by Laurin Wittig - Guardians Of The Targe 02 - Highlander Avenged
“ ’Tis . . . ’twas my mum’s chamber.”
He was silent for another moment, then sighed. “She died here?”
“She was murdered here. Aye.”
She waited for him to say something, but he simply pulled her into his embrace and while there was no heat to it this time, there was comfort, understanding, and a peace she had not felt in far too long. She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into the warmth of him, resting her cheek against his chest, her ear just over his heart where it thumped a slow, steady beat.
She did not know how long she stood there, taking comfort from this man who was still a stranger, and yet was not, but eventually she opened her eyes and noticed the moon was setting, just visible through the window at the end of the corridor. She knew they must leave soon, before the sun could rise. She really could put it off no longer.
“I must get . . . There are things that must come with us for safekeeping,” she said.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, the sweetest kiss she had ever received. He opened the door, then took her hand and led her into the room.
“Where are these things?” he asked.
Jeanette dared not look at the bed where her mother had been stabbed. She dared not look at anything but Malcolm, who held her gaze as if he knew exactly what she needed of him in this moment. She knew she should not reveal the secrets of this chamber to someone not of the clan, but she did not think she could do this on her own.
“You must promise to tell no one what I am about to show you—” She stopped. Nay. She might not be the Guardian, but she was no weak lass. She was Jeanette MacAlpin, daughter of Elspet, brought up to be strong, resilient. She would do this on her own.
And yet her hands were trembling again.
“I will get whatever it is you require, Jeanette. I will tell no one.”
“Nay. I will retrieve them, but I must ask you to close your eyes and promise me you will not open them until I say so.”
“Do you wish me to wait outside?”
He really was an honorable man. “Nay. I think . . . I need you to stay in here with me, but I will fetch what I came for.” She handed him the lantern.
He nodded and, without another word, closed his eyes.
She steadied her breath, drawing strength from his solid form and silent acceptance, then moved to the tapestry that hung between her mother’s bed and the hearth. She drew back one corner of the heavy tapestry, letting it rest over her back, hiding her from the room and the room from her. In the darkness she reached unerringly for the stone she’d removed many, many times. When the heavy block was free, she set it on the ground, then reached into the cavity and pressed a lever. A cleverly disguised narrow door, just high enough for her to step into if she bent nearly double at the waist, swung into what most believed was the tower wall.
Jeanette knew better. This was where she stored the chronicles, but it was also the entrance to the hidden stair that allowed an escape in a time of need, leading right down to the bolt-hole under the main stair at the bottom of the tower. Once, not long after Rowan had come to live with them, Jeanette had shown this place to her cousin and the two of them had followed the tunnel all the way out into the forest, where the exit was hidden behind a massive boulder.
When they had returned the same way, they couldn’t get the hidden door open again and had finally, hungry, tired, and a little scared, had to retrace their steps and find their way back to the castle through the forest. It was dark by the time they’d stumbled through the gate and discovered that people had been searching every part of the castle, including the well, looking for them for hours.
Elspet, Jeanette’s mum, had scolded the girls, forbidding them from ever doing such a thing again, and extracting their tearful promises that they would never tell a soul outside of the family about the tunnel. She then had put them to task mending everything she could find in the castle that had even a tiny rip in it. But she had also showed them the hidden interior latch so that the next time, if there was one, they could let themselves back in.
Jeanette frowned. She hadn’t been down those stairs since then. If only she’d hidden her mum in here that fateful day . . .
Her mind refused to relive that day, skittering away from the sharply painful memory. She lifted the six hard leather tubes that protected the scrolls and backed out of the doorway, once more pushing the tapestry away with her back as she closed the doorway and replaced the stone, pressing it even with the others so it would not be obvious should someone look at this section of wall.
She came out from behind the tapestry, her hair in her face and the leather tubes cradled in her arms.
When she had moved back to Malcolm’s side she said, “You may open your eyes.”
When he did, he grinned at her. “Your secret storage, ’tis clearly in need of cleaning.”
“You looked?!” Her heart was beating triple time, though at least now it wasn’t from the fear of her memories, but from her fear that she had compromised the safety of her clan.
“Nay. Nay!” Indignation puffed out his chest, and seemed to make him even taller. “I gave you my word. Do you accuse me of breaking it?” He did not give her time to respond. “I kept my eyes closed, but I could not close my ears, angel. Somewhere in that wall”—he pointed to the tapestry—“is a piece that moves. The hinges are in need of oiling, though the sounds are not loud. And you”—his indignation settled into something softer as he pushed her hair away from her face, then ran his thumb over her cheek, showing her the dirt that came away on it—“are not as clean and neat as you were but a moment ago. A MacKenzie never breaks his word, but neither does he shut down his mind.”
Quickly, he gathered the tubes from Jeanette’s arms with barely a glance at them.
“We need to be away,” he said as if she had not doubted his honor. He nodded toward the door, then followed her out, taking care to close the door behind them, closing off her mum’s chamber, perhaps for the last time.
