“Aye, Drustan. Take some time for yourself tomorrow. And Finn, Gill, and Artair too. We all need time to rest and recover.”
“I will. I’m…not feeling myself lately. A few days will be all I’ll need.” He smiled at them as he rose to leave, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
When the door was firmly shut behind Drustan, Gavin caught Callum’s gaze. “He needs more than a few days. Is he ill? What ails him?”
Callum shrugged, feeling protective of Drustan even though he’d wondered the same thing. “I thought you would recognize it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he’s grieving.”
“Grieving whom?”
“His wife.”
Gavin’s eyebrows shot up. “She must have died o’er twenty years ago?”
“Aye, but…” For some reason, he didn’t want to tell Gavin what Drustan had said after Maggie was hurt. “I think Maggie reminds him of her. It’s become fresh in his mind…his heart.”
Gavin’s eyes filled with understanding, with pity and regret. He raised his hand and rubbed his palm over his badly shorn hair. “Say no more. I know the feeling well.”
Callum sighed heavily, tired beyond measure now, and wished he hadn’t brought up Gavin’s loss. “I do as well, but certainly not to the extent that you and Drustan do. To lose a child as you did or a beloved wife like Drustan did is a tragedy beyond compare. My father had his flaws and lacked judgment in many areas of his life, but he always loved me well. My childhood, even before I was sent to live with the four of you, was happy.”
“Aye, mine too. ’Tis what I had hoped for Ewan, and then his mother had rejected him even before he was born. Now…” His voice broke, and this time, when he rubbed his palm over his hair, he grasped it and pulled it roughly away from his scalp, making Callum wonder if that was why he’d shorn it in the first place. “’Tis the unknowing. He’s alive, I feel it. But is he loved? Is he safe? I willna know until I find him…and then I will kill whoever kept him from me.”
They sat quietly for a moment before Gavin gathered up the letters he’d written and rose from the desk with the candle. “We should sleep,” he said. “’Twill be another long day tomorrow.”
“Aye.” But Callum knew Gavin would work through most of the night, as he always did. Sleep brought him no relief.
Callum trailed Gavin to the door and locked the solar behind them. He slipped the key in his sporran and followed his foster brother to their rooms, where two warriors—men Callum knew well and trusted—guarded his wife. At the door to his chamber, he paused. Without looking at Gavin, he said, “’Tis time we finish this, Brother. You need your son with you, and I need my wife safe.”
“Aye, Brother,” Gavin responded. He sounded bleak, as if he was now doubting that he’d ever find his son. “’Tis time.”
Callum pushed open the door and slid the bar across behind him, taking no chances. He stripped down to his clean shift as he approached Maggie, asleep in the middle of his…their bed. After tossing his clothes across a chair, he pulled off his boots and socks. Drawing back the covers, he crawled in beside her, thankful she’d hurt the opposite side.
He slipped his arm underneath her neck, and when she didn’t seem to be in pain, he edged even closer to fit her snugly beside him. His body stirred, feeling her softness and warmth. She looked so beautiful in the firelight that his heart hurt. He let his mind wander back to their time together at the hot springs. Someday, when the dangers to her and his clan were over, he’d return with her to the pools and do all the other things he’d wanted to do to her in the water.
For now, he could wait. Aye, his wife was on his land, in his home, and in his bed. Life was good. Once she was healed and the traitor in his clan found, they had a whole lifetime for tupping.
If he could just keep her alive until then.
Eighteen
Maggie roused from sleep slowly, the sound of birds singing outside the window and Callum breathing softly in her ear bringing her to awareness. Everything still hurt, which she found most annoying, as she’d been in bed, sleeping on and off, for over two weeks. Shouldn’t she be healed by now? Maybe she would be if Flora didn’t keep coming in twice a day and massaging her shoulder and hand, manipulating every joint and muscle before placing the hand in freezing water.
Gah! She hated being an invalid. At least the pain and dizziness in her head and queasiness in her stomach had abated. She’d even managed to eat half her evening meal last night.
Her memories of the ride from the hot springs were a blur of pain and fear—fear that she’d slow the men down and they’d be attacked, that Callum would try to fight while holding her and he’d be killed, that they’d be hiding from the enemy, she would cry out from the pain, and they’d be found. The thoughts kept running riot in her head, mixed up with a haze of pain and sickness.
It had been torturous, nearly as bad as when her mother had been mortally injured falling into the old well. She’d died slowly, painfully, as Maggie, just seven years old, had crouched fearfully beside her in the dark, calling out for help until her voice was hoarse. Finally, her father and brothers had come, but her mother hadn’t made it.
Her father had never been the same.
Even now, Maggie felt that same wave of guilt, regret, and shame well up from her belly. She’d been told many times not to go near the old well, but she’d done it anyway, chasing that beautiful butterfly. She’d never seen one that bright an orange before.
She bit her lip and tried to contain the sob that wanted to burst from her throat, trying to stay silent, to push the feelings away. What was the matter with her lately? She’d lost all control of her emotions. When she and Callum had been making love, she’d been almost frantic, not knowing what to do with the way she was feeling. He’d calmed her, said it was because she felt vulnerable.
