A Laird's Promise

by Aileen Adams

  Finally, as afternoon waned toward the oncoming evening, she dared to hope. Not that she had any inclination to run off into the darkness of the woods again. No, she longed to stretch out on the ground and sleep. To get off this horse and rest—

  A couple of excited comments passed back and forth between Hugh and Maccay, riding a short distance ahead. One of them pointed and then turned back to Phillip with a smile.

  “Almost there!”

  Almost there? Where?

  She saw nothing.

  She heard a sound from deep in Phillip's chest.

  A sigh of relief? Anxiety?

  The others hastened their horses forward, and Phillip also tapped his heels into his horse’s flank.

  Sarah was jostled as the horse broke into a trot, a bone jarring trot that caused her to bite her tongue. She softly cried out in dismay, lifting her hand to her mouth, prompting a question from Phillip.

  Her reply was muffled beneath her hand, blinking back her watering eyes. “I bit my tongue.”

  He grunted, but offered no reply.

  She peered into the slowly darkening landscape, to the northeast, saw craggy mountains arising all around. In the far distance, hidden in a mist, loomed a mountain larger than the others. It was an odd shaped mountain, not pointed at the top like the others, but slightly rounded, with steep, sharply rising sides to the west, a sloping approach to the south, and tree-covered slopes to the east. The western side of the mountain curved down into a shallow valley of sorts before slopes rose again on the opposite side.

  Rolling green hills spread out all around the base of the mountain. In a shallow valley between towering forests of pine and spruce, was a lake, glistening a deep purple-blue in the dusk. Beyond, she caught a glimpse of stone.

  Sculptured stone.

  A small castle.

  “You see it,” Phillip spoke. “That is my home. That is where we are going. My brother, Jacob… Jake, is there, wounded in battle a month ago. He has not healed. He is growing worse, seems to be suffering from a strange malady.”

  Sarah frowned. A soldier wounded in battle? His wound was either infected, and he was slowly dying, or there was something else wrong with him that prevented him from recovering. “Has the wound healed?”

  “Not all the way,” Phillip replied. “You will help him.”

  She resisted the urge to look at him over her shoulder. Didn’t want him to see her doubt. This was not good.

  “It's already been what, a month you say? There may be nothing I can do.”

  Her heart thudded at the thought. What would the Highlander do to her if she could not cure his brother?

  “Stories of your healing skills have found their way to the Highlands,” he replied. “You understand, I must make every effort to save my brother. Your reputation and your capabilities precede you.”

  “I don't understand,” she said quietly. She still refused to look at him. “If you needed my help, all you had to do was come knocking at my door. You didn't have to kidnap me.”

  “And you, lass, don't understand the ways of the world. My clan is not welcome in the lowlands.”

  Clans. Feuds. Battles over property, castles, it made no sense to her. She had lived with stories of them her entire life and doubted that anything would ever change. Men. Sometimes they could be so foolish, wasting so much blood, life, and possible happiness to always obtain what someone else had.

  The same applied to her. He didn't ask for her help. He took her, with no regard to her own life, her own responsibilities. And after he took, he demanded that she help him. She should refuse. If it wasn't for her desire to return to Kirkcaldy, she might have.

  Then again, she had never turned away someone in need. She had treated soldiers before. They were the worst, their wounds often so horrible that her stomach churned and it took everything she had not to vomit. She had a strong stomach, but the sight of a limb hanging by a tendon, nearly ripped off by a battle axe or Claymore was enough to cause the blood to drain from her own face.

  She had treated many soldiers, but there were some injuries that were so severe that there was nothing she could do to help. Head wounds were the worst.

  So too was infection. Infections most commonly started in the region of the wound and then slowly ate away at the edges of the wound. If left untreated, the infection would spread throughout the body, bringing with it fevers and delirium. Then, bit by bit, the body would stop working. Gradually, death came soon after.

