The Draig's Wife

by Lisa Dawn Wadler

  Stopping inside the gate, Declan lifted Emma and Mary down from the horse. “Thank you for the ride,” Emma said as she stumbled. Speaking to Mary, “You can look now. We’re home. Open your eyes, love.”

  Answering Declan’s unspoken question, she said, “I told her not to look at . . . well . . . anything.”

  “‘Twas wisely done.” He bent forward to place another kiss on Mary’s brow. “You did well to heed Emma.” With his intense gaze back on her, he said, “For my daughter’s life, I am in your debt. Of this and other matters, we will speak later.” He cut off Emma’s reply with a light, lingering kiss to her forehead. “Nay now, Emma. You can argue with me later.” The light quip came with a wink that made her grin despite the day. That he also smiled warmed her inside. With another kiss to her forehead, some of the nightmarish day faded behind her, leaving her body to process what it had been through.

  Emma could feel her own shaking that matched Mary’s, and unbidden tears began to fall. I can’t even begin to process what happened. Never in her life could she have ever imagined being so scared and then left so empty and hollow at Aalish’s cold treatment of her.

  Her eyes squeezed shut to block out the horror, and a hard body pulled her close. Declan’s voice murmured against the top of her head as she and Mary leaned against him. “You are safe. I will never let anything hurt you ever again.” His large hand ran up and down her spine as he made calming sounds in his throat. “Forgive me for allowing you to face such dangers. You should have been protected and away from harm. Forgive me, Emma.”

  She had thought he whispered for Mary’s sake and knew his other arm held his daughter close. Pulling back, but not far enough to break his hold, she gazed into mournful eyes. Her mouth was agape at the shock she felt.

  A deep rumble of a chuckle left his throat. “Once again, I leave you speechless.” The humor abruptly left his face. “Such words of kindness should nay have given you such pause.”

  Emma felt her lips twitch even though a smile was a long way away. “You caught me off guard.”

  “So I did.” His gaze lingered on hers, and her head turned away from the sight of his eyes falling to her torn dress. A low growl pulled her back to him. “Forgive me for failing you.”

  Before she could reply, his arms fell away and left her once again hollow and empty. Declan leaned down to whisper unheard words to Mary before his lips pressed to the child’s forehead, and he stepped away from them and away.

  “Where are you going?” Emma asked when Declan leapt back onto his stallion.

  “To the village to bring back the wounded and make certain all are safe,” Declan replied.

  Noting the blood dripping down his arm, she asked, “Couldn’t you wait long enough to have someone look at your arm?”

  “See to your wounds. Mine is but a scratch,” Declan said after a quick inspection.

  “Scratch, my ass,” Emma mumbled, setting Mary on her feet.

  Declan laughed and flashed her one of his unique smiles that lit his eyes. “We can argue this later as well,” he said as he moved the horse toward the gate. He stopped as soon as Meggie’s squeals could be heard across the crowded space.

  “Oh, thank the heavens. You are all safe and home. My poor little child,” Meggie said, scooping Mary into her arms. “You poor child, how scared you must have been. Have no fears now, you are home and safe with Meggie.”

  “Tend my daughter and Emma, Meggie,” Declan commanded as he spurred the horse into motion and down the path.

  “Emma!” She heard Cortland shout from across the courtyard. A strangled cry left her throat, and she tried to run but only managed to limp to the arms waiting to hold her. The sword finally dropped from her hand to clatter on the stones beneath her feet. Clinging with all her might to the man, tears fell, and he whispered in her ear that it was over and that she was safe. The words that meant the most to her were the ones that expressed how much he loved her.

  Chapter 9

  Emma limped her way down the corridor while Cortland cringed at the sound of her flip-flops on the stone floor. He hated the noise, but she knew there was no way her doe-skinned boots were going to fit over her swollen ankle any time soon. They were covered in blood and gore, and the sight of them nauseated her. The bottom of the pole she used to support her steps clicked in time with the flapping. He quickly closed the distance between them and held her tightly.

