Ruth Langan Highlanders Bundle

by Ruth Langan

  She filled the bowls with gruel and placed one before him. “You shouldn’t be out in the cold cutting wood.”

  “Why not?” He looked up with a smile.

  “Because your wounds aren’t yet healed. Only last night you told me you were in pain.”

  “Aye. I was. But that was before you applied your healing ointment. This morrow there’s no pain.”

  “Truly?”

  He nodded, and saw the smile return to her eyes.

  The others took their places at table and began to eat.

  “Where are you off to today, lass?” Her father used a piece of bread to mop up the last of the gruel.

  “I must take some of my ointment to the village for the widow Chisholm. And then I’ll ride across the high meadow in search of game.”

  At that Morgan turned to her. “If you’d care to leave your bow and arrows here, I’ll take Brock to the woods and hunt.”

  “But your shoulder…”

  He closed a hand over hers and her words faltered. “I’m strong enough to pull a bow, Lindsay. And I’ve been known to have an aim that’s true.”

  She flushed, and realized that the others were watching her.

  “Aye.” She lowered her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’ll take my dirk. You can have the bow and arrows. But you’re not to strain that wound, or you’ll have it bleeding.”

  He grinned. “I’ll remember.”

  From his place at the table, Gordon Douglas watched and listened. And was struck by the realization that, before his very eyes, his daughter was changing. As was this brash young warrior. They were drawn to one another. There was no denying it.

  He was reminded of another warrior, who had lost his heart to a sweet maiden with fiery hair and laughing green eyes. Every time he looked at Lindsay he saw her mother. It was easy to understand how Morgan MacLaren had become bewitched. It had happened to him so many years ago. And to this day, his wounded heart hadn’t recovered from the loss of his sweet wife.

  “You should have seen it, Lindsay.” Brock’s eyes were alight with pleasure as the family settled down that evening to a feast of fresh venison. “Morgan showed me how to read the markings on the ground. From just the prints, he can tell the difference between a doe and a stag, and how many are in the herd. We followed the herd’s prints and found them in a small glen. Morgan said a hunter must have patience. So we hid ourselves behind a tree until the stag lowered his head to eat. And then Morgan took aim and brought him down with a single arrow.”

  “I wish I’d seen it,” Gwen said between mouthfuls.

  Morgan turned to her with a quick grin. “Next time I’ll take you along, too, Gwen.”

  “You will?” The little girl’s face was wreathed in smiles as she finished her meal.

  “What of your day, lass?” Douglas arched a brow at his daughter, who had been strangely silent since her return from the village. “Did you apply your ointment to Widow Chisholm?”

  “Aye. And she was so grateful, she insisted that I take a nest of quail’s eggs that she’d found in the meadow. There were ten and two eggs.”

  The old man smiled. “Always something to barter. What did you get for them, lass?”

  “No one would barter except Heywood.”

  At the mention of his name the others fell silent.

  “What did he give you?” her father asked.

  She stared down at her plate. The food had suddenly lost its appeal. “He said the widow Chisholm had found the nest more than a week ago, and had tried bartering them herself before giving them to me. He said they were probably rotten by now, and that he’d give me no more than a single hen’s egg.”

  “One egg for ten and two?” The old man’s hand curled into a fist. “Heywood Drummond’s becoming worse than a thief. He knows winter is upon us, and our need is great. Had he nothing else to offer?”

  Lindsay grew silent and pushed away from the table. In a soft voice she said to Gwen, “Can you see to the chores by yourself, child?”

  “Aye, Lindsay. But where are you going?”

  She started toward the ladder. “I believe I’ll go up to my bed.”

  Before she could set her foot on the first rung, her father pounded the table with his fist. “You’ll not leave until you answer my question. Did Heywood offer something else?”

  She paused and nodded her head. In a voice so soft it could barely be heard she said, “He offered a ewe and her lambs, as well as a flock of chickens.”

