A Promise in Midwinter

by Alyssa Stark

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to flush crimson.

  “But you touched me and…” she stammered.

  “And I do apologize for that, milady. It will most certainly not happen again,” Lachlan said as he smiled apologetically. “That is unless ye were to ask me to do so,” Lachlan insinuated as he arched an eyebrow.

  Elizabeth gasped. She was taken aback by the bold insinuation of the MacFarland warrior. Surely he had not noticed that she had admired his features earlier!

  “And what makes you believe that I would ever ask you to touch me?” she asked incredulously.

  Lachlan chuckled. “I was just badgering ye, lass. Thank you for bandaging my wound,” he said, glancing down at the linen bandage.

  “Twas not my choice. Campbell wants you alive,” Elizabeth said coolly. She was still shaken by Lachlan’s remark implying that she might ask him to touch her.

  “I suppose that he does,” Lachlan sighed miserably. “I’ll not talk to him, you know. He might as well kill me now, for I’ll never give him what he desires.”

  “John Campbell has a way of getting what he wants,” Elizabeth sighed softly, regretting her revelation as soon as the words fell from her lips.

  Lachlan studied the beautiful lass.

  John Campbell had hurt her.

  He hated the Campbell bastard even more. The lass standing at his bedside was a rare beauty. Her spine was rigid and she wore the tatters of her pride as badges of honor. Yes, John Campbell had hurt her, but he had not broken her. Lachlan could see a glimmer of hatred for the Campbell burning in the young woman’s eyes.

  “May I know your name, lass?” Lachlan asked. His gray eyes locked with hers.

  Elizabeth hesitated before speaking, unsure if she should disclose any personal information to the MacFarland. She did not know if he could be trusted.

  “Elizabeth,” she whispered. “Elizabeth Campbell.”

  Lachlan smiled again.

  Perhaps Lady Elizabeth Campbell was his angel after all.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Lachlan’s eyes opened warily.

  He blinked repeatedly, opening and closing his eyes as he struggled to focus.

  The room was dark, quiet.

  She was humming again, a light and beautiful sound.

  Her humming stopped abruptly.

  “Elizabeth?” Lachlan croaked. His throat was dry and his body ached everywhere.

  “Aye?” she answered. She stood from the chair next to his bed and leaned over him.

  Lachlan blinked again. He squeezed his eyes shut and then reopened them. There was an incessant pounding in his skull.

  “Tis good to see you awake. You’ve been out for most of the day, nighttime is almost upon us,” Elizabeth said as she felt Lachlan’s forehead.

  Her hand was gentle, soft against his head.

  “You must drink,” she said as she lifted an earthenware cup to his mouth.

  Lachlan took a small sip, the effort of which exhausted him. The water was cool and refreshing as it ran down his parched throat. He took another sip, enjoying the restorative power of the drink.

  “Thank you, lass,” Lachlan rasped as he held Elizabeth’s concerned gaze.

  “Tis but water,” she said coolly as she removed the cup.

  “Nay. Thank you for tending me,” he said quietly. “I’ve a debt to repay you.”

  “Twas not my choice, as I’ve told you. My father…John Campbell has charged me with your care.”

  “I ken that you were charged with my care, but ye doona have to be as nice as ye are,” he said as he closed his eyes. He brushed the tip of his finger against Elizabeth’s hand, which rested on the side of the bed that he was tethered to.

  She gasped and retracted her hand as if his touch had burned her.

  The corner of Lachlan’s mouth turned up into the hint of a smile.

  “I’ll not bite ye, lass,” he chuckled softly, regretting his laughter as it jostled his broken ribs.

  Elizabeth swallowed hard.

  The MacFarland’s lightest touch had affected her greatly. Never in her life had she been touched by a man, save for John Campbell. And John Campbell’s touch had only brought pain.

  Lachlan’s touch was innocent and yet it lit her nerve endings afire.

  Lachlan regretted touching Elizabeth at once. In a moment of weakness, he had brushed his fingertip lightly across her skin. More than anything he had wished to assure himself that she was real, a flesh and bone woman and not an apparition of his clouded mind.

