The Rogue

by Sandy Blair

  A heartbeat later the agitated and shouting patrons raced out the door.

  Ian spit on his whetstone and again stroked the edge of his blade.

  ~#~

  Hearing men shouting, Angus grabbed his broadsword and raced to the window. Bracing himself for the worst—finding the Gunns or raving villagers—he threw open the shutters.

  To his monumental relief, people weren’t running toward the inn but away from it, pitchforks and scythes in hand.

  He rolled the tension out of his shoulders, turned toward Birdi and saw he’d knocked over the bucket in his haste to get to the window. No matter. He needed more cold water, anyway. Though still fevered, Birdi now mumbled and occasionally thrashed. She was finally fighting her way out of her flaccid stupor.

  He picked up the bucket and opened the door. Seeing Ian stationed at the base of the stairs, he called, “What was the racket about?”

  Ian looked up. “A wolf has apparently helped himself to a few pullets.”

  “Good for him.” Though he had no love for the beasts, at least this one had the sense to choose chickens instead of a babe or sheep. “I need more water.”

  Ian climbed the stairs and took the bucket. “How is she?”

  “Still fevered, but I think she’s getting better. I’ve no real reason. I just feel it in my bones.”

  Ian forced a smile. “Bones and guts never lie.” As he started down the stair he asked, “Do ye want the broth now?”

  Ack! He’d forgotten about the broth. Lady Beth swore by it, had shoveled bowls of it into his liege as he recovered. “Aye.”

  Ian mumbled, “Be right back,” and Angus returned to the room to find Birdi, lips parched, curled in a shivering ball. “Merciful Mother!” He hauled her onto his lap and reached for her cape. He obviously had no intuitive bones. God, he loathed being in over his head.

  Mayhap the village had a healer. He’d send Ian out to ask. It would leave them unguarded, but only for a short while. Surely he had the skill to hold off a mob intent on burning Birdi at the stake for a short while.

  A minute later footsteps sounded on the stairs and Ian called, “‘Tis just me.”

  He came in and dropped the bucket at Angus’s feet. His gaze immediately riveted on Birdi’s exposed back. “My God, who did that to her?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll kill the bastard as soon as I find out.” Angus shifted Birdi’s cloak a bit to better mask her nakedness from Ian. “Is the broth ready?”

  “Aye, the publican’s wife is bringing it up along with some bread and cheese for ye.”

  “I need ye to quietly ask around after a healer. I’ve done all I can to help her—”

  “Nay.” Birdi, to his surprise, again croaked, “Nay.” She then licked her lips. “Drink.”

  Relief flooded him.

  Ian said, “I’ll get it,” spun, and nearly collided with the publican’s wife, who stood gawking in the doorway. He took the tray from her hands, mumbled, “Thank ye, mistress,” and closed the door on her. “Here.” He set the tray on the end of the bed and studied Birdi for a moment. “Do ye still want a healer?”

  Angus, scowling, lifted Birdi’s chin. He still didn’t like her color, nor had she opened her eyes. For all he knew she was speaking in her sleep. “Aye.”

  Birdi flopped a hand against his chest. “Nay, An...gus, please.”

  She knew he held her! Hadn’t spoken in her sleep after all. “As ye wish, lass, no healer, but ye need to take some of this.” He held the bowl of broth to her parched lips.

  After watching Birdi swallow a bit, Ian murmured, “I’ll leave ye be for now. Call if ye need anything.”

  When the door closed, Angus whispered, “Woman, I dinna like fashing quite so often, not in the least. At the rate ye’re going, I’ll be white-headed by the time we reach home.”

  “How many...” she cleared her throat, “seasons are ye?”

  “Nine and twenty.”

  Birdi managed a wee smile. “So auld.”

  He kissed her hair, now damp and tangled as it cloaked her front. She still felt fevered. “I need to cool ye off again.”

  He stood and laid her down. When her hands moved to cover the jet curls at the apex of her thighs, he shook his head. “‘Tis naught I’ve not seen before.”

  Lids half closed, she whispered, “When a woman’s sick, she isna well, and ye should not tease.”

  He grinned then and draped her cloak over her. “I still need to cool ye down.” He dipped a rag in the water.

