One of the men started singing—a song of victory—and Lachlan’s anger slowly dissipated beneath the hope and good cheer that filled the room. Aye, these were decent people, as Amber had said, and he had no doubt they loved and appreciated her very much.
In the absence of a laird or clergy who cared for them, they’d turned to their healer. She had become their leader in the face of Machar Murray’s treachery, and she would likely no more abandon her clan—despite the dangers to herself—than he would abandon his. He sighed, caught Callum’s smiling gaze, and accepted the mug of ale someone handed to him. He even sang a few bars of the song.
’Twas one of his favorites, and he’d sung it many times after a battle.
“Laird MacKay!”
He looked up and saw the big man he’d taken down on the wall last night—the one with the bushy beard and hearty laugh. Aye, his laugh was still hearty, and Lachlan couldn’t help smiling.
He nodded at the MacPherson. “Are you all right, then? I didn’t hurt you?”
The big man laughed and pounded his stomach. “It takes more than a scrawny whelp of a man like yourself to hurt ol’ Tavis.”
“More like too much ale and an errant chicken bone!” someone else shouted.
Everyone laughed, including Tavis. When he caught his breath, he turned his shining face to Lachlan. “’Tis said you are to be our new laird.”
The room quieted. Every MacPherson stared at him, hope on their faces as they waited for his answer.
Lachlan stared back at them. They were good-hearted men who’d been ground into the earth far too long. How could he step on them once again?
“Aye, I suppose I am. If I doona, I’m sure Amber will come after me, and I wouldnae want to risk her grim countenance.”
The men all laughed again, even more excited now. One of them shouted out, “Our Amber’s an angel!”
Another yelled, “She’s our Queen of Elfame!”
“Nay, she’s none of that,” Tavis said. “She’s the pride of Clan MacPherson.”
* * *
“What are you doing?” Amber shouted up at Niall as he struggled to carry bedding down the flight of stairs to the great hall. She signaled for Mary to take over bandaging the shoulder of the MacKay warrior she was working on, then limped across the room to give Niall a much needed hand.
“I’m setting up a bed for you down here. On orders from our new laird.”
She stopped in her tracks, her arms full of the pillows and quilts Niall had given her. “You’re what?”
“Aye, he wants you to sleep and eat. He’s concerned you’re working too hard, so I’m to build you a bed down here and hand feed you as you tend the wounded.”
Amber’s jaw dropped open in shock. “Feed me? Has he lost his mind?”
“Aye, he must have if he thinks he can make you do anything you doona want to do.”
She scowled at him. “Since when has he become our laird?”
“Since you blackmailed him and he complied.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Aye, you did. You said you wouldnae help Adaira unless he became our laird, which we both know is a lie.”
“Nay, I said I would help Adaira, and he should bloody well help us too!” That was what she’d said, wasn’t it?
“Well, either way, we now have a new laird.”
“Since when? Adaira isna even healed yet.”
“Since he told the lads in the barracks ’twas so.” Niall pushed two benches together against the wall and laid several quilts and a pillow over them. “Do you think he’ll want us to change our name?”
“What are you talking about? You’re full of nonsense this morning.”
“Well, if he willna become a MacPherson, we’ll have to become MacKays, aye?”
Amber handed off her last pillow and placed her hands on her hips. ’Twas no wee matter to change a clan’s name.
“O’er my dead body!”
“Doona fash, Amber. He’s a decent man. More than decent. I’m sure he wouldnae ask such a thing of us. Especially if you were nice to him.”
“Nice to him?”
“Aye.”
“How nice?”
“Well, it wouldnae hurt you to smile at him once in a while, now would it? He isna like the other men here. I’m sure he knows many fine women and willna have his head turned by a simple smile.”
Many fine women.
The words echoed in Amber’s head as she imagined Lachlan surrounded by well-groomed women wearing expensive silks and fine woolen arisaids, their hair brushed and styled, their hands and nails clean.
She looked down at her own hands. Blood was caked in the lines at her wrists and under her fingernails, despite washing them regularly last night and this morning. And not one nail was smooth. Aye, they were broken and jagged, like her hair. She had tried to smooth them out as she didn’t want to scratch her patients, but she hadn’t done so in a uniform shape, that’s for sure.
Not that she cared. Besides, Lachlan was responsible for half of her nails breaking when he’d dragged her across the scrubby field, and she’d be happy to tell him that if he dared to comment.
Niall waved a hand at her arisaid as he continued. “Of course, he may turn his head because of the blood, dirt, and God knows what else on your clothes. Not to mention the state of your hair.”
Amber almost raised her hands to smooth her jagged tresses. She caught herself halfway and slammed her arms back down to her sides. “If he doesn’t like the way I look—or smell, for that matter—he can leave.”
“Or you can take a moment for yourself to wash up and have a sleep.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Niall MacPherson, are you trying to manipulate me?”
“I would ne’er do such a thing, because it would ne’er work.”
She scoffed, then picked up the last quilt, which sat on a nearby chair, and handed it to him. As he laid it on the bed, she couldn’t help but think how comfortable the wee nest looked. Aye, she was tired, and her ankle felt like it had been pounded by the MacPherson blacksmith on the forge—with double hammers.
