Highland Charm: First Fantasies

by April Holthaus

  When the two women moved out of sight to enter the wheel stair, he turned back from the window to the bed where Ruari sat against the bed-head, eating a bowl of porridge.

  Aine summoned Patrick to the chamber earlier when Ruari woke. Now, she fussed over the lad in her customary motherly fashion. At first, he seemed confused, ranting and raving about the attack, not making much sense. He grumbled about the ache in his head. As his mind cleared, he complained of hunger.

  Patrick waited, arms crossed, leaning against the wall of his bedchamber. He was a patient man. He’d wait until Ruari finished his meal, and then he’d question him about the attack.

  Ruari slurped the last bit of porridge with gusto. Sitting the bowl on the tray at his side, he beamed.

  “Good lad.” Aine smiled and patted his cheek. She collected the tray and left.

  Dragging a stool next to the bed, Patrick sat. “Tell me again how you got the bump on your noggin.”

  Ruari scratched his head. “A hooded warrior rode from the wood with two other mounted men. I think one was a Lamont. The other...he may have been a Maclay.”

  Patrick scowled.

  Clearing his throat, Ruari continued. “The hooded one went after my brother Ewen and the Lamont rider chased down Gil, the other herdsman. The big Maclay lad chased me to the edge of the wood. He hit me on the head and knocked me down. He must have thought me dead for he left me there and rode off to take part in the looting and burning with the other men who arrived by foot, as many as I can count on my fingers and toes.”

  He coughed. Patrick patted his shoulder, offering encouragement.

  “They set the huts on fire. The fields too. Drove off the cattle. A fine herd of twenty cattle, gone.”

  Ruari gazed into the distance, horror contorting his features. “After the raiders left, I crawled to Gil and Ewen. They lay dead where they dropped.” His sad eyes searched out Patrick. “I tried to make it to the castle, but only made it to the Fir-wood before the pain became too great. The next thing I remember is waking up in this bedchamber.”

  “Here.” Patrick handed him a mug of ale. “Quench your thirst.”

  After taking a large gulp, Ruari set the cup down. He rubbed the large bump on his head and winced. “I am sorry, Chief. I failed you.”

  “Nae, lad. ’Tis I who have failed. Failed to protect you. Failed to protect our property. Failed to protect the clan.” Patrick rose, paced to the fireplace. “We retaliate on the full moon.”

  * * *

  On the night before the full moon, Patrick hesitated. With Ruari up and about, Laurie moved back into his bedchamber. She slept there now. He crept to the door, struggling with himself. Several times during the night, he made his way up the stairs, planning to enter the chamber and take the lass. Each time he returned to his study frustrated and riddled with guilt.

  This time he wouldn’t stop.

  Entering his bedchamber, he glanced toward a window and noticed sunlight beginning to peek over the horizon. Morn approached and he hadn’t slept. His time grew short. He stepped to the bed, making as little noise as possible. He set the lantern he carried on the chest before pulling open the bed curtain. His breath caught. The sheets tangled round her ankles and her sleeping gown rose high on her thighs. His gaze roamed freely over her form. She was lovely in slumber, his precious angel. He marveled at her beauty. The morning light enhanced her skin and hair. Her plump lips begged to be kissed.

  When she didn’t stir, he bent and placed a feather-light peck on her smooth cheek. Laurie woke with a jerk. He hadn’t meant to frighten her.

  “How dare you?” she growled, eyeing him with mistrust.

  He grinned. “You ask me that quite often, yet you ken the answer.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I leave soon.” Patrick sat on the edge of the bed. “Send me off with a kiss.” Bowing his head, he made ready to kiss her when something cold and wet hit his back. A dripping cloth soaked his leine, having appeared out of nowhere.

  He stood and grabbed the intrusive rag from his back. He stared at the damn cloth, first in surprise, then anger.

  Laurie eyed the cloth and snickered. “Where did that come from?”

  “Munn,” he grumbled.

  The lass covered her mouth with her hand and tried unsuccessfully to conceal her grin. He snarled at her. But the glee dancing in her eyes snapped something inside him, and he threw back his head and roared with laughter, tears stinging his eyes.