  Her gaze—as cool as the water—never left his visage as his hands moved in gentle circles from her smooth face to the column of her neck and down onto her scarred arms. Her top extremities finally cooled, he pushed the cloak down to her waist and found himself staring at the perfect twin globes with rose-frosted tips pointing straight at him.

  God Lord, he hadn’t had a problem earlier, had run cold water over them as if they were merely ant mounds. But now, she watched and...

  Birdi, her skin pebbling, asked, “What has ye fashing now?”

  If she didn’t ken, he had nay way of explaining it.

  Careful not to touch her there, he pulled up the cloaked and cleared his throat. “Roll onto yer side. I need do yer back.” Retreat was often a man’s only ally.

  “As ye lust.”

  Aye, in the basest sense of the word.

  Birdi rolled, putting her back to him. As his wide hands stroked her back with cold water, she shivered again. “I’m sorry lass, but this needs to be done or yer brain will cook.” Or so Lady Beth had warned as she’d tended his friend in similar circumstances.

  “Ye have gentle hands,” Birdi told him.

  “Thank ye.” He glided over the fine crisscrossing lines on her back. “Birdi?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When did this happen?”

  “What?”

  “The marks on ye back?”

  She rolled then, flat onto her back, and clutched the cloak to her chest as if it were body armor.

  Understanding she felt embarrassment, he still wanted to know, so he could beat the shit out of the one who’d done it, should the opportunity arise. “I ken ‘tis hard to speak of it, lass, but we need to. ‘Tisna right a lass should suffer such. The man needs to be punished for lashing you.”

  She frowned. “‘Twas not a man, but a woman.”

  Oh, dear Lord. Her mother?

  His blood ran cold, though he shouldn’t have been taken by surprise. The woman had given Birdi an atrocious name, neglected to even kiss the lass, and now this. What manner of beast was she?

  Realizing Birdi stared at him, he cleared his throat and placed a hand on her forehead. She felt cooler. Mayhap, he wasn’t so bad a physician after all. He raised her shoulders and reached for the bowl of broth. “Drink.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I dinna like that.”

  “Who said ye were supposed to? Drink.”

  The bowl empty, he lowered her back to the thin lumpy mattress. Were she at Blackstone she’d be lying on thick ticking, her head resting on a down-filled pillow, and his woolly warm blankets would be smothering her.

  And Castle Blackstone’s priest would be hovering just outside the door. “Humph.”

  ~#~

  Teeth chattering, drenched to the skin, Robbie Macarthur eased behind the smithy’s stable. He grinned for the first time in days, seeing a huge white head draped over one of the stall doors. The MacDougall’s stud. They’d finally caught up with the bastard and their stolen spae!

  Dinna get too comfortable, laddie. Soon ye’ll be heading south.

  Chapter 16

  Birdi awoke to cool sunshine. She sniffed the air. Winter was on its way. Turning to the light, she saw Angus stretch before the open window.

  He’d come up behind her after the healing had been done, but she couldn’t recall more. Had the woman kept their secret? What thoughts and questions now ran through his mind? And how many days had she been lying here? She had only scattered memories of
broth, of freezing as Angus scrubbed her with careful hands, of his rocking her back to sleep whenever she woke screaming.

  “Has the rain passed?”

  Angus turned and smiled. “Aye.” He came closer and knelt beside her. His chest was bare, and she longed to reach out and touch it.

  Placing a hand on her forehead, he asked, “How do ye feel?”

  “Like a cow sat on my chest.” Seeing his brow furrow, she grinned. “Dinna fash, Angus. I’ll be right as rain come the morrow. Did I miss sup?”

  “Aye, several.”

  She groaned, suspecting as much, and tried to sit. Angus wrapped an arm about her and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  “Are ye hungry?”

  “Aye.” She could eat that cow. “Where is Ian?”

  “Downstairs flirting with the help.”

  Relief flooded her. If neither Ian nor Angus had run off it meant Angus hadn’t seen any of the healing and the woman she’d helped had kept her word. That she hadn’t spoken to any about what Birdi had done. Her secret was safe.

  Wondering how the babe now fared, she raked her hands through the matted hair clinging to her face and her fingers caught. Knots. One of these days she really needed to find herself a good pair of shears. Mayhap Tinker had some...