Bah! She’d had enough of that. She needed to find her weapons and take charge of her life. Irvin might have run her out of her old home, but she refused to let the traitor in Callum’s clan run her out of her new one.
Gritting her teeth, she edged slowly and silently out of the bed so as not to wake her husband. She stopped to look at him—a beautiful, warrior angel—and felt that fluttering in her chest. Like a bird was trapped inside. With a clarity she’d never known before, she knew she would do anything for him. She would put herself in any kind of danger to save him, even though he wanted to be the one saving her.
She’d start by scouting his castle, planning their escape routes, and planting her weapons. Then she’d find the bloody traitor in their midst. If Callum was right and she’d soon be surrounded by red-headed bairns, she would not abide any threat to them. She just had to look in the places Callum had missed.
She pushed herself up slowly, her arm still in a sling to keep her hand protected and to ease the strain on her shoulder. At least her breath came easier, a sign her ribs were healing, and now that she was up, she realized her shoulder felt better too.
Maybe she wouldn’t stick her knife in Flora the next time the healer touched her. Not that she’d have done it anyway, of course. For some reason, Flora felt like home. Similar to how Callum felt, but different.
Spotting her daggers on the bedside table, she picked up all four of them, wondering where her fourth had come from. She hadn’t seen it since she’d embedded it in one of the wolves that had attacked her. Maybe one of the other men had had it all along.
Hobbling like an old woman, she stepped behind the screen in the corner and used the clean chamber pot as quickly as she could—which wasn’t very quick. If it wasn’t for the fact that she didn’t want Callum to find her squatting there, she might have just stayed. Instead, she took a deep breath and forced herself to stand. When she finally straightened and the pain subsided, she looked longingly at the empty tub.
But she had work to do first.
Crossing to the middle of the room, she looked around Callum’s—their—bedchamber. It was a large, richly furnished room, but it felt as though the fine quilts, intricate woodwork, soft woolen carpet under her feet, and beautiful tapestries on the wall were an afterthought. The room looked lived-in—Callum’s worn-in boots lay carelessly on the rug, and his plaid was draped where he’d tossed it over one of the chairs in front of the hearth. His sword was propped up by the side of the bed, and his daggers took over the table next to it, pushing the finely wrought candleholders and cups to the side.
Even the tapestries on the walls weren’t spared. His saddlebag lay against one of them, pushing it askew.
Aye, he was not a man who put much stock in fine things. Unless maybe they were books. She always remembered Callum in his younger years having a book or parchment of some kind in his possession and taking good care of it.
She looked at the door. That would be the first obvious point of entry for an attack. Where would be the best place to hide daggers to defend Callum and herself if the need arose? She gazed around the room and hobbled to the closest tapestry, lifted it away from the wall, but a sword was already hidden behind it. She looked behind the next tapestry and found two more daggers. Where hadn’t Callum hid weapons?
She crossed to the hearth. If she found some there, she was going to replace his with hers. Aye, one was behind a bowl on the mantel. But had he thought to hide any down low? Or under the chair? Surely she could find a way to secure a weapon under the wooden chair.
She braced her good arm against the stone mantel and tried to lower herself to her knees. About halfway there, her ribs pulled, and she had to let go of the mantel, crying out in pain as she tumbled to the floor.
“Maggie!” Callum yelled, jumping from the bed and racing to her side. He gently helped her into a sitting position. “For the love of Christ, lass. What are you doing?”
“I would think that was obvious, Callum MacLean.”
“You’re lying on the floor, writhing in pain, when you should be in bed, sleeping. How is there anything obvious about that, Maggie MacLean?”
“My daggers,” she said, indicating the four knives scattered on the floor around her. “I was hiding some of them to be safe, but you used up all my spots. So I was checking to see if you’d hidden any in the hearth or under the chair. Men never think to look down low, but if someone has you trapped under them, you willna be able to reach the mantel.”
Callum stared at her, a twitch in his right eyelid and a muscle jumping in his jaw. Apparently, he agreed with the necessity of hiding weapons down low.
He gathered her in his arms, mouth tight as if he was stopping himself from saying something. After carefully lifting her, he walked to the bed and laid her down. Maggie almost groaned in relief, but she didn’t want him to know how much she’d needed his help.
Aye, she was a daft woman.
He sat beside her and clasped her uninjured hand. “Maggie, you doona need to worry about hiding daggers because I’ll—”
“And escape routes,” she interrupted.
“What?”
“Escape routes. I was going to look for them next.” She held her breath and found she was actually enjoying herself, despite the ache in her ribs and hand. She wondered how long Callum could keep calm, and what she could say next to make his eyelid twitch.
He blew out a loud breath and then said something she could barely hear, cursing most likely.
“I willna convince you to let me protect you, will I?”
“Callum, why would I do that? Aren’t you happy to know that I have the ability to protect you? And someday possibly our bairns? I know I froze at the hot springs, but you said you could work on that with me. And if you do, I promise to work on your aim with you.” She kept her face innocent, knowing he’d catch on to what she’d said, to the two different ways her words could be interpreted.
