“I do,” she whispered. She hugged both arms around her aunt and closed her eyes as she pressed her face to the old woman’s shoulder. “He saved me, Auntie Moira. I owe him…we owe him everything.”
With a hitching intake of breath as she continued her gentle rocking, Mistress Mackenzie cast a teary-eyed glance back at Duncan. “The Mackenzies shall reward him well, lass. Yer da and I shall see to it.”
Duncan couldn’t decide if he was insulted or relieved. Avaricious as he was, he had not saved the lass with the hopes of a reward. He’d saved the girl because she had needed saving. “My reward is seeing the lady returned safe to her family. I need nothing else.”
Mistress Mackenzie ignored him, shushing and rocking Tilda as though afraid to let her go. “Yer champion is a mite ill-mannered, mind ye, but aye, we still appreciate him, nonetheless. We are indeed grateful.”
If it weren’t for upsetting the lass, he’d show that old dragon his definition of ill-mannered. He glared at the old woman, willing her to hear every unsavory thought he had for her. Biting back the words, Duncan moved to the dresser beside the bed and poured a cup of water from a porcelain pitcher. He held it out to Mistress Mackenzie. “A drink might help her. I had verra little water to offer when I found her.”
She gave him a stern nod. With Tilda supported in one arm, she plumped and piled the pillows behind her, then lowered her back into them. Her scowl deepened when she saw the rope burn around Tilda’s neck. “God save ye, lass,” she whispered.
As she curled her knees up to her chest, Tilda huddled beneath the kilt still wrapped about her shoulders and covered the mark. She forced a half-hearted smile and nodded toward the cup in Duncan’s hands. “A drink would be most welcome.”
He offered the cup to the matron again. Surely, the old woman wished to care for her niece herself.
Mistress Mackenzie arched a brow and jerked her boxy chin toward Tilda. “Well? Go on wi’ ye then. She’s right there. Tend her.”
Duncan bit the inside of his cheek, promising himself a private conversation with the crone at a later time. As gentle as possible, he held the thin, curving lip of the porcelain cup to Tilda’s mouth, tipping it with care to give her short sips. “There now, lass. Well done. That’s enough for now.” He returned the cup to the dresser and stepped aside, although he had to admit, it gave him a great deal of pleasure to stand with his arse blocking the old woman’s view.
Tilda studied him, the striking, blue-green of her eyes reminding him of the sunlit waters of a loch. “Where were ye bound when ye found me?”
Duncan chose his words with care. The Mackenzies needn’t know of his dealings with the MacDonalds. In fact, his well-being depended on it. He didn’t wish to lie, but he didn’t dare reveal all his truths. “Here in Inverness. I have an associate to meet.”
“Horse trading, no doubt,” Mistress Mackenzie said as though the task ranked along the lines of prostitution or thievery.
“Business, for certain.” Duncan would charge straight through the gates of hell before he gave the old crone the satisfaction of rising to her bait.
“So, ye’ll be in town for a while?” Tilda asked, then looked to her aunt without waiting for Duncan’s answer. “We must give him lodging here, aye? That’s the verra least we could do. And free food and drink at the pub?”
“Absolutely,” Mistress Mackenzie said with an indulgent smile for her niece before turning a haughty look on Duncan. “Room and board. The stable, as well. Himself would consider nothing less for the man who saved his only daughter.” She lifted her crooked nose higher as her eyes narrowed. “And yer stay here shall be all the handier since Himself will most certainly wish to speak with ye as soon as he returns.”
Duncan felt more hemmed in by the moment. He appreciated the free room and board but knew Mistress Mackenzie would use the opportunity to learn as much about him as she could. He didn’t like that woman. She struck him as wily as a feral cat. “I thank ye, but that isn’t necessary.” He made a proper bow to Tilda. “The lady safe and back with her kin is more than enough reward.”
“So, where did ye propose to stay?” Mistress Mackenzie rose from her seat, looking as though she braced for a battle she had no intention of losing. “Where did ye plan to meet yer associate? I assure ye, The White Lion has the best accommodations in Inverness.”
“I…well—”
“Well, it’s settled then,” Mistress Mackenzie stated with an odd huffing noise that resembled a low-throated growl. “Here ye are, and here ye shall stay, aye?”
