength would snap her in two. Her nightdress had fallen off her one shoulder and he caught a glimpse of a bruise that extended part way down her upper arm. It appeared as if someone had taken hold of her there with a brutal grip. He also wondered about the scar on her face. With questions turning him curious, he yanked her limp body up as his other arm reached to slip beneath her legs.
“Please. Please, my lord, bring
her inside,” Cyra begged, fearful he would cart her granddaughter away to suffer and die.
Craven gave her words no heed. It was his curiosity that had him entering the cottage with a twist of his body and a dip of his head to fit through the doorway. Seeing the bed, he went to it and dropped Espy down on it. He wanted her out of his arms, away from him. Her warmth and vulnerability reminded him too much of how Aubrey had first felt in his arms, and he would not betray his deceased wife’s memory by having such disloyal thoughts about the woman who had killed her.
He stared down at her body, appearing as lifeless as Aubrey’s body once did. She seemed slimmer than he had remembered her, having barely felt the weight of her in his arms. She was deathly pale, leaving him to realize that Cyra had not been lying about her being ill. Her face had been seared in his memory. He would never forget it. He had not wanted to, since he had always regretted letting her live. He had hoped one day to meet her again and see that she got what she deserved for what she had done to the woman he loved beyond measure.
Seeing her face again and the scar she carried upon it, he wondered what evil she had brought upon another to have suffered such a wound. “What happened to her face?”
“I do not know. She has not spoken of it to me,” Cyra said, wishing Craven would move away from the bed so she could tend her granddaughter. Espy’s nightdress had slipped off her shoulder, exposing the top of her one breast and her one leg lay bare nearly to her thigh from being dropped carelessly on the bed.
Craven’s glance drifted to Espy’s bare shoulder and the bruise there that showed no signs of fading which meant she had gotten it recently. His eyes followed down the length of her to her exposed leg where he spotted two more bruises, neither of them showing signs of fading.
“She suffered a recent beating,” Craven said.
“It appears that way, though she has spoken little since her arrival here last night.”
“Get her well,” Craven ordered as he turned away from Espy. “I want her to feel, down to her soul, everything I do to her.”
Cyra hurried to close the door behind him after he stormed out of the cottage. She returned to her granddaughter’s side and pulled the blankets over her. She needed to get Espy well and send her away before Craven could harm her.
The door flew open as she was tucking the blanket tightly around Espy and Cyra turned, taking a protective stance in front of the bed when she saw the fury on Craven’s face, not that shielding Espy would do much good, but instinct had insisted upon it.
“One of my warriors will remain here to see that Espy goes from your cottage to my dungeon.”
Cyra jumped when he pulled the door shut with such force that it shuddered the planks, and helplessness once again, descended on Cyra.
Craven barely brought his horse to a stop when he flew off him and up the steps to the keep, leaving a young lad, he did not even acknowledge, to tend the animal. The Great Hall was empty when he strode in and went to the table nearest the large hearth and filled a tankard with ale from the pitcher. He swallowed nearly all of it, then slammed the tankard down on the table to stand and stare at the flames.
When he took a step around the table toward the hearth, the flames seemed to retreat in fright just as most everyone did. He did not care. He had not cared since Aubrey died. Life was meaningless without her. Light and goodness had left him the day she had taken her last breath. And it was all Cyra’s granddaughter’s fault.
It continued to trouble him that Aubrey had preferred Espy to attend her at birth than the physician he had brought from Edinburgh. She had told him repeatedly that she had more faith in Espy’s skills than the physician’s. Aubrey had not known Espy long, Cyra’s granddaughter having only arrived here a few months before Aubrey was to give birth. He had known of Espy, having seen her on occasion when she had stayed with her grandmother. But he had not known her well.
Craven turned and swallowed down the rest of the ale, then filled the tankard again. The image of his wife soaked in blood, her body limp in his arms, forever haunted his thoughts and produced nightmares that woke him until he hated the thought of going to sleep.
Help.
It was the very word that Aubrey would call out to him in his nightmares and he could do nothing to help her. Blood was everywhere and she would reach out to him, begging him to help her.
Craven turned away from the flames, grabbed the tankard, and threw it with such force into the fireplace that it bounced off the stones of the back wall, landing near Craven’s feet.
“That one almost got you this time.”
Craven did not turn around. He did not need to. He was aware of who had spoken to him… Dylan. They had been close friends since they had been wee bairns and they had fought together in many battles, though their friendship had suffered since Aubrey’s death. Dylan’s wife, Britt, had been a good friend of Aubrey’s. She had also been the one to help Espy kill his wife and Craven could not forgive her.
