To Love A Highlander (Highland Warriors Book 1)

by Donna Fletcher

  “I should go in there,” Dylan said, having paced in front of the tree Craven leaned against for the last hour.

  “You should have let me send for Cyra,” Craven argued.

  Dylan shook his head. “She wanted Espy.”

  “As did my Aubrey, and look what happened to her.”

  Dylan stopped pacing. “Britt has told me over and over again that Espy fought like no other she had ever seen to save Aubrey and your child. She says she is skilled in ways other healers and physicians are not.”

  “Heathen ways from what that useless physician I brought from Edinburgh to tend Aubrey told me. It seems Espy’s father traveled extensively to heathen lands and returned with barbaric treatments that had his colleagues thinking him insane.”

  Dylan snapped his head toward the cottage.

  Concerned for his friend and family, Craven urged, “Go and make sure she is not harming your wife.”

  Dylan was about to step forward when an agonizing scream rang out from the cottage. He did not hesitate and either did Craven. They ran.

  Elva stepped out the door just as they were a few steps from it. She held her hand up to stop them. “Britt does well. It will not be long now.”

  Dylan reluctantly backed away, Craven did not.

  “Dylan will see for himself,” Craven ordered.

  Elva stepped aside, fearing the mighty Craven.

  Dylan stepped forward and the door opened.

  Espy looked to Elva. “Hurry and get those blankets.” She looked to Dylan. “Make sure there is enough firewood. If the bairn is small, he will need to be kept extra warm.” She turned to go inside and her eyes caught with Craven’s. She had expected to be met with hostility, but there was concern and sadly there was sorrow there. He was thinking of his wife and bairn, and her heart hurt for him.

  Craven watched the door close behind Espy. There had been no blood on her, which was a good sign and she spoke with confidence as if all was well. He hoped it was so. He did not want his friend to go through the horror and misery that he had suffered.

  Craven placed a strong hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “Come, I will help you with the wood.”

  Dylan nodded, staring at the closed door and Craven gave him a slight shove to get him moving, but once they started swinging the axes there was no stopping Dylan. Craven could not help but wonder if the wood was needed or if Espy had given Dylan a task to keep him too busy to worry.

  Espy attempted what her father had learned from the old healers, to try turning the bairn. It had taken some coaxing and manipulating, and at first Espy thought the bairn would not turn, but he began to move and to Espy’s relief he turned completely. It was not long after that ordeal that the bairn slipped out of Britt more easily than expected and let loose with a loud wail as if he was relieved to finally be free.

  “You were right, Britt. He is a fine stubborn lad just like his da,” Espy said with a soft laugh as she held him up for Britt to see.

  Britt grinned as happy tears rolled down her cheeks. “He is a good size.”

  Elva and Mina agreed, smiles and a few tears on their faces as well.

  “Let us hurry and finish so that the new da can meet his son and see that his wife did a fine job,” Espy said with a smile of her own. A good, safe birth never failed to bring happiness to all. It was one of the joys she loved about being a healer.

  Elva saw to getting the bairn cleaned and swaddled while Mina helped Espy tend Britt, change the bedding, and get Britt into a fresh nightdress. When all was done, Britt was sitting up in bed, beaming at her wee son sleeping comfortably in her arms.

  Britt looked to Espy. “Please, get Dylan, I am impatient for him to meet his son.”

  Espy removed her apron, Elva taking it from her and adding it to the soiled beddings she and Mina would take with them to wash for Britt, and opened the door. The cool air kissed her warm skin and she took a deep breath enjoying the refreshing feel of it.

  When her eyes met Dylan’s, full of worry and fear, she smiled broadly and he dropped his axe and ran for the cottage.

  “You have a fine, fit son and Britt is eager for you to meet him,” Espy said as he came to an abrupt stop in front of her.

  “Britt is well?” Dylan asked anxiously.

  “More than well.” She stepped aside, turning to the open door. “See for yourself.”

