by Rowan Keats
She closed her eyes.
She’d fallen asleep once before in his arms. She could surely do it again.
* * *
Aiden awoke.
He stared at the thatching, wondering what had stirred him from his sleep. But the hut and the rest of the ruined broch were silent—only the faint crackle of coals in the brazier broke the midnight calm. The soft scent of Isabail Grant filled his nose, and he tightened his arms, drawing her closer. As he did so, her feet came in contact with his shins, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
Ye gods.
Her feet were like icicles. She was curled up in his arms like a wee pine martin in its nest, but without a blanket, she couldn’t stay warm. He was a fool. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Gently easing away from her, he sat up and snatched several blankets from the end of the bed. He tucked them around her, making certain every inch of flesh was covered. Then, cradling her weight, he lay back on the mattress.
He’d fully intended to enact his plan to seduce her tonight. Bribe her with food, heat her blood with kisses, and then coax the names from her lips. But he hadn’t expected her to look so goddamned beautiful with her hair unbound. Or to enjoy his fingers threading through her silvery tresses. The way she’d closed her eyes and given up a soft sigh had nearly unmanned him. Truly, she’d had him as tongue-tied as a wee lad.
And then she had refused the food.
Stubborn vixen.
He rolled to his side, hugging Isabail close and doing his best to warm her chilled extremities. She made a soft mewl of contentment and snuggled deeper into his arms. Somehow, he’d earned a small measure of her trust, and he was loath to toss away that precious gift. If he followed through with his intent to seduce her and then betrayed her trust, there would be no going back. Her hatred would be well earned.
But how else was he to get the names?
He sighed.
Tomorrow would tell.
* * *
When Isabel awoke, she found herself swathed in furs and blankets, completely alone on the mattress. The MacCurran had departed, though she had no idea when. She peered under the covers. The delicate material of her chemise was intact, and her body felt well rested, not abused. Perhaps her faith in him was not so careless after all.
Midstretch, she had a sudden thought.
Was she free to leave? She sat up and stared at the door. It was shut; did that suggest that she was imprisoned? Scrambling to her feet, she wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. There was only one way to find out.
Her feet made short work of the cold floor to the door. Hand on the iron latch, she pulled the door open. No one called halt. She peered out. Seeing nary a soul in sight, she lifted the hem of her shift and dashed across the close to the hut she’d originally been given.
Muirne greeted her with wide-eyed relief. “Oh, my lady, I feared for you the whole night.”
“I am fine,” Isabail assured her. “Is my gown dry?”
The maid nodded. “And I was able to retrieve one of your shifts. Offered up my recipe for honey bannocks in trade. Replace the one you’ve got on, and you’ll be fresh from tip to toe.” Muirne’s face fell. “Would that I could’ve protected you from that cur.”
“Fear not. I slept. That is all.”
Her maid arched a brow. “He did not force himself upon you?”
Isabail yanked her shift over her head, the chill of the morning air encouraging speed. “Nay.”
“Did ya give willingly, then?”
“I slept,” Isabail repeated. The look of skepticism on Muirne’s face almost coaxed a smile to Isabail’s lips. “Come,” she said. “Let us see what the cook is preparing to break the fast.”
“Nothing appetizing, I’ll wager.”
“He’s not a master of spices,” Isabail agreed, shoving her feet into her leather boots. “I miss the sumptuous fares of our dear cook at Lochurkie. No one has as deft a hand as he.”
They ducked under the furs hanging over the door and stepped into a brisk winter breeze. Raised voices drew them toward the central fire, where a group of warriors had gathered. Some poor soul had been dragged before the MacCurran, and the faces of the men were angry.
“Did he give his name?”
One of the warriors, a handsome lad garbed in various shades of green and carrying a beautifully carved ash-wood bow, shook his head. “Not before he swooned.”
“Fetch Niall’s healer,” MacCurran said, staring down at the body. “Fool must have stumbled upon a badger sett.”
