The Highlander’s Hellion

by Eliza Knight

  Clayton could let his horse go and try to make it to her riderless mount being led by another warrior, but there was the real risk he could be swept away by the current.

  Greer bit her lip and watched helplessly as Clayton tried to rouse his horse to go the other way, and the men worked to tame their horses so they didn’t end up in the same situation.

  She sent up one prayer after another to the heavens. But all the prayers in the world couldn’t help when a bolt of lightning flashed, followed by a thunderous crack, obliterating all hopes of an easy passage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Roderick gritted his teeth, holding Greer tightly with one hand and his horse with the other.

  “Talk to him,” he said, against her ear. “Touch him.”

  Greer leaned over the neck of his mount, stroked Twilight’s straining muscles, and spoke in soothing tones. “’Tis all right. Ye can swim. We’re almost there.”

  “Dinna panic,” Roderick commanded his men, letting his voice be heard over the thunder and rushing water. “Soothe them.”

  His own mount’s body rippled with anxiety, yet his ears were perked back, listening to Greer as she stroked and soothed. Roderick himself felt calmed by her voice. As much of a hellion as she was, she was also a comfort, and when it came down to it she did exactly what needed to be done.

  Though he’d respected her before for her fiery spirit, his esteem grew tenfold when he watched her take command of the horse’s comfort. The men followed her lead. They watched her and repeated exactly what she did. Even Clayton was making the same attempts to soothe his horse.

  “Tell him to cover the horse’s eyes,” Greer offered. “We’ve done that at sea when the swells have made the mounts nervous.”

  Roderick issued the order, irritated with himself for not having thought of it before. When the barn had caught fire the previous year, they’d had to cover the eyes of the horses in order to lead them out.

  Clayton ripped off his shirt, and pulled it over his horse’s face. Within moments, the mount had calmed, and Clayton was able to ease him around and back into formation. Sensing the panic was over, the other horses, too, fell back in line and continued to swim—despite the thunder and lightning above.

  Greer continued talking to the horse, and Roderick had the distinct impression she was soothing herself as she mollified the steed.

  “Ye’ve strength enough for this and more,” she said. “Close your eyes if ye must, and push through. We are counting on ye. We need ye.”

  Roderick smiled, holding her tightly as she leaned forward, not wanting her to pitch completely over the horse’s neck.

  At last, they made it safely to shore, where they wrung out their clothes as best they could with the rain still coming down. Greer walked from horse to horse and stroked their muzzles. The sun had started to set, not that it was overly noticeable with the clouds covering most of the sky. Even still, through the gloomy haze, they could make out the lights in the priory. With it being so close to the shore, there was no need to remount. Instead, they would simply walk, lead the horses, and beg shelter.

  “Beauly Priory,” Roderick said. “We’ll see if they will accept a few wary travelers for the night, give the horses a nice place to rest.”

  The walk to the priory took less than five minutes, but it felt a lot longer with the wetted wool of their garments and the wind and rain of the storm pushing against them. By the time they reached the great wooden doors, they’d been opened and a line of monks were ushering them inside. Water dripped from the worried faces of the religious order. They must be wondering what had caused their visitors to rush headlong into a river during a storm.

  One particular monk stepped forward. “I’m Father Wesley, Abbot of Beauly. We saw ye in the river and prayed for a miracle to help ye cross.”

  “Thank ye, Father,” Roderick said. “I am Roderick MacCulloch, Laird of MacCulloch. This is Lady Greer Sutherland, and these are my men.”

  The priest considered him, gaze roving up and down, his scrutiny stilling particularly on the puddles forming beneath all of their wet clothes. “What’s the rush? Why not wait until the storm passed?”

  Roderick grimaced, shifting his weight onto his other leg as pains shot through his thigh. He’d barely noticed his injury the entire journey, too distracted by Greer he supposed, but once the storm had rumbled in, so too had the pain.

