by Madelyn Hill
Instinct took over. “News?”
Mal cuffed him on the back. “No need to look so worried, but when I left the keep, Fiona and m’lady were having tea in my chamber.”
Dear God, what were the women planning? “I warned you.”
“You did.” Mal heaved a sigh. “I spoke with Fiona.”
Cam slid a glance at his laird. “Aye?”
“We’ve come to an agreement to forgive. But I’ve to come up with a punishment.”
What a position to be in. Having to determine the punishment for a friend was difficult to say the least. “Bollocks. What will you do?”
Mal grunted. “I do not ken.”
“Mayhap, they are discussing what you should do as we speak.” Cam grinned at the sudden frown that darkened Mal’s face.
“I’ll question Rossalyn later to see what transpired.”
Cam threw back his head and laughed. “Question your wife?”
Mal grimaced, then dragged his fingers through his hair. “I’ve my ways. Tell me, have you seen any of Gordon’s men?”
With a quick shake of his head, Cam pivoted about on a boot heel, and inspected the surrounding forest. Call it instinct, training, or luck; he kenned they were being observed. But after searching every area, they’d yet to find the men or clues as to who they were. In his bones he felt these were Gordon clansmen, roaming where they did not belong.
And no matter how much he tried to focus and strategize, Fiona’s enchanting smile interrupted his thoughts.
Regardless of her reaction when he proclaimed his love, he was confident she’d come to see his way of thinking. Mayhap ‘twas what she and Lady Rossalyn were speaking about.
“Keep relief men coming and we’ll wait them out,” he finally replied.
Malcolm gave him an appraising look. “I’ve no doubt you will.”
“Has Gordon made an attempt to visit Lady Rossalyn again?” The man was trouble, which both he and Mal kenned the first moment they met him. But the unforgiving terrain had forced Malcolm’s hand, especially after his father’s death.
The old laird had forged tenuous alliances, alliances that had faltered upon his death. Nothing Mal did convinced the neighboring clans into continuing the agreements. Sometimes, Cam wondered if Gordon had forced the other clans to refuse them. ‘Twas too convenient, and when Gordon approached Mal with the proposed agreement, Mal had no choice but to agree.
Lady Rossalyn hadn’t talked of her father, except to apologize to the clan for his treachery. She’d spoken so eloquently, some of the women had tears in their eyes. Her profession of love for their laird, coupled with Mairi’s determined stance at her mother’s side, had the clan eagerly pledging their support and clamoring to get closer to their new lady of the keep. As for the details of Clan Gordon business, Rossalyn had been kept out of it.
Cam’s main task was to keep the clan safe, and ensure nothing happened to his laird and lady. No more focusing on Fiona, for his feelings interfered with his duty.
Bollocks, how could he stop thinking of her? His blood heated at the memory of her kisses, the feel of her curves beneath his hand and the fire, ah, the fire of her gaze. When she warred with herself during and after their kiss, such a tumult of emotions had flittered through her eyes. Shock, ire, and aye, fury aimed at him. Why she fought the attraction was beyond him—
Nay, I ken why.
Her childhood infatuation with Mal.
Cam glanced at his laird, now relaying instructions to the other men. In finding love with Lady Rossalyn, Malcolm probably didn’t realize how pained Fiona was by his actions. Mayhap none of them realized how deeply Fiona hurt.
But would a woman, who responded to his kisses as Fiona had done, still hold feelings for another man? Her lips had driven him mad. At times he still felt the imprint of her curvaceous body against his. Full breasts, those long limbs and the apex of her thighs where she cradled his cock as their hips met . . .
Blood seared a path through his body. God, how he wanted her. Needed her.
“Cameron?”
He turned toward Mal. “Aye?”
Concern flickered in his laird’s eyes. “Would you like to return to the keep?”
For an instant, Cam entertained returning. But his duty to the clan overrode his desire to see Fiona. Since their last words spoken were in anger, mayhap some time to think on other things would help them both. Truth be told, he’d been avoiding her each time he’d returned to the keep, giving her time, and trying not to pressure her.
“Nay,” he retorted.
“Grand. Send word if you find the bastards.” He slipped his sword from its sheath and swung it in an arch. “I’d like a chance to dispatch them to hell.”
Cam chuckled. When Mal was angered, ‘twas as if he turned into a demon bent on vengeance. And if Gordon had tried to hurt the woman he loved, Cam would wear just as fierce of a scowl on his face.
“Supplies will be brought again in the morn,” Mal said.
They clasped hands and gave curt nods.
Silently, Laird Sutherland mounted his horse and whistled to the men. With a quick command they eased their horses into a gallop. Hoof beats sounded like thunder as thick clouds of snow and dirt floated about the men.
Casting an eye over his steed, Cam nearly ordered him to be readied for the ride back to camp.
Duty. He had a duty to his clan.
He’d have to wait until his dreams to see her.
See the woman he loved.
Chapter 7
In the solitude of her chamber, Fiona sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. When would Christmas be over? Baking, cleaning, and festooning the hall with holly and mistletoe was wearing on her every last nerve.