  And what of Phillip's brother? What kind of injury did he have? Why couldn't the local healer treat him? If the local healer had failed, chances were that either the wound was too far gone or the woman was not well versed or confident in her skills.

  She tried to ask Phillip some questions about that, but he did not answer.

  Finally, growing impatient with her questions, he growled at her to cease talking. She would see for herself soon enough.

  He didn’t understand. She had to have some information about the problem, or she couldn't come up with a plan to fix it. Depending on the situation and the injury as well as severity, she would need certain herbs, ingredients, and time to make them.

  She tried to explain that to him more than once, but he merely told her that she could determine that once she saw his brother.

  The horses trotted their way up one slope, then down into a long, narrow valley, the slopes of the huge mountain and the castle.

  As if in tacit agreement, all three of them slowed the horses. Their mounts were tired. The men would keep them at a walk the rest of the way. If they kept up this pace, they should arrive before midnight. She wanted to ask Phillip questions, to prepare herself, to devise a plan for how she might help his brother, but he offered little information.

  As they rode, ever closer to Phillip’s castle, Sarah wondered if she could somehow get her captor to understand her desperation to return home.

  Phillip had gone to great lengths to help his brother. Certainly, he would understand her desire to do the same for her younger sister.

  In this way, at least, they were similar. Each had younger siblings they felt responsible for. But he didn't know anything about Heather and why she felt so desperate to return home. She, on the other hand, had learned very little about Phillip’s younger brother, other than he was obviously more than willing to go to great lengths to help him.

  It was full dark, the sliver of the moon even smaller than the night before by the time the trio of horses approached a path that led toward the tan, hand-cut stones of a small castle.

  Not entirely a castle, not entirely a manor house, but a combination. She’d never seen anything like it.

  The manor house, with rounded, turret-like corners, rose three floors from ground level. In the northeast corner stood a short turret with a crenellated battlement on top. To the west, more of a typical manor structure, square in construction although she saw several more small clearly crenelated levels behind it. Rising along the top were additional lookout points, one at each the front and rear corners. To the left a larger turret, rising over the top of the manor house proper, offering a full, panoramic view of every direction of the valley from its crenelated tower.

  Nestled in the shadows of Ben Nevis, Phillip’s home was beautiful. The lake glistening darkly a hundred yards from the front of the manor was surrounded by lush greenery, reeds, and a few pines.

  She smelled the pine, the brackish water, heard frogs and crickets at its edges. It was indeed beautiful sight that nearly took her breath away. Phillip must be rich. As a clan leader, he was of such a stature that he deserved such lush surroundings.

  As they approached she saw the stables, a long, elongated stone building and horses gathered in a nearby corral. Her humble abode in Kirkcaldy would not even fill up a corridor of the space of the stables.

  Was that envy she felt? She shook it off. Not envy. She had never minded her simple life. If it wasn't for Patrick and his abuse, she would have been perfectly satisfied with her st
ation in life. She had her healing gift and the old woman's small place. She had her sister.

  While their home certainly needed constant repair, she had no doubt that together, she and her sister would be able to maintain it on their own.

  Patrick was the gloomy cloud that darkened her life. He was the one who made her life miserable, often a living hell. She supposed she should be grateful that she had not hardened her heart against everything and everyone around her. As a healer, she had great empathy for others. Sometimes, she even felt sorry for her stepfather. Not often, but sometimes. Besides, riches meant nothing really. Rich people suffered just as poor people did. All the money in the world had not helped Phillip’s brother. He was human. He bled and suffered like anyone else would.

  “After you see my brother, you will tell me what you need to make him better. I will make sure you have all the supplies you need.”

  He slid off the horse behind her and then lifted his arms to help her down.

  She hesitated. She started to tell him that she could get down just fine by herself but he grumbled and grasped her around the waist and pulled her from the back of the horse. She placed her arms on his shoulders as he lowered her to the ground.

  She had to say it. “You do realize I may not be able to help him.”