  “You finally found the baths,” Cortland said as his hand ran over her damp hair.

  “Better late than never,” she answered after a long hug ended.

  The mad chaos of the day had lasted well into the night. Most of the time had been spent with Cortland tending the wounded, learning how to administer stitches and basic care, and listening to everyone’s battle stories. She had only left his side once, to see Mary asleep in her bed. Meggie had shooed Emma from the child’s bedchamber to finally clean up. Wrapped in the oversized and ultra-soft robe, she was finally clean and void of the stench of blood. Floral scents filled her nose; the soap had been a gift from Aalish days before. While loath to use up her precious gift, she mentally needed the clean scent.

  “I have one last task to set before you,” Cortland said as he held up his injured hand, showing her the broken fingers that had finally been wrapped. “Your skill with the needle is needed for one last man.” Helping her walk, he led her to a chamber and knocked.

  The bolt slid open, and they entered a chamber she had never seen. “Who’s injured?” Emma asked.

  “I am,” Declan said in lieu of a greeting. “My arm may have more than a wee scratch after all.”

  Emma laughed at the comment, and her gaze took in the chamber. It was by far the largest she had seen on the second floor. Flames filled the fireplace that boasted two wing chairs and a table before it. The window faced the courtyard. She assumed she would see the village if she looked through it. The wall to her right was the backdrop for a bed that was as large as a king-size bed. Even in the dim candlelight, she could see the dragon with two heads from the tapestry carved on the headboard and on the four posters. The carving was a work of art.

  “You are here to inspect my wound, nay the chamber,” Declan said, pulling her back into the moment.

  Emma nodded. She faced the man, and her delight in the chamber changed to awareness of its occupant. Declan had also recently bathed. Long, black, damp hair fell to the middle of his back. Like her, he hadn’t bothered to dress completely and wore only a clean pair of leather pants. In the soft lighting, she could see his wide muscular shoulders, the chiseled contours of his chest, and the hard lines of his abdomen all covered in tanned skin and very little hair. Air left her lungs at the sight of such raw physical perfection. He looked like a mythical creature or something too fantastical to exist. Emma stumbled slightly at the sight before her.

  Declan reached out and took her arm, leading her to the table before the fire. He turned to offer her a full view of his right bicep. “It needs no stitch, just a properly tied bandage. I can nay reach it, and Cortland is useless with his broken fingers.”

  “I believe that may be a slight exaggeration, Declan,” Cortland said, holding a candle closer to the wound to help Emma see. “The wound has been cleaned and awaits your care. Though I would argue the need for the needle.”

  “No,” Declan commanded.

  “I can’t say I blame you about the stitches. That was worse than the injury.” Emma studied the wound. It no longer bled. She was no expert as to what was really needed, and she had no idea how to stitch the lack of pinchable skin—the man was a solid rock.

  Her eyes left the injury to study the tattoo that began at his shoulder and wrapped down to his elbow. Again, the dragon with no end greeted her eyes. Even though her first instinct whispered to touch and trace the dragon on his skin, she held her hands in check and teased him
instead. “It looks like your dragon was cut in half,” she teased.

  His gaze fell to hers as he turned his head with mischief in his eyes. “So it was.”

  Taking the linen strips from Cortland’s hand, she wrapped the arms gingerly after smearing the homemade concoction that supposedly prevented infection and used a gentle touch to tie the ends of the wrapped bandage together. Declan nodded at her work. “Cortland said you needed stitching. How bad is it?”

  Emma caught the worry in his eyes. “Just a few on my thigh. Meggie said they should heal quickly.” His concern caught her by surprise and left her unbalanced, the same as it had in the courtyard. “I will add that the whiskey she gave me is wearing off and I can feel it again.” Emma had taken three shots of whiskey before she would let the woman anywhere near her with the needle.