  Kelsea’s missive!

  Her gaze raced around the room, looking for her gown. Seeing a huge splash of vivid blue against one wall, she pointed to it. “May I have my gown, please? I’m cold.”

  “Of course. I’m afraid it’s a bit wrinkled.”

  Wrinkled, sminkled. Who cared, so long as the missive Kelsea had written still remained in the pocket?

  When Angus laid the mass of blue on the foot of the bed, she had all she could do to keep her hands in her lap. “Thank ye.”

  “Do ye need help?”

  “Nay.” She cleared her throat. “I mean nay, thank ye, I can manage on my own.”

  He grinned. “Then I’ll leave ye to it and go find us something to eat.”

  The moment the door closed, Birdi yanked the gown onto her lap and frantically searched through fold after fold. When one hand slipped into a deep pocket and touched paper, she heaved a relieved sigh. She cautiously pulled the missive out and unfolded it. Within still lay a golden coin, enough Kelsea had told her, to send the missive to Tinker.

  She brought the letter close to her eyes and squinted at the inked squiggles. Oh, how she wished she could read.

  “Ye have no need to ken such, so stop nagging me.”

  “But the bairns in the village do.” She’d watched them use sticks to write in the earth. Had crawled on her belly out into the open after they’d left to study their marks.

  “Aye, and what good has it done them, or me, for that matter?” A hand caught Birdi’s ear. “Now go and fetch more berries or ye’ll have naught come winter. Go.”

  Birdi sighed. Someday, she’d learn. How, she wasn’t sure, but someday she would.

  She folded the paper around the coin and put it back in her pocket, then donned the gown.

  She was struggling with her hair when Angus knocked. “Birdi? May I come in?”

  She grinned. He’d seen her naked, bathed her, and now he asked? Men. “Aye, come in.”

  The door swung wide. Angus carried a tray so laden with food it had to weigh more than she did. He set it on the bed. “After ye eat, we need to talk.”

  Oh dear. “About what?” She suddenly had no appetite.

  “About whether or not ye’re ready to ride. I’d like to make Inveraray by gloaming tomorrow...but only if ye feel up to it.” He tore a piece from one loaf and handed it to her. “If ye say nay, I’ll ken.”

  Aye, he would, but he’d be none to happy about it. “I’m well enough to ride.”

  “Are ye absolutely sure?”

  “Aye.” The sooner they left, the less likely she’d be exposed. The woman she’d helped had, after all, worn the sign of the black-cloaked priests. Better to be out of sight and out of mind, as Minnie had once warned.

  They ate in silence after that. When Angus had had his fill—two loaves, a mound of sausage, and three fish—he dug into the pouch he wore before his nether region. “Here.”

  Not kenning what he held, she silently reached out. Finding a firm bone comb in her hand, she squealed, “Bless ye, Angus MacDougall!”

  He grinned as she pulled her hair over her shoulder and struggled to run the comb through it.

  After a moment Angus patted his lap. “Come here. Let me help.”

  Seeing no hope for it, Birdi reluctantly assumed the hair-combing position. She sat between his thighs with her back to him, as she had before her mother. She squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her jaws, readying for the yanking and pulling that would surely follow. If her knots couldn’t be combed out, they’d be yanked out.

  “Knots lead to mats and mats to lice, and we’ll have none of that here.”

  Angus combed through the lock caught between his thumb and forefinger and smiled as it sprang back into a nice fat curl. He dropped it over her shoulder and gently separated another strand from the tangled mass. “The first time I saw ye, I wished to run my hands through this hair.”

  “Ye did? Why?”

  Angus grinned. “Simply because.”

  “Oh.” She craned her neck and looked up at him, a frown marring her smooth forehead. “Ye are truly an odd one.”

  He laughed then. He’d been a bit melancholy all morning, kenning their time together was drawing to an end and it felt good to laugh for a change. Foolish, aye, but there it was.

  “I was thinking of cutting it all off,” she told him.

  He gave her hair a gentle tug. “Dinna ye dare.”

  Birdi craned her neck again to look at him. Something troubling lurked in the deep recesses of her eyes. When she didn’t say anything but turned back around, he shrugged.