  Mina and Elva hurried out after Dylan entered and before he closed the door, Espy heard Britt say joyously, “Come and meet your son.”

  Elva and Mina stopped briefly in front of Espy and before hurrying off they whispered, “Bless you and may God keep you safe.”

  Espy wondered over their words and when she turned around, she understood. Craven approached. He must have been helping Dylan cut wood, his naked chest glistening with sweat as well as the taut muscles along his arms. She shivered at the strength in every step and movement he took and knew he would soon use that strength to make her suffer.

  The door flew open and Dylan stepped out, bursting with pride. “Come, Craven, and see my son.”

  Craven gave a nod and quickly snatched his shirt off the bench and slipped it on before reaching her. She hastily stepped aside, but he caught her by the arm and forced her into the cottage before him.

  Espy’s heart once again went out to Craven as he looked upon the wee bairn sleeping peacefully in Britt’s arms. Though there was happiness there, there was also pain.

  Craven praised the wee lad. “He will be as strong as his da.”

  Dylan grinned, besotted by his wee son.

  A knock sounded at the door and Espy opened it to see Elva there.

  “I mistakenly gathered this pouch up with the soiled linens,” she said and handed it to Espy.

  Espy took it and thanked the woman.

  “Who is it?” Britt asked.

  “Elva took this by mistake,” Espy said, holding the pouch for Britt to see.

  She turned an accusing eye on her husband. “I told you to get rid of that.”

  “I put it aside, thinking you might change your mind,” Dylan said.

  “I did fine without it,” Britt quipped.

  “That you did, wife,” Dylan said and gave her a kiss.

  Curious, Espy opened the pouch and poured some of the dried, crushed leaves in her cupped hand. “What is this?”

  Dylan and Britt remained silent and kept their glances away from Craven.

  “It belonged to my wife,” Craven said and held his hand out to Espy for her to give it to him.

  Espy ignored him, pushing the leaves around in the palm of her hand, then held them up to her nose to sniff them. “Aubrey took these when she was with child?”

  “That does not concern you,” Craven snapped.

  “Who gave these to her?” Espy demanded.

  Craven stepped toward her, ready to grab the pouch from her hand. “What does it matter?”

  “It matters greatly,” Espy said. “One of these herbs taken by itself would have done little to harm Aubrey, but mixed together they cause bleeding.”

  “Would the physician have known this?” Craven asked, his stomach clenching at what it might mean.

  “The physician gave this to her? How long did she take this and how often?” Espy asked, clearly upset.

  “The physician had it sent three months before his arrival and had her take it twice a day.” Craven’s heart began to pound against his chest. He had made sure that she followed the physician’s directions, even bringing her the brew at times.

  Espy shook her head as if trying to make sense of it. “A knowledgeable physician would have never blended these herbs together.”

  “Are you saying that whoever mixed the contents of that pouch knew what he was doing?” Craven asked anxiously, his mind reeling with the implication.

  “Whoever mixed this pouch was either beyond ignorant of the property of herbs or did so with the intent of causing extreme bleeding,” Espy said.

  There was complete silence in the room for a moment
as everyone gave thought to Espy’s remark.

  Craven finally spoke. “Are you saying that someone intentionally killed my wife?”

  Chapter 7

  Espy raised her arm, the pouch dangling between her fingers. “I am telling you this mixture is meant to harm not heal.”

  Craven reached out and grabbed Espy’s wrist, forcing the dried leaves in her hand to spill to the timber floor. With a glance to Dylan, he said, “Enjoy time with your newly born son and we will speak in the morning.” He hastened Espy out the door, keeping a firm hold on her and once outside and a few steps from the cottage, he swung her around to face him. “You expect me to believe this tale?”

  “It is no tale. It is the truth,” Espy insisted.

  “You sniff some dried leaves and I am supposed to believe that you were not at fault for my wife’s death? That you are an innocent in this all? Here you are about to be punished when suddenly a pouch of herbs is presented to you and you ask if my wife took the herbs and how often, and then you claim they harmed her. How convenient for you.”