“Aye.” What else could he say? He scrubbed a weary hand across his face. Damned if she hadn’t trapped him neater than a spider trapping a fly. He turned back to Tilda and bowed again. “I shall take my leave of ye now, m’lady. Ye need yer rest.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he cringed. Shite. He’d called her milady.
Tilda’s shot him a narrow-eyed look, and a healthy color pinked her cheeks at last. “Ye know better than that, Duncan MacCoinnich. Dinna make that mistake again.”
With a quiet groan, he swiped a hand across face again. “Forgive me, Tilda. I shall do my damnedest to remember. I swear it.”
A snorting sounded behind him. Duncan turned and received his first genuine smile from the fearsome Mistress Mackenzie.
“Perhaps ye shall do well enough after all, Master MacCoinnich.” She waved him forward. “Come. I shall personally see to yer room and tell the pub anything ye wish is yers for the asking.”
“Thank ye, Duncan,” Tilda called out, her voice a bit stronger. “Ye shall be sure and visit with me tomorrow, aye?”
“Aye, m—Tilda.” God’s teeth. He’d almost done it again.
“Just Tilda, Duncan. Just Tilda.”
He hurried from the room, Mistress Mackenzie’s loud snorts of amusement close behind him.
Chapter Three
Praise God they had fetched Agnes.
Agnes Cafflecary stood beside the bed, her hands fisted on her broad hips. Wispy tendrils of silvery hair escaped the messy bun knotted at her nape and fluttered about her face. Her kind eyes crinkled to narrow slits as her cheeks plumped with a sympathetic smile. “Let’s get ye undressed now, lass, so’s I can see all they did to ye. I understand well enough ye’d rather curl up and hide, but dinna give those bastards that power over ye. Dinna lose faith, child. We’ll get ye all healed and then I’m sure yer da will have their heads on a platter.”
Tilda pulled in a deep breath, held it, then blew it out. Agnes was right. She had to take back her power. Her sanity. Her life. She refused to let those black-hearted devils steal anything else from her. She swallowed hard. Mackenzies never yielded their power. She eased her feet to the floor and stood, then pointed a finger at her aunt. “No more gasping or blessing me, Auntie Moira. Swear it.”
Moira clenched her hands together and responded with a curt nod.
Tilda allowed the kilt to fall away, then shrugged the large tunic off her shoulders. She wriggled it downward to join the kilt on the floor. Her torn, bloodstained skirts and chemise came next. She had left her shredded bodice back in the woods and didn’t know what had happened to her stockings, shoes, or petticoats.
A chill stole across her, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. She crossed her arms over her bruised body.
“Order a bath,” Agnes said as she circled Tilda, giving her a quick up and down.
Moira hurried to the door and barked out the words. “A bath, and be quick about it if ye value yer hide!” She closed the door, then leaned back against it, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth.
“Ye swore, Auntie,” Tilda said, fighting the threat of tears. She had promised herself she would cry no more. “My maidenhead is still safe. Praise be to God help arrived in time.”
“Praise be to God,” Agnes echoed, scowling at the rope burns on Tilda’s wrists, ankles, and throat. “How on earth did they take ye, child? How did they manage to steal ye from us?”
“The stable,” Tilda said, a violent shu
dder from the memory weakening her knees. “I thought to check on the horses since Da wished to set out for Cape Wrath in the morning.” She closed her eyes, forcing out the words about how it had happened. “They waited in the shadows. To the back of the stalls. Said I’d learn my place after today. Said they’d teach me a lesson I’d not soon forget.”
“MacCoinnich said there were three. Three British soldiers,” Moira said, eyes flashing with rage. “Was it the three that insulted ye yesterday eve at the pub? The ones we ousted for behaving with such disrespect?”
“Aye.” She’d never forget their faces, but even worse, she’d never forget their smell. Their unwashed bodies. Their rancid, stinking breath. Their overpowering odor still held power over her, threatening to make her retch. She rubbed a hand up and down her arm, eager to scrub the filth from her skin and her memory. “Hurry the bath along, aye?”
“I’ll see to it myself.” Moira flew out the door, closing it hard behind her.