  “That pesky wee imp finds humor in pestering me,” he said once he contained his merriment. He winked at Laurie. “Wish me well.”

  With a brief nod of his head, he turned and strode from the chamber.

  Laurie sat in bed for quite some time, wishing Patrick finished kissing her. His smile stole her breath. She’d never seen him laugh like that. Marvelous. Made him appear young and carefree, much more pleasant than his usual scowls.

  The shouts of men broke her train of thought and she remembered the raid. He was leaving. She padded to the window on bare feet in time to watch Patrick and his men leave through the courtyard entrance.

  Elspeth stood at the side of the path to the water’s edge, waving farewell.

  Laurie hadn’t said goodbye. She’d let him leave without saying the words. Her chest clenched. What if he got hurt? Or worse?

  She was beginning to care for the fool man. She prayed he’d survive unhurt.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Set high in the sky, the moon cast its silvery light over the earth below. Shadows danced with every movement. Animals would easily spook, making raiding more difficult.

  Patrick stood beside Stephen in the shadow of a massive oak. Most of his men spread out, slinking noiselessly from tree to tree to surround the meadow. Finding cover where available, they waited for his signal.

  Duncan and Jamie hid nearby in the darkness provided by another large tree. In the low land, on the other side of the rise, a sizable herd of shaggy, longhorn cattle grazed. The scouts, who stalked the herd, reported two herdsmen. They counted at least sixty-five head. Mostly cows with calves. Patrick’s twenty were certainly part of the herd.

  The men were in place, but something didn’t feel quite right. Seemed strange Lamont would leave the animals with no more than a light guard, after bothering to steal them. Patrick rubbed the prickle at the back of his neck before tapping Stephen on the shoulder.

  “’Tis too quiet. I dinnae like it. Something is wrong, but I cannae figure what,” he whispered close to his cousin’s ear.

  “Aye. The eerie glow of the moon ’tis unsettling.”

  They fell back to where their horses waited content to chew grass. Mounting his horse, Stephen signaled to Duncan and Jamie to do the same. Patrick scanned the wood around them. “Be on guard. Remember, kill no one unless necessary.”

  “Aye,” Stephen murmured.

  Without sound, hand signals given, the four walked their horses into position, keeping to shadows, staying out of sight.

  A whistled birdcall signaled the MacLachlan men to commence the raid.

  Two of Patrick’s lads silently crept from their hiding places, each stalked one of the warrior-herdsmen. They took them by surprise, knocking them out with a bash to the head.

  The rest of the men ran from their hiding places. Encircling the agitated cattle, they shouted, running, driving them toward the river.

  The chosen crossing site was near. They reached the edge of the shallows, the best place to wade to the other shore. Jamie and Duncan rode across first. Next, the men crossed, coaxing the cattle to swim to the opposite shore.

  Patrick and Stephen watched from the water’s edge, guarding the rear. Unease ran along Patrick’s spine with an unearthly tingle. Something was definitely wrong. He scanned the area around them, searching for anything out of place.

  A flash of metal glittered in the moonlight.

  From the wood charged a band of Lamont warriors led by Malcolm Maclay, Iain Lamont’s henchman. The same warrior
Patrick bested on the training field, not a fortnight ago. He counted five mounted men, and many more on foot.

  Patrick didn’t hesitate. He reined his stallion around. At the same time, he pulled his sword from its sheath. Stephen did the same. They held their ground as the first two riders reached them. Patrick made short work of knocking his man from his horse, disabling him. Before he’d time to think, a second warrior charged. He fought the attacker off, cutting with his sword.

  He yanked his horse about. The cattle had made it across the river. Jamie and Duncan battled with a couple of Lamont warriors who had followed. Patrick’s men maintained the upper hand.

  He reined his horse about again. Maclay attacked Stephen with a battle-axe. Patrick maneuvered his horse between them, only to take a hit to the shoulder. The blade cut through his leather hauberk, drawing blood, yet even with blinding pain, he managed to keep his seat. Reaching out, he slashed at Maclay, drawing his blade across the man’s face, breaking his nose and gashing his cheek. Blood spewed in every direction and Maclay fell from his horse.

