by Grey, Sondra
She pressed a hand to her heart and tried to will it to slow its beat. Why was she so affected by Calum Grant? She tried to turn her mind back to Gavin, but all she could see was his face, twisted with sorrow, and heart Thomasina’s voice: “He betrayed you, Isla.”
“She’s not the subtlest when she drinks,” Dundur’s warm, deep voice floated through the evening, startling Isla from her miserable thoughts. She stared towards where the voice had sounded. There, emerging from the great hall, seeming to part the dark. Her knees went weak. Beneath the starlight, he was a fantastic wraith, a beast from the stories, large and raw and commanding in a way that no other man she’d ever met could compare.
Dundur reached her in a matter of moments. Isla knew she should say something, but it was as if some spell had been cast. Her wits were scrambled, and her senses heavy and slow. It was as if her pride, usually such a strong force, had melted away beneath the romance of the glittering sky. All she could do was watch longingly as he approached.
He stopped a bare foot from her, towering close enough that she could smell the earthy scent of his wool plaid and the tangy smell of ale from the hall. Backlit from the starlight, his expression was unreadable.
“She’s nothing sharp to say to me?” he remarked softly, and he reached up a hand to brush a strand of black hair from Isla’s cheek. His touch was electric against her face, and desire shot through her so suddenly she was nearly felled by it.
“I quite like you like this.” His finger trailed from her cheek down her neck, and she couldn’t suppress the shiver that wracked her. She shouldn’t let him touch her like this, but she wanted his touch so badly. His hand travelled down to her shoulder and running along the edge of her dress, stopping just above where her breasts began to swell.
Isla felt too warm, too heavy, and as his fingers paused above her breasts, she nearly pushed against him. It took all her effort to stay still beneath his touch. She licked her lips, knowing she had to respond, fighting against some ancient instinct to bend to this man’s will.
“Will you still like me, when I find my tongue?” her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was breathy, laden with longing.
“I doubt it, Thomasina,” he said, but his touch belied his words. “You could flay a man’s skin from his back with your tongue.”
Thomasina. The truth sluiced over her with the clarity of cold water. She’d been chased from her home, kidnapped, and her security was a tentative thing. This man wanted to kiss the woman he thought she was.
She straightened off of the wall and stepped away from his hand. Her deep breath pushed her breasts tight against the wool of her gown and she watched his eyes fasten there, hungry. “Sir, I bid you good night.”
For a moment she didn’t think he was going to let her go. He reached out again, hand cupping the side of her face, thumb running along her cheek. Desire pooled deep in her gut and she shut her eyes to steel herself, to stay strong.
She could feel his breath hot on her cheek, and then his lips, dusting lightly along her cheekbone. “Good night,” he whispered in her ear.
It was not a good night. Isla spent most of it tossing and turning. She would sit up, pound at the soft pillow and flop back down, only to turn over again. She was edgy, unsatisfied. Her mind kept returning to feel of his lips against her cheek, his deep voice rumbling from inside that broad chest, good night. She might have kissed him back. Why had she been so afraid to kiss him back?
She’d kissed a man before, and she quite enjoyed it. It was one of the few things that she and her mother ever were at cross-purposes about. “You don’t know what they want from you!” Deirdre used to holler at her.
“Oh yes I do!” Isla had declared.
“Do you plan to be the talk of Elleric, girl? You give yourself to a lad and no lad will marry you. With your face, you can have the pick of the lot. You could marry one the Stewart’s get! But they won’t have you soiled!” Deirdre had a strange obsession with seeing Isla well-married. She would sneer constantly at the airs the nobility put on, and yet plot Isla’s marriage to one of their sons. Deirdre had been barely appeased when Joss Stewart’s son Gavin had seemed interested. “He’s a fine boy!” Deirdre had allowed, albeit grudgingly. “You can do better, but you’ll live a fine life.”