Isabail caught a glimpse of the bloodied clothing amid the men’s legs. None of the MacCurran men were tending to the fellow; they were simply letting him bleed all over the ground. Highland brutes. She elbowed her way between them. “If he’s bleeding, his wounds need immediate attention. Step aside.”
The men parted, letting her through.
Isabail avoided the MacCurran’s gaze as she gained the center of the group. What do you say to a man with whom you had shared a bed but no wedding vows? The flaxen-haired man on the ground was a more suitable target for her attentions—his back, arm, and hip were shredded by something with vicious teeth. Isabail crouched and rolled the poor fellow over.
A gasp escaped her lips. “Daniel!”
His eyes flickered open, his expression dazed. “Lady Isabail?”
“Dear Lord, Daniel. What befell you?”
A large hand grasped her arm and hauled her upright. “You know this man?”
Isabail faced MacCurran, a flush rising in her cheeks. A vision of lying next to him clad only in her shift wreaked havoc with her thoughts. “Aye. Daniel de Lourdes. He was my brother’s most valued personal attendant.”
MacCurran frowned heavily. “So he was traveling with you to Edinburgh?”
“Make way, please,” said a female voice.
Isabail was jostled as the men around her moved aside. She barely noticed. Her gaze was held by the MacCurran’s. His eyes were a brilliant blue—a shade not unlike a robin’s egg—and she wondered why she hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s have a look at you, then,” the female voice added.
“Nay!” Daniel protested weakly. “Do not touch me.”
Isabail broke off her connection with the MacCurran and glanced down. A woman with dark red hair was leaning over Daniel—red hair that Isabail immediately recognized. Reacting instinctively, she shoved the woman aside. “Get away from him, murderess!”
The woman landed on her rump on the ground, her long braid whipping into the air and her satchel spilling its contents.
Isabail kicked the pots and herbs, scattering them. “You’ll not touch him with your evil witchery!”
MacCurran’s hand clamped down on her arm again. “Enough.”
She whirled on him. “This woman killed my brother. Fed him poison and watched him die before her eyes. If you are as innocent as you claim, how is it she is welcome in your camp?”
Nausea rolled in Isabail’s belly, and her hand went to her stomach. She’d actually begun to believe MacCurran’s protestations of innocence. Had actually begun to consider the existence of his man in a black cloak. But he was harboring the woman who had been tried and found guilty of John’s murder. A woman found in possession of numerous poisons.
“The bailie declared her guilty,” she cried hoarsely. “She was sentenced to death by pit and would be dead now if you hadn’t freed her.”
“I did not poison John Grant,” Ana Bisset said quietly.
Isabail spun around. “Liar. You were the only one to give him food or drink that night. You gave him a tisane to rid him of head pain.”
“Willow bark tea does not kill a man,” Ana said.
“Unless it is laced with dwale.”
The healer’s face twisted. “I am sworn to heal. There was no poison in the tea.”
“And yet by the next mor
ning, he was bedridden and delirious,” Isabail accused. She had trusted this woman. Allowed her into their home, accepted her balms and unguents with innocent faith. Only to be proven a poor judge of character. “What justice is there in the world when my brother—as good a man as ever there was—lies cold in a grave while you—his murderess—walks freely about?”
Ana Bisset said nothing.
Isabail turned back to MacCurran, her heart a leaden lump in her chest. “I will see to Daniel’s care myself. Please arrange to have him moved to my hut and provide me with water and bandages.” A shudder ran through her. “I want fresh strips of linen. Nothing touched by this witch.”
MacCurran’s expression was unreadable. He returned her stare for a long moment—long enough to remind her that she had no authority in his domain. Then he nodded to Beathag. “Fetch her what she needs.” To his warriors, he simply waved a hand toward her roundhouse.
As Isabail made to follow the men carrying Daniel, MacCurran stepped into her path. “Do what you must. I’ll be along presently to question him.”
