by Rowan Keats
He crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles of his forearms rippling in the firelight. “If de Lourdes is not there, the sooner we know that, the sooner we can consider other possibilities. And it’s vital that Jamie know we have come for him. That knowledge might be all that keeps him alive.”
Two excellent arguments.
“But if Daniel is there,” she countered, “he will lock down the gates and hold you off. He might even threaten Jamie’s life as a means to repel you.”
“I have no intention of simply marching up to the gate and announcing my presence.” He favored her with a steely stare. “No matter what arguments you use, I will not agree to take you with us.”
She studied his face. “If we were already wed, would you take me along?”
“Nay.”
“Fine, then,” she said with a pout. “Leave without me.”
He continued to stare at her with his fierce blue gaze. Then he sank to a crouch beside the mattress and cupped her chin.
“Take care, lass.”
Whether he intended it as a warning or as a wish for her safety, she did not know. Nor did she get the opportunity to ask. In a blink he was gone, leaving Isabail staring at the fur panel flapping in the wind.
* * *
Aiden accepted a bundle of dried meat and cheese from Beathag and packed it in the pouch slung over the rump of his horse. They would not be stopping for food, only to sleep. That meant they would eat in the saddle, and any supplies had to be easily consumed.
“Did she tell you anything about the castle defenses?” asked Niall as he strapped his bow to his back.
“Save to say it was impregnable, nay.”
Niall snorted. “Grand.”
Aiden put his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. He was taking a small party—his best twelve men. “It’s a sea-bound fortress, so unless you can swim, there’s only one way in.”
“Through the front gate.”
“Aye.”
Niall swung into the saddle. “Bonnie bloody hell. Have I mentioned how much I enjoy our little excursions, brother? Truly, without you, my life would be dull.”
Aiden snorted and turned his mount toward the path. “‘Twasn’t I who insisted you break into Duthes Castle, enrage a mad friar, and rescue a maiden from a burning pyre. I think you find enough trouble without my help, bratling.”
He urged his massive bay warhorse into a canter and led the way down the hill and out of the glen. The one advantage to leaving in the middle of the night—they were unlikely to meet up with one of MacPherson’s patrols.
* * *
“Ha!” crowed Isabail as she reached the door. “I told you I was feeling stronger. You truly are a miracle worker, Ana.”
The redhead rolled to her side of the mattress and pulled the blankets up around her ears. “You should be sleeping,” she grumbled. “Not wearing a groove in the floor.”
“We cannot stay here and allow needless deaths to occur. I would have thought a healer would be more concerned about the loss of life and limb.”
“You are a madwoman,” tossed Ana from beneath the covers. “We are but two lasses. We cannot cross the length of Scotia on our own. No matter how great the benefit.”
“Why not?” demanded Isabail, walking slowly but successfully over to the bed. “I can wield a bow, and I’ve seen you fillet a fish with that knife. We are not so helpless as men would have us believe.”
“I will not do it,” Ana said, sitting up. “I’ve been alone on the road, and I assure you it wasn’t pleasant. There are dangers you cannot imagine. Don’t be a fool, Isabail. Give up this ridiculous notion.”
Isabail plopped down on the stool. “I cannot.”
The healer sighed. “Why not?”
“It is my fault that the crown was stolen. And my fault that Daniel took Jamie hostage. If I had but held my tongue instead of sharing all that I did with the traitorous cur, he would still be lying in the hut under guard, and the crown would be safe.”
“Nay.” Ana braided her hair and tied a leather thong around the end. “Daniel came here with the intent to steal the necklace. One way or another, he would have found a way—or died trying. You are not to blame for his scurrilous acts.”
“Even his presence here was my fault,” Isabail said with a shake of her head. “He followed me.”
“Nonsense.” Ana tugged a gown over her shift. “He followed MacCurran.”
Everything Ana said rang true, but her words did not ease the dread in Isabail’s belly. She knew she held the key to breaching the walls of Tayteath, and if she did nothing to help, good men would die. Jamie might die.
Isabail surged to her feet. “If you will not come with me, then I must go alone.”
Ana grabbed her arm. “Nay, Isabail. If you insist on going, let us try to convince some of the Black Warriors to come with us.”
A notion Isabail had already considered and dismissed. “I’m a prisoner, remember? He has surely instructed them to keep me here, and they will never disobey their laird. Believe me, I attempted to sway their loyalty once before—to no avail. Nay. I must go alone and I must go now.”
A resigned look crept over Ana’s face. “I cannot let you go alone. I will come with you.”
Relieved beyond measure, Isabail clasped Ana’s hand. “Thank you. You will not regret this.”
Ana snorted. “I already regret this.”
Isabail smiled and helped the healer pack her satchel. She lifted a few earthenware jugs and studied them. “Can any of these put a guard to sleep?”
* * *
After the guards at the entrance consumed their ale and drifted off to sleep, Isabail led the horses quietly to the entrance and joined Ana. To lessen the noise as they descended the rocky slope, she had wrapped linen strips around their hooves. The strips would soon come loose, but so long as they made it to the forest without alerting the other guards, she would be happy.