  “There is no reason to be in pain.” Declan handed her a cup from the table.

  Inhaling the pungent scent of more whiskey, Emma took a long swallow and grimaced as it burned down her throat. “Thanks,” she choked out.

  “Emma, you should sit and ease your ankle,” Cortland said from the chair before the fire, though he did not rise from his seat. “We have matters to discuss with you.”

  With Declan’s strong arm wrapped around her, she limped around the furniture and grinned at Cortland who sat with his arms wide.

  “I will fetch another chair for Emma.” Declan’s offer was immediately denied.

  “I would hold my daughter.”

  With no grace, she settled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck for one more hug. Even with his broken fingers, he arranged her legs to take all the pressure off her ankle. “Thank you,” she whispered against his neck. While knowing she was far too big to sit on anyone’s lap, being held by Cortland was exactly what she needed.

  “What happened to your foot?” Declan asked after he sat in the other chair.

  “I landed wrong.” Emma looked up from Cortland’s embrace. Embarrassment filled her before the shiver wracked her frame. Grateful for Cortland’s hold around her, her mind reluctantly went back to the moment. “There were two of them, one of whom I had knocked out earlier with the laundry stick, but hadn’t killed. Let me tell you, he was pissed. Another one held me from behind while he stood in front of me.” Even hours later, she could feel his hands rip the front of her gown and smell his noxious breath on her face. “I pulled my legs up to push him away after he . . .” Her words failed, not wanting to voice the fact that her clothing had been torn by her assailant. “Anyway, I pushed him away, and the move caused the one holding me to loosen his grip. Basically, I landed wrong and twisted my ankle.”

  Her elbow stung with the physical memory of nailing the man behind her in the face. The men’s deaths were a blur. Cortland’s kiss to her temple pulled her out of the memory that would haunt her dreams. “I’ve sprained it worse before. In a few days, I’ll be jumping on it again,” she assured the men.

  Declan nodded and handed her the cup. “Drink, Emma.” After she swallowed, he took the cup from her hand and finished the remains. “Tell me what you heard.” His request was soft and kind, a far cry from the bluster she was used to and more comfortable with.

  Without lifting from Cortland’s shoulder, Emma held Declan’s gaze. “There were two things Cortland and I decided were important. The first was when the man who held onto Mary referred to her as a prize. It didn’t even register in my thoughts until I heard two other men state that you had arrived. They spoke of earning more for killing you. I don’t think it was a random attack.”

  “The laird is always a prize in battle, as is the heir,” Declan said. Cortland quickly agreed.

  Emma gave voice to what she believed the men weren’t seeing. “But don’t raiders come to raid, as in steal stuff? They didn’t try to take anything, not that there is much to easily carry off from the village. The herds were in the far pastures and should have been easy to steal. Plus, they could sell or eat the animals. The only motive that’s obvious is to try and kill you and Mary.” She’d watched enough CSI with her grandmother to know there was always a motive.

  With his gaze on Emma, Declan spoke more to Cortland. “I fear Emma is correct, and I had the same thoughts. We need extra guards on the child at all times. See it done, old man.”

  “‘Tis already done. I have a man outside her chamber door and another at both stairways.” Cortland added, “I see your uncle’s hand in the day. It would be far too convenient to have you and Mary dead. Then nothing would stand in his path to your wealth.”

  Declan quickly agreed. “Unfortunately, we have no proof. We found nothing on the dead men to tie them to my uncle or anyone else.”

  “Do you find it as strange as I do that an attack came when you were gone? Mayhap your informant was nay truly informing but sent to keep you from your lands,” Cortland suggested.

  Emma snuggled deeper into Cortland’s willing embrace, soaking into the security he offered. Her eyes darted between the two men who spoke around her, content to listen and learn what she could.

  “Again, we share the same thoughts. While at the time, I thought the information had value, it was only what I could have assumed.” Declan turned his gaze to the fire, and his heavy sigh filled the air. “I should have never left my lands.”