  He said nothing, but glanced down at her dirty, torn clothing. “I’ll have a servant bring you clean clothes. Now follow me.”

  Without a backward glance at either of his companions, now leading their horses to the stables, Sarah was compelled to follow Phillip toward the manor house. The closer she got, the more reluctantly impressed she was.

  Everything was kept in good condition. Thick paned windows—a rarity in Kirkcaldy, were clean. From inside a dull glow of candles lit the room. She couldn’t tell what was in that room at the moment. The grounds were well cared for. The stone looked new although it was likely over a century old, perhaps more.

  Phillip obviously took good care of his property. A man who took good care of his property also took good care of his animals, and in turn, his people.

  The Laird of Kirkcaldy was like that. She had learned long ago, thanks to her stepfather, that a man who didn't care about the condition of his home or the way he treated his animals was not typically likely to care about people either.

  She shook her head as she followed Phillip to the door.

  She had to stop comparing Phillip with her stepfather.

  They couldn't be more different, and that difference went way beyond geography.

  6

  Phillip, grasping Sarah’s hand in his, not giving her any chance to delay, run, or seek help from any of his staff, headed up the wide stone stairs toward the second floor.

  Not that any of his servants would dare interfere with his single-minded goal or help the girl escape, but after her previous attempt, he wasn't taking any more chances.

  Despite his outward aura of calm, his heart pounded with dread. This young woman was his last chance to help his brother. What she had said earlier was true. She might not be able to help Jake.

  He knew the woman was exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes attested to her lack of sleep; her torn kirtle a constant reminder that he had kidnapped her; the dried blood on her forehead constantly reminding him of her desperate attempt to escape; her occasionally rumbling stomach telling him that he hadn’t given her much opportunity to eat.

  He’d taken her against her will to help himself. To help Jake. As to her suggestion that he should have come to her door and knocked? Asked for help? Foolish and naïve of her perhaps, but he still didn't underestimate her intelligence when it came to quickly ascertaining the severity of her situation.

  He knew she was afraid. Despite her mien of bravado, she trembled. Her fast breathing, though she tried to hide it, and the pounding tempo in her throat emphasized her fear.

  This wasn't who he was. Laird Phillip Duncan was no bully, but in this one instance, he had resorted to abysmal behavior for the sake of his brother. Maybe, if things worked out well and his brother recovered, he would find a way to make amends.

  No one was judging him. Not Hugh, Maccay, any of the men he had left behind to guard his castle and lands, nor his household staff. They knew Phillip and Jake. Most had grown up with the brothers.

  He appreciated their loyalty and dedication not only to him as clan leader, but to his brother. He and Jake had grown up in these halls, terrorized a generation of servants as youngsters always looking to get into mischief. Those same servants who were now as devoted to their care, despite their age and experience, as his own parents had been.

  He didn't pause at the landing but strode down the long hallway toward the room near the end of the hall. There, a large multi-paned window gave a glimpse of Ben Nevis darkened with ever-increasing shadows of night.

  A cushioned bench sat beneath the window, and on it slumped an old woman. She appeared to be sleeping, her shoulders slumped forward, chin resting on her chest. A wave of concern swept through him.

  “Agnes, how is he?”

  The woman lifted her head, startled. “Och, Phillip! You've returned!”

  She glanced at the young woman in tow, her eyes widening in dismay as she took in her disheveled hair, her dirt-smudged cheek, the dried blood and bump on her forehead, and her torn dress. Agnes turned her gaze back on the Phillip with a frown.

  “I haven't touched her, Agnes,” he protested. “All that is her own doing.”

  Sarah turned on him. “And if it wasn't for your kidnapping me, I wouldn't have had to try and escape, would I?”

  He scowled down at her.

  Now was not the time for her to become obstinate again. He tightened his grip on her wrist, just in case she had an idea to bolt. It was a foolish thought. Where could she go?

