by B. J. Scott
“Nay. I want to be here if he wakes up.” She placed a small wooden stool beside the pallet and sat down.
Time passed slowly and other than a few moments of fitful sleep and mumbled words in Gaelic she could not decipher, Bryce didn’t stir. His breathing remained labored. His cheeks were flushed, heat radiated from his body, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his chest and limbs. Yet he began to shiver if she removed any of the covers.
As his condition weakened, her concern grew. She rose, but left him only long enough to retrieve some willow bark tea from a pot simmering on the hearth. Gently sliding her hand behind his head, she raised it a little, and brought a wooden cup to his lips.
“Drink,” she urged, even though she doubted he could hear her. Despite her efforts, the herbal brew, meant to ease his pain and combat fever, was impossible to administer in his unconscious state, most of it dribbling down his chin.
She placed the cup on the table beside the pallet then took a few minutes to stretch her legs and to work out the stiffness in her back before continuing her vigil. An attempt to busy herself with needlework proved futile, her mind constantly wandering back to Bryce. As each hour passed, the fever burned hotter, and she was more convinced he’d not survive the night.
“Och, Bryce, what evil twist of fate has brought you back into my life? A woman’s heart can only take so much torture.” She lightly stroked his cheek, but he did not respond. “When last we parted, I never thought I would see you again. And now—”
She choked back a sob. The last few days they’d spent together at Fraser Castle were bittersweet. True, the joy of seeing Connor and Cailin united in marriage had made her heart soar, and Andrew’s birth was a time for celebration. But she also remembered standing outside the great hall while the bride and groom took part in their wedding dance, wishing for one brief moment it were her and Bryce who had just exchanged their vows.
A beautiful bride, Cailin stared up at her husband with such love and devotion. Judging by the way Connor returned her moonstruck gaze and possessively held her close, it was obvious he shared her sentiment.
Would a man ever look at her with such adoration? The fact that she might never experience such a moment was almost too much to endure. She wrapped her arms around her waist and turned, only to find Bryce standing directly behind her.
“Bryce,” she whispered his name when their eyes met. Her stomach did a nervous flip. She fisted her hands in her skirt to keep them from trembling and glanced at the floor.
Undeniably a handsome man, she’d found him appealing from the moment he arrived at the Scott’s Castle, but there was something more than mere physical attraction that drew her to him.
While they’d met in passing, and in actuality had spent very little time alone together, it felt as if she’d known him for years. There was something familiar about him and a level of comfort she experienced when in his presence, a sense of calm and acceptance that had eluded her when in the company of most people she encountered.
While her unwelcome premonitions focused primarily on death and illness, she had experienced the odd vision of happy events yet to take place. On more than one occasion she’d seen a brown-haired man walking toward her, which according to Scottish lore was a good sign. A dark-haired woman kept pace at his left side and if the legend held true, she was likely the lass he was meant to marry.
When the woman inclined her head, Fallon saw her own image. But when her suitor grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, he disappeared in a wisp of smoke before she could see his face.
Was the mysterious man in her dream Bryce?
She shook her head. While she wanted to believe they were destined for each other, the fact she’d never seen her intended’s features could only mean one thing. She would never find her true love.
Mayhap a life of solitude was for the best. From the time she was a wee lass, she believed herself cursed. Everyone she dared to love had died. Seeing their demise and being helpless to stop it weighed heavy on her mind and heart.
The first visions of pending death and misfortune occurred when she had barely seen four summers. Aside from her parents, most people kept their distance. An only child, she’d spent the better part of her life alone, an outcast because people feared what they didn’t understand. Taibhsearchd was deemed a gift by some. Her mother thought second sight was a blessing, one passed down from mother to daughter and a reason to rejoice. But Fallon considered herself very unlucky.
Then again, mayhap she didn’t want to find a mate. Aside from her father, her uncle, Laird Scott, and a few others she respected, she found most men to be domineering brutes. They expected their women to subserviently await their orders and held little or no revere for their wives, beyond what they could offer between the plaids. If a woman dared to speak her mind or show any initiative, they were quickly put in their place. If given a choice between an oppressive, loveless marriage and a life alone, she’d pick the latter.
She shuddered at the thought of daughters being used as pawns, a means to gain land, alliances, and chattel. She thanked the Almighty on a daily basis that her parents had gone against tradition and raised her to be a strong, independent woman.
While she’d had many suitors express an interest, once they learned of her unwillingness to comply with the old ways and her so-called gift, they abandoned her as if she had a plague. But when she met Bryce, she sensed he was different. In addition to the fact he made her heart race and her stomach flutter with excitement, he claimed to set no store in her ability to see the future and accepted her for who she was. They’d connected on more than one level, or so she’d thought.
The fierce loyalty Bryce showed for his brothers and his willingness to kill the enemy was a stark contrast to the gentleness and concern he showed for his sister-by-marriage when he’d brought her to Buccleuch seeking refuge.
Bryce put on a bold front and professed he wanted no woman in his life, but he’d revealed his sensitive, caring side. He did not chastise her for her temerity and spirit. Nor did he shy away from her because of her gift of second sight. Yet, in spite of his debonair demeanor, there was something that tortured his soul. If only he would open up to her and share his inner thoughts. Mayhap they could have . . .
