There were no more signs of consciousness from the lass, but he had faith she would come back to herself soon. A guard tower was in his sight and he had to scan the ground for any sign of hidden traps. Seeing one, he guided his mount toward the tower and stopped just under the stone turret.
“Hear, hear!” he called, “I am Leith Balloch, son of Aaron Balloch, Laird of Lenichton. I request safe passage to see Laird Robasdan and a bed in his infirmary for a wounded lass. Hurry! Her condition is grave!”
Another man, a soldier, clad in the Laird Robasdan’s green and black colors, over leather armor, and a raised sword came to the window. He quickly sheathed it and then called down, “Norton will be with ye, Young Lenichton. He will lead ye to Me Laird’s home.”
Nodding, Leith shifted the lass on his lap but could not stop himself from rubbing his knuckles over her cheek. Her skin was so soft. Again, the question of what would make a gentle-born woman like her be found all the way in the Scottish woods? Was she daughter of a rich man who had been taken captive? Had she escaped from some blackguards? Was that the case?
Before he could look up, a man dressed similarly to the one before was on a horse beside him. “Yer Norton, aye?”
The soldier nodded as his eyes were on the lass, “Aye, Young Lenichton, I can see her condition truly is grave. Please follow me.”
Norton took him through a direct path that had them coming up on the castle quickly. He then called out to the gatekeeper with a loud voice, he gave a command in…was that Latin with a mix of Gaelic or is it a language they’ve made themselves…and soon the grating ironworks had the bridge being lowered.
As soon as it settled, Leith gave his thanks to the sentry and was on the bridge. The clatter of his horse’s hooves on the almost-seamless, wooden-plank bridge was noisy but he did not care. He had reached a haven for the lass.
The large empty courtyard was made of crushed stone with a round of shrubbery plants in the middle. Soon three men and two women crossed the courtyard. Leith spotted Tarrant immediately, even as the man had grown a thick beard. The Laird directed the women, all with their heads covered in blue caps, to take the injured lass from him, and he gently handed her over into their hands before alighting from the horse.
Before acknowledging Tarrant, Leith reluctantly released his precious burden into their care. Would she recover soon?
“Dinnae ye worry, Young Lenichton,” a voice as gravelly as the ground he stood on interrupted his thoughts, “she is in good hands.”
Sighing, he nodded and turned to the man he had come to meet. “Tarrant Allanach, Laird of Robasdan, as I live and breathe. How are ye, friend? And when did that forest on yer chin come about?”
The older Scotsman snorted and reached out with an offered hand that Leith took. “Since the birth of me two sons, Lenichton. That’s why. I’m so busy that I barely have time to wash me arse much less tend to me face.”
Laughing out loud at his friend’s frankness, Leith pumped Tarrant’s hand. “And how is lovely Lady Robasdan doing?”
“As tired as I am, but she pulls through whenever she needs to,” Tarrant said as he led Leith into the belly of the beastly stronghold. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seein’ yer face for so long?”
The reason he had come this far to see the man descended on him like a load of bricks. “May we speak privately, Tarrant? It’s a…sensitive matter.”
A dark-green eye, hooded under a thick bushy brow, swiveled to him with deep curiosity at the utterance of his forename. “Sensitive, eh? As far I ken ye, nothin’ about ye tends to be sensitive.”
“I would like to tell ye it’s fairly new but it isnae,” Leith grimaced as he was taken to a room that was atypical to the man’s stern, austere nature. He smiled when he spotted blue curtains over previously bare windows and fur throws over the leather and wooden chairs.
There was even an English-styled chaise in there that Leith knew Tarrant would rather cut his left arm off than lie on. He opened his mouth to say something snarky, but the Laird’s narrowed eyes cut him off to the quick. Leith’s mouth closed so quickly his teeth clicked.
“Sit,” Tarrant waved him over to a chair, “and tell me what is the matter.”
Seated, Leith hunched over and clasped his hands before him. His face sobered as he tiredly explained his father’s dismal condition.
“I’ve gone through nearly the whole kingdom and havenae found anyone to help. Yer me last hope, Robasdan.”
Leith knew he had shocked the man, but Tarrant held it in admirably. The Laird’s lips went flat. “We have healers, Young Lenichton, many, but I dinnae ken one who caters to the mind. Have ye ken of seeking a druid?”
“Nay,” Leith shook his head. “Me Mother wouldnae let a druid under her roof, and even if I did, where would I find one. The church had them all persecuted and killed off.”
Tarrant scratched his beard in thought, “I will search for one. I am sure I’ll find one somewhere. I give ye me word.”
Raking a hand through his hair, Leith sighed. “I would hate to see me Faither’s gray head go to his grave with this illness. I want him back, me friend, sober and spouting his wisdom.”
“Are ye hesitant of taking up the lairdship?” Tarrant asked shrewdly. “It is going to be yer place one day, innit?”
“It is,” Leith said, “I just don’t want it to be for this reason. I want me Faither to hold me first-born in his arms and bestow his blessing. To tell him his story, how he rose to become the warrior he was. The battles he won and the victories that came with them.”
