by Paula Quinn
Someone strong pinned down his wrists. He didn’t fight but saved his strength for the next time he came up. He dreamed of her again and again, listening to her crying out in the night for guidance from a man for whose death he was responsible. Watching her in the morning fog, clutching a cat to her chest and vowing to her father to avenge him. He dreamed of another man holding her and in his sleep Cailean felt the sting of anger. Finally he fully remembered her. She was Seth Menzie’s daughter. The one whose heartbreaking wail had ripped him from the dark and jarred him awake from one nightmare and cast him into another. The one who had run straight into his horse and brought a smile to his face.
What was she doing here with him, in this fiery place, so close her warm breath nearly burned him to embers? Surely this dark-haired angel had done nothing to earn a place here. No, he had to be alive. This wasn’t hell. Her presence gave him hope. He hadn’t died. But he remembered the killing he’d instigated. He remembered nodding, giving his consent for Cutty to kill, and he remembered the shadows of his dwelling for the past two years since Sage died. The fires licked his soul, a shattered place no foul-smelling ointment could heal, where he kept the ones he’d loved and lost. A place he didn’t want Patrick near.
He had to get his cousin out of here before Duncan, or whoever had tried to kill him, attempted it again.
Why hadn’t he strapped Patrick to his horse and taken him home to Camlochlin? Why had he remained and returned to Linavar for atonement?
He finally came to for the last time the next morning. If he wasn’t dead, he refused to behave as if he were.
He was in a bed, a quite soft bed at that. Pain burned his back, making him feel a bit ill. The sunlight streaming in blinded him. He longed for a cool breeze. Just a cool breeze.
Something soft and silky moved through his fingers. A feather? A quill, mayhap? His heart accelerated. He missed writing, poems, odes, anything his heart could produce. His uncle Finn was a bard of Camlochlin, his cousin Darach also. It ran in Cailean’s blood.
He opened his eyes and looked down at the huge yellow feline beneath his hand, regal and mildly interested in him. He’d seen the cat before. He knew its name.
TamLin.
“You mustn’t sit up yet,” a soft voice to his right informed him.
He turned to see Seth Menzie’s daughter rising from a seat beside the hearth, facing the bed. She hadn’t been a dream. Her singing to him had been real. Her tender voice and the sensation of her small soft fingers rubbing his—it had all been real.
He didn’t want to be here with her. He turned his face from her to hide who he’d become. The memory of her screaming and covered in her father’s blood would not let him forget.
“I know I’m no’ forgiven—”
“Forgiven for what?” she asked softly.
She didn’t know who he was, then.
They were alone, save for the cat nudging him to pet her soft head. He pushed her away, the way he had when she’d followed him into the fog.
“How do you feel?”
Her voice was soft, with a fragile edge and a note of compassion. He didn’t deserve it. She came toward the bed like something out of a dream his fevered mind had conjured up. What the hell was he doing here? With her? Why her? Perhaps he was in hell and her memory was here to haunt him forever.
He nearly cringed when she reached out to feel him for fever. He didn’t want to be here. Not with her.
“Rest easy, Highlander.” Her whisper led him to her and he turned his head to look up into her eyes. “You’re safe here.”
Her eyes were large and as blue as the heavens, as deep as a thousand oceans. “Where’s here?” he asked.
“Linavar.” She smiled and he cursed himself for looking at her in the first place. “In my father’s house.”
He resumed trying to sit up. No. It was possible that an innocent man was dead because of his desire for vengeance. But if Seth Menzie wasn’t innocent, then she knew it. She’d been in Kenmore with her father.
Cailean wanted answers. He needed them. But what would he do when he discovered the truth?
He was alarmed to find his breath so short and his pulse so quick, and even more so because she had something to do with it. Just looking at her did. It wasn’t the slight curve of her freckled nose, or the extraordinary depth in her eyes. It was instead the red puffiness of them, and the remnants of sorrow, the kind he was all too familiar with.
