The man remained silent, motionless. Had she imagined the odd sensation? Kara shook her head. Never mind. She had to get him away from here, and she’d not do it alone.
“Hello. Are you awake in there?” She tapped his back. The metal links of his shirt felt cold and slippery to the touch. What an odd garment. She prodded him again, harder.
“Argh! Are you trying to kill me?” He rolled over, coming to rest on his back, an arm flung over his face.
“Nay, I but wanted to make certain you were unhurt.”
“By poking me with hot pincers and leaving me in the desert to be eaten by wolves?”
“Wolves.” Kara whipped her head around, spotted the MacGorys fleeing across the grassy field with Eoin and her clansmen in swift, loud pursuit. “You need not worry about the wolves, they’ve been routed. What is your name?”
“Duncan. Hot...damn me, but it’s hot.”
Hot? A brisk October wind whistled down the mountain slopes, icing Kara’s skin beneath her simple skirt and tunic. “Are you sick?” she asked warily.
“Course not. Never sick.”
“Wounded, then?”
“Antioch.”
That must be a place, though not one around here. “Where on your body, Duncan.”
“Shoulder.”
She ran practiced hands over him and felt the thick bandage on the left one and pressed gently.
He groaned, a low, anguished sound.
“Does that hurt?”
“Nay. I will be fine. Just...just let me be.”
“Men, never wanting to admit you’re hurting,” Kara scoffed, on familiar turf now. She touched his cheek. “Well, you are burning up with fever and like to die if you stay here. Nor have you the strength to rise without help.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. In the gathering dimness, it was all stark planes and shadowy hollows, wide forehead, sunken eyes, straight nose and strong chin. “Don’t need help. Don’t want help.”
“Too bad, Duncan. We seldom get what we want.”
“Kara!” a voice called. Aindreas, captain of the night guard, was just coming on duty. “Hob says the lads are hunting MacGorys and ye’ve a hurt man. Do you need help?”
“Aye, bring torches and blankets,” she shouted back. “We’ll need to rig a litter to carry him.”
“Nay.” Her patient struggled to sit. She pushed him down with one finger and kept him there till the men came. As the torches closed in to bathe the area with golden light, she got her first good look at Duncan.
“Gods!” Kara exclaimed.
“Do you know him?” Aindreas drew his long knife and waved it in the stranger’s direction.
Only he was no stranger to her. “Put that away,” Kara said sharply. “We need no protection from him.”
“Who is he?”
“The man who will save us.”
“Really?” Aindreas leaned closer, looking appropriately impressed. “The one you saw in the Beltane fires this May?”
“The very same.” She sank down on her knees beside Duncan. “I am sorry I poked you.”
He glared up at them, his scowl deepening. “Heathens.”
Aindreas stiffened. “See here, now, no call to—”
“Pagan barbarians,” Duncan muttered. “Got to get away.” He surged to his feet with surprising strength for a man half-gone with fever.
“Duncan, let me help—”
He flung Kara’s hand off. “No help.” Wavering, he turned and started for his horse. “Got to get away.” What he got was two steps before his legs gave way.
Aindreas caught him and lowered him to the ground.
“Filthy pagans,” Duncan mumbled.
Aindreas glanced at Kara. “He’s an odd way about him for a man what’s come to save us.”
“Nevertheless, he has. The vision said so, and my visions never lie.” Kara rose with all the majesty she could muster, trying not to let on that Duncan’s vehemence had shaken her. “He will stay, and he will help us.”
Duncan was still protesting when Aindreas and the others carted him off.
It did not bode well for Kara’s plans.
Chapter Two
“Untie me,” Duncan ordered through clenched teeth.
“You are not well enough to be up and too stupid to realize it,” his captor said cheerily. She stood gazing out of the arrow slit that served as a window for the tiny wall chamber where they’d brought him two nights ago.
Duncan recalled little of it, his memories a jumble of wolves and torchlight and desert heat. Nay, that had been a fever dream. But he was recovered. “My fever has broken.”