He patted the pile of blankets. “If you sit, lass, I’ll be able to sit too, and my bones do ache. You can rest your foot in my lap, and I’ll look at your ankle.”
“So, ’tis blackmail, then, is it?”
“Aye, I’ve learned from the best.”
Amber looked back at her patients, thinking on the state of each one before deciding everything was under control. She lifted herself onto the makeshift bed.
“Lie back,” Niall instructed as he sat on the end.
She did with a groan, her eyes closing as her head hit the pillow, her feet lifting. Niall grasped her sore foot gently and worked to loosen the laces on the boots Hamish had cinched tight. When Niall slipped the first one off, she pressed her forearm across her eyes and bit her lip to stop from crying out.
God’s blood, that hurt.
His fingers loosened the ribbon at her knee then pulled down her sock and unwrapped the binding. Amber peeked out from beneath her arm when he clucked with concern. Her entire ankle and foot were swollen, despite having been strapped up, and it had darkened to an ugly, black bruise.
“What can I do for it?” Niall asked.
The concern in his voice almost brought tears to her eyes. Aye, she was tired.
“I’ve checked it. ’Tis not broken, just a sprain.”
“A bad one, by the looks of it. Can you stay off it?”
She laughed, unable to help herself. “Nay, I canna stay off it.” Then she sighed and closed her eyes again, her body all but melting into the bedding. “I promise to use the cane more, and I’ll have a wee rest right now. That’ll help. Have Mary bind it for me while I close my eyes, then lace my boot back up—tight. If I have time later on, I’ll go down to
the loch and dip my foot in for a few minutes. The cold water will take down some of the swelling.”
“You willna have time, of course, so I’ll bring water in a bowl from the well.”
“Aye. Thank you, Niall.”
“Nay, thank you, Amber. You came back to help us after we couldnae help you.”
She reached out with her hand and squeezed his. “You did help. You got me out of the castle and defied Laird Murray to do so. We all did the best that we could under terrible circumstances.”
“And now he’s gone. Maybe not dead, but gone for good from our lives. God sent us a miracle when he sent us Lachlan MacKay.”
“I’m not sure Lachlan would think of it that way. Callum either. They may have saved us, but our ‘miracle’ came at a terrible price to Clan MacKay. He is much aggrieved, though he may not show it.”
She thought back to the emotion she’d heard in his voice when he spoke of his brother Donald, and of Machar Murray. Aye, he hated Machar as strongly as he’d loved his brother.
“Have you thought on what I said to you before you went into the tunnel?”
She cracked open an eye to look at him, trying to get her sluggish mind working again. “What would that be?”
“About taking time for your own life now. Finding a good man, a decent man, and having a house full of bairns. You have a lot to give, Amber MacPherson, even though you pretend to be so fierce at times.”
“I am fierce. I would ne’er have survived if I wasn’t.”
“Aye, but you’re also a mother bear, and you should be filling your den with cubs who tumble all o’er you.”
Amber closed her eyes again. She loved children, but the last thing on her mind these past five years had been finding a husband and having a family. How could she, when she’d been so busy protecting her clan and herself from Machar Murray? She didn’t dream of kissing a handsome laird; she had nightmares of being raped by one.
And her nightmare had almost become a reality. If not for Lachlan and his men, she would most likely be dead or back in the brutal embrace of her former laird.
Still, she knew Niall well. Knew that he had a plan lurking in the back of his mind.
“And this decent man you mentioned wouldnae be Lachlan MacKay, now, would he?” she asked.
“Aye, he’s decent and strong enough to protect you and those you love. Would it be so wrong to try and catch the eye of a laird? Especially one as loyal, braw, and caring as him? He ordered me to feed you and make you a bed.”
“And that’s a good trait?”
“Aye, Amber. The man willna use you. He cares for your well-being and asks for naught in return.”
“Give him time. He’ll be wanting a kiss at least—once I wash and change my arisaid, anyway.”
“And what’s the matter with that? ’Tis hard for you to imagine, after defending yourself from Murray, but being intimate with a person you love is one of the most beautiful and pleasurable acts God gave us. You may find yourself wanting to kiss him back—and more.”
Amber’s eyes popped open, and she stared at Niall for a moment in shock before clapping her hands over her ears. “Och! I canna believe you said that. God’s blood, I may have to pour hot wax in my ears to burn out the words! Niall MacPherson, you canna talk to me about tupping!”
“Aye, well, you canna curse in such a manner or say ‘tupping’! I have long ago poured hot wax into my ears to keep your curses out.”
Amber tried to hold it in, but she burst out laughing. Niall joined her and they couldn’t stop for nigh on several minutes. ’Twas a good release after all they’d been through.
When the laughter subsided, she sighed—long and deep. Then she yawned. She tried to say something else, something about Lachlan MacKay and his love of fine women, tried to say that the state of her clothes, her hair, was not Niall’s concern. But the black hole of exhaustion dragged her under like a demon dragging a sinner to hell, and she slept.