Isla stared at the beams that ran across the ceiling of her room. Her hurt over Gavin was slowly starting to build to anger. She understood that he was upset over his brother’s death, but to call her a witch? And in front of the whole town! To chase her from her home not three months after she’d lost her mother, not two months before they were to marry…
But she couldn’t keep her mind on Gavin, it kept turning back to Calum. What might Deirdre say about her daughter attracting the attention of a clan Chieftain? She’d say: tread carefully, daughter.
The next morning, when the terrible maid Maggie swept into her room, she was more sour than usual and it took Isla a few minutes to remember last night: Lady Campbell’s loud words in the hall. How many people in the castle had heard the exchange between the laird and his sister. How many had seen him follow her out into the courtyard?
Isla stifled a groan and waited for Maggie to leave before she washed and dressed and went into Hugh’s room to check on him.
Dundur’s nephew was awake and looked a bit harried. Isla guessed correctly when she said, “Your mother was in to visit?”
“I can’t believe she was awake this early,” said the boy, more uncharitable than Isla had yet to see him. Isla was surprised too, but didn’t want to mention to Hugh how drunk his mother had been the night before.
“She’s a mother,” Isla suggested, “perhaps she was just anxious over your wellbeing.”
Hugh grimaced, “Perhaps, but I think it had more to do with the stag hunt. The castle was up early preparing to ride out. The commotion probably woke her too.”
Ah yes, the women had been talking about the hunt yesterday, and were quite excited over the dinner that evening: venison. The thought cheered Isla out of her murky mood. She might make herself useful later and help in the kitchen.
“You’re healing nicely,” she told him, checking on his stitches, “And no infection, which is a miracle.”
Hugh nodded, “I’m feeling better. Do you think I can get up soon?”
Isla looked at the wound and pursed her lips. “Two more days,” she said. “I’m going to take the sutures out today, later this afternoon, and I’d like you to give yourself two more days before you start moving around. I don’t want the movement to strain the wound. It was deep. I’d rather you start to scar a bit before you stand up and ruin everything.”
Hugh nodded.
“Do you know,” said Isla, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. He was nearly a man, no need to treat him like a boy, “I think you’re the most patient I’ve ever treated.”
Hugh blushed at the strange compliment, and Isla smiled sweetly at him. “I’m going to go help in the kitchens and I’ll be back around lunchtime. Will you be all right until then?”
“Will you keep my mother busy?”
Isla laughed and shook her head. “She’s your mother, Hugh. I’ll let you handle her.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I sla was working in the kitchens when the commotion began. From the surprise on everyone’s face, Isla knew it was too early for the hunters to return. And yet, all of a sudden there was a great commotion in the hall, and people poured out of the kitchen to see what was occurring.
“We’d better go and see.” Mrs. Allan suggested, dropping dough she was kneading and dusting her hands on her apron. Isla hurried after her.
The courtyard was chaos. Horses whinnied and stomped in the center of the yard, sending the livestock swarming about the edges. People were gathering around the horses, calling out, there were some gasps and some screams as well. Isla could hear a voice above them all, the lady Campbell, wailing as if to raise the dead. Hugh? Had he tried to get out of bed too soon? Isla pushed through the throng of
clansmen and women until she could just make out a small group in the middle of them. They were hovering over someone laid out on the ground. There was praying and crying.
“Make way!” Isla ordered, her voice parting a few people in front of her. “Make way and let me see!”
When the clans realized it was the healer coming, they grabbed at her arms and pushed her through until she was inside the circle of hovering riders.
Isla gasped. Laid out on the ground was the Laird of Dundur. Blood coated his face and he wasn’t moving. “Move out of my way,” she said, her voice calm and stern with authority. “Lady Campbell?” The woman was grasping her brother’s shirt, screeching and was beyond hearing Isla. “Someone remove Lady Campbell,” Isla ordered.
