The Highlander's Stronghold (Searching for a Highlander Book 1)

by Bess McBride

  The men picked John’s unconscious body up, and the women grabbed their children and dispersed toward their homes. Other men, those not manning the perimeter wall or the gate, busily gathered buckets of water from the pond to extinguish the flames on the turf roofs. The sturdy stone houses remained intact, if slightly charred. I assumed the night would be long as the clan attempted to put their village back to rights.

  “What about Mary and her children?” I asked to the group in general as I followed them to the keep.

  “There is naethin we can do about it this night,” Torq growled over his shoulder. He seemed to have assumed some position of authority in John’s incapacitation, and his tone suggested the subject of Mary and her children disturbed him.

  “When the laird is mended, he will decide what to do,” he continued. “We will no allow the Macleods to keep Mary and the bairns.”

  “Torq speaks the truth, Mistress Borodell. John will find a way to get his sister and the bairns back,” Mistress Glick added.

  We reached the keep, and the men maneuvered John into the small room, depositing him on the bed. One of the men lit the lantern on the table and set his torch into a sconce high on the wall, filling the room with light.

  Mistress Glick eyed me. “Ye will need to leave, lass. I must disrobe the laird.”

  “I’m not leaving,” I said with a shake of my head. “I’ve seen men undressed before.”

  I ignored the grunts from the men behind me. I had hoped to avoid shock by refraining from the use of the word “naked,” but I heard the surprise in Mistress Glick’s hushed voice.

  “Lass! Ye must no say such things. Still, I would welcome a steady hand, and the lad will be comforted by yer presence.” She turned to the men, speaking louder.

  “Gie away with ye. The womenfolk need ye. Andrew, go to my croft. The Macleods did no have time to damage it afore they ran away. I have a length of linen set by in my cupboard and a small brown jar of lard. Fetch those and fetch some water from the well.”

  Torq and the other two men left, and Andrew flew from the room on his mission.

  With the torch reflecting off the stone walls, I now saw a deep gash on the right side of John’s skull, and I drew in a sharp breath. Blood had already started to clot around it, matting his beautiful golden hair. Even though the wound looked awful, the clotting meant bleeding had slowed or stopped. I worried about concussion though, or worse.

  Mistress Glick tore away at John’s shirt, revealing a deep laceration across the left side of his back, extending up toward his neck. I bit my lip, thankful that he remained unconscious, yet simultaneously worried about the same thing.

  “Oh, John,” I whispered, cradling his hand. “What can I do to help?” I asked Mistress Glick.

  “Ye are doing what the lad would want. Comforting him. When Andrew returns, ye can help me tend to his wounds.”

  I started to bring John’s bloodied and muddied hand to my lips, but a glance toward Mistress Glick made me pause. I’d known John for so little time. Wouldn’t she think it odd if I were to show a stranger such affection? Did it matter what she thought? I kissed John’s hand and lowered it to the bed, tightening my grip and checking his pulse once again. Still strong and steady. Tough guy!

  While Mistress Glick poked around at John’s wounds with her bare—and unwashed—hands, I tried to look away from the sight of probable future infection, and I studied John with his matted hair, muddy face and bloodied skin. Now shirtless, John’s muscular chest showed a myriad of tiny golden hairs. I almost smiled. I did like men with chest hair.

  Andrew returned with a pail of water, linen and a small lidded pottery jar, which he set at Mistress Glick’s feet.

  “Thank ye, lad. Here, help me turn the laird onto his side.”

  Together, the three of us wrestled a very large and heavy John onto his right side.

  I drew in a sharp breath. There, at his back, still looped around his belt, was the dagger. Without thinking, I almost grabbed it, when Mistress Glick reached for it, pulling it from the sheath. She handed it to Andrew.

  “Hold this to the torch, lad.”

  “What?” I squeaked. “Why?” My eyes locked onto the dirk and followed Andrew as he pulled the torch from the wall and thrust the knife into the flames.

  No! No need to worry. Steel did not melt.

