Then he remembered her dress—and her cut hair tucked into his sporran. Raising a sardonic brow, he fished out her shorn locks and let them drift away in the wind before holding out her dress. “Your arisaid.”
Her eyes widened slightly before she took it. After a moment, she reached in her pocket and held something out to him. “Your brush.”
When he saw the brush from his pack, the dam broke. He scowled at her. “You went through my bloody things, you lied, you stole from me, God knows what you did to poor Earc.”
She scowled right back and placed her hands on her hips. “I didn’t steal anything from you. Adaira gave it to me after she went through your things, and I’m giving it back, you idiotic, interfering—”
“I’m interfering? You almost brought all of Machar Murray’s forces down on us and ruined a finely planned attack. And you better not have hurt my cousin, or so help me—”
“I would ne’er hurt your cousin, although how you could just leave her there barely protected is beyond me. Your guard was too lost staring at my bosom to notice anything was wrong, and Adaira was only too happy to cut through my bonds. What if I’d been a threat?”
“You are a threat! You almost broke my nose and paralyzed my arm.”
“You pulled me from my horse and choked me. Then you tied my hands and dragged me through the rocks and bush like a bag of oats. You enjoyed it!”
“Nay, I was too worried I’d get an arrow in my back because you couldnae stop waving your arse in the air!”
“I had a gag in my mouth. I could hardly tell you I’d ne’er crawled like that before, now could I?”
“You wouldnae have told me anyway. You’re an imposter and a trickster.”
“You’re the one who invaded our castle. Threatened my clan.”
“Liberated your clan.”
“Took us over. Which means you are now responsible for us.”
“What?”
“You chased away our old laird, so now you have to be our new one.”
“Your old laird threw a lad in the dungeon for stealing bread and locked you in his bedchamber to use for carnal pleasure.”
“I didn’t say he was a good laird, but he killed all of the men who could have replaced him, so now Clan MacPherson belongs to you. We belong to you. If you refuse to help us, we’ll be scooped up by the next monster who comes along. What would Gregor MacLeod say if he knew you planned to leave?”
“He’d say: Run, Lachlan! Fast as you can! The clan’s all right, but the lass is as daft as a bat!”
“We need help!”
“Then go petition a laird for protection.”
“I’m petitioning you.”
“Nay, you’re not. Petitioning implies asking. You’re telling!”
She stamped her foot in frustration, then almost crumpled to the ground as she cried out in pain. Lachlan darted forward and caught her before she fell.
“’Tis nothing. A sprain,” she said, trying to push out of his arms. The feel of them around her brought back the secure feeling she had when she’d ridden with him on his horse to the waterfall. A feeling she now knew was false. He had no intention of making sure she and the rest of the MacPhersons were safe.
“How did you manage to run across the bailey like hellhounds were nipping at your heels with a sprained ankle?”
“I doona know. I was scared. Arrows were flying past my head. Are you going to question everything I do?”
“Aye, most likely.”
“Well, if you’re not staying, I doona have to answer. You’re not my laird.”
He grunted, swept her into his arms, and sat her on the steps leading up to the keep. “Stay off it until it heals.”
“I doona have to do what you say, either.”
“Well, I doona have to be a bloody healer to know that if it hurts, you should stay off it.”
She was about to say she was a healer and could make her own assessment, when a horse with a big, redheaded rider galloped into the bailey. The rider carried a child in his arms, her head and arm red with blood.
As he drew closer she recognized Earc, Adaira’s minder, and her breath stopped. Dear God. No!
“Adaira!” Lachlan yelled, disbelief and horror in his voice. He ran toward Earc. “What happened?” Amber hurried after him.
“Men came to the waterfall. Three of them.” Earc slowed and handed Adaira down to Lachlan. “I fought them off, but then I slipped on the rocks and fell into the river. I saw Adaira charge them with a knife as I was swept downstream. I got to her as soon as I could—she’d been stabbed and left for dead.”