Agnes took hold of Tilda’s chin and turned her face from side to side. “Arnica will help with the bruising.” She mumbled something unintelligible under her breath as she examined the rest of the wounds. “A good cleaning and my best salve for the rest.” She gave a sad shake of her head. “I shall do the best I can with the rope burns, lass.” With a snapping shake of a folded length of linen, Agnes draped the cloth around Tilda’s shoulders. “Ye will feel all better after yer bath.”
With a gentle nudge, she trudged Tilda toward the sitting-room door. After but a few steps, she stopped, pondering Tilda with a thoughtful scowl. “Nay. I refuse to lie to ye. Ye might feel some better after yer bath, but ye still have a battle ahead of ye. Ye get my meaning?”
“A battle with the memories,” Tilda repeated with a shudder. “I can but live each day as it comes, Agnes. One day at a time, aye?”
“Aye,” Agnes agreed as they continued their slow trek across the bedchamber. “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
“Scripture, Agnes? You?” Tilda snapped her mouth shut, wishing the words had remained unspoken. She shouldn’t have said such.
Agnes was a dear soul, and all the rumors about her surely hurt the matron’s feelings. Tilda stole a glance at the kind woman, praying no insult had been taken. She wouldn’t hurt the precious old soul for the world. “Forgive me, Agnes. I meant no unkindness.” She hurried to add, “I swear it.”
Agnes chuckled, then winked. “Just because I’ve been known to cast an ill wish or two doesn’t mean I’m a complete heathen.” Malicious intent sparked in her eyes, their hue as dark as any obsidian. Their unusual shade lent strength to all the rumors. “And dinna ye doubt I’ll be calling up the darkest of ill wishes for those three that dared hurt ye.”
“Master MacCoinnich killed the one, but I reckon a curse on the other two might be most agreeable.” Tilda felt better at the suggestion. Aye. A curse would suit the others well. Perhaps have their bollocks swell until they burst.
“All three shall be marked, I grant ye that. The dead one’s soul can still be cursed to suffer.” Agnes pushed open the sitting-room door and helped Tilda forward with a satisfied smile. “They’ve done well in here for ye, lass. Take in a deep breath of that steam.”
Tilda lifted her face, closed her eyes, and pulled in a long, deep breath. Agnes was right. Auntie Moira and the maids had filled the room with the calming scents of lavender, rose oil, and chamomile. The windows were closed, and they had drawn the shades to block out the chaos of nightfall at the pub. Candles flickered on the mantle and the small tables at each end of the tub.
Auntie Moira stood at the door leading to the rest of the Mackenzie suites. Hand resting on the latch, she gave Tilda a mournful look. “I shall leave ye to Agnes, child, and to yer healing. If ye have need of anything at all, have her pull the cord and sound the bell. I’ll be back up here in an instant.”
“Thank ye, Auntie.” Tilda gave her the most reassuring look she could muster. Auntie Moira, never married and childless, had always loved and tended Tilda as though she were her own. This horrible day had hurt Auntie almost as much as it had hurt her. “I shall be fine. It will just take a bit of time.”
“I know, lass.” Moira left the room. Before closing the door behind her, she cast a meaningful glance back at Agnes. “Whatever she needs, aye? Absolutely anything. Ye understand what may need doing.”
After a deep sigh, Agnes gave a solemn nod. “Aye.”
The door closed and the hard, determined clacking of Auntie Moira’s heels against the floorboards receded into silence.
“Come now, lass. Into the tub wi’ ye.” Agnes pulled the linen wrap away and steadied Tilda as she stepped into the fragrant, steaming water. “Lie back and rest a bit whilst I get the herbs and soaps ready.”
Eyes closed, she leaned back against the folded linen padding on the reclining side of the tub. She breathed in the soothing steam. She needed this. This would help her overcome the demons determined to kill her spirit. The hot water stung the wounds around her neck, wrists, and ankles, but after a while, the stinging eased, and the heat massaged and caressed its way through her.
The aching knots of her muscles relaxed as she continued the deep breaths, unable to get enough of the clean, calming scents, the aromas she prayed would chase away the lingering stench of the vile men.
Another smell, sharp and not quite so pleasant, came to her. She opened her eyes. Agnes stood beside her, holding a small cup of a strange, black liquid. “Here, lass. Drink this and a full glass of whiskey waits to chase away the vile taste and warm yer empty wame.”