  Patrick and Stephen jumped from their horses, defensively fighting, back to back, to ward off several more men.

  When the skirmish ended, two men lay dead at their feet. The rest blended into the wood. Damn the man to hell, Maclay was gone.

  Someone betrayed them. How else would Lamont have known to lay a trap?

  “We need to go,” Stephen said.

  They found their horses and mounted. Fording the river, they caught up with the rest of their party.

  Gritting his teeth, Patrick held tight to the horse’s reins. His shoulder burned like Satan’s hell. The going would be slow with many calves within the herd. He clenched his mount with his thighs and prayed he wouldn’t fall.

  When dawn approached, they found themselves nearing MacLachlan lands. Stephen kept glancing at him, aware of the difficulty Patrick had keeping his seat. He grimaced from the pain piercing his side, though each time Stephen suggested they stop to rest, he waved his cousin off.

  They rode farther. He slumped over in his saddle, barely holding on to the reins of the gray. Stephen rode his horse alongside, the horses running neck to neck. Snatching the reins from Patrick, Stephen used the body of the gray, in addition to his stallion, to keep Patrick from falling to the ground.

  Duncan rode forward to the other side of the gray and helped slow the animal to a walk. Jamie trotted to the other side of Stephen and took the reins from him.

  Managing to jump from his horse to Patrick’s, Stephen sat behind, holding him in place with the bulk of his body and strong arms. When Patrick went limp against him, Stephen stiffened.

  “You are more injured than I realized.”

  “Aye,” Patrick managed the one word before passing out.

  * * *

  Laurie tried to hide her agitation while she sat with Elspeth in the solar. Patrick, his tail of men, plus several other heavily-armed men left several days before for the raid against the Lamonts. No messages arrived since.

  The evening meal came and went and still no word of the men. Elspeth serenely sat at a bench in front of a large tapestry frame deftly working colorful silk thread into a fanciful dragon design.

  Laurie chewed on her lower lip while her gaze darted about the room without landing on any particular item. When she again glanced at Elspeth, the young woman stared straight ahead with unseeing eyes, as if caught in a trance. She swayed and slumped over the frame, holding her hand to her belly with pain marring her fine features.

  Laurie leapt from her chair, ran to Elspeth and knelt at her side.

  When the glaze cleared from Elspeth’s silver eyes, they filled with tears.

  “’Tis Patrick. He is injured,” she said in a faint voice.

  “How can you know this?”

  The young woman struggled to catch her breath. “Vision.”

  “What?”

  Elspeth inhaled several deep gulps of air. “My gift. I see things others dinnae see. Sometimes, with a touch, I ken a person’s inner thoughts. Other times, I glimpse the future.”

  Laurie’s heart kicked into overdrive. “How seriously is he hurt?”

  “That, I cannae see.” Elspeth rose slowly, almost stumbling.

  “Should we send someone after him?” Laurie’s concern nearly choked her words.

  “His men will tend to him until they reach the castle.” Elspeth staggered to the door. “I must prepare for his return.”

  Laurie stared at the empty doorway after the young woman left. She didn’t want to believe Patrick was injured. A virile man, it didn’t seem possible he could be hurt.

  Another day passed without word. Laurie’s body buzzed with a frantic edginess. During a sleepless night, she came to a realization. She’d fallen for Patrick. Fallen hard. He was like a piece of hard candy with a soft center. Tough on the outside, soft and sweet on the inside.

  Glancing at Elspeth, she frowned. The younger woman sat quietly, mending sheets, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

  Unable to contain her agitation any longer, Laurie stood. She couldn’t sit there doing nothing. She circled the room before returning to her seat. Where were they?

  Raucous noise and loud voices rose from the courtyard below. She and Elspeth jumped in unison and ran to the window. The men had returned. Laurie followed Elspeth as they rushed through the passage to the northern wheel stair, careful not to fall in her haste.