Her gaze lit on her bed and she noticed an arisaid was folded neatly in the center with a small slip of parchment on top. She frowned and leaned down to pick up the parchment, then snapped her hand back and glanced about the room to see if anything else was amiss.
With a sigh, she picked up the parchment once again.
To keep you warm, Yours, Cam
After rereading the note three times, she dropped it on her bed and stared at the new arisaid. Why had he done this? When had he done this?
Creating an arisaid took time. Cam had been on patrol for the past few days. And how did he find out she’d torn hers? A rent could be easily mended if she took the time to do so.
Fiona crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the offending garment.
He would have had to ask the weaver to make it before the evening in the woods. Before he proclaimed his love for her and before she’d told him she didn’t love him.
Slumping down on the bed, she fingered the woolen material. Beautiful, soft, and she kenned warmer than her old arisaid. The tartan showed the pride of the Sutherland Clan, bold colors of deep green and vibrant blue woven together with precision.
Guilt nudged at her as she unfolded the garment and slipped it over her shoulders. She snuggled in.
A tear slipped over her lashes and trickled down her cheek. What an eejit she was. Crying over the simple gift of an arisaid. But her heart was touched by such thoughtfulness. With such an offering, Cam had shown a desire for taking care of her.
When was the last time someone did something so generous for her? She loved caring for others, especially the elders, but there were times when she longed for someone to treat her similarly. It wasn’t as if she were looking to be pampered. Nay, hard work was all she’d known. In truth, she wouldn’t ken what to do if she weren’t busy.
But the lass side of her, the one who liked the pretty wildflowers growing in the glen or sipping tea before a fire and listening to a tale spun by an admirer, sometimes needed those sweet moments to remind her she was a woman.
And i
n her mind, the only person she’d ever seen herself sitting before the hearth with was Malcolm.
He’d been one of the steady people in her life. When her parents had died, Mal was there to console her. If there were fish to be caught, Mal would seek her out. And where there was time to play, Mal would challenge her to a horse race.
Mal and Cam. She sniffed and tugged the arisaid tighter about her shoulders. Another steady presence. The vexingly handsome, quick-witted Cam, with his infectious laughter. ‘Twas hard to think of a moment when the three of them weren’t together.
Something had been in his eyes, that moment when he said he loved her. Such absolute faith in what he was saying. He wasn’t embarrassed or arrogant as some men were wont to be. His pride didn’t dictate his words, those words spoken with passion and deep emotion. He’d said he loved her with such joy and raw honesty, she’d been taken aback.
Frightened.
And then she’d tried to hurt him, dissuade him of any romantic notions. To protect herself for risking her heart to another.
She cried out and clutched her chest.
I’ve been a fool.
Leaves rustled. Shadows moved between the trees.
An arrow whistled past Cam’s ear as a battle cry filled with early evening air.
“To arms!” he called as he reached for his sword and slipped his dirk from its sheath tied onto his calf. He gripped the hilt of his sword and aimed it toward the men emerging from the woods as if they were forged from the trees.
Eerie forms slipping from the forest and moving through the moonless night, the darkness hid their faces until they were a few paces away.
Chaos rained upon their camp as a steady stream of men rushed in.
“Timothy, your left,” Cam yelled through the din. He slashed at a man. Then stabbed another.
Lifting his sword, he stuck the young lad who’d nearly pierced his flesh. “Ian, behind you!”
Swords clanked. Men grunted. Shouted. Commanded.
Mist and blood slicked the ground as Cam grappled with another of the intruders. His muscled strained. How many men were there? Toppling one, he attacked another.
With each man, he tried to see if he kenned them from Gordon keep. None seemed familiar.
Bollocks. More came at them. Were they spawning from the devil?
His men fought, and their training paid off. Each drill, contest, and test of strength and will was put to use at this very moment.
The stench of blood filled the air as men fell. Some of them his own, blast it. The situation needed to be controlled.
He lifted his arm and gave a silent command. Several of his men sidled past their foe and circled around.
“Hold,” Cam yelled until his men were in position. As he waited for a few of his men to assume their stances, he fought the latest aggressor before him.
A dirk dragged across his forearm. “You bastard.” Cam struck back with a cut of his own, then with the hilt of his sword he punched the man in the face.
Down he fell.
A quick survey of the others, and he shouted, “Strike!”
His men converged on the enemy. Moments passed as if shifting through time at a slow pace. Grunts and screams of defeat filled the air.
“Cam, watch out.”
He turned, lifting his sword as he did so. Steel hit steel. The force vibrated down his arm. The adversary lifted his sword and with a sneer on his ugly face, struck again.
Cam pushed up and took a step closer. Swords locked at the hilt. The foul breath of the man brushed against his face. With all of his strength, he shoved, trying to back him into defeat.
“You will die, Sutherland,” the cretin growled.
“After you,” Cam ground out, every muscle straining as he met the enemy’s strength.
The sounds around them faded. Fog filled the air, trailed the ground. ‘Twas as if he and this solo foe fought alone and not in the middle of a skirmish. The man glanced to the right.
“Cam.”