  Emma heard Declan’s guilt, and Cortland responded. “Ease your mind of what has passed. You had no way to ken the truth.”

  A knock at the door echoed in the chamber. “Who is it?” Declan called out gruffly.

  That’s the voice I know, Emma thought.

  “‘Tis Meggie. If Cortland is with you, he is needed in the hall.”

  Squeezing Emma’s shoulder, Cortland said, “Let us leave Declan in peace. I will see you to your chamber before I tend matters below.”

  “Please stay for a wee bit, Emma. There is more I would like to discuss.” Declan filled the cup and handed it to her after Cortland helped her rise. She then settled again in the chair, using a stool to prop up her wrapped and swollen ankle.

  She drained the cup in one long swallow, praying it would erase or dull the memories of the horrific day. Without listening to Declan and Cortland’s quiet conversation at the door, she stared at the fire, grateful she wasn’t going to be alone. Even sitting there to argue about whatever Declan found fault with was better than being alone.

  After the door closed, she heard steps and eyed Declan as he walked to his bed to grab a pillow. After he gently placed it under her foot, she sighed in pleasure. Once he sat, she asked, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “You saved Mary’s life. I am in your debt.” Declan filled the cup again. “Did Cortland offer you the mark?”

  With her eyes locked on the pillow cushioning her heel, she still couldn’t believe Declan had acted with only thoughts of her comfort even as he offered what, to her, seemed bizarre. “Do you mean did he offer to tattoo me as some strange form of payment?”

  “While it may seem strange to you, ‘tis a long-honored custom. The mark is only given to those responsible for saving the life of the laird or the heir.”

  Turning to face him, she stared into the eyes that sought hers with no sign of disapproval. “He told me that, and he showed me the one on his chest.” Snuggling back into the padded high back of the chair, Emma sighed. “I’ll tell you what I told him. I don’t need it because I already have one.”

  The cup Declan had raised to his lips froze in the air. “Why would you carry such a mark?”

  “We call it a yin-yang symbol. Basically, it means the joining of two opposing forces; it connects them and brings harmony.” Emma shifted in her seat for a more comfortable position while debating how to share the reason. “After my grandpa passed, my grandmother was a mess. For two weeks, she refused to leave the house, saying she had no idea how to live without his stubborn as
s. Then one morning she got dressed and asked me to drive her. Had I known the destination was a tattoo parlor I might have refused. Anyway, to make a long story short, she asked for that tattoo, the yin-yang. She said it was like their relationship, two separate halves that had been made a whole when they were together.”

  “Grandpa hated tattoos on women. He thought it was tacky. She did it to make him angry, to give voice to how mad she was at him for dying and to have the physical reminder of how good they were together.”

  Declan took a swallow from the cup. “So why do you bear the mark?”

  “I was angry too,” she answered plainly.

  “Where is your mark?” Declan asked, handing her the cup.

  Emma took a gulp and laughed at the question. She lifted slightly in the chair and placed her hand on the top of her right buttock. “Here, but don’t ask to see it. You don’t have enough whiskey to make that a good idea.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Unable to prevent it, Declan laughed at her audacious remark. Heaven help him, he had asked her a question, and the lass answered it honestly and completely. He almost had no idea how to respond to such. His dealings with women had left him jaded and too used to women who deceived their husbands and others who only wanted something of value. It bothered him that he did wish to see it, as such thoughts were dangerous.

  “My thanks for such a fine tale, Emma. Have no fear, I will nay ask to see your mark. Even with broken fingers, I have a fear of Cortland’s sword,” Declan replied with a quick wink. He wondered if Emma was always so simple—ask for the truth and receive it. He let the musing drift away as her gaze left his and settled on the fire. While he was enjoying the levity, there had been purpose behind asking her to stay, other than the mere pleasure of her company.