  “Sheep and chickens?” The old man looked thunderstruck. “Why, that’s a treasure beyond gold. With careful management and breeding, we’d soon have no worries at all. Why in the world would you refuse such an offer?”

  “Because.” She lifted her head and met her father’s stern gaze. “He will do it only if I agree to a formal betrothal, so that we can wed on the Eve of Christmas. And if I allow Brock and Gwen to apprentice to a crofter in a neighboring village, who has no children of his own and is in need of laborers.”

  Without a word she hiked her skirts and climbed the ladder. Her father shoved back his chair and stormed out of the hut, slamming the door behind him.

  In the silence that followed, Morgan clenched his fists, wishing he could follow the old man outside and work off his own temper. Instead he turned to the two children, whose faces were tight with fear. Hoping to put them at ease he stood and began gathering up the dishes. When the table was cleared he filled a basin with warm water from the kettle and began washing. As he worked he talked to them in a calm, soothing tone.

  “I apprenticed once.”

  “You did?” Brock looked amazed as he and his sister walked closer.

  “Aye.”

  “Was it because you were poor?” the girl asked.

  Morgan shook his head as he handed them each a square of cloth, allowing them to dry the dishes while he washed. “I wanted to learn to be a warrior. And my father told me the finest warrior in the Highlands was Allistair MacLaren, a kinsman. So I begged to be allowed to apprentice to him, so that I could learn all he had to teach me.”

  “How long did you stay with him?” Brock asked in a small voice.

  “Three years.”

  “Three years,” Gwen muttered with a trace of awe.

  Again the children stared at each other, before Brock asked, “Did he beat you?”

  Morgan stopped his work to look at the lad. “Beat me? Nay. Why do you ask such a thing?”

  Brock swallowed, before saying, “Lindsay once went to work at the home of a wealthy lady, to learn to be a lady’s maid. It was shortly after Grandfather returned from battle, and we had no food or shelter. But she worked there only a few days.”

  “She didn’t like the work?”

  The boy picked up a plate, running the cloth over it again and again, while he mulled how much to say. Finally he looked up. “Lindsay has always been willing to work from sunup to sundown. Never has she minded hard work. But while serving a meal, she spilled some ale on a fine table linen. The mistress of the house flew into a rage and had her beaten.”

  Morgan’s hands stilled. His eyes narrowed. His voice was chillingly calm. “Lindsay was beaten?”

  “Aye. Not once, but many times. The last time, she ran away.”

  “You mean she ran home. To her father.”

  “Nay. She ran away.”

  “But why?”

  “She was ashamed. Ashamed that she had failed Grandfather. Failed all of us. So she hid out in the forest. When a servant came to fetch her to work, Grandfather learned that she was missing, and went off in search of her. He found her, her back scarred and festering, her gown torn and matted with blood. He brought her home and put her to bed. It was weeks before Lindsay could bear to have any clothing touch her skin. And when she finally healed she begged Grandfather not to send her back. She promised that she would do whatever it took to see that we survived. She said she would rather go without food or clothing or even shelter, than to ever again be apprenticed to a cruel master.”r />
  The boy set down the plate and carefully dried his hands. When he turned, his eyes held such sadness, it nearly broke Morgan’s heart.

  In a voice barely above a whisper he added, “That was the only time I’ve seen my grandfather weep.”

  Morgan remained where he was as Brock caught his sister’s hand and led her toward the ladder.

  Hours later, as he sat brooding in front of the fire, Morgan heard the old man return. The two men exchanged not a word, but Morgan could tell, by the look in Gordon’s eyes, that he had been forced to relive that terrible time.

  He watched as the old man climbed to the loft.

  In the silence of the hut Morgan thought over all he’d heard. No wonder this amazing little female had stolen his heart.

  The thought of anyone laying a hand on her had him clenching his fists at his sides. By heaven, he’d do everything in his power to see that the woman he loved had a future free of worry.