Where once Dylan and he had spent much time together, they now kept a distance and only spoke when necessary.
“What brings you here, Dylan?” Craven asked in no mood to speak with his onetime friend.
“I heard that Espy has returned and wondered over your plans for her.”
“And if they included your wife?” Craven asked, turning a heated glare on him.
“Aye, since I have told you often enough that you will need to take my life before I will let you take hers.”
“I ache to make all those suffer who made my Aubrey suffer so horribly, including that fool of a physician who did not remain close to my wife with her time being so near. But I will settle for the one person who was most at fault.”
“You brought Espy here to the dungeon below?”
Craven shook his head. “Not yet. She has fallen ill and I want her well so her torture lasts longer before I finally see her blood drained from her as she did to Aubrey.”
“Will torturing Espy and taking her life ease the pain of Aubrey’s loss?”
“Nothing will ever ease that pain. It is mine to bear forever for failing to keep my wife safe,” Craven said with a bitterness he could taste. “I have questions for Britt of that day and I will ask them in front of Espy.”
“What good will it do for you to relive it? Punish the one responsible and be done with it, and let yourself live again.”
Craven leaned down and scooped up the tankard and flung it at the fireplace again. “My heart died with Aubrey.” He snatched the tankard up again where it had fallen near his feet and flung it into the fireplace again and when it flew back out, he threw it in again and again and again.
It was not until Craven had finished two pitchers of ale that he realized he had burned the palm of his hand. He did not care. He was glad for the physical pain. He preferred it to the endless pain of losing Aubrey. He wrapped the burn with a cloth and took himself off to the practice field.
Two days of bed rest and her grandmother’s skilled care and Espy was feeling better, not completely but enough to venture out of bed.
“It will not be long before I am well,” Espy said, having joined her grandmother at the table for a hot brew and porridge.
“Do not say that,” Cyra warned, her voice low and her eyes darting to the door. “Lord Craven will come for you.”
Espy sighed and cupped her chilled hands around the heated tankard to warm them. “It is time for me to face my fate, whatever it may be.”
Cyra tried to make her granddaughter see reason.
Espy shook her head, stopping her. “I have no place to go.”
“Higher in the Highlands where even the king will not go—”
“No!” Espy shivered. “I have been there and I will not go back.”
Cyra reached out, resting her hand on Espy’s arm. “What happened to you?”
Espy shook her head again. “Do not ask me—ever.”
Cyra nodded and patted her granddaughter’s arm before removing her hand. In time, if by so
me miracle they should have it, Espy would confide in her just as she had done when she was young. When something happened, Espy would refuse to speak of it until she had time to think about it and reach her own conclusions, learn her own lessons. By the time Espy did speak with Cyra, she usually had the problem worked out and all she needed was to talk with someone about it. Unfortunately, Craven may rob them of that time.
“Cyra!”
Her name shouted in such distress had Cyra hurrying outside.
The warrior who Craven had left to stand watch was blocking a man from getting any closer to the cottage.
“Let him pass!” Cyra ordered sharply upon seeing it was Finley, the farmer whose wife was due to deliver their first bairn any day.
The warrior turned a glare on Cyra.
“You are here to prevent my granddaughter from leaving, not to stop those seeking my care.”
Before the warrior could argue with her, Finley spoke up. “It is time. You must hurry. Eira is in great pain.”
“I will get my things and be right with you.” Cyra hurried inside and cast a worried look upon her granddaughter.
“Go. You are needed. I will be fine.” Espy smiled, the first time since being home. “I only wish I was going with you.”
Cyra wished the same, though she did not voice her thought. She gathered her things, reminded Espy that she had seen to Trumble, her stallion, earlier and though she did not say it, she hoped she would return soon. Births, however, were unpredictable and it could take much longer than expected.
“Hopefully this wee one will deliver fast,” Cyra said, after giving her granddaughter a hug.
“That will be up to the wee one. Keep your thoughts on the birth, not me. I will do fine.”
Leave it to her granddaughter to do what she always did… think of others before herself.
Espy felt restless after her grandmother left. Not one to sit idle, especially feeling some of her strength returning, she got her sack, placed it on the table, and sat.
The sack actually was an old worn cloak that she used to carry her few meager belongings. One of her most cherished possessions was her da’s drawings and writings. Her father had studied medicine at Queen Mary Barts and the London School of Medicine. He had followed his studies with extensive travel in search of various ways to better treat illnesses not normally ascribed to by current physicians. He was often ridiculed, his theories ignored, but Espy had seen proof of his work and frequently used his findings in treating the ill, which sometimes got her in trouble.
To Love A Highlander (Highland Warriors Book 1) Page 2