“Him?” Tarrant said teasingly. “How are ye sure yer going to have a son, and moreover, which woman would that be to bear him? As far as I ken, ye were still looking.”
“I am,” Leith said. “ ‘Tis just hard to find a lass who isnae in it to get the riches from the lairdship and—”
There was a knock on the door, and as Leith paused in speaking, Tarrant called out. “Enter.”
A woman, dressed as one of the healers from before, pushed the heavy door and took a few steps in. She dipped her head in curtsy. “Good day, and Young Lenichton, the lady ye brought to us is waking up.”
Leith was out of his seat like a shot.
5
Pain, that was all Mary could feel.
As she slowly came around, Mary felt as though a thousand horses were trampling through her head. Pain was lancing through her head in agonizing stabs, but something cool was on her forehead and her head was resting on something soft. Mary did not remember being in such comfort while suffering so much pain. Her memory was blurry, but she knew something was amiss. This was not where she had been before.
As her mind cleared, the pieces of the last few conscious hours started to link together. She remembered fright, pain, terror and a perilous fall. She remembered her heart pounding in fear as her horse bolted after a loud, terrifying thunderclap and then screaming as her horse pitched over a dark ravine and her head connecting hard on a rock. After that…nothing.
The agony from that hit flared up again, and she cried out in pain. Her limbs were thrashing, and her back was arching off the bed, but a firm and gentle hand held her down as a soft rumbling voice soothed her, “Calm ye lass, calm ye, nae one is here to hurt ye. Yer safe. Listen to me, yer safe, sweetling, yer safe.”
It must be an angel…and I must be dead.
Peeling her eyes apart, Mary flinched and jerked her head away from the sunlight. The bright rays were fiercely piercing her tender eyes. The room became dim and she tried again to look. A man with a square face, deep soulful grey eyes and thick brown hair around his ears hovered over her. He was handsome, so handsome that she knew he could not be one of the living. He had to be a spirit.
“I’m sorry, Saint Peter, forgive me,” she sobbed. “I am sorry I ran away. Please forgive me.”
The man’s eyes went wide then chuckled a warm sound that was comforting. “I’m flattered that ye ken I’m a saint, lass, but I assure ye, I am far from one.
Yer nae dead either, just hurt. Yer head suffered a banging that I am sure is givin’ ye a bloody headache.”
She placed her palm over her head and felt a bandage over the tenderness of her temple. The man took her hand away, “Touching it won’t help. Ye need to let it heal. And can ye tell me why an English lass like ye is all the way in Scotland?”
She winced, pressed a hand to her forehead, and groaned in pain, “Please make this stop.”
“Help her, please,” the man said and in moments the touch of a pewter cup was at her lips. By instinct, she opened her lips to drink. The taste of the liquid was sweet but acidic like a bitter apple. She took a few sips before her chest began to burn, and she turned away with a grimace. With her head pounding and her body weak, Mary sank to the bed with her hand and placed her hand over her eyes. She then heard the man ask.
“What is that yer giving her?”
“A weak infusion of mandragora root to calm the pain, Young Lenichton,” an older woman said. “We make it every day as our sentries, hunters, and soldiers do get injured. We always have it on hand in case we need to amputate or take something from the body.”
Mary breathed in deeply as the pain began to ebb and flow. Her brows knitted tightly when the pain suddenly ricocheted through her head from the back to the front. She twisted so hard that she fell off the bed, “Ah!”
Warm arms were around her instantly. She opened her eyes. She saw that she was being held a foot away from the ground. “Dinnae hurt yerself, lass. Yer here to heal nae to harm yerself e’ en more.”
Mary felt her stomach lurch in a strange emotion as his breath was in her ear. She grabbed on to him as he put her back on the bed. She closed her eyes as the pain truly began to dull. She was exhausted but managed to ask, “Who are you?”
“Leith Balloch, lass, son of the Laird of Lenichton,” he said as she began to drift off into sleep, “yer rescuer.”
* * *
Now feeling less pain, Mary slipped her eyes open in the darkness. Reaching up, Mary pressed her hand to her temple and though it was still tender, her head was not pounding like a drum.
She slipped on her side and reflected on the day before. If she had slept the day through that was. She had no sense of time. What she did know was that she had left her parents in the middle of the night and had ridden three-and-a-half days to get to the borderlands.
The last thing she remembered was looking at the map and…oh God! The map!. . .she nearly launched off the bed. She had to have the map; without it, she was lost. She felt cold inside at the reality that she had left her family behind her and had come to a land she did not know.
Her accident had thrown her into the company of a man that had her heart thumping. Mister Balloch was the most handsome man she had ever met and his voice was so deep and melodic.
However, to be accurate, I have not met many men in my life.
She sighed and forced her heart to calm. Maybe her rescuer could take her to Tina’s aunt if she had lost the map. There were not many things in her sack anyway, and the few coins she had were still sewn into her cloak. She rested her head on the pillow and gazed to a nearby window. The moon was waning, now only a thin sickle in the sky.