It took the woman’s husband and three other men to pry Lady Campbell from her brother’s side. But there was finally room, and Isla knelt down by the large and completely unconscious form of Calum Grant. She reached out to check his pulse first and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It was strong. He’d been knocked unconscious, not dead.
“I need clean water,” she said. Head wounds tended to bleed profusely and she couldn’t quite tell what the damage was. Someone over her shoulder handed her a skin full of clean water, which she poured across the laird’s face, keeping it from his eyes, nose and mouth. As the blood cleared she saw the wound. Near his hairline, growing more purple by the second. Someone else handed her a kerchief, and she dabbed at the wound a moment before nodding. It would need a few stitches to keep it closed, and she couldn’t be sure how bad the bruise was going to get. She’d need to monitor that.
“He’s all right for now,” she said, her voice rising above the crowd. “Carefully bring him to his room. Bring hot water, needle and thread,” she looked around spying Geordie’s sandy blond head near the back of the crowd. “Geordie?” She had to call his name over the hubbub and the blond parted looking down at her. “Can you get my medicines?” If anyone was to sit in the laird’s room with her, to calm an unusual panic that was building up inside her chest, she wanted it to be Geordie.
The young man nodded without a word and darted off. A few others bent down to heft the Laird’s large, unwieldy form from the courtyard and up to his room.
Isla had yet to visit the top floor of the keep. The Lairds room took up the whole floor. There was a solar and an enormous bedroom with an elaborately carved bedframe and beautiful, deep green bedcloths that could be pulled to shield the bed from view. They were open now, the light from outside streamlining in and making what might otherwise be a dark room into something comfortable and vibrant. It was by far the most luxurious room in the small castle.
“Strip the covers,” Isla ordered. “And place something beneath him. I doubt he’ll want his blood all over these fine sheets.”
Someone laid wool blankets on the bed and then the laird was laid gently atop them.
Isla was deeply shaken and tried to hide it. There was something devastating about seeing someone so hale lying so prone.
“What happened?” she asked. She needed to keep his retainers distracted as she cleaned the wound. It wasn’t through bleeding yet and she didn’t want to place pressure on what was shaping up to be a spectacular knot. They were all pale and worried, and she knew she was going to be hard pressed to get them to leave when their laird’s health was in jeopardy.
“’Twas Campbell,” said a clansman, gruffly. “Stupid arse was still drunk from last night. Nearly fell from his horse when the thing was in full gallop, slid right from the saddle and was nearly trampled. The laird leapt down to calm the horse and got a good kick to the side of his head for the trouble.”
“A horse’s hoof did this?” Isla said. No wonder he was out cold.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Is Geordie here?”
“Shall I fetch him?” someone offered.
“He’ll in Hugh’s rooms, grabbing my medicines. Tell him I need the arnica paste.”
By the time the wound had stopped bleeding, and she’d stitched it closed and applied an arnica salve to the bruise, Isla decided she needed to see if they could get the laird awake. She and her mother had tended a few head injuries in Elleric. There was one case so bad that when the man was knocked unconscious, he’d never woken up. Isla knew from Deirdre that it was better to monitor a head wound by speaking directly to the patient. Only Dundur could tell her how bad his head really was.
She tried calling his name, tried shaking him gently, pouring cool water over his face – he was out.
She waited with him for two hours until she remembered that she had two patients and so she set Geordie to watching the laird breath and went to remove Hugh’s sutures.
“My mother was in and told me what happened,” the boy said, wincing as Isla worked to remove the thread from his healing wound. “Will he wake up?”
She sighed. “We won’t know until he’s woken.”
She must have answered that question twenty times before dinner. Finally, when several clansmen brought up trays of food and looked ready to eat in his room. She assured them that she’d let them all know when he came to.
Alone now, Isla watched the large figure on the bed. His chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths. Isla stood restlessly and circled the room. Her mind kept returning to the night before, to his hands on her skin, his lips at her cheek. What if that was the last time she’d ever see him awake? And she hadn’t kissed him.