  The woman he loved.

  He went very still at the thought. And then he was suddenly smiling. Of course. It was all so simple. He was a powerful man. He could do whatever he pleased. He would court her himself, and make her his wife. And when he left here, he would take Lindsay and her family with him. They would never want for anything again.

  His wife. His family. The thought of it began to trickle like warm honey through his veins and around his heart.

  He was so excited, he couldn’t even think about sleep. All he wanted was to see dawn’s light streak the sky, so that he could begin to show Lindsay, in every way possible, how much he loved her.

  Chapter Seven

  “Good morrow, my lady.”

  “Good morrow.” Lindsay descended the ladder. The sight of Morgan standing in the opened doorway had her heart doing a strange dance. Especially since he was naked to the waist, his hair still dripping little drops of water.

  She stared around in surprise. A cozy fire burned on the hearth. On the warming shelf were bread and a blackened pot that smelled suspiciously like gruel. In the middle of the table was a battered tankard, filled with wildflowers.

  “What is all this?” She swept a hand to indicate all the work he’d gone to.

  “You were sad last night. I thought I’d cheer you.” He crossed the room and caught her hand. “Does this help?”

  “Aye.” The touch of his hand on hers had her heartbeat beginning to speed up. “But you’ve recently recovered from terrible wounds. You shouldn’t be doing my chores.”

  “Who says they’re yours?” When she merely stared at him, he said gently, “I see how hard you work to keep your family in food and clothing and shelter. But the chores must be shared by all, Lindsay, else it becomes too great a burden.”

  “But my father is old and infirm, and the children are so young….”

  “They’re not too young to carry their share. Nor is your father too old. Let them help you.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “And let me help you, as well.”

  “Morgan…”

  Her head came up as the children and their grandfather descended the ladder. She snatched her hand away and crossed to the fireplace, where she hurriedly removed the bread.

  Across the room, Morgan tossed the length of plaid over his shoulder, as he greeted the others. The children grinned at him as they hurried outside. Within minutes they returned, wearing identical looks of puzzlement.

  “The buckets have already been filled with water,” Brock called. “And the firewood gathered.”

  “Aye. I saw to them,” Morgan said absently.

  “You’re up early, Morgan MacLaren.” Gordon Douglas took his place at the table and glanced at him with a questioning look.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I had much on my mind. And I find it easier to think if I keep myself busy.” Morgan sat across from the old man. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  Gordon studied this man, who seemed agitated. “Are you planning on leaving us now?”

  “Leaving?”

  “Aye. Now that your wounds are beginning to heal.”

  “Nay.” Morgan shook his head and smiled. “I’m a long way from being strong enough to make the journey across the Highlands to my home. But I’d like your permission for something.”

  “What would that be?”

  “I’d like permission to court your daughter.”

  For the space of several minutes there was total silence in the little hut. Morgan turned to see Lindsay, still holding the bread, staring at him in openmouthed surprise. The children, too, were staring, as though they couldn’t quite believe what they’d heard.

  The old man cleared his throat. “You realize this is a most serious request.”

  “I do.”

  Gordon glanced at his daughter. “I’ll not give my approval until I know this is what you want, too, lass. What say you?”

  Lindsay didn’t realize she was clutching the bread to her chest in a death grip. And though she was aware of the fact that her father and the children were staring at her, all she could see was Morgan, so handsome, so proud, watching her with a guarded, cautious look.

  She swallowed. “You must understand that I’ll not be separated from my family. I’ll not be taken away from them, nor have them taken from me.”

  He nodded. “I understand, my lady. Nor would I ever ask such a thing of you.”

  “But you’ll be undertaking a grave burden, Morgan. There are so many of us. And we will all be committed to your care. You may soon regret having accepted such a burden.”

  “That which is done in love is never a burden, my lady.”

  He said it so simply, so solemnly, she wanted to weep. Still, she had to be certain he understood. “You’re willing to provide for all of us?”

