Then he seemed to forget her presence and finished dressing. The muscles in his back rippled as he put his leine on and then tugged his brogans onto his feet. The firelight cast a sheen on his dark hair; he must’ve bathed while she slept, for gone was the muddied warrior.
The blanket was warm and it smelled of his masculine musk, which was not unpleasant. But she didn’t want to accept charity from her enemy so she kicked it off with her feet. He turned to look at her and arched a dark brow. “Suit yerself.”
There was a knock at the door and he opened it. A plump woman and a bevy of servants entered, carrying buckets of hot water, soaps, and spices. He bent down and released her from her shackles.
“Good luck scrubbing the MacDonald off the Little Neep,” he said. “When she’s bathed, bring her down to the main hall where she’ll join me for a meal.” He left her alone with the female servants, who eyed her warily.
Chapter 6
Kat studied Conall’s chamber to keep her mind off the fact that Martha, a plump woman with rosy cheeks and strands of grey hair escaping her cap, was trying to scrub the filth from her naked body and barking orders for more water to be brought up.
It was a masculine room. There was Conall’s oak bed, a bedside table, and a great stag’s head mounted on a wall above a desk. She wondered if he’d brought the stag down himself. A massive bog-oak chest no doubt contained his clothing. By the hearth she spied a small bronze lion, some sort of toy. It seemed out of place. She saw no weapons or targes propped against the walls, so he must have taken the extra precaution of either hiding them or removing them from the room, lest she find some way to dispatch him to another realm while he slept.
The room was lit by the fire in the hearth and by silver candlesticks on the bedside table. Another pair of brogans sat near the door and a shirt was tossed over the back of a chair. From the lone window she could see the towering, gray cliffs and the sea, which seemed to be a hundred feet below.
Belatedly she realized Martha was speaking to her. “Good Lord, but why would one as bonny as yerself dress like a lad and race into battle? Now yer hair is washed, it’s lovely. ‘Tis like silken fire, lass.”
Kat sunk lower in the warm, rose-scented water in the large wooden tub and crossed her arms over her chest. Martha had washed her hair and now brushed it as it hung wet over the side of the tub. She gently removed the tangles.
“What’s yer name, lass?”
Kat didn’t answer.
“I’ve lived at the castle all my life,” Martha said. “They ne’er had a lass as a prisoner before. Never gave a prisoner a bath either!” She chortled. “Ne’er kent a lass brave enough—or foolish enough—to take part in a man’s battle.”
Still, Kat did not speak. Martha made Kat think of her mother’s maid. She was strong but gentle and clearly commanded the other servants. Those days were long ago, and Kat did not want to think of them. She did not want to think of all she had lost, of how she and her brothers had slept mostly in the stables to avoid Angus MacDonald and his meaty fists. Angus flew into a rage at the merest whim. If some odious chore she’d performed was not done to his satisfaction, he’d strike her. Or kick her. But mostly he was just cruel because he enjoyed being cruel.
And of late, before the battle, she did not like how Angus had begun to look at her, for there was something else in his eyes. She’d rather die in battle than be taken roughly by a man like Angus. She was willing to die a virgin rather than submit to the pain he surely would have caused her.
Kat barely listened as Martha continued to prattle. The sound of her voice was soothing and Kat was grateful she was no longer in the dungeons. Martha must’ve noticed the dark bruises on her arms, her ribs, and her shins, but she didn’t ask questions, for which Kat was also grateful.
“My name is Beitris,” Kat said.
“Beitris,” Martha said. “A bonny name indeed.”
“’Tis a hideous name.” Kat figured it wouldn’t hurt to tell Martha her true name. No one in her clan had called her Beitris for years. Since she’d been a small lass, she’d been called Kat. Her brothers were the only ones who remembered her true name, and they were both…gone. Kat’s shoulders sagged and she failed at stifling a sob.
Martha patted her shoulder. “There, there,” she said. “Dunna fear Conall. I’ve kent him since he was a wee lad. He’s not the monster they say he is. He’ll treat ye fair, of that I have no doubt.”