  A knock sounded and Angus dropped a hand to his dirk. “Enter.”

  Ian stepped through the doorway, resplendent in gold and black. “Morn, Lady MacDougall. Good to see you looking so well,” To Angus he said, “The publican needs ken if we’ll be spending another night.”

  Ack! Why had Ian taken to calling Birdi Lady MacDougall? It only reinforced their situation’s futility. “Tell the man we’ll be leaving shortly.”

  “I’ll fetch the horses.”

  A few minutes later Angus ran a hand the length of Birdi’s hair, grabbed a fistful as Wee Angus had, and brought it to his lips. Aye, there couldn’t be any hair finer. He sighed, let it fall, and put his comb back in his sporran. “It’s ready for ye to braid.”

  “Thank ye.” Birdi stood, pulled the curling mass over one shoulder, and made quick work of weaving the strands together. He held out the argent cauls and pearl band.

  “Nay,” she murmured. “Can ye put them behind yer saddle in the bag?”

  “Of course.” He thought cauls a ridiculous affectation, anyway. He helped her don her cape. “Are ye ready?”

  “Aye.”

  Downstairs, Angus found the publican waiting for him. As he handed over the coins, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood. He turned to find a rough-looking man staring at Birdi. He couldn’t blame him—she was lovely to behold—but something in the man’s stance made Angus pull Birdi closer. With a hand on his dirk, he made haste out the door.

  ~#~

  Fegan eased over to the window. Keeping to the shadows, he ruminated over the way the spae was dressed as he watched her and Angus the Blood walk toward the stables. He hadn’t seen the like in his life. Not even Lady Macarthur dressed in such finery. What was the bastard trying to prove? That he could steal anything he liked with impunity and parade it about? And why was he drawing attention to her? Every eye turned as they passed.

  He gave himself a shake. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be the Blood’s for more than an hour longer anyway.

  When his quarry rounded the corner he left the inn and ran across the street. Jogging behind head-high rowan, h
e made his way to his brother, who hid behind the stable.

  ~#~

  When the road fronting Loch Fyne narrowed before an outcropping, Angus kicked his mount ahead of Ian’s. “Are ye growing tired, Birdi?”

  “Nay.”

  “Humph.” Birdi had been too quiet since leaving the inn. He hoped it wasn’t something he’d said, but then women were known to misconstrue a man’s meaning at the oddest times. He’d seen Lady Beth do it often enough. Duncan’s life was regularly at sixes and sevens without his having a hint as to why. Another reason Angus had shied away from wedded bliss for so many years. Women—no matter how loved—could drive sane men wode. Not that he loved Birdi.

  He turned in the saddle to ask Ian if he’d won anything at the contest and saw two horsemen coming up on them fast, claymores drawn. He shouted in warning and Ian

  spun to look behind them.

  Angus kicked Rampage around the boulders at a canter.

  Birdi, startled, asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Trouble.” Without explaining further, he lowered Birdi by an arm to the ground. He wrenched his sgian dubh from his leg lacing and pressed it into her hand. “Hide behind these boulders, up and to yer right. Climb as high and as quick as ye can.”

  Birdi grabbed his stirrup. “But why? What’s happening?” The answer came by way of Ian shouting and steel clanging on steel.

  With no time to explain, he hissed, “Hie, Birdi, now!”

  The moment Birdi ran clear he turned Rampage on his hind legs and dug in his spurs.

  As he came abreast of the fight, Ian toppled, a scarlet fountain spewing from his right shoulder.

  Angus’s battle cry tore from his throat as he swung his claymore at the man who’d felled Ian, then drove Rampage into the other rider. A battle veteran, his charger reared. Hooves flailing, he landed—all one hundred stone of him—on the pony’s haunches. The pony screeched as it collapsed under the weight, unseating its rider. Angus swung his claymore again and caught the rising man on the side of his neck. He felt the resistance of bone as blood arced like a crimson rainbow. The man fell without issuing a sound. The second rider stared wide-eyed at his fallen companion for just a heartbeat then spun and kicked his pony into a gallop, back from whence he’d come. Angus kicked Rampage in turn and followed.