“Who are you?” she asked him.
He’d come here to tell her things. Things he was involved with. About her father’s death. But when he tried to think of what to say, his heart raced and his mind went blank. She’d been through much. If she realized she’d nursed a Black Rider back to health a few days after her father was murdered, it would likely end with her stabbing him, finishing what Duncan had not, and sending him forth to his scorching destination.
Coming here had been a mistake. Every second that she tended him made telling her the truth more difficult.
He didn’t want to look at her. Looking at her made it hard to lie. He instead dipped his eyes to the cat who’d returned to his side, his gaze shrouded in strands of dark hair. “I’m Cailean Grant.”
“Cailean.”
He looked at her from beneath the soot of his lashes when she didn’t say anything else. He thought it odd and a bit ruthless of her to simply speak his name on a wee whispered sigh.
“Who attacked me?” he demanded, guarding himself against the softness of her breath and the delicacy of her fingers when she held them against his face. Hell, but her mouth was bonny. He found himself wondering if a kiss from her would taste as sweet.
“I was hoping you could tell me. I found you already in poor condition. Whoever did it fled. You’re still a bit warm.”
Of course they had. Cowards who stabbed men in the back always ran after the deed was done. “Where is m’ sword?”
“You will get it back before you leave,” a man said, coming to stand in the doorway. He crossed his arms and his ankles. “We don’t know if you’re friend or foe.”
Cailean remembered seeing him running from the house with the lass the night the Black Riders had come here.
Did he know Cailean was one of them?
Did he live here? With her?
“What are you doing here in Linavar, Mr. Grant?” he asked. “Our clans are enemies. Perhaps you’re one of Murdoch’s henchmen?”
Cailean gave him a brief looking-over. The man looked fit and ready to fight, more so than Cailean did presently. He couldn’t tell them the truth, not while he was still unable to protect himself. “Duncan Murdoch is m’ enemy.” It wasn’t untrue.
“You know him, then?” the man asked suspiciously, and glanced at Menzie’s daughter.
Aye, he knew Duncan well, but he wouldn’t tell them how well. “I was a guest of Lord Murdoch—”
“Why would you be a guest of his?” Menzie’s daughter interrupted him, letting him see and hear her contempt for the Murdochs.
Why? Aye, that was a good question. He needed a better answer than the truth—that he worked for Murdoch. “I came to Glen Lyon to do some tradin’ with Murdoch—”
He stopped when she turned away, understandably hating the Murdochs and the mention of their names.
“Mr. Grant,” the man said, pulling Cailean’s attention back to him. “I’m William Deware.” He stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his chin raised slightly higher with the pride and confidence of a born leader. “Let me push aside pretense and get right to it. Do you have any intention of doing us harm? Because if you do, I promise, I will kill you first.”
One corner of Cailean’s mouth tilted upward. He liked courage in other people. He shook his head, reassuring Deware about his intentions. “Nae.” His gaze found hers and he tossed aside his good sense by basking in the fathoms of her eyes, the resolute curve of her jaw. “None whatsoever.”
He slipped his gaze back to Deware. If someone in Linavar had shot Patrick, ma
yhap that same person had tried to kill him. Mayhap his attacker wasn’t Duncan, bastard that he was. “How aboot ye? D’ye know fer certain that m’ assailant didna come from Linavar?”
“Not yet, but I’ll do my best to find out who is responsible,” Deware promised.
Cailean didn’t particularly want Deware to go snooping about, looking for answers. What if he found them?
“Why?” he asked. “I’m extremely appreciative of yer concern. But why put yerself through trouble fer me? We hardly know each other.”
“’Tis not for you.”
Cailean knew it wasn’t. Deware didn’t want to bring the Grants and MacGregors down upon him. He was glad Deware didn’t try to deny it. It made Cailean relax. It didn’t mean Cailean liked him. It simply meant Deware wasn’t afraid to tell the truth and Cailean admired it.