Five
Amber surfaced slowly, still lost amidst a dream of fine silks and linens. The sounds around her were muted, the lights and colors blurry. She drifted in a sea of contentment that lulled her under again and again. This time, when she crested the cocooned warmth, she managed to open her heavy eyelids.
A man sat at the end of her bed, but he didn’t frighten her, didn’t make her feel like she had to protect herself. Nay, he made her feel safe. She stared at his profile—his head leaning against the stone wall, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling evenly. She blinked, losing focus, and had to drag herself back from the depths again so she could continue her perusal.
Her foot rested on his lap like it had with Niall; the snug pressure around her ankle would be a bandage, her sock pulled up to cover it. Her shoe wasn’t tied yet, and she wriggled her toes. His hand closed gently over them, stroked them.
Aye, that felt right too.
She drifted back under then opened her eyes a third time to gaze at his face—a strong jaw darkened with several days’ worth of stubble, his lips relaxed, the lower one soft and rounded, the top one slightly firmer, the small bump in his nose a testament to his willingness to fight.
His eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, hiding the gaze she wanted to see. She must have made a noise, a small sound of enquiry, for he turned his head and looked at her. They locked eyes. She stared to her heart’s content, drowning in the dark-blue color, fascinated by the laugh lines that fanned out from the corners. He’d pushed his hair behind his ears, and it framed the strong planes of his face.
When she saw his lips move, heard a whispered sound, she wanted to answer, wanted to say his name—Lachlan—but she couldn’t move her tongue to push the word past her teeth.
Her lids weighed down, and she gave in with a sigh, drifting under, hoping he’d still be there when she woke up. She wanted to touch him this time. Scratch her fingers through the rough growth on his face. Wanted to sit up and press her lips to the temptation of his.
Wanted a kiss.
Surely, she must be dreaming.
Moments later, or what felt like moments, she surfaced again to the sounds of yelling. Groaning, she opened gritty, heavy eyes. She must have slept several hours more, going by the slant of the shadows through the high, narrow windows and quality of the light.
The end of her bed was empty and her shoe tied tightly over her ankle. Her brow furrowed. Lachlan had been sitting there, holding her foot. Or had she dreamed that? The MacKay laird must have better things to do than watch her sleep. But she felt the weight of his hand holding her toes and the depth of his eyes as he gazed at her.
Aye, she must have dreamed it. All that nonsense talk from Niall about taking a husband, Lachlan MacKay in particular.
A screeching voice dragged her attention across the room, and she pushed herself up, dropping her feet to the floor. She winced as her foot nudged the bench. Her body ached, and her stomach felt like it gnawed on itself in hunger.
She recognized the man yelling by the long, tan-colored tunic he wore belted at the waist. A scowl creased her face. Rising from the bed, she intended to march over there, but the pain in her foot was even worse than before. All she could do was hobble.
“Get out! Get out!” he yelled, his back to Amber, his black hair clipped short. When the priest waved his arms and darted forward, she saw her friend Isla, heavily pregnant and looking distressed, retreating to the door, her hands pressed into the small of her back.
“Isla, wait!” she called out.
Relief flooded Isla’s face as she saw Amber over Father Odhran’s shoulder. He spun around, hatred darkening his countenance. He made the sign of the cross at the sight of her, and Amber’s hackles rose. God’s blood, she knew it was wrong to detest a priest, but this man was the worst of his kind—condemning and bigoted. And according to almost everyone, he’d been the first to run last night when the
attack on the castle began.
“If you’re not here to provide comfort to the wounded, Father, leave.”
“Nay, I shall protect them from you, witch. Be gone from our laird’s castle.”
He actually made a flicking motion at her, as if to cast her out. She almost laughed, but she was too tired and sore and worried about Isla, who hovered in the background looking harassed and scared, her face pinched in discomfort.
“Which laird would that be? Your friend Machar Murray, who’s been forced out and will be hanged if he e’er shows his face here again? Or Laird MacKay, whose cousin and clansmen I’ve been healing all last night and this morning? Murray’s reign is over, Father, and I doona think Laird MacKay will be as willing to condemn good folk as you are.”
“He will condemn you when I tell him you’re a witch. Look at you, covered in the blood of your sacrifices, dressed to tempt a man, your hair chopped off and surely used in some spell—maybe given to the devil as payment.”
Amber’s eyes widened in disbelief. Did he really believe what he was saying? And how could anyone interpret her current state of disarray as tempting? “’Tis the blood of the wounded, you wee ablach. And I cut off my hair to escape Machar Murray. Surely even you would consider it a grievous act to—”
“There is no more grievous act than what you do to this woman.” The priest swung around to point a condemning finger at Isla, who shrank back against one of the empty beds. “’Tis Eve’s sin she pays for with every contraction in her belly, every tear in her womb. God condemned all women with the pain of childbirth. ’Tis the work of the devil to take that pain away with your potions and witch’s hands.”
He must be referring to the massage she performed on the pregnant women. She made a sound in the back of her throat—one of anger and disgust. She’d heard Father Odhran preach this shite before, knew that he visited the clan women to try to scare them away from coming to her for help, but thank the Lord he’d been seen as an outsider, brought on after Machar Murray had taken over, and they didn’t listen.
Highland Conquest Page 7