“He needs rest, not questions.”
MacCurran’s expression hardened. “The man succeeded in finding his way to my camp. If you think I intend to let that matter drop, you are mistaken.”
Isabail glared at him, but did not argue further. Her time was better spent healing Daniel. She had been gulled by MacCurran once, but she would not be so foolish again. As soon as Daniel was well enough to talk, she would learn how he’d made his way here . . . and then she’d do everything in her power to leave.
Chapter 7
Aiden stared at Ana Bisset.
“I did not kill him,” she repeated quietly.
“Is it true he had no food or drink other than the tisane you provided?”
She frowned. “So said the kitchen gillies.”
“Then how was he poisoned, if not by you?” Aiden asked, his doubt weighing heavily on his words. All he knew of the redheaded healer he had learned from Niall. Perhaps his brother’s infatuation had misguided him
“If I knew that, I might have been able to raise a reasonable defense,” she said. She stooped to gather her scattered pots, replacing them in her leather satchel. “I was only called to tend him the next morning, after he took to his bed. What occurred between the hour I gave him the tisane and the moment I arrived at his bedside, I cannot attest to.”
Aiden frowned. “Is it possible you poisoned him in error? Mixed the wrong ingredients for his tea?”
“Nay,” she said. “Willow bark tea is a simple tisane. And its odor is very unique.”
His gaze pinned hers. “Then I must insist that any further healing you do within the camp, and all medicinal preparations you make, be done under the eye of Master Tam. He’s not the herbalist you are, but he knows a great deal about plants nonetheless.”
Ana straightened, her shoulders stiff with pride. “As you wish.” Then she slung her satchel over her shoulders and pressed her way through the crowd.
Aiden watched her go, less than thrilled at how the morning had progressed. “Back to your posts,” he barked at his men. He hadn’t even broken the fast yet, and half the camp was already in a furious uproar. He grabbed a piece of bread from a basket near the hearth.
Lord. The bleakness on Isabail’s face when she spied Ana bending over de Lourdes had cut him deep. She had looked so utterly betrayed. And he could easily understand why. It was a simple leap of thought to tie Ana Bisset and her brother’s murder back to him. But damn it, he’d had nothing to do with John Grant’s death.
He’d best be prepared. It would take every ounce of charm he possessed to make up the ground he’d lost. If it were even possible.
* * *
Daniel’s wounds were worse than Isabail originally thought. She carefully cut away his lèine, pulling bits of cloth from his torn flesh. She cleaned each gash with water, removing all of the blood and dirt that she could. The wounds on his back and shoulder were the shallowest and the most difficult to dress, so she did those first. She tied the last of the bandages about his chest and sat back.
“Good thing the badgers were still half-asleep,” she told him.
He smiled at her—a weak attempt at the same charming smile he had frequently bestowed upon her brother. “I’m not much of a woodsman, I fear.”
“Then it must be quite the tale,” MacCurran said from the doorway, “how you came to find us.”
Daniel’s smile fell away. He glanced at MacCurran and then back at Isabail. “I cannot take any credit for my success. It was Gorm who led me here.”
“Gorm?” Isabail instinctively glanced at the door. Then wished she hadn’t—MacCurran’s eyes met hers. She looked away. “Where is he now? I did not see him in the close.”
“He fell, my lady,” Daniel said, his eyes dark. “Defending me from the badgers.”
MacCurran strode to the mattress. “Who is this Gorm?”
“My brother’s deerhound,” Isabail explained, her heart heavy. Gorm’s unwavering affection and sweet disposition had given her great solace after her brother’s death. During the two months she was in deep mourning, his was often the only face she saw. “A great, loyal beast.”
“So the hound led you to us?” MacCurran asked Daniel.
“Aye.” The manservant grimaced. “He and I were part of Lady Isabail’s caravan. I sent him off in search of a rabbit when you attacked, fearing he would fall victim to a blade. But afterward, he tracked you through the mountains, even through the snow. He had a good nose.”