“And lastly, Mr. Grant—” Deware moved around the bed.
“Call me Cailean.”
“Cailean, while you were Lord Murdoch’s guest did you happen to see a lass inside the castle who appeared to be there against her will?”
Cailean thought about it and shook his head. “Nae, all the gels in the castle appear to want to be there.”
Deware looked as if Cailean had just kicked him in the guts. What was that about? What did Cailean care? He turned back to the lass, who was gracing him with a slight smile while he stroked her cat. He muttered an oath, wondering why the cat had chosen him to latch on to, and what a full-on smile from her mistress would do to him.
“Do you remember what happened to you?” she asked in her sorceress’s voice.
“Nae.” He pushed TamLin away. She came right back.
“You were stabbed,” she told him, reaching for him. He stopped breathing when she began poking and prodding him with gentle fingers. It took most of his fortitude not to let his thoughts linger on the fresh, citrusy scent of her hair while she examined him, or the pull of her breath when his muscles tensed under her ministrations.
“Neither puncture wound hit anything vital in you,” she continued, letting her smooth voice seduce his already muddled thoughts. “But whoever did it wanted to kill you, and almost succeeded.”
“If not fer the constant attention of my granddaughter, ye would indeed be dead.” A woman slightly bent from her many years of toiling entered the room last and strode directly to the side of the bed. She wore a patch over one eye, reminding Cailean of a pirate he’d once seen on the deck of his brother-in-law’s brig.
He’d seen this woman the night of the killing. He assumed she was Menzie’s mother.
This was going to be torture. He needed to recover quickly and leave. Telling them wasn’t going to help anything. Who needed atonement anyway?
“Then I owe her my life.” He turned slowly to find her again.
“Ye most certainly do.” The old woman managed to keep her tone friendly while she kept her voice stern. “Ye’ll remember yer debt in the days to come, aye?”
“Of course.” He darkened his expression, feeling slightly insulted. “A Highlander never fergets what’s been done to him, or fer him.”
“Good,” the elder said. “We’ve recently suffered a great loss and we just want peace now.”
“Aye.” He looked away and pushed his hair out of his eyes and closed them. “Ye lost yer son. I’m verra sorry fer yer loss.”
“Mr. Grant, how do you know Gram lost her son?” Deware asked.
“Miss Menzie told me the first time we met.”
“The first time?” Deware turned a puzzled look on her.
Obviously she hadn’t told him about running into Cailean’s horse. Damn! His horse. Duncan had either taken it back with him, claiming to have found it riderless, no doubt, or someone in Linavar had the beast.
“We met before he was attacked,” the lass explained, tossing Cailean a brief glance of annoyance.
“Temperance, why didn’t you tell me?”
Temperance? Cailean thought. Odd name. He said it silently in his head. Twice. What kind of people called their daughter a virtue?
“I didn’t tell you, William, because you would just worry over me.”
“With good reason!” he shouted.
Was she Deware’s wife? What did it matter to him?
“You’re constantly going off by yourself—” William continued, to which Temperance responded with less restraint than her name implied.
The elder woman must have been watching him watching her granddaughter while she argued with Deware. She leaned in closer to him on the bed and said in a low voice meant only for his ears, “She’s beguiling, aye?”
He nodded and didn’t bother trying to deny it. “Aye,” he agreed, his voice as quiet as hers, “she is that.”
And she was… oh so beguiling, wide-eyed and somber. Even when she was angry, there was nothing malicious in her gaze. When she glanced his way and caught him staring, she looked away before he did. Veiling herself beneath lush, black lashes, she drew his eyes downward, over the slight curve of her nose, which indicated a break at some point in her life. He’d like to hear the tale of it. Braw lass, he thought, then basked briefly in the fullness of her lips, the well-defined curves of her jaw and chin.
Grandma stepped around his bed and stood in front of him, blocking his view of Temperance. He blinked and looked her in the eye.