Isabail was about to drag herself into the saddle when Gorm appeared at her side. The huge gray dog nuzzled her skirts and then woofed softly.
“Hush,” she said in a sharp whisper. She glanced around to see if the noise had attracted any attention, but nothing moved in the darkness. “Go back,” she ordered the dog, pointing up the rocky slope.
Gorm just stared at her and gave a slow wag of his tail.
“Why not bring him with us?” Ana asked.
“He’s still weak from his injuries.”
“If he’s half as stubborn as you, that won’t slow him down,” the healer said dryly.
“I feel fine.”
“Of course you do. And even if you didn’t, you would never admit it. Bring the dog.”
Isabail shrugged. “I suppose he might provide a bit of extra protection. He can be quite alarming when he growls.” She mounted, feeling the strain in her gut but refusing to acknowledge it. “Let’s be off.”
* * *
Magnus awoke with a start, rolling from his pallet and instinctively grabbing for the sword lying next to him on the floor. But there was no sword. Because he was no longer a warrior. He stood, silent and still, wondering what had roused him.
Morag slept on the other side of the bed, her dreams as yet undisturbed.
Then he heard it, the soft jingle of horses’ bridles coming from the yard outside the bothy. Morag did not own a horse, so the sound sent a tingle of awareness down his spine.
He reached down and gently prodded Morag.
“Someone is outside,” he whispered.
She sat up abruptly, her eyes wide.
Magnus snatched up a dirk from the tabletop. There were no windows in the bothy, so he slipped to the door and, ever so carefully, cracked it open. His view was limited. All he could see was a riderless horse standing in the yard. Dawn was still an hour away, and the darkness wa
s deep and heavy.
Morag pushed him out of the way and opened the door wide. “Who goes there?” she demanded.
A blond woman stepped around the flank of the horse. Slight of body and holding a hand to her side, she did not pose much of a threat. “Our sincere pardons, mistress. We did not mean to wake you. We simply hoped to partake of your water and then be on our way.”
“We? Who do you travel with?” Morag asked, looking about.
A second horse walked forward from the shadowed trees. Another woman, judging by the slender shape in the saddle. Two women traveling alone in the dark. If ever there was a call for trouble, this was it. Magnus shook his head.
“Why do you hold your side?” Morag demanded in her usual forthright manner. “Are you injured?”
The blond woman dropped her hand and stood a little straighter. “Just a wee bit sore. May we fill our oilskins in your rain barrel?”
“Just tell me who you are and what you are doing in these woods at this hour of the night,” Morag said crisply. Although she wore only her shift and a woolen shawl, she stood tall and spoke with firm authority.
Magnus had a crazy desire to kiss her.
The two women exchanged a flurry of whispers, some of them harsh, and then the blond woman faced Morag.
“I am Isabail Macintosh, and this is my companion, Ana Bisset. We are on our way to Tayteath on the coast. A mission of some urgency, I might add, involving the rescue of a young lad.”
Whatever Morag had expected them to say, it wasn’t that. For the first time since he woke to her face, he saw her speechless. Magnus left the shadows and stepped around Morag and into the moonlight. “Are you from the castle?”
Isabail retreated a step. “Nay.”
Her lack of explanation spoke volumes. Not aligned with the MacPhersons, it would seem. “Who is the lad of whom you speak, and why does he need rescuing?”
His question opened the floodgates. Isabail launched into a breathless tale of theft and murder and betrayal that lacked detail but not passion. On at least two occasions, she paused to wipe tears from her eyes and then doggedly returned to her story.
“So,” he said when she finally fell silent, “some scurrilous rat has stolen a necklace, kidnapped a boy, and made off to Tayteath. You, believing yourself vital to this rat’s surrender, have disobeyed your laird’s orders and set off on your own to bring him to justice. Is that a fair assessment?”
She nodded.
Magnus wanted to laugh, but the lass looked so serious and woebegone he dared not. “In my opinion,” he said gently, “it’s best to leave such matters to your menfolk. Go home and await their return.”
“Nay,” Isabail said. “I cannot. May we partake of your water? We must continue on our way with all due haste.”
Morag waved at the barrel. “By all means. I can also supply you with some dried hare and bannocks, if you’ve a need.”
Isabail smiled gratefully. “That’s most kind.”
Magnus pulled Morag aside. “You should not encourage them. This venture is sheer madness. Two women alone cannot survive the trek to the coast. Brigands and thieves abound. They will surely meet a most unwelcome fate.”
“They do not need to travel alone.”
He stared at her. “What are you suggesting?”
“That you go with them.”
To say he was surprised did not do his shock justice. Morag had repeatedly discouraged him from leaving her and the bothy. She had met his every plan with a strongly worded warning of how he would end up in the gallows. “Do you not fear what will become of me if I leave your side?”
She shrugged. “These women are not from the castle. They hold no grudge against you; nor does it seem that they have any reason to believe that you are more than a simple woodsman. Accompanying them seems like a rather safe way to test your memories.”
“What memories can I test with strangers?”
Morag crooked a finger. “Come with me.”