Sharp pain filled his side; made him bellow and arch away from his opponent. Another offender had dragged his dirk along Cam’s ribs. The gleam of satisfaction on his sneering face conveyed he planned to finish Cam off.
Daniel ran to his side, calling to Allan for help.
They quickly dispatched both men to hell.
With ragged breaths, Cam stood staring at the carnage as the surviving bastards fled. Three of his men were down, but luckily still alive.
“See if you can determine who they are,” he instructed Timothy. “Get the injured men back to the keep. Flank them on each side.”
His man nodded, then directed others to gather the injured men.
Cam winced as he gingerly touched his side. When he lifted his hand it was covered in blood.
“You need to get back to the keep.” Allan studied the slice in Cam’s side.
‘Twas a wee scratch. “In time. I have to see to the men.”
Allan grunted. “Aye.” He started gathering any weapons left behind. “No markings.”
Damn. But it mattered not. They kenned whom the men represented. There was no other option. By God, if he ever saw Gordon again he’d rip him limb by limb. The man had threatened them one too many times. Next time he encroached on Sutherland Keep, he’d find himself dead.
Once Mal learned of the treachery, Gordon would have the both of them after him. God would not have mercy on their rotten souls. And if necessary, he’d track them to the hellhole they emerged from.
He gathered all he could from the camp and moved to mount his horse. Pain seared his side and a rush of blood oozed down his tartan. He hissed as he urged his horse forward. Once they were clear of the trees, the animal slipped into a full gallop.
Cam pulled back on the reins and his mount reared up. Bollocks. He grimaced and shifted a hand to his side. His vision blurred as the keep rose before him.
Just a few more feet. Cam whispered a quick prayer as blackness engulfed him.
Chapter 8
“Hurt?” Fiona clutched the arm of the man before her. “Where is he?” Oh, dear God. Panic sucked the breath from her as she wildly searched the main hall for Cam.
She gripped Timothy’s liene and dragged his face down to hers. “Where is he?” she growled.
He gently removed her hands from his shirt. “In his chamber, being tended by Brae.”
She sighed. “I’m sorry—”
Timothy held up his hands. “Go to him.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Aye.”
She raced up the stairs and barged into Cam’s chamber.
“Och, Fiona,” he said as he quickly jerked the bed covering over his body.
Brae chuckled. “The lad is as naked as the day he was born, lass.”
After she released a sigh of relief, Fiona took a moment to run her gaze over his shoulders, to where the blanket covered his hips. Aye, bare enough. As her gaze traveled along his torso, she gasped. “Cam, your side.”
He grimaced as he shifted. “‘Tis a wee scratch.”
Blood oozed from the cuts on his body. “Stop moving.” She grabbed a rag and dipped it into water. “Help me, Brae. We must clean the cuts before we stitch the stubborn man up.”
“Aye, Fiona.” Brae winked at Cam. “‘Tis what I was doing when you entered as if the devil were chasing you.” She tsked, examining his wound. “How many men did you fight off, lad?”
He winced. “Not enough.” His gaze shifted to Fiona. “Do you think I could have some whiskey before you take the needle to my side?”
“You heard him, lass. Go fetch a dram,” Brae instructed.
His jaw had clenched and tight lines rimmed his eyes. A sword rent him from chest to side. A dirk’s blade had slashed at his shoulder, and w
ho kenned where else. Gordon’s men had done this to him. They’d threatened her clan, her people. And now Cam lay on his bed bleeding, hurting, although he was brave and strong enough not to let it show too much.
Her heart battered against her chest, seeing him this way. Injured, vulnerable. She covered her mouth so he wouldn’t see her cry. Turning toward the door, thankful for a reprieve from the sight of Cam’s battered body, she left the chamber on a search for whiskey. If spirits could help him, dull some of the pain she kenned would come with stitching up his many wounds, she’d bring him the entire barrel.
Once she exited the chamber, she leaned against the wall to collect her strength. What was happening? Her heart, mind—och, both—were shattered at the thought of Cam lying in his chamber with such grievous injuries. Tears flowed over her face faster than she could swipe them away.
Still, her mind pushed her emotions aside. The man needed whiskey and ‘twas her job to get it for him. Then . . . then she’d let Brae sew him up. And Fiona wouldn’t stay. Nay, she’d find something to do—aye, anything to do to keep her mind from him.
She fetched the whiskey. This time she knocked before entering.
“Thank you,” Cam said with a grin.
How could he smile when he was wounded and bloodied? She held the dram to his mouth. “Take a sip.”
He reached for the dram, tipped it, and drank the contents in one gulp.
“More,” he growled.
Her eyes widened.
“Do as he bids, lass. ‘Tis many a stitch to be done.”
She swallowed and nodded solemnly. “Cam—”
He reached for her hand. The intensity of his gaze had her taking a step forward. “Later, Fiona.”
Later. Aye, ‘twas right to wait. Aye.
Brae gave her a probing glance, then she pulled out the thread and a long needle. Fiona’s stomach heaved. Och, she wasn’t a weak lass, but she hated needles. More so, she loathed the pain Cam would feel once Brae set the needle to his wounds.