Could he take me to Tina’s home…or could he find me a home somewhere?
Mary’s eyes lowered as she remembered the color of Mister Balloch’s eyes. She had never seen someone with that shade of color before. They look like silver…
She wondered where she was and how she could persuade her rescuer to help her and began to drift back to sleep. Her body was so tired and slipped into unconsciousness easily. A slight brush to her head had her waking up. A healing woman, with her head capped in blue, drew her hand back instantly.
“Sorry,” Mary said thickly, “I did not mean to scare you.”
“Nay worries, Miss,” she replied. “I’m Isla, and I’m here to check yer wound. Yer lucky, Miss, there was nae much damage to yer temple or broken bone, only enough contact to make ye go unconscious. Are ye feeling any pain now?”
“Just a little throbbing,” Mary said, “Not as bad as yesterday…it was yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” Isla replied, “Ye dinnae sleep through the day, Miss. May I check yer head now?”
Mary twisted her head toward Isla and held still for Isla to unwind the bandage and air out her wound. “Hmm, it doesnae look too bad to me. One more poultice to the broken skin and a dram of mandragora and I ken ye will be all right.”
“Do what you think is best,” Mary replied while plucking at the sheets near her. “Isla…what do you make of Mister Balloch?”
She looked up to see the medicine woman drop some herbs into a mortar and place a small pestle into it. As Isla began to ground the herbs, she hummed under her breath. “He’s the son of the Laird of Lenichton, me lady, way up in the Highlands. As far as I ken, he isnae married or spoken for and served a life as a soldier before this. He and Laird Robasdan were comrades and still are to this day, Miss, but he hasnae been here for over a year.”
“Are they good friends?”
“Nae the best, but we are steadfast,” Leith’s melodic voice came from the doorway of the infirmary.
Mary felt her chest tighten a little before she was able to speak. Sitting up, she smiled, “Good morning, Mister Balloch…or should I say, Laird?”
He shook his head and his brown locks shifted around his head, “I’m nae the Laird yet. I’ll be happy to tell ye all ye want to ken, but let Isla do her work first.”
Feeling his eyes on her skin and his gaze a little unnerving, Mary held still as Isla placed the poultice on her temple and wrapped her head up. “We will have ye eat something before we can give ye the mandragora. Tea and bread, soup or porridge. Which would ye prefer?”
“Tea, please, and bread with butter if you have it,” Mary said timidly only to have Isla’s lips twitch and hear the man’s laugh.
“Lass, they have butter, jams, cheeses, meats and fish of all kinds, and even sweetbreads galore,” Leith said teasingly. “There is nothin’ the Robasdan Clan lacks.”
“Is this where I am?” Mary asked hesitatingly, “The Robasdan Clan?”
“Aye,” he watched Isla leave the room then sat in her seat. “Clan Robasdan is a clan in the borderlands. They keep to themselves mostly but all the families and the bloody reivers around here ken to nae mess with them.”
“Reivers?”
“Thieves, lass, thieves of cattle and goats and crops,” the man clarified. “Yesterday, ye kept apologizin’ to me for somethin’. What is it? What were ye running from?”
She began to withdraw from him, scared that he would condemn her for the truth if she spoke it, but he offered his hand. Her eyes dipped to see it. His right hand looked rough, and scarred but were held out in peace. These were the hands that had recused her.
“Trust me, lass,” he said. “I willnae hurt ye.”
She hesitated at first then finally rested her hand in his and feeling his callused palm close around hers, Mary told him all. “My name is Mary Thompson and I come from a very religious family. Mister Balloch, we have wealth, but we are still very religious, to the point where I know nothing but prayer and solitude. They kept me in our home for most of my life and never let me meet others like any woman my age would do.”
Her eyes were fixed on the man’s fingers wrapped around her hand; they were so warm and solid. Bravely, she lifted her head to meet his and found only soft patience in his gaze. “My parents wanted me to marry an old, rich and stodgy lord, but he is so odious and repulsive that I was forced to run away.” Her eyes began to bead with frustrated tears. “I tried, I truly tried to tell them that I’d die under his hand, but they did not listen. I ran to save my life. I had just come to Scotland when a storm came in. My horse was scared, he ran, and that’s how I fell.”
Mr. Balloch’s thumb began to rub over the back of her hand while she spoke and Mary found it very soothing. “How old are ye, lass?”
“T
hree-and-twenty,” she said quietly, “and you?”
His eyes were warm, “Seven-and-twenty. Where were ye heading to, lass? I understand that ye had no choice but why Scotland? Ye couldnae come here with nay plan.”
“I have one,” she said. “My maid Tina told me about her aunt Linda who lives here and I was heading to her when I got injured. She took a deep breath and spoke on the exhale, “I fear I have lost my map and other belongings.”
“Were they in a burlap sack?” Mr. Balloch asked.
Her heart leaped, “You’ve seen it?”
Mesmerized by a Roguish Highlander: A Historical Scottish Romance Novel Page 4