  “I tell you what I know,” Espy said frustrated that he did not believe her, yet understanding his skepticism. She would think the same if she were him.

  Craven let go of her wrist and took a step away from her, his brow wrinkling in thought.

  Espy remained silent, wondering how she could make him understand that she spoke the truth. Besides, he needed to realize that someone had wanted Aubrey dead. But why?

  Craven turned suddenly. “I will take this pouch to Cyra and see what she says about it.”

  Espy shook her head. “Some of the herbs in that mixture are foreign to this soil. My grandmother would not be familiar with them.”

  “Again, how convenient.”

  Annoyed that he would not even consider the possibility, Espy asked, “Should you not be asking yourself who would want your wife dead?”

  “I am asking myself if I should be so foolish as to believe your tale and delay your punishment and death.”

  “Or would you be more foolish to ignore the truth and take the life of one who is innocent while the true culprit goes free?” she challenged.

  “You are far from innocent in my wife’s death,” Craven accused.

  Espy’s heart twisted in pain as it had done this past year whenever she thought of Aubrey, which had been daily. “Aye, I failed your wife and bairn that day.” She raised the pouch. “I will not fail them again. What will it hurt to find out who mixed the herbs in this pouch? If in the end you still blame me, you can take your revenge.”

  Anger jabbed at him, annoyed she was right. He needed to know the truth, know the one guilty of Aubrey’s death. Revenge would not taste sweet if he took it against one who was innocent.

  “You will remain at the keep until this is settled.” He reached out as he stepped toward her, his hand closing around her neck. “And make no mistake, I will be a shadow that haunts your every step. You will do nothing, go nowhere without my permission, and if I find you lied to me… you will beg for death.”

  His hand was not tight at her neck, it more rested there, reminding her of what he was capable of… tenderness. The unsolicited thought startled her eyes wide and no doubt he believed it was fear she displayed when it was more confusion she felt. It continued to trouble her that she could think of his touch as tender when he did nothing but threaten her.

  Craven leaned his head down so close to hers that their brows almost touched. “It is good you fear me. You would be foolish not to.”

  She gasped when his hands went to her waist and took hold, his fingers digging in tight as he lifted her, walked over to his horse, her feet never touching the ground, and placed her on it. He mounted behind her and they took off, the short ride to the keep a silent one.

  Clansmen stopped and stared when they rode through the village. There were no smiles to be had or sounds of children’s laughter, a far different scene than Espy had remembered. The people as well as the village appeared neglected and lifeless, much like Craven himself.

  It saddened her to see what had become of the clan in her absence. She had not known Aubrey long, but she knew that it would not please her to see what had happened to the people and especially to Craven. Aubrey would also be terribly upset to know that Espy had never gotten to tell Craven her last words to him. Espy wished so badly to tell him, but Craven had given her no chance that day to speak and she did not feel the time was right to tell him now or that he would even believe her. One day perhaps, at least she hoped and she hoped Aubrey’s last words would be a tonic that would help heal his heart.

  A young lad waited by the keep steps, wearing the only smile she had seen since arriving here.

  Craven dismounted quickly after stopping in front of the lad and hurried her off the horse as well.

  “You are well fed, Leith?” Craven asked, though it was easy to see how the lad had improved. There was good color to his now nearly full cheeks and while he was still slim, it was not a gaunt slenderness. His garments had improved as well, being much cleaner than before.

  “Aye, my lord, and I am grateful.”

  “You deserve it, Leith. You do your task well and without complaint.” Craven wanted the lad to know he should be proud of doing such fine work.

  Espy watched their exchange and saw what Aubrey must have seen in Craven, a beast with a heart.

  His hand took hold of her arm and he did not let go until they entered the Great Hall. It was gloomy and untended, the timber floors in need of a good sweeping and the tables a good cleaning. The hearth was overflowing with ashes and a stale odor permeated the whole room.