  “Aye.” She was so serious. So determined to see to the others, no matter what the cost to herself.

  “But you’re a warrior, Morgan MacLaren. You travel from village to glen in search of the outlanders. Will we travel with you?”

  “I would prefer to think you were safely away from the danger of battle, my lady. I would make a home for you, for all of you, with my people.”

  “Do you believe your people will accept us?”

  He smiled. “If I can accept you, why should they not?” Seeing that she was about to offer another argument, he crossed the room and held out his hands. “Lindsay. Please have pity on me. Say you will accept this offer of courtship, so that my heart can beat again.”

  With the children and her father watching, she offered her hands, releasing her hold on the bread. Unheeded, it dropped to the floor of the hut, as she placed her hands in Morgan’s.

  At once they both dropped to their knees and reached for the bread, grinning like children.

  At last Lindsay said, “I do accept your offer, Morgan MacLaren. With the greatest of pleasure.”

  He squeezed her hands as they rose together, then turned to her father. “And you, Gordon Douglas? Do I have your permission as well?”

  The look in his daughter’s eyes had the old man clearing his throat. “Aye. You do, indeed. As you know, it is the custom in our village to hold all weddings at the kirk on the feast of Christmas, when a priest will be available. Do you agree to be wed on the feast of Christmas, Morgan MacLaren?”

  “It would be my greatest pleasure,” Morgan murmured as he stared into Lindsay’s eyes.

  The old man turned away to blink back the dust that had caused his eyes to water. The children squealed in excitement and gathered around, hugging first their aunt, and then the man they had already begun to accept as one of them.

  Morgan drew Lindsay toward the table, and held her chair while she took her seat. Then he settled himself beside her and passed her a platter of roasted venison.

  With a wink in the direction of Brock and Gwen he muttered, “Had I known my request was going to cause your aunt to ruin the bread, I’d have waited until after we broke our fast to mention courtship.”

  The children giggled, enjoying the flush
on Lindsay’s cheeks. For some reason they couldn’t quite fathom, it suddenly felt like Christmas morn.

  “Mmm. That smells good.” Morgan looked up as Gwen deposited an armload of herbs on the banks of the stream.

  He had brought the children with him to fish. Because of it, the holiday feeling persisted throughout the day.

  “We can always tell when Lindsay is planning to make her healing ointments.” The little girl began separating the plants into smaller bundles for drying.

  “How did she become a healer?” Morgan hauled in his line and tossed another fish into the growing pile for their supper. Using a sharp dirk, he began to show Brock how to clean them.

  “Grandmother taught her. The same way it was taught to her.”

  “That rare knowledge is worth a great deal. Why doesn’t Lindsay use her healing powers to earn gold? Surely the people of the nearby villages would be willing to pay her.”

  Brock shook his head. “Lindsay said her healing is a gift. It must never be used for anything other than noble reasons. So she accepts whatever people offer her, and asks no more.”

  Another reason, Morgan realized, why he loved her so. She had so many noble qualities, it was impossible to list all of them. The fact that he had found such a woman, and that she would consider his offer of a betrothal, was humbling.

  “Come,” he called as he gathered up the fish. “We’ll surprise Lindsay with a fine supper. And while I teach you how to cook these, you can teach me the names of every one of these plants.”

  As the children trailed behind him, it occurred to them that their chores had never before seemed such fun. Just being with Morgan MacLaren was an adventure. One they trusted, now that he’d offered for their aunt, would never end.

  “What have you done?” Lindsay burst into the hut, then paused to stare around in surprise.

  The floor had been swept clean. A fire blazed on the hearth. Mingled with the scent of wood smoke was the sweet, fresh scent of herbs. They hung in little bundles all around the room.

  “Morgan says your herbs will dry more quickly if we hang them.” Gwen was looking pleased with herself. “And they smell so good, Lindsay.”