  “To tend to his wounds, lass. Do ye ken naethin of medicine?”

  “No, not really,” I mumbled, hardly hearing her words, and praying that steel really didn’t melt. It was almost as if Andrew burnt my one-way ticket home.

  “Here, hold the lad while I brace his back so that he does no roll over.”

  I bent over John to steady him on his side while Mistress Glick stuffed the pillow behind his back. She then picked up a few scraps of linen from the stack, moistened them in the bucket and gently swabbed at the wound.

  I continued to wonder what Andrew was doing and how Mistress Glick planned to stitch John’s lacerations. She hadn’t asked for needle and thread.

  “There! Now we can see what we’re about. Andrew, bring the dagger here. I will need both of ye to hold him. Keep his arms pinned to his sides. The laird is no awake now, but he may verra well awaken in the next few moments, and he will no be happy.”

  I eyed Andrew wildly as he brought the dagger to Mistress Glick.

  She was going to cauterize John’s wounds with the dagger!

  “Hold him steady now,” she said as she pulled both sides of the laceration on John’s back together with one hand. She pressed the flat side of the steel down onto the wound, and the smell of searing flesh made me gag.

  John screamed, almost throwing me off him, but I hung on, keeping his arms pinned as I lay on top of him. Andrew kept his shoulders steady.

  John’s eyes flew open, and he stared at me wildly. He calmed instantly and gritted his teeth as Mistress Glick continued pressing the hot dagger to his flesh.

  “There ye are, lass,” he mumbled.

  “Here we are,” I said with a small smile. I didn’t want to tell him about Mary.

  His eyes closed, and he fainted.

  “Good. He does no need to be awake for this. Here, Andrew, return the dagger to the flame. I must tend to his head wound as well.”

  I eyed the cauterized wound on John’s back. If anything, it looked much, much worse than it had—red, angry and rapidly blistering, but the bleeding had stopped.

  Mistress Glick reached into her jar and applied what she had called lard to the wound. She then covered the wound with several squares of the linen and, with my assistance, wrapped several lengths of material around John’s torso to keep the bandage in place.

  “The dagger, lad,” she said, looking up at Andrew.

  Again, the smell of searing flesh jarred me, combined now with the burning of John’s beautiful hair. This time, John did not awaken fully but only moaned. I worried even more about a concussion.

  “I’m surprised that didn’t awaken him,” I murmured. “What if he has a concussion?”

  “A concussion?” Mistress Glick asked. “What is that?” She set the dagger down, and I eyed it.

  “A brain injury when the brain hits the skull. It can be quite dangerous.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mistress Glick shoot me a curious glance while she applied lard to his head wound.

  “How would we ken if he has this injury?”

  To my dismay, Andrew bent to pick the dagger up, letting it dangle from his hand while he watched.

  “We will have to wait and see,” I said in a bemused tone. “He might be nauseous, forgetful, unsteady on his feet. Hopefully, he will sleep for a while though. I can’t imagine being in this much pain.”

  “Och, this is naethin,” Mistress Glick said. “He has all his limbs. He was no run through. His heart was no pierced. Men lie dead out there. This is naethin. Do ye see this scar? I tended to that wound only last year, the result of another encounter with the Macleods.”

  I looked
down to where she pulled John’s long hair back from the side of his neck. Indeed, he had a thick dark-red scar running from his right shoulder across toward the front of his neck, as if someone had almost cleaved off his arm...or his head.

  “He will heal from these wounds.”

  The dagger still dangled from Andrew’s hands.

  “Can I see that?” I asked.

  Andrew looked down at the dirk in surprise and proffered it to me.

  “Nay!” John’s husky voice startled me. “Dinna give her the dagger, lad. No yet!”

  John’s eyelids opened and closed as he struggled for consciousness.

  Andrew snatched the dagger back, tucking it into his belt.

  John lost his battle and fell asleep again.

  “I am sorry, mistress. I can no disobey the laird.”

  Mistress Glick finished wrapping a bandage around John’s head and looked up.

