by Ruth Langan
“Aye.” She untied the ropes that secured the bundle to the horse, then motioned for the boy and girl to help her. “Come, Gwen. Brock. Help me get him inside.”
The three began dragging the blanket-clad burden toward the tiny hut.
All the while the old man stood shaking his fist at them. “You could be bringing death and destruction to our very doorstep, lass.”
Lindsay paused to catch her breath. “If you’ll take a moment to look at him, you’ll see he isn’t strong enough to even open his eyes.”
“Not yet, perhaps.” Her father hobbled inside and watched as she prepared a fresh pallet beside the fire. “But woe to us if he should regain his strength. Then we’ll be afraid to even close our eyes, for fear of being slaughtered in our sleep.”
“We’ll worry about that when he recovers. If he recovers,” she muttered as she rolled the unconscious body onto the clean blanket. “Gwen.” She turned to the little girl. “Fetch me some linens and hot water. Brock, I’ll need my herbs and healing ointments.”
The two children hurried to do her bidding. When they returned she was giving orders. “Now, Brock, the horse is your responsibility. I’ll expect you to see it’s fed and watered, and hidden from view so it can’t be stolen.”
“Aye.” Delighted to be given such an important chore, the boy raced off.
“Gwen.” Lindsay barely looked up as she tore a clean linen into strips. “There are more surprises tied to the horse.”
With a yelp of excitement the girl ran outside and returned dragging a fat bundle. Wrapped inside a ragged blanket were a variety of clothes and weapons Lindsay had taken from the dead.
While the child and her grandfather sorted through them, Lindsay cut away the man’s bloody clothing. She was shocked at the extent of his wounds. Not only the fresh ones, but the scars from earlier wounds as well. There was no doubt he was a warrior. She’d tended enough of her father’s wounds in his earlier years to know just how many scars a soldier was forced to endure.
She dipped a square of linen into the basin of hot water and began to bathe away the blood. While she worked she couldn’t help noting the hard, firm body, the muscled arms and shoulders. Whoever this man was, he would be dangerous in battle. That ought to frighten her. But the truth was, there had been times in the past that her warrior father had received kind treatment from strangers. She felt she had a debt to pay. Still, she whispered a prayer that this man would turn out to be friend instead of foe.
She touched a square of linen to the cut at his forehead. When the blood was washed, she realized that his was a handsome face. A wide brow. A firmly chiseled nose and jaw. She wondered what color his eyes were. Then she chided herself on such a thought. Hadn’t her mother always cautioned that it mattered not the color of a man’s eyes? What mattered was the good or evil found in his heart.
When his wounds were cleansed, she sorted through a collection of dried herbs and worked quickly to make a paste which she applied to the most serious of his wounds, before dressing them with clean strips of cloth.
Through it all, he lay still as death. Once or twice she saw his lids flicker. But he made no sound as she gently rolled him first to one side, then the other, while she dealt with minor wounds to his back and shoulders. Finally, content that she had done all she could, she covered him with animal hides, and made her way across the room to where the old man and girl sifted through their treasures.
“What’s this?” The old man held up a small cask. When he removed the stopper, his face creased into a smile. “Ale.” He tasted, sighed, then took a long swallow. “Not just ale. Fine, mellow ale.” He pointed. “Our guest has excellent taste.”
“Guest, is he?” Lindsay laughed. “A moment ago you were calling him an outlander who would kill us all in our beds. Now he’s become a guest. And all because of his ale.”
“If it is, indeed, his. It could have belonged to the ones who lay around him.” The old man studied his youngest daughter. “Were there no others left alive?”
She shook her head. “It must have been a fierce battle. I’d say more than a score on each side.”
“I wonder why this one—” the old man turned and studied the man “—was left behind by his companions.”
Lindsay shrugged. “He was so close to death, they may have believed he would be too great a burden.”
She allowed her father to take another long drink before snatching the cask from his hands. “I’ll need this. It will cleanse his wounds.”