Fallon gave her head a shake and straightened her spine. What was she thinking? She’d spent the last few months trying to forget Bryce and she refused to allow herself to be swayed by emotion. Again. He had made his choice when he’d allowed her to leave Fraser Castle without protest. He was not here by choice and would surely depart to rejoin the cause as soon as he was able. She didn’t need him in her life. She didn’t need anyone.
Fallon could not deny she’d had strong feelings for Bryce, but that was in the past. She’d put it behind her and meant to keep it there. A life of solitude was for the best.
Exhausted, she laid her head on the edge of the pallet. “A short rest is all I need.” Her eyes drifted shut, but Bryce’s face filled her mind.
Waking with a start a short time later, she glanced around the dark croft. The tallow candles had burned down to a snub and the remnants of a fire smoldering in the hearth offered the only source of light. Her uncle had added more wood and peat before retiring, but the room had grown chilly. She wrapped a length of plaid around her shoulders and huddled beneath it for warmth. Before long, her heavy-lidded eyes closed again, and she surrendered to sleep.
Chapter 2
He made his way through a dense forest that seemed to go on forever, stumbled over rocks and fallen logs, but somehow managing to stay on his feet. Sweat soaked his brow and tunic. His chest tightened and his leg muscles cramped from the exertion. The stitch in his side caused him to double over in pain more than once, but he had to keep going. He paused for a moment to catch his breath then continued to run as if the Devil were dancing on his heels.
The sound of a waterfall echoed in the distance. He envisioned a stream rushing over a bed of smooth stones, prisms of sunlight dancing acros
s the cool, clear surface. He could almost taste the icy liquid sliding across his tongue and down his desiccated throat.
“Only a wee bit farther.” Those words became his mantra.
When he finally broke free of the woods, he came to an abrupt halt. His mouth gaped open at the sight, his thundering heart drowning out the noise around him.
A meadow, dotted with fragrant heather, stretched in all directions, as far as the eye could see. The sweet floral scent reminded him of his childhood, of carefree days romping and wrestling in the grass with his brothers, and the familiar aroma of his mother’s hair.
Tears ran down his cheek, and he scrubbed them away with the sleeve of his tunic. Cupping his hand over his eyes, he peered up at a cloudless azure sky. A hawk circled above him, looking for prey. A rabbit scurried by, brushing his leg as if he were not even there.
He caught sight of his goal. A mountain stream cascading over a cliff and emptying into a loch. “A wee bit farther,” he shouted and took off running again.
The distance grew shorter, but a sense of urgency increased with each of his strides. Something was amiss. He could feel it in his bones.
“Where do you think you’re going?” A man stepped from the shadow of a lone pine in the middle of the field, blocking his path.
Blinded by the sun, Bryce narrowed his eyes until his foe’s features came into view. He would never forget his face or the cadence of the man’s voice. Both had haunted his dreams for almost a year. “Dungal MacDougall,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
Instinctively, Bryce reached for his sword, but the baldric on his back was empty. “This canna be.” He glanced down and found the sheath at his side held no weapon.
He looked over Dungal’s shoulder and spotted a ship on the loch. The vessel was headed into an ambush—hundreds of men lying in wait along the shore. Those on the water didn’t stand a chance.
Bryce tried to shout out a warning, but had no voice. He tried to run forward, but his legs were like anvils.
He watched in horror as the unsuspecting men disembarked, only to be slaughtered when they reached the shore. The once pristine sand turned red with their blood, but their comrades kept coming.
It was over so fast. Too late to warn them, Bryce hung his head in shame, his heart torn asunder by grief.
Anger welled in his chest and a knot formed in his belly. With his hands fisted at his sides, he met Dungal’s smug expression with a scowl. “I’ll see you rot in Hell for your acts of treason against Scotland.”
Dungal threw back his head and laughed. “And how do you intend to make that happen? You are but one man.” With his sword raised in the air, he shouted, “BUAIDH NO BAS!”
His clan members answered with the same MacDougall war cry. “Victory or death!”
Bryce had to do something. He’d not give up without a fight. He lunged forward, his only thought to subdue Dungal and relieve him of his weapon. The sharp pain as his enemy’s blade pierced his chest was the last thing he’d anticipated.
Staggering backward, Bryce looked down at the hand he clutched to his chest. Blood oozed between his fingers and drenched the front of his shirt. He dropped to his knees, his breath coming in short, sharp pants.
Dungal circled around behind him, placed his boot between his shoulders, and shoved him to the ground.
Sputtering and spitting the dirt from his mouth, Bryce rolled to his back, staring up into the face of his nemesis.
Dungal laughed again and arched his sword in the air, prepared to deliver the final blow, when a young woman strolled out of the woods.
Bryce tried to call out, to warn her to run, but she kept walking in their direction.
Dungal’s mouth drew into an evil grin as the lass approached. “Now, that is what I call a lovely prize. When I am finished with you, I will claim her as a spoil of war.”