  “Does the laird no trust ye with a knife, lass?” she said with a lift of her lips. “Did ye threaten to kill him? I did wonder that he called ye a guest.” Her smile faded, and she straightened to regard me with a sober expression. “Ye have the look of a trapped animal. Are ye here of yer own free will or no?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Me?” I stalled. I looked down at John, the man who, even in his unconscious state, still managed to keep me prisoner, both by denying me access to the dagger and by putting my heart in a stronghold.

  He was the only one who could reasonably respond to Mistress Glick’s question.

  “Free will,” I whispered, hearing the words as if someone else spoke them.

  And they were now true. Somehow, somewhere, I had ceased to be a prisoner and had become a woman in love. Did I know John well enough to love him? No. Did I love him? Yes, with all my heart. I looked down at his abused body, and I took his hand in mine once again.

  To John, I was probably an oddity, something new and interesting, an enigma. I doubted that he felt the same as I, and that was okay.

  I looked over at Andrew, imagining a scenario where I tackled him and wrested the dagger from his grip, where I whirled around in a cloud of smoke and mirrors and disappeared back into the twenty-first century...perhaps tossing off a cackle as I left.

  “Good!” Mistress Glick interrupted my odd flight of fantasy. “I see ye care for the lad,” she said, nodding to our conjoined hands. “He will have need of ye in the days to come, when he discovers that Mary and the bairns have been stolen.”

  “Me?” I asked again. My cheeks burned, as if she read my mind.

  “Aye, ye seem to have a sound head on yer shoulders, lass, and a wisdom even beyond what I possess at my age. Ye ken things. When he discovers that Mary has been taken, he will wish to rush off to her rescue, but he will listen to yer council. I saw how he was with ye. Ye are special to him. He will listen to yer council, and hopefully, ye will convince him that he has to heal before he can dash into Macleod territory.”

  “Oh, Mistress Glick, I don’t think he will listen to me!”

  “I do,” she affirmed. She rose.

  “I will leave the linen and lard if ye wish to change his bandages and reapply the lard in the morn.” She looked around the room. “Keep the water for yer needs.”

  “Are you leaving?” I asked with a gulp.

  “Aye,” she said. “Andrew will sleep outside yer door, there’s a good lad. And ye no doubt wish to stay with the laird?”

  “Yes! Yes, I do,” I said firmly. I had thought I might need to argue about it and was surprised to find Mistress Glick so permissive with my virtue. One look at John’s pale face indicated she didn’t have much to worry about. He looked weak as a kitten at the moment.

  “Aye, I will sleep without,” Andrew said, nodding toward the door. I understood Andrew’s archaic reference to mean the outer room.

  “Fetch some blankets from my croft for the mistress and yerself, lad.”

  Andrew left obediently.

  Mistress Glick checked her handiwork.

  “I will return in a few hours,” she said, straightening and stretching.

  “No need. Get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Maybe in the morning?”

  “Aye, that is all right then. In the morn. These auld bones are aching, and I must tend to others.”

  Andrew was back in a jiff, and he handed me a blanket in the usual weathered-red pattern, while holding one for himself.

  Mistress Glick looked around the room again.

  “Perhaps ye can sleep in the chairs? I would no recommend the floor. It looks hard and has no carpeting.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Get some rest.”

  “I will see who else needs tending then.”

  I objected, noting that the older woman looked like she needed rest.

  “Is there no one else who can help them? You look exhausted.”

  “That I am, lass. But no, we have no doctors. I am the only healer, and a poor one at that.”

  I grimaced. From what I had seen, several of the Morrison men had been injured. If she was the only one with healing experience, she probably did have a long night ahead of her.

  “Good night then,” I said. I waited until Mistress Glick and Andrew left before pulling both chairs up to the side of the bed and settling in with my feet on the opposite chair. I reached over and touched John’s forehead. While warm, it wasn’t hot. Or cold. He was alive, and so far, he didn’t have a fever. I covered myself with the blanket, eyed the torch on the wall and the lantern on the table and decided not to extinguish either one.