Lachlan fell to his knees, Adaira in his arms. “Oh, Christ, no! Not Adaira!”
Amber crouched beside him and felt for the girl’s pulse, faint but still there. “Take her into the keep. We’ll set up the wounded in the great hall.”
“We need a healer! I know you have a good one. Get her now!”
“I am the healer, Lachlan MacKay. And I am good. Now take her into the keep and lay her on one of the tables. I promise to heal her as long as you promise to lead my clan until we can safely lead ourselves.”
Four
Lachlan sat in the great hall on one of the chairs he’d pulled up beside Adaira’s makeshift bed, holding her hand and cursing himself for the hundredth time that he hadn’t sent her home straight away when he had the chance.
She’d been on the table for over two hours while Amber worked on the stab wound to her lower abdomen—washing and stitching and smearing her with herbs and salves. Amber’s arisaid was covered in his cousin’s blood by the time she finished. The biggest worry now, she said, was infection. Though the girl had also lost a concerning amount of blood.
She’d moved on to treat other injuries after Adaira—MacPhersons, MacKays, and MacLeans. He’d watched as she’d limped around, checking and dressing head wounds, stitching cuts, setting bones, wrapping sprains, treating burns, and even realigning a shoulder that had popped out of joint. Ian had brought her satchel long ago, and she’d sent him back out to her cottage at first light, along with a guard, to pick more herbs from her garden.
Niall and the housekeeper, Finola, had been on hand to help wherever they could, mostly cleaning up after Amber and replenishing her supplies. And a young lass named Mary, who’d made eyes at Ian, had come up from the village to assist Amber.
Everyone was exhausted, but none had worked harder than Amber or had the added burden of a sprained ankle. She’d grimaced in pain several times, causing him to grind his teeth with frustration. None could do the work she did, but it bothered him that she tended to everyone but herself.
Earc lay on the bed next to Adaira’s. He’d been battered and bruised after his fight and subsequent near-drowning, and he’d swallowed much water. Amber had treated him and kept him close for observation. Instead of being angry at her for assaulting him in the cave, Earc’s puppy-dog gaze followed her around the great hall as she worked. As did the eyes of many other men from all three clans.
That bothered him too.
He couldn’t fathom the sway she held over the men. Aye, she was lovely, but she was covered in blood and gore, her hair was sawed off, she shouted out orders to everyone, she was too busy to give a whit about her patients’ feelings, and when an injury turned out to be more serious than she thought, she even cursed like one of his men. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d heard “God’s blood!” explode from her mouth.
His eyes went back to following her—just like the other men—except his gaze was filled with annoyance. When would she be done? Where would she sleep? Why wouldn’t she eat the food he’d brought her?
He’d just caught Niall’s eye and signaled him over when the outer door opened with a squeak. Callum and Hamish entered and wound their way toward him between the beds.
News on Murray, then, and by the looks on th
eir faces, not good.
He was about to stand and tell them he’d meet them outside, when Amber pinned him with a stern gaze. She jerked her head toward the door, indicating for him to leave. Even though it had been his plan to go all along, his spine stiffened, and he found himself wanting to do the exact opposite of whatever she wanted. The woman had no idea how to ask for anything, she just gave orders.
He rose slowly, staring back at her, his own face stern, until she huffed and spun away. Well, that was something. At least she’d turned away first.
Rolling his eyes at his childish behavior, he gave Adaira’s arm one final squeeze before intercepting Niall, who was rushing toward him.
“Has Amber eaten anything?” he asked the steward. Idiot question. He knew she hadn’t; he’d been watching her. “Maybe put the food on a slice of bread and feed her a bite while she works.”
The steward’s mouth dropped open. “I doona think she’ll take it. When she’s hungry—famished—she’ll eat. Not before then.”
“She needs to take care of herself too.”
“Aye, but she won’t. Not before she knows everyone is safe. ’Twas the same with her grandmother.”