“A sad waste of fine ale.” The old man’s mouth turned down into a frown.
“Don’t worry.” Lindsay laughed. “I’ll leave plenty for you.”
The little girl unwrapped a length of tanned hide to reveal chunks of fresh meat. “Look, Grandfather.”
The old man sniffed. “Deer. Not rancid. A fresh kill.”
Gwen clapped her hands. “We’ll eat like lairds tonight.”
The old man turned to Lindsay. “Maybe your man was surprised while hunting.”
Lindsay shrugged. “Perhaps.” She took up the meat and crossed to the fire. “We’ll remember to thank him later. For now, Gwen’s right. This night we’ll eat like the rich. And if we’re frugal, we can do so for many nights to come.”
By the time Brock returned from his duties with the horse, the little hut was filled with the fragrance of roasting meat and bread rising on the hearth. The family sat at a crude wooden table, enjoying the rare luxury of venison.
“I like this better than bread alone,” the lad said over a mouthful.
“Aye. And better than the roots and berries last week, when you missed that pheasant, Lindsay,” her father said as he cleaned his plate.
“I’ll not miss again, I wager.” Lindsay touched a hand to the bow and quiver of arrows she’d salvaged from the battlefield.
“You don’t intend to barter that in the village? It would fetch a good price.” Her father leaned back, wishing for one more sip of the fine ale, and knowing his daughter would give him grief over it if he should ask.
She shook her head. “I know it would be a fine thing to barter. Perhaps I could even get a brooding hen from the widow Chisholm. But I’ve long needed to add another weapon beyond this.” She touched a hand to the dirk at her waist. “Now, with both, I should be able to keep us in food. And that’s worth more than any hen.”
“May I keep the boots, Lindsay?” Brock ran his hand over the worn leather that lay in a heap of blood-spattered clothes. It mattered not to him that they’d been taken from a dead warrior.
“Aye. If they fit you.” She gathered up their dishes. “With winter coming, you’ll need sturdy boots.”
The boy needed no coaxing to slip his feet into them. He stood, wiggling his toes. “They’re big. But if you were to knit some bulky stockings, they’d be fine.”
Lindsay sighed. “Aye. I’ll start on some tonight. Until they’re finished, you can stuff the toes with a bit of wool.”
The boy’s eyes lit with excitement. It was the first pair of boots he’d ever owned. Always before he wrapped his feet with strips of hide.
The little girl held up a coarse woolen cloak. “Will you keep this, Lindsay? Or barter it away?”
“That depends.” Lindsay kept her back to them, washing the dishes and setting them aside. “I’ll offer it to Heywood Drummond first, and see how much he offers.”
At the mention of that name, the children glanced at one another and wrinkled their noses.
“He might be willing to give me a jug of milk from his cow in exchange for it.”
“And then he’ll turn around and sell it for twice what it’s worth,” her father said with a note of disgust.
“Aye. He might.” She wiped the table clean. “I don’t mind if he makes a profit, so long as he gives me what I want. Now.” She glanced at the two children, who were already yawning behind their hands. “I think it’s time to tuck you into your beds.”
They made no objection as they climbed the ladder t
o their sleeping loft. As she followed them up, she saw her father reach for the cask. She bit back a smile. She ought to scold him. It was part of the game they played. But the truth was, she was delighted that she could bring him something that would ease his burden. There had been so many hardships in his life these past years. It did her heart good to know that he would fall asleep tonight warm and content.
She kissed the lad and lass and heard their whispered prayers. Then, covering them with warm furs, she slipped down the ladder and picked up her needles and a skein of yarn.
Minutes later, warmed by the ale, her father made his way to his bed. Though Lindsay longed to do the same, for she was weary beyond belief, there would be no rest yet. First she would see to Brock’s stockings, before the fire burned too low.
Then, and only then, satisfied that she had done all she could for her family, would she give in to the need to sleep.