His gaze jumped to hers, so quick and alert. It made her want to sigh and invite him between her legs, to start practicing right then despite her pain.
He leaned forward and bit her neck in retaliation, then trailed his lips upward to suck her earlobe into his mouth and nip it too. “Aye, we’ll be working on my aim, Maggie. We’d start now if not for your injuries. You’ve already done enough damage to yourself this morning.”
She lifted her good arm to pull him closer, but he clasped her hand and drew it to his mouth for a kiss before rising from the bed and retrieving her daggers. “So you want one hid in the hearth and one under the chair?”
And there she went again, wanting to cry. Because he’d put his own feelings aside and supported hers.
She nodded, unable to get words past her tight throat. Then she forgot about anything else but her husband in front of her as he leaned down on his hands and knees, head in the fireplace, and pointed his barely covered arse toward her.
Her eyes widened, especially when his shift rose up and she saw those heavy stones of his hanging down. An excited gasp escaped her lips.
“Quit staring at my arse, Maggie,” he grumbled.
“Then quit waving it in my direction, you daft man.”
He grunted but continued to work in the fireplace, and she continued to stare, wanting so badly to rise from her sickbed and cup those twin, muscular globes. Then slide her hand down and squeeze the other twin globes between them.
The idea filled her with yearning, her blood drumming in her veins, the softest parts of her swelling as heat and wetness gathered between her legs. She raised her hand to her mouth and bit down on her thumb so she wouldn’t moan aloud. It was most unfair that she was finally married to Callum and she could do nothing to slake her need for him.
Well, she could do that. Her hand slid down her body of its own accord, then stopped when he suddenly backed out of the hearth, minus one dagger, and sat back on his heels. “It’s near the front on the left side. Are you sure you want it inside the hearth? If the fire is burning, the metal will heat and burn your hand when you grab it.”
“I’d rather my hand be burned than be dead. Or you dead.”
He scowled, then grabbed one of the intricately designed chairs and flipped it upside down. After a second, he jammed her second dagger into the wood so it lay flush against the seat.
“Use this one instead, if anything happens—not that it bloody well will. Still, I’ll bring the mason in tomorrow and have him craft some hiding spots on the hearth down below. ’Tis a good idea. I should have thought of it.”
“See?” she said, a smile splitting her face.
He grunted, then scanned the chamber as if taking an inventory of all the hidden weapons and hiding places in the room. “Anything else?” he asked, his back to her.
“Aye, a rope. Long and sturdy enough to climb out the window. We’ll store it under the bed. In fact, have one made for every room above the second floor, just in case.”
His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t say no. “I’ll see what we have in storage. Anything else?” He glowered at her over his shoulder. “And it better not be a crossbow, rope, or pulley.”
She’d thought about all the things she’d wanted over the years. It was exciting to think that she could just ask for something and it would appear. At Clan MacDonnell, she’d had to keep everything a secret for so long. “I’ve always wanted a net. A big, sturdy one.”
He spun around, a look of incredulity on his face. “Maggie MacLean, you’ve lost your bloody mind. What in heaven would you do with a net?”
“I doona know exactly, but I’m sure I could drop it on someone. Or maybe jump into it if I had need.” He looked like he was going to refuse her, and she said, “’Tis customary to give your wife a gift when you marry, is it not?”
He threw his hands in the air. “And that’s what you want? Not jewels or fine clothes or even land? You want a big net?”
“Aye.”
&nbs
p; He looked heavenward and muttered under his breath before shaking his head and reaching for his plaid. “You shall have your net, Maggie MacLean. My wedding gift to you. And it will be the biggest bloody net you’ve e’er seen.”
* * *
Maggie groaned in pain, her chin raised, her head pressed against the wall as Flora massaged upward from the heel of Maggie’s hand and over her little finger to the very tip—the last digit to be so manipulated. For today at least.
“All done,” Flora said as she reached for a pail of cold water on the floor—freshly drawn from the well and delivered only minutes ago by one of the maids, who was now busy filling Maggie’s tub behind the wooden screen with hot, steaming water.
Maggie relaxed against the pillows propped up behind her and lifted her hand into the pail, which Flora had placed on the quilts. The cold water stung, and she grimaced, but she knew from experience the soaking took the swelling down and relieved her pain for a good, long while—without the use of herbs. Flora also said it quickened the healing.
“How’s your stomach?” the healer asked as she prodded Maggie’s shoulder, which no longer hurt.
“It’s good. The sickness has abated, and the headaches and dizziness have passed. I could have eaten two of everything they brought me for breakfast this morning.”
“That’s good news. A serious head injury can cause lasting damage.”
“And my hand?”
Flora smiled in that tender, understanding way that made Maggie want to curl up in her lap like a bairn. “A full recovery. Your ribs and shoulder too. You’ll be back to tossing daggers and protecting the clan in no time, Lady MacLean.”
A relieved sigh escaped Maggie’s lungs. “All thanks to you, Flora. As much as I’ve hated your treatment at times, I can see and feel afterward how it’s helped.” She wriggled her hand in the water and slowly stretched out her fingers. “And please, doona call me Lady MacLean—at least not in private. It’s Maggie.”
Highland Betrayal Page 21