“And did you tell her to choose one of the bedchambers upstairs? I had the fires lit.”
“Laird McKay, she willna leave the wounded.”
Lachlan rubbed his hand over his eyes. God’s truth, he was tired. He could only imagine how exhausted she was. “Make her a bed down here, then, and tell her if she doesn’t at least sit on it and put her foot up, I’ll…I’ll…” he tried to think of something the healer back home had an aversion to. “I’ll release my hounds into the sick room.”
“It willna work. Amber likes dogs.” He looked at Lachlan curiously. “I didn’t realize you brought dogs with you.”
“I didn’t. What will work then?”
Niall shrugged his shoulders. “Naught. I’ll make a bed nearby, and if she’s tired enough and feels she isna needed at the moment, she will rest.”
Lachlan sighed. “Aye. Go do it then.”
The steward nodded and headed to the stairs. Lachlan looked one last time at Amber’s back as she leaned over a patient, her shaggy hair, still home to several wood chips, irritating him as much as her limp—for what both things represented—and strode toward the door. It would do him good to get some air.
The morning sun was bright in his eyes after the dim light of the keep, and he raised a hand to shield them as he made his way down to the bailey. He glanced around, amazed to see it looked like naught had happened here last night. It was a miracle he and his men had taken over the castle with such little damage—to it and to the men. No deaths, and Amber said everyone, including Adaira, would heal.
That wasn’t to say the castle was safe. Nay, the walls were crumbling and the portcullis was rusted, not to mention the poor training of the guards. He had much work to do to get Castle MacPherson repaired, more safety measures in place, and its warriors properly trained, if people were to be protected in the future. Until then, he was beholden to the irritating, redheaded witch inside, who gave too much of herself and expected too little in return—unless it was her demand that he be their laird.
“What did you find?” he asked as he joined Callum and Hamish in the bailey, the ground only somewhat chewed up from the fighting.
“Machar Murray is gone,” Callum said.
Lachlan closed his eyes briefly. “As I suspected.” The bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed it down. They would begin their search again. This time, they had a name and a place to start.
The rat had nowhere to hide.
“We couldnae find any more escape routes in the keep, but there were three dug in recent years from other places—two from the barracks and one from the chapel. Both lead outside the perimeter wall.”
“Have you spoken to the MacPhersons? Did anyone else know?”
“Nay, I doona think so. Not at the barracks, anyway. Murray dug the tunnel under a chamber his personal guard used—the three we think attacked Hamish and Adaira. Everyone called them the laird’s dogs. No one was allowed into the chamber but them. Come have a look.”
They strode across the open area toward a long, low building on the far side of the bailey. “What of the chapel?” Lachlan asked. “You think the priest was in on Murray’s escape?”
“I wouldnae be surprised. ’Tis said he ran out in fright last night rather than tend to his people.” Callum couldn’t stand hypocrisy.
“Being a coward doesn’t make one guilty, Brother.”
“Aye, just unworthy of judging others, which the MacPhersons said he did with great enthusiasm.”
Lachlan had known many brave priests in his day, but he’d also known the opposite. Like all men, they were fallible. Wearing the cloth no more made you a worthy leader than wearing the laird’s mantle.
As they neared the barracks, he noticed several broken wooden crates, a few arrows still stuck in the pile of firewood that had tumbled out. The wood chips on the ground looked like those he’d seen in Amber’s hair. “What happened here?”
Hamish tugged on the ends of his beard. “Murray, we think. An ambush once the fighting was o’er. ’Tis a good thing your lass noticed the torches were out, or she’d be dead. Me too, most likely.”
Dead? Lachlan stopped in his tracks and stared at Hamish, who’d also come to a stop. The blood began to pound in his veins. “You speak of Amber?”
“Aye. The arrows were intended for her. I barely had time to push her behind the crate before we were attacked.”