Kat was not reassured. Martha probably didn’t know Kat had hoped to slice Conall’s nose off in battle, or an ear at least, and failed. The sooner she escaped the castle, the better.
She’d already decided she wouldn’t return to Angus. Her brothers were gone, her mother and father long dead. There was no reason to go back to the MacDonalds, for they were a clan in chaos and had been since Angus became Lord of the Isles, taking his own father prisoner.
If she had to, she’d live off the land, a hermit, a nomad, wondering the heather-clad fields and hills, living in caves, until she was an old woman whose only friend was the cold Scottish wind that blew down from the mountains. Maybe there would be times when she’d have to find a town or a village to get supplies, and she imagined the women with linen curraichd on their heads would whisper and point as she walked by in her tattered clothing with her tangled hair and wild blue eyes.
Maybe she’d become one of those lost souls who talked to twigs and flowers and used stones to make faces on the ground. She would watch the skies alone as each day turned to shadowy dusk and shadowy dusk to black night. She’d never fit in anywhere. Her brothers had loved her truly, and had shielded her as often as they could from Angus, often paying the price with a severe beating of their own from Angus or his closest allies in the clan. Angus had sacrificed her brothers’ lives in battle with the Macleans as if they were nothing.
Kat shivered as she was helped from the tub and dried with linen towels. She tried to protest when they dressed her in hose, chemise, a kirtle, and a low-necked dark green gown, but realized the futility of doing so. Her threadbare tunic, ragged trews, and wet, stinking plaid had been removed from the room, probably to be burned.
“Mollie it ‘twas who gave ye these clothes and ghillies,” Martha said, as Kat put the ghillies on her feet. “Mollie is Conall’s sister.”
“I’d rather have my stinking plaid and trews,” Kat said. “It’s harder to wield a sword in a dress.”
Martha laughed, a boisterous sound. “Yea, well, that plaid and those trews outlived their usefulness long ago, lass! They stunk to high heaven and the tunic was so threadbare ’twas near ready to fall off ye!”
Kat felt ridiculous in a dress. She felt even more ridiculous as she was made to sit in a chair and Martha braided her hair into a single long braid down her back.
The ghillies were a trifle big on her feet. Much better than the huge brogans she’d been made to wear on the trek to Duart Castle, though. The way she was being cared for made her feel more like a guest than a prisoner, and it made her wary.
Martha brushed an errant auburn curl from her forehead. “There. Now ye look nothing like a Neep.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “I ken ye must’ve heard atrocious stories about our clan, but I ha’e no reason to be unkind to ye. If ye need anything, ye just ask auld Martha.”
Kat nodded but she wasn’t ready to trust any Maclean. Not even plump Martha with her smiles and rosy cheeks, who seemed only kind.
Chapter 7
Though it was only mid-day, the Maclean hall was alive with music and laughter.
A meal was in progress, people crowded at long benches and tables. Trenchers were filled and mugs were refilled. Truly it seemed more like a wedding feast than an ordinary meal; there were soups, fish, venison, and wild-boar ribs, sweets and fruits. Iron chandeliers with candles cast soft ribbons of light. The rushes on the stone floors were clean and fragrant. Kat sat next to Conall at the main table on the dais.
“My father has returned from Ireland,” he said.
Kat almost sa
id, “The Black Wolf?” but held her tongue.
“I have no doubt he’ll want to meet ye, the lass who fought bravely among men in a bloody battle and wished to dispatch his son to the next realm.”
Kat felt cold anxiety gnaw at her soul. What kind of a man was the Black Wolf? Were the small mercies she had been shown thus far to end quickly once he returned? The Macleans were known to exact revenge when they felt they had been wronged, and sometimes they were creative in that revenge.
The clan celebrated their battle victory and the return of Malcolm Maclean. There were contests and games, fiddlers and dancing. Mayhap she was to be the chief source of entertainment, once they decided upon a fitting punishment.
She refused to meet Conall’s eyes and stared at her trencher, concerned she might be sick. The hall, the noise, the clansmen pressed close around her and she went from cold to hot. She stood and swayed on her feet.