  They ran into the great hall in search of Patrick. The men drudged in dirty and tired. They straggled into the hall and collapsed onto benches. Patrick wasn’t among them.

  “Where is my brother?” Elspeth questioned the first man she came to.

  The warrior pointed to the doorway. She ran to the threshold, Laurie on her heels. They stopped abruptly. Two men carried Patrick into the hall. He attempted a smile, but it was short lived. A spasm of pain wracked his body.

  He was sweaty and dirty, his leather hauberk covered with dried blood. Laurie swayed and gripped a nearby chair for support. He looked bad. With effort, she regained her composure and followed the men carrying Patrick.

  They sat him on a bench near the wall. He leaned against the stone and closed his pain-filled eyes. Elspeth hollered for Aine. The older woman hurried to them carrying the two healing baskets.

  Stephen handed Patrick a cup filled with a golden liquid. “Here, drink this.”

  Laurie couldn’t help herself. She stayed his hand, stopping him from drinking. “What are you giving him?” She couldn’t bare the possibility they might unintentionally give him a concoction of poison.

  Stephen lifted a brow, obviously annoyed she interfered. “Uisge-beatha—water of life.”

  “’Tis whisky, lass,” Aine said.

  With a curt nod, Laurie stepped away, letting Patrick drink. Taking a swig, he coughed. He tried to speak, but the words came out incoherent. She stood back, allowing the others to work, watching fearfully.

  Stephen removed Patrick’s hauberk. The once saffron-colored tunic beneath was now a brownish-red. With a swipe of his dagger, Stephen cut away the fabric.

  Laurie held a hand over her mouth. Fresh blood oozed from fine wool strips wrapping Patrick’s chest. Stephen carefully unwrapped the binding, revealing a jagged laceration.

  Using a wet cloth, Aine carefully removed stray fabric sticking to the wound. Then she splashed some of the whisky onto the gash. Patrick’s intake of breath was audible. He gripped the edge of the bench with his hands, digging his nails into the wood.

  Elspeth threaded a large needle and handed it to Aine to begin the gruesome process of sewing the wound closed.

  “Ortha casgadh fala,” Aine chanted in a melodic voice.

  Patrick grimaced. Someone gave him a piece of leather to bite. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Laurie could hardly bear to watch, yet refused to look away. The pain etched in Patrick’s handsome features caused her physical discomfort. She placed her hand over her stomach, forcing herself to continue watching.


  “Ortha casgadh fala.”

  Laurie leaned close to Elspeth. “What is she saying?”

  “Aine recites the prayer for staunching blood flow.”

  When the older woman finished, she applied a generous amount of smelly salve from one of the pots that made Laurie’s nose twitch. Then Aine placed clean bandages over the wound and with help from Stephen bound Patrick’s chest. After returning her supplies to the baskets, she ordered him removed to his bedchamber.

  By the time several of his lads carried Patrick up through the confines of the circular steps, two levels up, he was near to losing consciousness.

  Moisture crept into Laurie’s eyes as she followed them and came to stand beside his bed. He reached for her hand. She laced her fingers with his, holding his hand gently. He gave her a shaky smile, closed his eyes, and drifted off into oblivion. Duncan dragged a bench over and she gladly sat, but continued to hang onto Patrick.

  She raised her gaze to Aine. “Will he be all right?”

  “We will have to bide and see, lass.” The older woman patted Laurie’s shoulder and shooed everyone from the room, leaving Laurie alone with her wounded Highland warrior.

  She refused to leave his side. She stayed in the chamber with him night and day. She wet his brow and lips while he fought fever. She bathed his splendid form with cool damp cloths.

  He fought demons in his delirium. He cried out as if confronting an unknown foe. He made little sense during these outbursts. Several times, she called for Duncan to hold him down, until Patrick’s fits subsided.

  Elspeth and Aine brought her food and drink along with potions for Patrick. Laurie barely ate enough to sustain herself. She realized she loved him and was determined not to lose him to a damn fever. Laurie needed him to wake up so she could tell him. She even decided it would be tolerable to stay in the past as long as she could be with Patrick.