Chapter Two
Morgan lay very still, struggling to fit bits and pieces of memory together. Outlanders pouring from the woods, bent on death. Swords flashing. Cries and curses. And blood. So much blood. Men falling at his feet, while more clambered over their dead comrades to reach him.
He’d held his ground. By heaven, he’d held on, though one arm had dangled uselessly, and his body was slashed and torn until the very fires of hell had been unleashed upon him.
He remembered one last villain charging forward, sword raised, voice screaming obscenities. In that instant Morgan had known that his strength, his very life, was ebbing. He had called on superhuman tenacity to remain standing.
Had he succeeded in besting the outlander? Or had he failed? From the pain he knew that he was still alive. But barely. He was hot. So hot.
Somewhere nearby a fire hissed and snapped. He tried to move his arms, but they were pinned to his sides by something wrapped around him. Perhaps he was being held prisoner.
He managed to open his eyes and beheld the most amazing sight.
A woman. Head bent, so that her hair spilled forward like a veil, tumbling in a riot of red curls over one shoulder. She wore a coarse, homespun gown that fell carelessly off one shoulder. The exposed skin of her neck and throat was as smooth, as pale as alabaster. He couldn’t see her face. Her gaze was fixed on the needles that clicked and danced in her hands.
He looked around, struggling to get his bearings. A hut. The walls were hung with hides. There was the smell of wood smoke, and the lingering scent of cooking. He located the door, latched from the inside to keep out intruders. On the far wall was a ladder leading to a loft. He could make out figures up there, but wasn’t able to count them.
Had he been brought to the land of his enemy? He inched his hand toward his thigh, in search of the dirk he always carried at his waist. His fingers encountered his own flesh. He’d been stripped of his clothes. And of his only weapon. Now he had naught but his cunning. He would have to use the element of surprise as a weapon. He’d use the woman as a shield, in case there were guards posted outside.
Through a haze of pain he gathered his strength for what was to come, and willed himself to cast off the bonds that held him. He was stunned by his own weakness. Despite his best intentions, his body refused to respond.
With one last burst of energy he managed to sit up, causing the hides to slip to his waist, before he flopped back down, as helpless as a bairn, unable to do more than suck in a breath of surprise.
The female looked toward him. In that instant he beheld the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Skin so fair, it would put an angel to shame. High cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips, parted in surprise. And the eyes. Green they were, with little flecks of gold. Star eyes, he thought as she bent toward him.
“You’re alive then.” She dropped her yarn and needles and touched a hand to his forehead. The touch was as soft, as gentle as a caress.
“Am I?” He winced at the toll those simple words cost him. His throat was dry as dust, and it hurt to breathe.
“You have a raging fever. Are you in pain?”
“Aye.”
He was watching her so intently, Lindsay felt a ripple of unease. Still, she couldn’t put aside the little satisfaction that she now had the answer to her earlier question. His eyes were blue. As blue as a Highland sky.
Her gaze moved slowly over him. When he’d been unconscious, his nakedness had been essential to the care of his wounds. Now she found herself looking at him in a different way. The sight of that hard, muscled body caused a slippery feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Needing something to do she turned away. “I’ll fetch you an opiate.”
He kept her in sight as she crossed the room, then returned with a tumbler of liquid. She sat facing him, and placed one hand under his head, lifting gently until he was high enough to drink and swallow. High enough, he realized, that if he could but move, his mouth would encounter a firm, jutting breast. The thought brought a fresh wave of heat that had sweat breaking out on his forehead.
As she lifted the glass to his lips, he sniffed and pulled back. “It smells…vile.”
“Aye. I’m sorry for that. But drink it down and you’ll soon be grateful for it.”
He did as she bade, forcing himself to concentrate on the enticing cleft between her breasts. He was far from dead, he reminded himself, if he could still react to the nearness of a woman. Up close she smelled as clean and fresh as a pine forest. As she bent forward, her hair tickled his chest. Sensations rippled through him, stronger even than the pain.