Conall stood and took her elbow. “Ye need fresh air, lass.”
Kat didn’t protest as he led her through the crowd, outside, to the gardens, which bore the touch of late autumn—bare tree branches and emptiness where in the spring there would no doubt be full blossoms.
They walked along the paths in silence until they reached a stone wall that overlooked the writhing sea far below. There was a recessed bench but Kat did not sit. She was thankful for the cold brace of sea air on her face and for a moment she closed her eyes. When she opened them, she found Conall watching her, his hazel eyes dark with some unnamed emotion. She couldn’t tell if it was loathing or curiosity.
“What will ye do with me?” she asked.
“I’m not sure, Beitris.”
“So Martha has told ye my name.”
“Yea. But ye do not seem like a Beitris to me.”
“’Tis a hideous name,” Kat said. “I’ve always hated it.”
Conall looked out at the ocean. “We will see how much yer clan value’s yer return,” he said, his heated gaze back on her face again.
Kat knew Angus would not care to have her back. He would not pay any sort of ransom or lift one of his brutish, thick fingers to see to her rescue. She’d always been a nuisance to him, someone to bear his taunts, his rage, and his cruelty.
“And if my own clan does not want me back?” she said. “What then, Conall Maclean? Shall I be hanged? Shall a stake be driven through my beating heart? Shall I be returned to the dungeons and forgotten, there to starve to death?”
A flicker of surprise flashed in his eyes but he quickly masked it.
Kat realized in that moment how exhausted she was. Despite the warmth of Conall’s bedroom, she had not slept well. The shackles had seen to that, and the presence of the rugged warrior himself.
“But what of yer clan members, yer kin? Surely they….”
“My parents have been dead for many summers. My brothers were both…killed in the battle. I have no one. I am nothing to the MacDonalds. And my brothers, I ken not where their bodies lie. They had no proper burial.”
She sought the bench and sank down on it. He sat next to her.
“I care not what ye do with me, Maclean. Just…please. Do not send me back to my clan. I will not go. Besides, Angus would not care a whit if ye killed me.”
“How do I ken yer not spinning lies?”
“’Tis the truth. Angus hates me.”
The clouds shifted and the sunlight reflecting off the sea was a sheen of silver. It made her think of the sword contest she’d won long ago.
“What are ye thinking about now?” Conall asked.
She wasn’t sure why, but she shared the memory with him. “I was but a wee lass of six years and barefoot. I won the sword contest and my brothers and my Uncle John were proud. But John, Lord of the Isles, forbade me ever from riding into battle. There were eight swords on the ground and I didn’t touch one of them as I made the movements. I’d practiced a lot. My cousin Ronald almost sliced his toe off. My performance was supposed to mean future victory in battle for my clan.”
She was foolish to be sharing such personal memories with her enemy. She changed the subject. “Ye have a strange way of treating yer prisoners, Highlander. Giving me a blanket from yer own bed, food and ale, and clean clothing.”
He leaned close. “I assure ye it is for purely selfish reasons. Ye smell much better now, like the scent of summer roses on the wind.”
His nearness, his warm breath on her cheek and her neck, had an odd effect on her and she looked away. “I prefer my stinking plaid to any dress.”
A smile curled his lips. “I think I will continue to call ye Little Neep. I dunna like Beitris. Somehow it does not suit a brave lass like yerself. It’s more a name for a lass who spends her time at the weaving loom or mending piles of threadbare hose.”
“Ye haven’t answered my question,” she said. “What will ye do with me?”
“I dunna ken.”
“Please, just let me go away from here.”
“If ye willna return to yer clan, where will ye go? Do ye have a…lover?”
Kat felt her face flame. “I will live in the woods and by the streams and in caves. I’ll become a lonely auld woman who talks to twigs and flowers and sees faces in stones. Or mayhap I will enter a convent.”
“A convent!” Conall laughed. “Lass, I see ye drawing yer sword the moment something is amiss and shocking the other nuns.”
“I would have no need of a sword in a convent. And I imagine it would be rather peaceful.”