Powerless to stop him, Bryce groaned and turned his head to the side. There was something familiar about the lass. As she stepped out of shadows and into the light, his heart clenched and his breath caught.
“Fallon!”
“Aye, Bryce.” She ran her hand over his brow. “I’m here. You must rest. We can speak when you are stronger.”
He thrashed about, but never opened his eyes. He called out her name again, babbled in a mix of Scots and Gaelic, and tossed his head from side-to-side.
“How fares the lad? I heard him shouting.” Donald strode across the room.
She glanced down at Bryce and touched his face. “The fever has not broken. He’s restless and very weak.” She swallowed against the knot of emotion in her throat, but could not stay the tears sliding down her cheeks. She turned her head and quickly scrubbed them away with the heel of her hand.
Donald moved to the other side of the pallet, leaving her no choice but to face him. His frown deepened. “You seem overly concerned about a stranger. Is there something I should know?”
Fallon shifted in her seat then dragged her hand across the back of her neck. She trusted Donald, but was concerned for Bryce’s safety.
He would be in grave danger if the English learned he’d survived the attack and discovered his whereabouts. On the other hand, if her uncle were found guilty of harboring a fugitive, he would be hanged for treason.
What to do?
“You are not my daughter, but while you are living under my roof, I am responsible for your welfare. Your aunt would come back to haunt me if I dinna look out for your best interests. Do you know this man?” His tone hardened.
Fallon inclined her chin and met her uncle’s discerning stare. She’d never been a good liar, and he did have a right to know Bryce was a wanted man.
Donald crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “I’ll ask you again. Do you know this man?”
Fallon gave a hesitant nod. “Aye. We’ve met before.”
“Judging by your moonstruck expression when you look at the lad, I’d say there was a lot more between you than a simple meeting. Should I be fetching the priest?”
Fallon shook her head. “Nay. It was not like that.”
While they had never joined their bodies in the physical sense, she did feel a powerful bond to Bryce. Unlike anything she had ever known. Whenever she looked at his handsome face, fine, chiseled features, and muscular physique her breath caught and her heart raced like a runaway horse.
Despite the obvious attraction between them, Bryce had made it clear on more than one occasion that he had no desire for a wife, and she refused to beg for any man’s affection. She regretted leaving Fraser Castle without saying goodbye, but at the time believed it was for the best. But seeing him again rekindled feelings she’d believed were buried and forgotten. She closed her eyes, her mind wandering back to the first time they’d kissed.
His breath was sweetened with mint and fennel. The press of his mouth, a light brush across her lips, was almost reverent in the beginning, as if murmuring a prayer. But as she relaxed, giving in to temptation, his advances became more passionate, more intense. To surrender to this willful behavior was wrong and could only lead to heartache, but instead of resisting, she opened her mouth to his sweet invasion.
The first time he slid his tongue across the seam of her lips she was certain her bones would melt. When he pulled her against his broad chest and muscular thighs, she felt the proof of his arousal. Her knees buckled, and she thought she might perish, the need to be with this man so strong and intense.
“Did he dishonor you?” Donald asked bluntly.
The heat of a blush rose in her cheeks and she turned her head. “Nay. We are just friends. There is nothing between us and never will be.” There was a time when she’d thought things might be different with Bryce. She’d actually found herself hoping the stubborn fool would find his senses, realize they were meant to be together, and come after her. But then quickly resolved herself to the fact it would be a mistake.
“When we brought him to the croft, you gave no indication that you were acquainted. If you hav
e nothing to hide, why did you keep his identity a secret?” Donald wandered halfway across the room, paused, and then turned to face her. “What is his name? I have the right to know.”
“Bryce Fraser.”
“Fraser, you say?” Donald cut her off before she could finish. “Kin to the patriot Sir Simon Fraser?”
“Aye, he was his father’s cousin. Bryce and his two older brothers, Connor and Alasdair, spent time at Oliver Castle after their parents were killed in raids by the English. He was like their surrogate father. They fought side-by-side at the battle of Methven, Dail Righ, and Kirkenclif, but were helpless to do anything to stop Simon’s brutal execution.” Fallon crossed herself and muttered a quick prayer.
“His brother is also the man whose wife was to be hanged for murdering one of Edward’s officers. And a wanted man,” Donald quickly added.
“Aye, but his wife, Cailin, was innocent. Two soldiers attacked her then tried to have their way with her. Connor came to her aid and killed the officer while defending her honor.”
She continued before her uncle had a chance to respond. “The scoundrel was the brother of the lord of Carlisle Castle and he demanded justice be served. When Bryce and his brothers rescued Cailin from Lord Borden’s clutches, she was with child, and had been severely flogged.”
She paused, remembering the brutal wounds slashing across Cailin’s back. But for the grace of God they could have killed her. She licked her dry lips and continued.
“They brought her to the Scott’s castle, knowing Laird Scott would grant them sanctuary. She was placed in my care. When Cailin was well enough to travel, Borden attacked them on their journey and tried to take her prisoner. Connor intervened and demanded her release, but Borden threatened to throw her off a cliff. Bryce killed him as he was about to make good on his threat.”