“Not for badgers, it would seem.”
Daniel winced. “‘Twas I who stirred the badgers. I lost my footing and fell into a hole. Right onto the sleeping creatures, as it turns out. I’m certain I’d not have survived had Gorm not come to my rescue.”
Tears welled up in Isabail’s eyes. How silly was that? Crying over a dog, but not over the wounds done to Daniel. “He was a fine hound.”
MacCurran studied Daniel for a long moment, then spun on his heel and left without another word.
“Has he harmed you, Isabail?” Daniel asked worriedly.
She shook her head. “We’ve been treated quite fairly.”
“What was his purpose in taking you?”
Isabail no longer believed MacCurran’s story about the man in black. In truth, she did not know what to think. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.
“We must find a way to get free,” Daniel said, sitting up. “Every moment you remain here, the risk that he will harm you increases.”
“Lie still.” Isabail pushed him gently back on the mattress. “Let us see you healed and then we can make plans to leave.” She gave him a curious look. “Where were you when they found you?”
“We’d been following a burn. Gorm and I had just left a section of marshland, where the reeds are dried crisp by the winter chill but still standing tall, when we stumbled upon the badger sett.”
“There’s a burn not far from here. Think you we could escape that same way?”
Daniel nodded. “If we can leave the camp undetected.”
Isabail sighed. That was the difficult part. She couldn’t visit the garderobe without someone in her shadow. And that someone was likely to be the MacCurran.
To make a run for it, they’d need a diversion of some sort.
* * *
“Ana is very upset,” Niall said, as they wended through the trees.
Aiden peered into the shadows left and right, but spotted no sign of a disturbed badger sett. “The tale of John Grant’s murder, as told by his sister, is quite damning.”
“As is the tale of John Grant finding the king’s necklace hidden in your chamber.”
Aiden tossed his brother a dagger of a glare. “You know the truth about that.”
“Do I?”
Aiden stopped short. “Do you do
ubt my veracity?”
“Nay,” Niall said firmly. “Because I trust my gut, and my gut says you’d never participate in such a miserable crime.”
It was easy enough to follow Niall’s argument. “And your gut tells you Ana is innocent, as well.”
“Aye.”
Aiden grunted and continued through the woods. “I’m the chief. I’ve not the luxury of following my gut. I must protect the clan.” He ducked under an arching elderberry branch. “If your Ana is the woman you believe her to be, in time she’ll earn the right to perform her craft without a watchful eye.”
His brother did not look particularly happy about Aiden’s judgment, but he accepted it with a sharp nod. They made their way between the trees in silence for a while, their attention on the sights and sounds of the woodland. A black grouse crossed their path some thirty paces ahead, pecking at the ground, and Aiden paused rather than frighten it into flight. Always better to pass unnoticed.
Only moments after they resumed their trek, the distinctive scent of blood drifted to them downwind. Niall pointed left and Aiden nodded, allowing his brother to take the lead. They circled a hazelnut thicket and traversed a small dip in the land. On the far side, where the earth mounded higher, the snow was pink. A large, scruffy gray shape lay under a low-hanging pine bough.
To the left, thrashed snow and broken bits of twig pointed to the entrance to the badger den.
It would seem de Lourdes’s story was true.
They gave the sleeping badgers a wide berth and carefully made their way to the body of the deerhound. A hero deserved a place in the ground, rather than to provide a meal for scavengers. Aiden lifted the fir branch to look at the dog. It lay on its side, its long graceful legs extended. The animal’s rough coat was matted with blood in several spots, thicker about the poor creature’s neck. Badgers were one of the most vicious opponents in the woodland.
“It yet lives,” Niall said, pointing to the dog’s chest. Slow, shallow breaths lifted and lowered in a barely perceptible pattern.
Badly injured as it was, the kind thing to do would be to bring a swift end to its labors. Aiden reluctantly drew his dirk.