“She is betrothed to William,” the old woman informed him a bit louder, pulling the lass’s attention away from her betrothed and back to them. “We were attacked by Lord Murdoch’s men and lost our leader. Without one, without William, we will crumble beneath the weight of our liege. William is strong and she will be well protected.”
Crumble beneath the weight? What the hell had Duncan been putting them through all these years?
“Gram”—her granddaughter’s voice sounded stiff and mortified—“why are you concerning Mr. Grant with my life—or with Linavar, for that matter? He is passing through. Do not burden him with our troubles. He has enough to think on. Like who wants him dead, and why.”
Cailean suspected he knew who wanted him dead. But what if he was wrong? What if it was someone from Linavar? He couldn’t fight back in his condition if he was attacked again. He eyed Deware, who was watching him intently.
“I’ll be on m’ way tonight,” he promised Gram. He’d had enough blood and revenge. He wanted to take Patrick home.
Gram cast him a quizzical look, then what was possibly a smile. “Oh?” she asked. “Have ye found someone who’s agreed to carry ye away?”
He almost smiled back. Cailean liked Gram’s feisty spirit. He knew many like her and already felt comfortable around her. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t need to be carried. But hell, he was sure that if he flung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand on his own two feet, he would plummet to the floor.
“You’re in no condition to move,” Temperance scolded him gently, coming closer until her tresses feathered over his arm. “You’re just barely sitting up. Really, Gram, why would you discuss his leaving so soon?”
“Because,” Gram replied, “his eyes fall upon ye like a man who doesn’t give a damn who William is.”
Deware looked as if he didn’t give a damn who he was to her either. If she were Cailean’s, he wouldn’t ignore the threat of another man.
He had to admit that Gram was partially right. He couldn’t take his eyes off her granddaughter—and he tried. But every time she offered him her compassionate smile, his belly knotted with some long-forgotten, unwanted feeling. Desire. And not just a desire to touch her, kiss her, but a desire to know her, to allow himself to get closer to her in an even more intimate way. He fought it and buried it deep.
“I’m no’ a cad to try to steal a man’s woman,” he assured them all. “Yer betrothed is safe from me,” he told Deware, keeping his voice bland, his expression stoic. “I dinna want her.” He didn’t want anyone. He preferred to remain unattached and unaffected by the tragedies life brought. “In fact”—he flicked his gaz
e back to Temperance in time to see her blue eyes blazing at his harsh declaration—“I’ll be gone from here and all the rest of ye as soon as I’m able.”
“Mr. Grant?” Temperance countered stiffly, and stepped away from the bed. “I’d be happy to end yer treatment and lend you our best horse.” Her cool disregard and flashing eyes only fired his blood. “You can leave now.”
Cailean was tempted to apologize, to take everything back that had happened in the last two days.
Gone was that carefree, humming lass he’d seen in Kenmore.
The lass he’d destroyed.
Chapter Seven
Damnation, but Mr. Grant was a stubborn arse!
How many times did Temperance have to tell him not to try to leave the bed? How many times to stop swinging an invisible sword while lying down? And how many times had she come into the room and caught him doing one or the other? How were his wounds supposed to heal?
He’d explained that his constant horizontal “practicing” helped him regain his strength, but he looked more exhausted than ever.
When she’d told him so, he’d regarded her with a frosty look in his blue-gray eyes. “Someone wants me dead. I need to be able to fight.”
Her helpless stranger had turned out to be a stubborn oaf. He was a Highlander for certain. The plaid that had been draped about his hard body—and she knew from tending him just how hard he was—attested to it. There was more to it than that, though. He also clothed himself in pride and arrogance, with an extra coat of stubbornness.
He didn’t look like any trader she’d ever seen. He was long-haired and wind-tossed. The dark shadow growing denser on his face by the hour concealed his lusciously sweet dimpled chin and made him look more feral and dangerous. It was his eyes, though, the color of them, the sulky almond shape of them, and the combination of innocence and darkness in them, that captured her heart most.