In no time the glass was empty, and he was almost sorry when she lay him back down.
“Who…are you?” he managed to whisper. “Where have you…brought me?”
“My name is Lindsay Douglas. And you’re in the home of my father, Gordon Douglas.”
“Douglas.” He struggled to clear the cobwebs that seemed to be floating across his mind. Her voice, as soft and lyrical as that of a Highland angel, was fading. He thought it might be the opiate. Or it might be that he was truly dying. For the fire seemed to be growing inside him, threatening to burn him to ash.
“Not…outlander?”
She laughed, a clear sound that reminded him of a whisper on the breeze. “Nay. We’re not outlanders. But we feared you might be.”
He shook his head, and sucked in a breath on a wave of pain. “Not…enemy. I was…fighting them.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You? Alone?”
“Aye.”
“But there was more than a score of them.”
“Aye.” His lids flickered, but he struggled to keep her in sight. “Don’t…leave me.”
His fingers closed around her hand and she was shocked by his strength. Even as he was slipping into unconsciousness, it would seem that he had the power to break her bones if he chose.
“I’ll not leave you. Sleep now. It’s what your body craves in order to heal.”
“You’ll be here…when I awake?”
“Aye.” She stared down at this handsome stranger. He had no need of her reassurance, for he had already slipped away.
Morgan awoke to the sound of voices. So many voices, chattering. A child’s high-pitched laugh, followed by the rumble of a man’s booming command. And then the woman’s voice. The one who had played through his dreams.
He opened his eyes to the painful stab of sunlight pouring through the doorway. A figure swam into his line of vision. A girl of perhaps seven or eight, with long red curls that fell to below her waist.
“Lindsay.” She nearly dropped the bucket of water she carried. “The stranger is awake.” She set the bucket down and fled.
Minutes later the woman knelt beside him. Peering over her shoulder were the girl, a boy and a stooped old man. All looked as though they’d run like rabbits if he so much as sneezed.
“So. You’re awake.” Lindsay touched a hand to his forehead.
He almost sighed from the pleasure of it. Her fingers were gentle, and so cool against his burning flesh.
“Yo
u still have the fever. But it seems to be subsiding. I’ll soon give you another opiate for the pain. But first you must eat something, to gain strength.” She turned to the girl. “Gwen, fetch a cup of broth.”
“Aye.” The girl darted away and returned with a cup of steaming liquid.
Again Lindsay sat facing him, her hand pillowing his head, her other hand holding the cup to his lips. He managed several sips before refusing any more.
While she prepared the opiate, the other three circled him, staring at him as if he’d just grown two heads.
The boy, who appeared to be a year or two older than the girl, spoke first. “Lindsay says you’re not an outlander.”
“It’s true.”
“What clan do you belong to?” This from the old man.
“I am Morgan, of the MacLaren Clan.”
“Ah.” The old man’s eyes warmed. “A fine, honorable clan.”
Lindsay returned and lifted a tumbler of liquid to Morgan’s lips.
Again he wrinkled his nose, muttering, “Vile.”
“Aye. But you must admit that it helped you sleep.”
He drained the glass, then fell back, his breathing labored.
“What were you doing in the forest beyond the village?” Brock asked.
Lindsay turned to silence him. “Hush now, Brock. It’s too soon for him to speak. You can see how it tires him.”
She stood and slipped on a ragged cloak, drawing up the hood. She turned to the old man. “I’ll ride to the village now, and see what I can barter. You’ll stay with our…guest.”
Her father nodded.
To the boy she said, “I’ll need more herbs to dress those wounds, and some moss that grows on the banks of the stream. You’ll see to them?”
“Aye, Lindsay.”
“And Brock, see to Gwen, as well.”
“You know I will.”
“I know.” She drew him close and tousled his hair before striding from the hut.
Morgan was about to ask the old man why her children called her by her given name instead of the endearment Mother. But it seemed too much effort to speak. His eyes closed. As the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance, he slept.