“Aye, mayhap, and unbearably lonely. ‘Twould be an unchallenging existence for a lass such as ye.”
“I wouldn’t have to worry about….”
“The man who did this to ye?” He pushed up her sleeve and gently caressed her arm. The touch of his lean fingers sent a jolt of unexpected heat through her body. His hand went to her cheek and then he was leaning in, kissing her, pulling her closer, his big hand tangled in her hair. The kiss was a warm shock, far beyond her experience, thoroughly commanding and possessive, but it was not rough. When he pulled away she opened her eyes slowly.
“Tell me his name,” he breathed. “The man who did this to ye. He will never hurt ye again, lass.”
Whether or not he meant them to, his words broke the strange spell his lips had woven with their warmth and masculinity. “Is it because yer saving the pleasure of hurting me for yerself?” She looked away from him, close to tears, not sure why he’d kissed her.
“Nay. I would not hurt ye. Any man who hits a woman is a sarding beast. Nor will I let ye roam the heather-clad hills like a gypsy. That kind of lonely life is not meant for someone as spirited and brave as ye. Ye should marry, and marry a man matched to ye in spirit.”
“Marry? I’ve heard marriage can be lonelier and more torturous than wandering the countryside begging for scraps of food. Nor am I the type of woman to meekly obey a husband!”
“Marriage to the right man would not be so. My parents have been happy for many years and are even more in love than when they first met.”
“Perhaps their union is unusual. I’ve heard about Maclean unions.”
“Oh, aye? And what have ye heard?”
“That wives poison their husbands and husbands try to drown their wives when they do not produce heirs.”
“Wicked rumors to which there is no truth. Well, there was one woman, she is auld now. She gave her husband a love potion to win back his love and ended up poisoning him.”
“What happened to her?”
“She is an outcast. I’ve seen her once in a while at the village cemetery, visiting her husband’s grave. Now, no more talk of auld women who poison their husbands. Tell me his name, the man who did this.”
Absently, Kat pulled her sleeve down. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“His name. I will have it.”
She sighed. “What does it matter? ‘Twas Angus Macdonald himself. He is cruel and hateful. He fought his own father in a bloody battle in the bay and captured him and now he is laird. No doubt ye’ve hear
d about the battle. He flies into a rage at the slightest perceived insult. When he became laird, things changed. The clan is in chaos. I slept in the stables to avoid him.”
Kat heard his harsh intake of breath and searched his eyes.
“When I was a lad,” he said quietly, “I had a vision about that vera battle. I stood on a galley in the middle of the fight. Then I saw Macleans herded into a cave and when they came out, they were slaughtered. I also saw a king who wore chains around his waist.”
“They say ye have the Sight, like yer father.”
“I dunna have many visions now, as a man. I’m thankful for that.”
“Such awful things for a wee lad to dream about.” She reached up and traced the scar along his rugged jawline and he did not pull back from her touch. “Tell me how ye got this. I will have his name.”
Conall smiled and she pulled her hand away, unsure of why’d she’d touched him so.
“My first battle,” he said. “I was a second too slow. I dunna recall who gave it to me. There are some who say a man who receives a facial wound in battle is half a man.”
“No one would ever dare say that about the great Conall Maclean,” Kat said. “They say ye drink the blood of yer enemies from their hollowed out skulls. That ye have mad, queer witch blood running through yer veins. That ye can cut out a man’s heart with a mere glance.”
Conall laughed, a rich sound that filled the air around them. “And ye believe it, lass?”
“Just promise me, when ye drink from my hollowed out skull, let it be filled with a fine whisky and not with my blood.”
Conall laughed again, this time more softly, and she studied his profile. His hair was silky and as black as midnight. There were tired shadows beneath his eyes, and dark whiskers already grazed his square jaw. Truth be told, he was darkly handsome and she didn’t even think about his scar.
She felt a twinge of guilt for having called him a toad before and telling him he was hideous, but then she reminded herself he was her enemy. They had no reason to trust each other or to be kind to each other. They had more reasons to hate each other.
A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4 Page 5