He followed her to the back of the hut, where she kept sheaves of dried grass for the goats. Curious, he watched her dig through the grass. When she found what she was searching for, she paused and then hauled out a four-foot-long bundle wrapped in burlap. Judging by her grunt, the item was heavy.
“Take it,” she said softly. “It’s yours.”
He relieved her of her load, recognizing the weight the instant he accepted it. “A sword.”
She nodded. “The men who left you for dead were in a terrible hurry. They did not stop to loot your body. The sword was still in your hand when I found you.”
Magnus unwrapped the weapon and admired the craftsmanship of the blade. The steel was very hard—most likely from Toledo—and the blade was honed to a razor-sharp edge. But it was the bronze hilt wrapped with tan leather that truly made the sword. Intricately patterned with hundreds of tiny Celtic knots, it snared the moonlight so well that it appeared to glow.
“It’s a bit too pretty for a man like you,” Morag said, “but I suspect that your ability to wield it makes up for it.”
“How do you know it belongs to me?” he asked. “Perhaps I stole it.”
She snorted. “I’ve seen you practicing with the wooden blade you carved. Your body flows into each position like it was made to dance with a sword. You are a warrior; of that I have no doubt.”
“You are risking two ladies’ lives on an unfounded belief. Are you sure that’s wise?”
Her eyes met his, her expression suddenly serious. “I’ve never told you this, but I saw the soldiers attack you that night. Eight of them, all wearing mail and helms, while you were attired only in a tunic. God has graced you with a true talent, Magnus. You struck half of them down before you were defeated.”
Magnus resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. Praise did not sit easily upon his shoulders, and inwardly he scoffed at her description. And yet, as he grasped the hilt firmly in his palm, all sense of discomfort vanished. He raised the weapon high, and his muscles rose smoothly to the challenge, lifting the blade like it was simply an extension of his arm. He might not recognize the sword, but it seemed to know him.
But accepting the sword and accepting the mission to escort Isabail and her companion to Tayteath were not the same thing.
“This adventure might test my sword arm, but it will not test my memory,” he said. “I do not see how going to Tayteath will give me what I need.”
Morag’s face was a mask of blandness.
As he stared at her, the truth sank in—she did not want him to recover his memory. Not if it meant that he would leave her side. With this mission to rescue a young lad, she was hoping to tame the restlessness in his soul. To calm him enough to stay.
He should be angry, but he wasn’t.
If he were honest, he’d admit that he could have left many times over the last month. His memories were stubbornly eluding him, but his health had improved every day. He was held here by his fondness for Morag, not by anything else. But just as she made no direct plea for him to remain at her side, he was not ready to openly acknowledge his affections for her. They shared a bed each night, but had never shared a kiss.
He needed to be certain of who he was before he could stake a claim on Morag. And he might need to sort that out without the benefit of his memories. If his knowledge of the past never returned, he would have to carve out a new identity. One of his own making.
“I will go,” he said finally.
She nodded.
“But,” he said, laying the sword upon the woodpile. “I would have a boon from you before I leave.”
“What boon?”
He cupped her face in his hands and tugged her close enough that he could count the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes widened, but she did not pull away. Drawing in a breath, inhaling the same sweet fragrance that he fell asleep to each night, he
lowered his lips to hers.
Kissing her was the culmination of many dreams. He had resisted the lure of her earthy, carefree loveliness for so long that the connection of their lips was like lighting a bonfire in his chest. A surge of heat and passion overwhelmed him, burning a fiery path from his lips to his groin. His hands tightened their hold on her, and he deepened the kiss.
She tasted so much sweeter than he had imagined. The urge to scoop her up and carry her into the bothy was fierce. Making mad, passionate love to her became a need he could barely resist. But resist he did. A kiss would have to do for now.
He slowly, reluctantly, withdrew.
Morag stared back at him with flushed cheeks and a smoky look in her green eyes.
“Do not do anything foolish while I am gone,” he said.
She settled back on her heels, smiling faintly. “What would constitute foolish?”
He gathered the sword and strapped the leather baldric to his chest. “Trading your cloth at the castle, taunting the soldiers when they ride past on patrol, taking a bath in the loch, climbing the tall oak in the—”
She threw up her hands. “Och. You mean I’m to have no fun at all.”
“I mean that I want you to be here, safe and sound, when I return,” he countered firmly. He caught her chin, pressed another quick kiss to her lips, and then let her go. “And I will return. I promise.”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment.
And then he left.
* * *
In the dark hour before dawn, even under a bright winter moon, it was easy to imagine the entire world was asleep. Aiden peered into the obscurity of the forest around their fire and listened to the snores of his men. They had pushed long and hard before stopping for the night. He would wake them as soon as the horizon began to glow with a new day.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move, and he turned his head to look closer. A vague shape, low to the ground, gained detail as he stared. A head, a large body, and a tail. He stood straighter.
A large white wolf.
And where there was one wolf, there were generally others. He drew his sword. Making himself as large as possible, he advanced toward the wolf. Most wolves preyed upon the weak and the helpless. In the face of strength and purpose, they usually turned tail and ran. Not this one. The fur on its neck stood on end and a vicious snarl escaped its maw.