  He softened his grip and turned back to Agnes. “How is he?”

  “I'm sorry, Phillip, he's—”

  “Am I too late?”

  He ignored Sarah’s startled glance at the concern in his voice. The thought of his brother dying filled him with despair. He had promised his parents years ago, that he would always look after his younger brother. Younger by two years, not much, but a promise was a promise.

  Phillip had tried to discourage Jake from joining the King’s forces. Tried to get his brother to stay closer to home and help him with the duties of a clan leader, a property owner, and his business ventures. Jake always laughed at him, telling his older brother that he had no patience for politics, for settling feuds among farmers, or amassing a fortune. No, Jake was a man of action. A man who often enjoyed fighting, drinking, and womanizing. Not unlike his brother.

  “No, Phillip, he is alive, but… but I'm afraid to tell you that he's only gotten worse.”

  “Where’s Ceana?” He noted Sarah’s look and explained. “The local healer.”

  Agnes offered a mild shrug. “She went off into the woods late this afternoon, said she was looking for a specific root. She hasn't returned.”

  Phillip turned to Sarah. “You will do what you can to help my brother.”

  “Or else what?” Sarah asked, turning toward him. She tried to yank her hand from his grasp without success. “You'll kill me? Sell me into slavery? Throw me in a dungeon?”

  Phillip heard Agnes gasp at the audacity of the young woman speaking to the clan leader that way, but Phillip was not surprised. He glanced at his former nanny.

  “You'll get used to her, Agnes. But I believe her snapping and snarling is much worse than her bite.”

  “Don't count on it,” Sarah muttered.

  He turned toward the door, behind which his brother had lain since his soldiers had carried him inside a little over a month ago. He dreaded opening that door but at the same time felt compelled.

  He looked again at Sarah. Had he overestimated her talents? Had he overestimated her willingness to help? When it came right down to it, how could he trust her? What if, like Ceana, she could not save his brother?

  Before opening
the door, he spoke. “If you help my brother, I will see fit to reward you.”

  “I don't need a reward,” she replied. “If I help your brother, you will allow me to return to Kirkcaldy?”

  He sighed. “Yes. I'll arrange an escort to return you home.”

  “And if your brother dies? What then?”

  Phillip didn't even want to contemplate the thought, but he knew it was a possibility. He was no stranger to battle himself. He had to trust her. Much as he felt loathe to admit it to himself, he had to believe that she would do what she could to help his brother.

  “Just do the best you can. Give me your word that you will do your best and I will keep my word.”

  “Fine,” she said, succeeding this time in pulling her wrist from his grasp. “Let me see to him then.”

  Phillip slowly opened the door and stepped into the room. Entering just behind him, he heard Sarah gasp in dismay. He understood why.

  The room was dark and gloomy; the heavy curtains pulled over the two windows on the east side of the room, the same windows that overlooked the slopes of Ben Nevis. The interior of the room smelled of sickness. Of putrefaction, sweat, and an unmistakable odor of urine.

  Infuriated, Phillip turned to Agnes, hovering behind them in the doorway. “Is no one looking after my brother when Ceana is not here?”

  He hadn't meant to raise his voice, but this was unacceptable. How dare Ceana leave his brother in such a state!

  “Ceana told everyone to stay away. Not to enter the room, as there is a chance that whatever he is suffering from could spread to the others, through the entire castle!” Agnes stammered, her voice trembling. She began to weep. “I'm so sorry, Laird Duncan. I should have insisted on staying—”

  Phillip heaved a heavy sigh and made his way toward his brother's bedside.

  Sarah followed.

  He gazed down at his brother, his heart sinking. Like someone had just punched him in the gut. He felt a sense of hopelessness and despair that he had never experienced in his life.

  During the few days he had been gone, his brother had grown worse, his features pasty white, even in the gloomy darkness of the room. His breathing was labored and raspy, as if he had to struggle to breathe.