Tilda took the unusual cup, metal, no handles, and just a little larger than a bottle cork. She sniffed at the thick, oily liquid and turned away from the pungent odor. “What is this?”
“Wild carrot seed and a few helpful herbs and oils.” Agnes’s sparse white brows knotted as she motioned for Tilda to drink. “Down it quick, and the taste willna be so bad.” She forced a smile. “And then whiskey whilst ye soak in yer bath. Plenty of whiskey, I promise.”
Tilda frowned down at the concoction. Why had Agnes gone strange all of a sudden? Auntie Moira’s words replayed in her mind. Ye understand what may need doing. Tilda eyed the cup then gave Agnes the sternest look she could muster. “What is this for, Agnes, and dinna lie to me. I’ve a right to know.”
Agnes blew out a heavy sigh. “Moira fears…” Agnes paused, resettled her stance, and exhaled another long breath. “And I do as well, mind ye—the both of us feel I should treat ye proper to ensure a Sassenach bastard doesna take hold in yer womb.”
Shame, humiliation, embarrassment—a storm of emotions churned through Tilda, creating an uncomfortable, suffocating heat that had nothing to do with the steaming bath. She sat up straight and shoved the vial back into Agnes’s hand. “I told ye my maidenhead remained intact. They failed to complete their evil plot.” Why couldn’t they let that be so she could shutter this day away and heal?
Agnes leaned down until she was nose to nose with Tilda. Her dark eyes snapped with warning as her tone grew low and ominous. “A bairn can seed without the ripping of a woman’s maidenhead. If they spilled themselves upon ye, ye could still find yerself with child.” She held the concoction in front of Tilda’s mouth. “Drink it, lass. This will avoid any additional pain that could come from this terrible day.”
Agnes’s revelation and the unbearable memories of all she had endured gave Tilda pause. She downed the bitter brew, swallowing hard several times to keep it down. She threw the cup at Agnes. “Whiskey! Now!” There wasn’t enough whiskey in Scotland to drown the wickedness of this day.
Agnes rushed to the cabinet, poured a healthy slosh of golden liquid into a glass, and hurried back to the side of the tub. She placed it between Tilda’s hands. “Well done, lass. Drink this, and I’ll get ye another if ye wish it.”
Tilda gulped it down, relishing the cleansing bur
n coursing to her middle and searing through her limbs. She held out the glass. “Another.”
Agnes hurried to comply. With an approving nod, she handed Tilda a second glass filled to the rim, then returned to the table at the end of the tub. “I brought the verra finest of my soaps and salves. Enjoy yer drink whilst I add more chamomile to the oils we shall use to cleanse yer hair.”
Tilda returned to a reclining position, melting into the water with the warming of the whiskey. “Da would nay approve of the whiskey, would he?” Something about that thought lightened her heart and helped her relax even more. Da loved and spoiled her. He would see justice served for what had happened today.
Another long sip brought her mother to mind. A deep sigh escaped her. Mother would be—she couldn’t think of a single, respectful word to describe how Mother would be. Whenever Tilda traveled with Da, Mother did her best to stir trouble. She never approved of anything they did and said he indulged her more than he should and put useless thoughts in her head. Thoughts that she might be more than just a bargaining chip to marry off to an ally. She even resented the time Tilda spent with Angus and Da, learning all they could teach her. She didn’t love her mother. But at least she gave the woman the respect a chieftain’s wife deserved. She emptied the glass and lifted it past the edge of the tub. “Another…if ye please.”
Agnes hooted out a laugh. “Ye drink like yer father.” She took the glass, refilled it, and gave it back. “Sit straight and I’ll scrub yer back whilst ye enjoy this one, then ye best eat before ye have another.”
Tilda took a sip and scooted forward in the tub. “Do ye think we must tell Mother?”
Agnes wrinkled her nose as though she’d just gotten a whiff of something foul. She worked a lather into the soapy rag and kicked a stool into place beside the tub. With a huffing grunt, she seated herself and sudsed Tilda’s back. “I feel sure her ladyship already knows the most of it. Ye can rest assured her spies sent word as soon as ye turned up missing, and that woman’ll have their heads on a pike if they’ve not updated her on yer return.”
The Warrior Page 3