  “Wait here,” Craven ordered and disappeared through an archway.

  Espy saw bunches of dried lavender along the top of the mantle and walked over to see they had crumbled, their scent long gone. She brushed some into her hand and tossed them into the flames.

  A hand suddenly closed around her neck and she found herself shoved against a wall. “You touch nothing here,” Craven ordered his face a mask of anger, then he quickly released her.

  Espy’s hand rubbed at her throat, not that he had hurt her, though he had frightened her, coming up behind her so silently that she had heard nothing. She had only felt his hand close around her neck.

  She could not help but ask, “Your hand is forever at my throat. Do you ache so badly to finish what you did not that day?”

  “You deserve it,” he spat.

  “Prove it,” she challenged for a second time that day.

  “Be very careful, Espy, I am called a beast for a good reason,” Craven warned. “Come with me.”

  She walked behind him, having to keep her steps quick to keep up with him. They climbed the stairs and he led her to a door. She followed him in after he opened it and she realized he had brought her to a servant’s chamber. The small, cold hearth would have no difficulty warming the pint-sized room when lit. A narrow bed, a chest at the foot of it, and a table, one small candle atop it struggling to light the room, and a bench barely big enough for one gave the chamber a confined feeling.

  “I am across the hall and I barely sleep, remember that if you decide to take your leave in the middle of the night,” Craven warned. “I will remind you again that you go nowhere without my permission.”

  Only too familiar with how fast gossip spreads in villages, she said, “Tongues will wag that I occupy the same floor as you.”

  “I care not for your reputation or what people think of me, but I could move you to the dungeon if you have fear of your reputation being soiled.”

  The threat sent a shiver through her and she hugged herself tightly as if shielding herself. This confined room would be difficult enough to bear, never mind a dark, locked cell.

  “You will take your meals here alone, unless I say otherwise.”

  There were things she wanted to ask for but she feared he would deny her, visits with her grandmother being one of them and to have her meager belongings brought to her, especially
her father’s journal. It might help her to confirm what she believed about the herbs in the pouch.

  “May I have a place to study the herbs in the pouch and see what more I can learn?” Espy asked hopefully.

  He looked ready to deny her, but for some reason he held his tongue for a moment. “We shall see.” He held his hand out.

  Espy scrunched her brow in question.

  “The pouch,” he said.

  “You will keep its contents safe?” she asked, reluctant to hand it to him.

  “Do not question me,” he cautioned and she wisely handed him the pouch.

  “Supper will be brought to you. I will see you in the morning.” He turned to go.

  “You mean I must stay here until morning?” she asked anxiously, the thought of being confined to this room until the morn sending a fright through her.

  “Aye, you are confined to this room until I come for you,” he confirmed.

  Espy followed him to the door, reaching out and grabbing his arm. She had never before felt a man’s arm as large or rock hard as his. No wonder he had the skill to lift a man off his feet with one hand.

  Craven stared at her hand grasping his arm. Her touch was strong, as if she did not intend to let him go and for some strange reason he did not want her to let him go. At that moment, he realized how very much he missed his wife’s touch and why Espy’s touch should remind him of that was beyond annoying… it was maddening.

  Espy did not beg, even at the worst of times this past year she had not begged and she would not beg the beast now, but she also knew this confined space would be a challenge. “Please, I give you my word I will not run away. I will remain in the keep.”

  “Why should I trust you?” he asked.

  “Why should I lie? You would just come after me and I am tired of running. I am here to stay whether it is to live out my days with my grandmother or be buried beside her cottage.”

  His dark eyes seemed to soften, but only for a moment. “I will think on it.” He was out the door in two quick steps, the door closing behind him.

  She was suddenly engulfed in complete darkness, the lone candle’s flame flickering out as the door closed and she felt her heart pound against her chest in a wild rhythm and roar in her ears until she thought herself deaf, and her breath quickened, making it difficult for her to breathe. She reached for the door, frantically searching for the handle, her fear escalating as her fingers fumbled to find it.