  Elizabeth was most certainly real.

  And she was the sweetest, most alluring female that he had ever encountered. Her auburn hair was unbound and cascaded down her shoulders. It caught the glow of the firelight, glistening as the lighter strands were highlighted by the dancing flames. Her skin was like spilt cream, so light and perfect against the olive silk of her gown.

  Elizabeth Campbell was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen.

  Lachlan regretted meeting her under present circumstances.

  “Lass, I um…I need to relieve…” he began, unsure of how to communicate his need for a chamber pot without offending the lass’s sense of propriety.

  Elizabeth sprung from her chair.

  “I’ll get the guards! They can unlace your wrists and help you with…” she trailed off as he face flushed pink.

  Lachlan laughed softly, again jostling his painful broken ribs.

  He watched as Elizabeth nearly ran from the chamber, admiring the round curve of her perfect bottom as she hurried away. He dropped his head back against the pillow, cursing the undeniable response of his body. Here he lay beaten and broken on what would most likely be his deathbed and his body had mustered the strength to respond with an arousal to Lady Elizabeth Campbell.

  “Saints!” he cursed under his breath as he gritted his teeth. He berated himself for his weakness. “A man can dream,” he muttered and did his best to push lustful thoughts from his mind.

  Two guards stalked into the small chamber. They did not speak to Lachlan, but scowled down at him with true hatred shining in their eyes. It was the exact same hatred that Lachlan harbored for them. A hatred as old as time itself, born and bred into the very fiber of his being.

  Lachlan glared back, setting his jaw in a firm line.

  He regretted being helpless. Relying on the mercy of Campbell guards to untie his leather shackles so that he could take a piss enraged him.

  Would that he could have died on the battle field.

  Would that he was not injured and could dispatch these Campbell bastards.

  One guard unlaced the leather binding on Lachlan’s right wrist. It took all of Lachlan’s waning strength to sit up in the bed. The second guard kicked a chamber pot towards Lachlan. The men had the decency to turn so that Lachlan could empty his bladder.

  Lachlan settled gingerly back against the bed, noting that even the slightest movement brought pain. He was injured badly. He closed his eyes and retreated to the solace of his mind while the Campbell guard rebound his wrist to the bed.

  Lachlan was a brave warrior, proud and strong. He had borne his duty to his clan well and yearned for the glory that had been stolen from him. Death on the battle field would have brought pride to his clan. He had killed many Campbells that day and had he died on the battle field as he had meant to, his name would have been sung by minstrels for generations.

  But it had not gone the way that he had planned. He had been reduced to a weakened prisoner of war, asking permission of the Campbells to take a piss.

  A glancing blow struck his jaw, catching Lachlan off guard and snapping his head abruptly to the right.

  He saw stars.

  When his eyes opened, the room was spinning. Blackness crept into his field of view.

  “Bloody MacFarland bastard,” the guard growled.

  His companion laughed openly.

  Lachlan tried to reach up and feel his face, but he could not. His muscles rebelled, straining at the
leather shackles. He growled and then let his arms go slack in defeat.

  He wanted to kill the Campbell sons-of-whores.

  The men left the room and Elizabeth returned.

  “What have they done?” she asked worriedly as she looked down at Lachlan. Blood ran freely from his lower lip, which was now split open. “What did they do to you, Lachlan?” she asked, her voice riddled with concern.

  Lachlan rolled his head to the other side. He was ashamed.

  Elizabeth took a cloth and blotted away the blood on Lachlan’s lip. She used her thumb and forefinger to tilt his head towards her.

  “Twas not right what they did to you! MacFarland or no, it was not right.”

  Lachlan was silent. He looked away from Elizabeth, turning his head towards the wall. The Campbells could beat him, they could torture him and kill him, but they would never break him.

  Elizabeth felt great sorrow for the wounded warrior. It was unfair how he was being treated by her clan. She pulled the cloth away from Lachlan’s lip, noting that the new injury was beginning to swell. Ever so lightly, she brushed her fingertip over the curve of Lachlan’s jaw, not understanding what on Earth possessed her to do so. The stubble of his new beard prickled her fingers and a thrilling sensation raced down her spine.