She crossed and uncrossed her arms, and then went over to the bed to check his pulse for the twentieth time. She pressed her fingers lightly to the smooth skin beneath his jaw. It was warm but not feverish. Still full of life. Isla breathed a sigh of relief. Alone now, with the unconscious laird, she was free to look at him.
Lord, he was beautiful. While Isla had always been attracted to the fair-haired Elleric boys, there was something raw and vital about this highland laird. Even unconscious he looked strong, chin firm, cheek bones high, nose bold – as if he’d been carved from the stony hills themselves. His clansmen had stripped him of his bloody clothes and so he lay there, covers pulled to his waist, chest bare and muscles stark, even in repose.
Isla wanted to touch him, wanted to run her hands through the dark curling hair on his chest, wanted to run her lips along his cheek like he’d done to her the night before. But the healer in her wouldn’t allow her to take advantage of a patient, and so she looked instead, allowing herself small touches: a hand on the side of his face, on his brow.
His lashes were dark, thick curtains against his cheek, she was staring at them when they fluttered.
Isla caught her breath and, sure enough, his breathing changed. One eye cracked open, pupils large, whites lightly blood shot, but as his eyes found hers, his mouth tipped up at the edges. “Found your way to my bed, did you lass?”
Isla was speechless for a moment, watching helplessly as the laird raised his hand to frame her face, lifted his head off the bed.
He roared and dropped his head back down into the pillow. His eyes scrunched up tight and then he let out a loud, sharp curse before letting loose a long string of gradually weakening profanity. When he finally quieted, his breathing shallow and pained.
At the sound of their laird’s shouting, two clansmen rushed in and crowded the bed.
“Calum?” one of them demanded. Their laird waved a weak and erratic hand, moving his mouth but no sound came out. This clansmen leaned closer, “What are you saying?” they demanded.
“Get OUT,” he said, with force if not more volume.
“But…”
“OUT!”
The men backed away from the bed cautiously, and Isla followed them to the door. “You can tell the others that he’s awake. But best to stay away for now.”
The clansmen cast worried looks at the bed, but did as their laird and the healer bade them. When Isla turned back to the bed, Dundur was groaning, his hand reaching to probe his head.
“Stop that!” Isla ordered, reaching out to captu
re his wrist and pin it to his side. The laird’s eyes were closed, his mouth a grimace of pain.
“What on earth,” he muttered. “I feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse.”
“Apparently you were.”
“Blasted Campbell!”
Isla breathed a sigh of relief. He was awake and had the presence of mind to be angry. “Do you remember the incident, then?”
“I remember the idiot getting dragged by the ankle from his saddle. I should have let him hang there.”
“I’m sure your sister is glad you didn’t.” Isla cautiously released his wrist, and Dundur cautiously opened his lids and squinted at her.
“You’ve been unconscious for a few hours.” Isla informed him. “I’m sure everyone is relieved that you’re awake.”
Dundur said nothing, but closed his eyes again and lay still, breathing through his nose. Isla had seen head injuries before. They made people sick, and she retrieved a clean chamber pot, placed it by his bed and then relocated to the small table and chairs in the corner of the room where a large chessboard sat with its pieces still set up. She’d noted the chessboard when they’d brought him into the room, but hadn’t studied it closely. It looked like the laird was in the middle of a game with someone. Isla distracted herself by studying the chessboard, giving the laird time to adjust to his pain in the head.
“How bad is it?” he asked after a moment or two, and Isla turned her attention back to the bed.
Isla stood up and peered down at the wound as if for the first time. “You’ll have to tell me,” she told him. “Describe the pain.”
He pinched his lips together.
“Is it coming in waves or is it steady?”
“Steady.” Isla breathed a sigh of relief. The patient who’d died, said the pain had come in waves, and he’d vomited something awful before succumbing to sleep and not waking up.