Lachlan backtracked to the knocked-over crates of firewood, feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. That’s why she’d had wood chips in her hair, and why she’d been running in a panic through the bailey last night.
Machar Murray had just tried to murder her.
The pulse thrummed in his temples, and he found himself wanting to wrap his fingers around the rat’s neck—and not only for his brother this time, but for Amber as well.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to get past the rising anger, focus on the facts. “Someone—possibly Machar Murray—stayed behind, risked capture and certain death in order to kill her?”
Callum reached down and pulled out an arrow to give to Lachlan. It was newly made, with a distinctive knot in the twine and warp to the shaft. The feathers were from a raven, and the metal still shiny in places. “’Twas Murray, all right,” Callum said. “That’s his arrow. I heard he makes them himself, doesn’t let anyone else use them. And Niall did say he was obsessed with Amber. She held him off for five years. He must think she arranged the attack.”
Callum had a look in his eye that Lachlan recognized—he was plotting—and every one of Lachlan’s muscles tensed in anticipation: he just knew this plot somehow involved Amber.
Sometimes his foster brother was too good at strategizing.
Still, he had to listen. “Go on.”
“He’ll harbor that hatred. That obsession. He wouldnae like his ‘possession’ defying him…unless, of course, she was involved somehow with his escape.”
Lachlan’s hand had clenched into a fist at the suggestion, and he had to force himself to relax it. “I doona think that’s the case.”
“Aye, but when Murray’s plot to take o’er the MacKays failed, he killed your brother’s wife so she couldnae identify him.”
“I said ’tis not the case. He and Amber were not involved, and she did not help him.”
“Most likely, but he may still return for her. Either to kill or abduct her. He willna be able to let her go.”
Lachlan let out a tense breath and rubbed his palm over his jaw. “So…you want to use her as bait.”
“’Tis a possibility worth considering.”
He nodded, but his stomach had tied into knots. His forced calm deserted him at the thought of the d
anger it would put her in—danger she’d courted for so long already. Snapping the arrow in half, he tossed it to the ground and resumed his trek to the barracks. “She ne’er should have stayed with the clan when she was in such peril. She should have left long ago. ’Tis a miracle he didn’t try to kill her sooner.”
“Aye. But she’s stubborn. And dedicated. ’Twould be difficult for her to leave.”
“Bah, difficult or not, she should have done it to save her life. And her clan should have made her go. They asked too much of her. They still do.”
They reached the barracks, and Lachlan paused with his hand on the door. “He’ll come back for her, have no doubt. I want four guards on her at all times until he’s caught.”
“She willna take well to that,” Callum said. “Put the guards on her, but let them know she canna suspect their true purpose. They can pretend to be among the ‘besotted.’”
Hamish grunted in amusement. “I doona think they’ll have to pretend. Half the men have already gone in for treatment just to see her, and for injuries they wouldnae have bothered with before.”
Lachlan rounded on his second-in-command, the heat of his anger turning to deadly calm. “I will beat the next man bloody who does that—whether he’s a MacKay, MacLean, or MacPherson. She’s already worked to the bone. She hasn’t slept or eaten, and her own injury goes untreated.”
“Nay, I’ll beat the MacLeans,” Callum said.
Hamish’s amusement faded, and he squeezed the back of his neck with his palm. “Aye, you’re right, of course. I ne’er thought of that. I shall tell them.”
“You do that. And tell them to leave her alone, while you’re at it. If she doesn’t smile back or gesture them over, she doesn’t want their attention.”
“Aye, Laird.”
They entered the barracks, and Lachlan was surprised to see the MacPhersons laughing and joking with his and Callum’s men. They were still under guard, and the warriors took their task seriously, but the MacPhersons didn’t seem to mind.
A cheer went up when they saw Lachlan and Callum. “Laird MacKay! Laird MacLean!” several of the MacPhersons shouted. Some of them had imbibed too much, despite the midmorning hour, and an air of celebration permeated the room.
Highland Conquest Page 6