  Lachlan turned his head towards her in response to her light touch.

  Elizabeth jerked her hand away, embarrassed by the small liberty that she had taken. She looked into Lachlan’s gray eyes for a moment longer than she deemed proper, which heated the blood in her veins.

  “I’ve brought you something,” she said as a means to cover her blunder. She reached into the pocket of her gown and withdrew the small jug. “Whiskey,” she said with a mischievous smile as she popped out the cork.

  “I do believe that you are my guardian angel, lass,” Lachlan said, smiling weakly. Speaking with Elizabeth lightened his dour spirits.

  Elizabeth dangled the jug of whiskey just beyond Lachlan’s lips. He was helpless to reach for it and he narrowed his eyes at her.

  “It does come with a bit of a catch,” she smiled sweetly.

  “Aye?” Lachlan said guardedly as he arched an eyebrow warily.

  “I’ve brought it to numb you to the pain that I need to inflict…you see…” Elizabeth stammered, feeling guilty for the torture that she was about to administer to poor Lachlan. “The wound on your shoulder is not healing. It must be sewn shut…I’ve tried to get it to close. I used a poultice of garlic and onion today, but the wound is not knitting together. “I’ll have to sew it shut or it will putrefy. I’m sorry, Lachlan.”

  Lachlan laughed softly.

  “All that fuss about sewing a wound closed? Are ye Campbells such weaklings? Fetch your wee needle, pass me the whiskey and let’s get on with it!”

  Elizabeth released a sigh of relief. She surmised that it would be best not to tell Lachlan that she had never performed such a treatment before. She said a silent prayer for strength.

  She lifted the whiskey to Lachlan’s lips. He took deep dregs of the amber liquid, his gray eyes never leaving hers as he drank.

  “Thank ye, lass. Get on with it. Please,” he added, having forgotten his manners.

  Elizabeth’s hands trembled as she unbuttoned Lachlan’s linen shirt. She removed the poultice from the wound and set it aside. She blushed as she looked at Lachlan’s bare chest. He was a finely formed man, with a broad muscular chest. His abdominal muscles were well defined and Elizabeth found her eyes wandering to the waist of his kilt. Color flushed her cheeks again as she caught herself wondering what was beneath the woolen fabric of Lachlan MacFarland’s kilt. Truth be told, admiring the man caused her heart to beat rapidly and made her forget to breathe.

  Lachlan took in a shaky breath as Elizabeth’s fine boned fingers danced over his skin. Her touch was as light as a feather, so tender and careful.

  Elizabeth tore her eyes away from Lachlan’s chest. She threaded the needle and took a deep breath in preparation for the task ahead.

  “Ye will do fine, lass,” Lachlan assured her. “Go ahead,” he invited as he closed his eyes and savored the warm afterglow of the whiskey.

  When the needle pierced his skin, Lachlan did not even flinch.

  Elizabeth noted that his jaw was clenched slightly, but other than that, he appeared completely unaffected by her stitchery. She deftly closed the wound and tied off the thread. Only then did she allow herself to intake a full breath.

  “All done,” she whispered with relief.

  Lachlan opened his eyes.

  Elizabeth noticed that they were a deep gray, a most startling and unusual color.

  Lachlan watched her with a concentrated focus, as if she was a stag and he was a hunter intent on stalking his prey.

  Elizabeth’s heart beat faster. She did not look away from Lachlan’s steel gray eyes. She watched as the corner of Lachlan’s mouth turned up into the slightest of smiles.

  “Are ye afraid of me, lass?” he asked.

  “Nay,” Elizabeth responded calmly. Her heart still thundered in her chest. “Why would I fear you when you are tethered to the bed?” she challenged, her eyes flitted down to the thick leather straps that bound Lachlan’s powerful arms. Elizabeth somehow knew that even if the restraints were removed, Lachlan would not dare to hurt her.