“At dawn this morn,” she replied without moving. “But you are still so weak you fell when you tried to rise.”
“’Twas no reason to bind me to the bed,” he snarled. “I will not do so again.”
She turned and cocked her head in his direction. Bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, she resembled some pagan goddess. Her hair was wild and unruly, tumbling about her shoulders and down her back in a riot of dark curls. Where the sun struck them, her tresses glowed red as fine burgundy. Her face was more exotic than beautiful, golden cat’s eyes slanting above high cheekbones, a straight nose, full mouth and a stubborn chin that warned of her willful nature.
Even her name was strange and pagan. Kara Guenna, she’d told him she was called. Not Mary or Margaret after one of the saints. Or even a decent name like Jean or Janet. Janet, good Lord, she was as different from his cool, neat Janet as day from night. This Kara was not only dark and exotic, but immodest. Her coarse skirts came only to her calves, showing shapely legs.
Staring at her made Duncan’s skin grow warm again with a fever he knew too well. Desire. Deep inside him dwelt a bad seed Cousin Niall had not beaten into submission. Something in this wild girl called to the baser nature he’d inherited from his mother. Gritting his teeth, Duncan pulled on the ropes binding him to the bedposts. “Let me up.”
“You will get up when I say.”
A red mist obscured Duncan’s vision and he ceased struggling. “So, I’m a prisoner.”
“You are my patient.” Her voice was rich and low. Her hips moved in seductive swirls as she walked toward him.
Damn. Duncan shut his eyes.
“See, this argument has tired you.”
Ha. Duncan’s eyes flew open at the precise moment she stopped at his elbow. His nostrils filled with the scent of her. Not the sour stink of sweat and horses. That he’d have welcomed. Instead, she smelled of heather. Damn. He’d dreamed of heather when he lay fevered in the Hospitallers infirmary. Heather and home. It was almost obscene to smell it now, underlaid with the sweet muskiness of this pagan woman.
“I am not tired,” Duncan snapped. “I am outraged to think that you and your...your heathenish clan would waylay a Crusader knight returning from the Holy Lands.”
“What is a Crusader?” She sat on the bed beside him.
Her scent overwhelmed him. Duncan groaned.
“Did I jostle your wound?” she asked.
Eyes squeezed shut, jaw clamped so tight his teeth ached, Duncan nodded.
“I am sorry.” She slid to the stool she’d occupied when he’d awakened this morning. “What is a Crusader?”
“You’ve not heard of them?”
Wisps of curly hair flew about when she shook her head. She was so close he could see the freckles, sprinkled like cinnamon over her nose and cheeks, and the green flecks in her amber eyes. Witch’s eyes, he thought. Which explained a great deal but didn’t make him feel any easier about lying here.
“We Crusaders are knights who take the cross...”
“What cross? Where do you take it?”
“’Tis a figure of speech,” he grumbled. “We lay our hand on the cross, pledge ourselves to the glory of God and go to drive the Infidels from the Holy Lands.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “You are a priest?”
“At least you’ve heard of Christianity.”
&
nbsp; She straightened. “Despite your slurs, we are not pagans, We...we just happen to follow the old ways, too.”
“You cannot be both pagan and Christian.”
“Father Luthais doesn’t mind, so why should you?”
“There is a priest here.” Relief washed through Duncan. “Fetch him to me.”
“Nay, I—”
“Fine, I will go to him.” He tugged on the ropes.
“He does not dwell among us, but in the priory in Kindo. And cease struggling, you will chafe your poor wrists.”
“Do not refer to me as poor.” Duncan sucked in air as her fingers grazed his inner wrist, brushing him with fire. It leapt along his veins like lightning igniting a summer sky. Every nerve in his body sizzled, every muscle contracted. Especially those over which it seemed he had no control at all. Thank the heavens for the thick blankets, else she’d have known.
“Stubborn man. I want only to help you.”
“Then let me go,” he growled.
“And most ungrateful. Father Luthais says we should give thanks to those who do us good.”