THE TRIP TO the Glen of Caves had been uneventful, though they had hurried to get there before the sun rose over the horizon. Thankfully, by the time they arrived, the old women had porridge prepared for everyone, and quickly shooed the late arrivals into the large cave, where they could sleep. The next several days were a blur to Jeanette, filled with discovering more caves, cleaning them out, and moving families into them in an effort to clear out as much of the main cave as they could, for storing their supplies and as a “great hall” for the clan. The old men and boys who had come to the caves were busy keeping watch at the passes into the glen, or training with Malcolm and the handful of warriors who had been assigned there.
Jeanette had barely seen Scotia at all, and had only seen Malcolm at meals, and they both looked as tired as she felt. She could not remember if she’d even tended Malcolm’s wound since they arrived there, but she thought it likely she had not. As soon as the evening meal was done each day, she had dropped onto her pallet in the main cave and slept, only to be awakened again and again in the night by strange dreams and nightmares, and then to rise with the sun and repeat the work until she could barely think clearly.
Today, she had spent most of the morning organizing their supplies in the cave, and when she finally came out into the bright sunshine, she could hear people in the distance, but no one was in the cleared area just outside the cave where the cookfires had been set up. She closed her eyes and turned her face up to the sun, letting the heat and the quiet soak into her. This was just the sort of day her mum would take her, Rowan, and Scotia into the kitchen garden and teach them about planting things so they would grow strong and delicious, or she’d take them into the wood and teach them about the plants and animals they saw there, where to find them, what they were useful for, and what the best time was to harvest or trap them.
She rubbed the heel of her hand over a spot in the middle of her chest, p
ressing against the ache that blossomed there anytime her thoughts turned to her mum.
When she opened her eyes, Malcolm was standing across the clearing, staring at her, a soft smile on his face, and his arms filled with deadfall for the woodpile.
“You are not training the lads this morning?” she asked as they walked toward each other.
“I gave the wee lads the morning off. They need to explore their new home a bit and I”—he dropped the wood on the pile, wincing as he did—“I decided a bit of different work would be good for me, too.”
“I am sorry I have not seen to your arm as I promised.” Jeanette wished she could make his arm better immediately, returning it to all the vigor she was sure he’d once had in it, but in truth she feared he might never have full use of it again.
“May I look at it? I fear there has been no time to tend your injury properly since we left the castle.”
“ ’Tis fine for now, angel. There is much to do and I will do my part to help.”
“You will not be much help if it festers again. If that happens, you shall be a burden upon me.” She surprised herself with her teasing, but was rewarded with a smile.
“I would not wish to be a burden.”
“Exactly. Take off your tunic. Let me see how your wound fares.”
Now the smile turned to a grin. “As you wish, lass.”
He fumbled with the pin that held the ends of his plaid at his shoulder. Jeanette stepped close, pushed his hand away and unfastened it, letting the fabric fall behind him.
“I dinna think I can take off my tunic without help,” he said, his grin nearly splitting his face in two now.
Jeanette’s cheeks heated, and a little thrill ran through her at the thought of undressing the braw man, but she stepped back, set her hands on her hips, and shook her head.
“I have seen you take off your tunic with nary a trouble, warrior. You do that. I shall fetch my bag of simples.” She turned her back on the grinning man with the twinkling eyes and tried to settle the swirling sensations gathering low in her belly by turning her mind to where she had left her healer’s bag.
When she returned from the cave, Malcolm was leaning against a large boulder not far from the mouth of the cave. His face was turned up to the sun, eyes closed as hers had been, but he looked much more at peace than she had been, and it came to her that he was content with where he was in this moment. She could not ever remember a time when she had been as content as he appeared. She was always looking ahead to the next challenge, the next need of those around her, the next problem to come her way.
But here was a warrior, calm, focused, content. How did he do that?
She studied him. His tunic lay on the ground at his feet. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders were relaxed, and she could see his chest rise and fall slowly. His brow was smooth, his feet were spread and braced him easily against the boulder. The breeze caught his golden hair, tossing it in his face, but he did not push it back or try to control it at all. He just smiled, a small smile that played over his perfect lips. Kissable lips.
The memory of their kiss hit her hard and fast, and she found herself wanting to go stand between his legs and kiss him again.
“Are you not done looking at me yet, angel?” he said, cracking one eye open to look at her.
She opened her mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. She tried again, but still, no words. “Aye,” she finally managed and the man beamed at her. “I see you had no trouble with your tunic,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Only a wee bit. ’Twould have been much easier had you assisted me, Jeanette.”
“Aye.” Her breath hitched at the image in her head of pulling his tunic up, slowly revealing all that honeyed skin covering the rippling muscles of his stomach, his chest, his arms. She wanted to reach out and touch him, run her hands over him, fall into his kiss again. “Aye,” she said again.
“Jeanette? Where are the extra—”
Jeanette gasped and whirled to find Teasag striding into the clearing, grinning at her.
“—Plaids?” the woman finished.