  Her conscience nagged at her. From the earliest age, she had been taught to fear all MacFarlands. She should be fearful of Lachlan MacFarland, for he was a powerful, fierce warrior that could kill her easily were his wrists unbound.

  She should hate him for the MacFarland blood that flowed through his veins.

  Elizabeth had the realization that some of that same blood, MacFarland blood, raced now through her veins. Her father was a MacFarland, a man not so unlike Lachlan.

  Lachlan watched her, his steel gray eyes never leaving hers.

  Something in Lachlan’s gray eyes intrigued her.

  Elizabeth had tried to keep her distance from him. She had tried to do her duty as ordered by John Campbell and only nurse Lachlan MacFarland back to health.

  Lachlan had drawn her in like a moth was drawn towards a flame.

  Elizabeth’s pulse raced.

  She hoped not to get burnt by that flame.

  “I never want you to fear me,” Lachlan drawled.

  Elizabeth smiled shyly.

  “I do not fear you, MacFarland,” she said quietly as she busied herself with bringing the quilt up to Lachlan’s shoulders. She berated herself for wanting to look upon his bare, muscled chest any further beyond the necessity of stitching up his wound.

  Elizabeth’s heart thumped in her chest.

  The careful words that she had spoken had been a lie.

  In truth, she did fear Lachlan MacFarland. She feared him because never in her short life had a man caused her to question everything that she had ever known.

  The look in Lachlan’s gray eyes shook her to the core.

  His desire for her was right there, impossible for Elizabeth to deny.

  Yes, Elizabeth feared Lachlan MacFarland.

  Because in the depths of her heart hid a secret.

  She had the undeniable urge to kiss Lachlan MacFarland.

  And just the idea of that kiss had sparked a new, dangerous feeling within her.

  ..oo Chapter Four oo..

  Lachlan awoke from a fitful slumber.

  The chamber was dark.

  The fire had gone out and a chill had settled over his body.

  The fever was back. Sweat poured down his brow. His muscles trembled from the cold room, but Lachlan knew that his body was burning up.

  He had dreamt of his mother. Her face still lingered in his mind as he struggled to separate the dream from reality.

  Her words haunted him.

  He remembered the conversation well. He must have been about twelve. He’d been chasing after Mairi MacFarland, driving her so insane with his unwanted attentions that she had tattled to his mother.

  Lachlan chuckl
ed to himself, laughing at his own youthful incompetence of how to woo womenfolk.

  He had been but a boy.

  His mother had sat him down and fed him a biscuit with jam so that he might sit still. She had spoken to him lovingly, teaching her son the patience required for love.

  Lachlan had asked her how he would know the right woman to marry.

  He remembered her words still.

  You cannot choose when love finds you, son.

  But find you, it will.

  Search for the lass that will sing to your soul.

  Someday you will find her, Lachlan. And when you do find her, chase after her as if your life depends upon claiming her, for in truth, it does.

  It will require patience to wait for her, but you will know when you’ve found her.

  Lachlan relaxed against the pillow.

  “I’ve found her, mother,” he whispered into the darkness, hoping that somewhere in the great beyond, Elsie MacFarland might be listening. “But I’m afraid that she will most likely get away.”

  He had felt Elizabeth’s fingers dance over his skin and he had seen a glimpse into her soul when her green eyes had studied him so intensely. And already, from their brief interactions, he knew it to be true.

  Perhaps she felt it too?

  Lachlan barely knew Elizabeth Campbell.

  But his mother had been right.

  He knew without a doubt that he had found her.

  He had found the lass that would sing to his soul.

  ..ooOOoo..

  Lachlan sneezed, causing him to wince as the reflex hurt his still tender ribs.

  The portly chamber maid stopped her work and looked at him sourly.

  Her name was Edith. Lachlan thought that it suited her perfectly.

  She turned back to tidying the chamber and ignored Lachlan as she always did.

  His body was beginning to mend and he longed to stretch his legs.

  Edith opened the heavy draperies and sunlight flooded the dank chamber.

  Lachlan leaned back against his pillow.