Lessons in civility from a little pagan. “I am grateful to you for saving me from...” He wasn’t exactly certain what.
“MacGorys.” She grinned. “Eoin and the lads killed four of the fiends and sent the others fleeing into the hills.”
He tried to imagine Janet, who fainted at the sight of blood, speaking of a battle with such relish. “Well, my thanks for your timely arrival. And for tending me through the fever, but I am expected elsewhere and cannot tarry here wi—” He suddenly recalled the pouch with the gemstones. “Where are my things?” he cried, raising his head and glancing about.
“There.” She pointed to the far corner, where his sword did indeed lean against the rough stone wall. “We are not robbers.”
“That remains to be seen. There was a bag hanging from my belt. It contained my papers and a few coins.”
The girl smiled and ran across the room, returning with the leather pouch. “Here is it.”
“Loose my hands that I may see all is intact.”
She scowled and clutched the purse to her heart. The action pulled her ugly brown gown tight across surprisingly full breasts. “We would not steal from you.”
“Why? You’ve no compunction about tying me up.”
She sighed. “Only to save you from harming yourself.”
“I have been looking out for myself since I was ten, and I will be the judge of what is right for me.”
Tears filled her eyes, magnifying their color. “You have no family,” she whispered.
He didn’t want her pity. “I have a cousin.”
“Surely he—or she—took you in. We’ve orphans aplenty in Edin, thanks to the scurvy MacGorys, but we look after our own.”
“Cousin Niall gave me a home,” Duncan said stiffly.
“He was mean to you.” She scampered over to the bed and plopped down again, enveloping him in a cloud of heather and woman. “Dinna worry. You have us, now.” She stroked his cheek.
Duncan set his teeth against the sudden tightness in his chest. ’Twas loathing, he told himself. “I do not want you.”
“Oh.”
She sat back, pain and confusion chasing across her expressive features. Did the girl hold nothing back?
“This is not at all the way it is supposed to be.”
“What do you mean?”
Before she could reply, the door opened and the ugliest man Duncan had ever beheld ducked into the low-ceiled chamber. His face was seamed with wrinkles, his nose mashed to one side. Worst of all was the long scar running from his forehead to his right ear. ’Twas a wonder he’d not lost his eye.
“Fergie.” The girl launched herself at the man, who enveloped her in a bear hug. “I missed you so.” She cupped his cheeks with her hands and gazed adoringly at the battered landscape of his ruined features.
How could she hold that smile? Hardened as he was to battle scars, Duncan could barely stand to look at the man.
“And I you, lass.” Fergie kissed the top of her head, then draped a mammoth arm over her shoulder and sauntered to the bed. “Eoin said as how you’d dragged in another stray,” he exclaimed, his voice harsh as gravel in a cup.
“He name is Duncan MacLellan. Duncan, this is my uncle Fergie, laird of Clan Gleanedin.”
“Why’s he trussed up?”
Duncan had had enough of lying about while others stared at him. “Because she’s a nasty, bossy little witch,” he snapped.
Fergie threw back his gray head and roared with laughter. “That she is.” He wiped tears from his eyes.
“I am not, and ’tis for his own good.”
“That’s what they all say when they want a man to do something he doesn’t want to.” Fergie winked.
Sensing an ally, Duncan focused his gaze on the man’s eyes, for looking at the scars was both impolite and unsettling. “She’s tied me up and forced noxious potions down my throat.”
“Mmm. Cured you, though, didn’t she?”
Duncan grunted.
“Sometimes it’s handy having a witch about the place,” the girl said airily.
Damn, was she truly a witch? “I’ve already thanked her for nursing me through the fever. But I really have to leave.”
“He’s an orphan, Fergie, with no place to go.”
Duncan noted she called her formidable uncle by his first name, an honor Cousin Niall had denied his unwanted burden. “My cousin is expecting me.” Another lie he’d have to confess. For a man who seldom sinned, he was amassing a large debt.
“His cousin resents him,” Kara said.