  I settled my head back against the hard edge of the chair back and wondered what strange twist of fate had propelled me into the sixteenth century and into love with a Highland laird with a probable shortened life span.

  I hadn’t though I would be able to sleep, but I must have drowsed. I awakened to the sound of moaning. The torch, now burning low, still provided some light. The lantern had gone out again. I saw John, eyes closed, moving his head restlessly from side to side.

  Throwing off my blanket, I pivoted in my chair and took his hand in mine. He seemed to calm instantly.

  “John?” I whispered. I put a hand to his cheek, his forehead still covered by the linen wrap. His skin was warm but not hot, nor did he sweat.

  His eyelids fluttered open, and he gripped my hand.

  “Lass,” he said in a raspy voice. “Have I died?”

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  “No,” I responded, shaking my head. “Not yet.”

  John’s eyes widened, and I realized my mistake. My concern for what I suspected would be a foreshortened life must have slipped out.

  “No! You’re not dying,” I amended hastily. “Mistress Glick says you’ll recover.”

  “Ahhhh...” He expelled a breath. His eyelids started to close again, and his grip relaxed. I rested my other hand over our clasped hands and watched him drift off to sleep again, thankful for the respite of what must have been excruciating wounds, without the aid of painkillers.

  “Where is the dagger?” he whispered, opening his eyes with effort.

  My heart skipped a beat. He was certainly obsessed with the dratted thing.

  “Andrew has it. You told him not to give it to me, and believe me—he’s hanging on to it.”

  “Good lad,” he murmured. “I am no ready to say good-bye to ye and ken ye are safe enough here for now. Angus has no interest in stealing women. He wants the bairns, and Mary as their mother only. He failed this time.”

  The effort to speak seemed to drain him, and his eyes closed.

  I hardly thought this was the time to tell John that the Macleods had in fact made off with Mary and the kids. Or that it seemed Angus Macleod was interested in stealing at least one woman. Me!

  John’s breathing deepened, and I rose to check the bandaging over his shoulder and neck. Everything seemed intact, and no bleeding seeped through the linen. I had absolutely no nursing skills, so I was relying on common sense. Blood soaking thr
ough the bandage? No. Fever? No.

  I sat down again and reached over to push his hair away from his face. A knock on the door startled me, and I froze. I held my breath while I reasoned with myself that even had Angus Macleod returned for me, he wouldn’t have knocked softly.

  I rose and crossed over to ease the door open.

  Andrew stood there with a fresh torch.

  “Thank you!” I said, pulling the door wider.

  “Do ye have need of anything, mistress?” He entered and replaced the torch on the wall.

  I needed a doctor and painkillers and x-rays, but those would not be forthcoming.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I responded, watching him. “Have you slept at all?” I couldn’t even imagine sleeping on the stone floor, blanket or not.

  “Aye, some,” Andrew said. He looked over at John. “How does the laird fare?”

  “I think he’s doing okay,” I responded. “I’m sure he’ll be in a lot of pain when he wakes up.”

  “Och, aye. I suspect Mistress Glick would prescribe whisky for the pain. A large measure of it dulls the senses.”

  I grinned at the adult note in his voice.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I had a toothache last summer, and Mistress Glick gave me copious amounts of whisky before she pulled my tooth.”

  “How old are you, Andrew?”

  “I was born fourteen winters ago, mistress.”

  “Where is your family? Are they here on Dun Eistean?”

  His little jaw hardened, and he looked down at the stone floor.

  “No, they were taken by consumption going on three years now.”

  “I’m so sorry, Andrew!” I processed that for a moment. “Whom do you live with?”

  “My uncle, Torq Morrison.”

  “Oh! The man with the red hair.”

  “Aye.” Andrew looked a little uncomfortable, as if he didn’t know what he was doing in a bedroom with a strange woman not related to him, so I let him go.

  “Thank you for the torch, Andrew.”

  He nodded. “Mistress Glick said that I am to bring ye breakfast in the morn. She will follow to see to the laird’s wounds and give ye some respite.”