“Plaids?” Jeanette fought her way out of the sensual haze of her daydream, trying to understand what Teasag had asked. “Plaids,” she said, focusing on that one word and wishing Malcolm still had his plaid draped over his shoulders, hiding some of that enticing . . . “Aye, plaids.” She pulled herself back to the auld woman’s question with an effort. She pointed to where a pile of them were stacked just inside the cave. “Shall I bring them to you as soon as I’ve seen to Malcolm’s injury?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as unsettled as she felt.
Teasag smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “Perhaps Malcolm can help you,” she said, turning around on the path and once more leaving Jeanette and Malcolm alone.
Malcolm was quietly laughing behind her. She whirled back to him, a finger raised.
“Do not laugh at me,” she said, mortified that she had been so obvious in her distraction not just to him, but to the auld woman, too.
Malcolm quieted his mirth, but grabbed her finger, pulling her close, just between his legs, where she had moments ago imagined herself.
“If you will not laugh at yourself, angel, you leave it to the rest of us to do so.” And then he kissed her . . . or maybe she kissed him. Nay, he kissed her, pulling her closer until he could hook his good hand behind her neck and draw her down to his mouth. Not that she put up much of a fight.
“ ’Tis sure I am his wound is on his arm,” came Teasag’s voice again from somewhere behind Jeanette, but Malcolm did not stop kissing her. The woman cackled, but Jeanette could not find it in herself to care, not in this moment when his lips were so soft yet so demanding against her own, when his hand both held her and caressed the sensitive skin of her neck. She cared about nothing except continuing the kiss, until men’s voices filtered into her fuzzy mind. ’Twas one thing for the auld women to know she kissed Malcolm, but ’twas an altogether different thing for the guards to know. The women could be trusted to keep the gossip among themselves. The men would tell Uilliam, and he would tell her father.
She backed out of his embrace, blinking and running the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip.
“We have much to do,” she said, forcing herself not to look at his mouth, but rather at the bandage she needed to remove.
“There is much we need to do, indeed, angel, but I think you should tend my wound for now.”
She glanced at him and the look of raw desire upon his face must have matched her own. He ran a hand down her arm, hooking her hand in his, and she realized that though his words sounded teasing, he was completely serious.
SCOTIA STOOD JUST within the shadow of the trees, a bucket of water in either hand, and stared at her sister, nestled in the space between Malcolm MacKenzie’s thickly muscled thighs, pressing her palms to the man’s naked chest and kissing him as if they were lovers, as if they had known each other far longer than a few days.
Scotia’s hands clenched around the bucket handles and a muscle twitched in the side of her face. How could her sister—calm, purposeful, steady Jeanette—be dallying with a man she barely knew when their world was crumbling to pieces around them? That was something they would all expect of Scotia, but she found the idea repulsive now. Dallying with lads was for kinder days, not for days when revenge was all any of them should want.
The bastard who had killed her mother had paid too easily for his crime. It grated upon her that she had not been the one to kill the man. Her father had taken all of their revenge for himself, leaving nothing for the rest of them. But there were other English who would be held accountable for the commands of their king. She had made a vow to herself, and to the memory of her mother, to see it so.
Though it would seem even that had been stolen from her by sending her away to the caves with auld women and her humiliated sister. ’Twas no
t a time to retreat and she wanted nothing to do with such a cowardly act.
She wanted to play a part in protecting the clan from the English that Nicholas was sure were on their way.
Nicholas.
She wanted to hate him, too, for his half-English blood and his years in service as a spy for King Edward, but the man had proven himself true to the needs of Clan MacAlpin. Rowan had chosen him. Kenneth, Scotia’s father and the chief, had stepped aside to make Nicholas chief. And she could find nothing to hate in the man as hard as she tried.
Auld Teasag’s voice broke into Scotia’s spiraling thoughts, chiding Jeanette for her wanton behavior, though the woman did not seem serious. If it had been Scotia kissing any man, everyone would have scolded her. But Jeanette only got teased when they all should be serious.
They all should be serious . . .
Aye. Her mum would tell her to stop feeling sorry for herself and to do something useful, that it would make her feel better, stronger, and Scotia would like to feel both. Voices of the guards returning from their hunting turned her thoughts to what was being done . . . and what wasn’t being done . . . for the safety of the clan.
Everyone was focused on getting the caves settled, finding food, hauling water. She looked down at the heavy buckets she held, loosening her white-knuckled grip on them just a little. They needed to find other sources of water, lest the burn nearby dried up in the summer. If that happened, they’d be constantly hauling it up the benside from the burn that ran along the bottom of the glen. She could search for other burns, and while she did that, she could look for ways to protect the MacAlpins while they lived here for who knew how long.
Tomorrow, at first light, Scotia would say she was searching for water, but she would be doing so much more. She would be doing something important, something that might turn the tide should the English find this glen—which is exactly what Jeanette should be doing. Not kissing the MacKenzie like nothing terrible had befallen her and her clan, like there was nothing to grieve over, and nothing to avenge.