Duncan started. “How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“Well.” Fergie rubbed a gnarled hand over the scar on his forehead. “I’ll admit another fighting man would be welcome.”
“I won’t fight for you,” Duncan insisted.
“He will.” Kara touched her uncle’s hand. “He’s the one,” she murmured. “The one I saw in the Beltane fires.”
“Really?” Fergie’s eyes widened, raking Duncan from head to bare feet and back. “Are you sure, lass?”
Kara nodded. “He was wearing the metal shirt and carrying the long dirk.” She pointed to the sword in the corner.
“See here,” Duncan shouted. “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”
“You’re the one the gods have sent to save us,” Kara said.
Blasphemy. “The hell I am.” Duncan jerked on the ropes. “You people are all mad.” He tugged again, barely feeling the hemp cut into his flesh. “Mad. Let me go or I’ll—”
“Are you sure about this, lass?” Fergie asked again.
“Have my visions ever been wrong?”
Visions. Holy Mother, have mercy. Duncan’s heart was pounding so loudly he could scarcely hear. “Filthy pagans.”
“He doesn’t seem to like us much,” Fergie mused. “Hard to imagine him helping us.”
“He will.”
“I won’t.” Duncan seethed with rage and frustration.
“Leave it to me, Fergie.” Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his scarred cheek. “Was the hunting successful?”
“Aye. We took two roebuck. Dod and the others are skinning them in the courtyard. t should see they don’t make a hash of it, but if you need me to stay...”
“Nay. I’ll fetch his supper, then we’ll discuss things.” She gave her uncle a dazzling smile. “Men are always more reasonable on a full stomach.”
“Well...” Fergie scowled thoughtfully at Duncan, then shrugged. “You’ve never failed us yet.” He chucked her under the chin, then sauntered out.
Kara turned that brilliant smile on Duncan. “There’s fresh rabbit stew and boiled onions for supper. I’ll fetch you some.”
“I won’t stay...even if you ply me with roasted peacocks and almond paste.”
“I do not know what those things are, but you will stay.”
“You cannot make me stay,” D
uncan snarled.
“I’ll wager I can,” said the little witch with a toss of her fiery curls. She walked from the room proud as a queen, her skirts swishing in time to the sway of her hips.
Despite his rage, the sight made an impression on the least discerning organ in Duncan’s body. Cursing it, and females in general, he went to work on the ropes. Imprisonment had been Cousin Niall’s favorite form of punishment, and Duncan had learned to rework knots at an early age.
He was determined he’d not be here when the witch returned.
Had she made a mistake? Was he not really the one?
Kara tapped a finger against her mouth.
He had not looked as large in her vision, nor as angry. In her vision, he’d smiled and laughed and looked on her with approval, not revulsion. But the clothes of silver metal and the long dirk were right. And the face...there was no way she could have mistaken it. Duncan had the rough-hewn features of a warrior and the eyes of a lonely child. Those troubled eyes called out to the healer in her. The rest of him, his big, muscular body, his ruggedly handsome face, awakened strong feelings of a different sort. Womanly feelings.
She’d never been drawn to a man before. Oh, she’d laughed and bantered with the men of the clan, and fluttered her lashes in fair imitation of her friend Brighde. But she’d never cared what any man thought of her.
Till now. She minded terribly that Duncan hated her.
Why did he? She’d risked her life to save his, nursed him through two days and nights, yet he sneered at her. Called her pagan and witch as though she were cursed.
Was he truly the one?
Kara stared at the leaping fire in the kitchen hearth. But no vision came.
“Here you are, then. There’s more if he can eat it,” added Black Rolly. He held out a tray set with a bowl of savory stew, brown bread and a cup of ale. The tray looked tiny in his big, warrior’s hands. He’d smashed his leg the same night Fergie had nearly lost his eye. She’d stitched them both up, not daring to hope they’d live. But they were strong and adaptable. With his fighting days over, Rolly had taking up something he liked. Cooking.
The Knights of Christmas Page 2