  “We’re being pursued by two caravans. We’re not certain who, but I have an idea one of them is a Ross army. We’re on our way to Sutherland to return Lady Greer, who had an accident on the firth and ended up on our shores. ’Twas only by an act of God that she survived,” Roderick said, hoping to appeal to their faith, for it was truly a miracle she’d survived at all.

  Father Wesley blanched, and the monks behind him whispered prayers, crossing themselves.

  “We were verra sorry to hear about the death of your sister, and so soon after your father succumbed.”

  A jolt of emotion struck inside Roderick’s chest. He’d not been expecting them to know who he was, let alone that his sister had passed. Their non-judgment of her death took his breath, for he feared most that though his own priest had viewed it as an accident, the rest of the world would not.

  “My thanks.” His voice came out a near croak.

  “Blessed are ye, my son.”

  Roderick nodded, feeling his throat tighten again.

  “Well, let us get your horses into the stable and the rest of ye something warm to wear, a place to sleep and some food.” Father Wesley surveyed them all with intelligent eyes. “Are ye hungry?”

  “We are much obliged.” Roderick reached into his sporran and produced a gold coin, which he passed to the abbot. “For your troubles.”

  Father Wesley bit the coin. “’Tis no trouble at all.”

  The men were led out toward the stables to tend their horses and shown quarters nearby where laymen not of the cloth were housed when in residence.

  “My laird, for ye, there is a chamber in the monk’s dormitory in the upper floor of the east range. The lady will be housed in a chamber near the west range, where our visiting abbess stays. Once ye’ve settled, ye can meet us in the refectory for a silent meal. We were just about to serve.”

  “While I am full of gratitude, such arrangements are not necessary for myself. I will sleep with my men.”

  “If ye change your mind, the offer is open.”

  Father Wesley showed Greer to her room with Roderick following, despite the stares from the man of the cloth. When they reached the room, he produced a key, unlocked her door, and ushered her inside the stark room, furnished with only a bed and a small side table with a half-melted tallow candle.

  “My lady, ye’ll find an extra robe and tunic in the wardrobe that belongs to Mother Anne. I’m certain she will not mind ye borrowing it for the time being.”

  Once she was through the door, Father Wesley shut it firmly and gave Roderick a hard stare. “I’d best not be seeing ye lurk about her door.”

  Roderick bowed his head in subservience. “I would never dare, Father.”

  “Good. Come now. There is also an extra robe in the men’s quarters ye can wear to dinner. And we’ll expect ye to join us for all prayer times.”

  “I wouldna dream of doing otherwise.”

  Roderick could have sworn he heard the abbot snort. After changing, Roderick made his way into the cloister, walking beneath a wooden awning. Despite the covering of the awning, the wetness of the rain continued to cause his leg to ache. It was a pulsing that grew from deep in his bones and spread outward until he was gritting his teeth and sweat lined his spine.

  Ballocks, but it hurt something fierce. They’d been going hard for days now, and not once had he stopped to rub the salve into his muscles like he normally did after a long day of working himself to the bone. The muscles around the scar tissue tensed, and he had to shift his weight to his other leg.

  By the time Lady Greer appeared, he was leaning against a
post, uncertain how he was going to make it through supper without retching.

  “Are ye all right?” The space between her brows scrunched together as she examined him from head to toe.

  Roderick managed a nod, certain if he spoke, the strain in his voice would give away the pain he was in. Sheer willpower alone allowed him to shove away from the post and offer his elbow. He concentrated on the heat of her hand wrapping around his upper arm and limped toward the refectory.

  “Are ye certain ye’re all right? Ye’re limping.”

  Roderick grimaced. “’Tis fine.” His tone was clipped, and so in a softer air, he said, “Dinna fash over it, lass.”

  From the side of his eye, he watched her nod, though she continued to study him. The heat of her intense gaze lingered on him even when they sat down.

  Inside, his men had already joined the monks, each of them wearing a worn brown woolen robe, their faces somber as they peered down toward their empty bowls, waiting for them to be filled. He felt their moods straight to his gut. The weather, the incident in the river, the blasted Ross clan, and whoever else was coming after them… They were all exhausted, water-logged, and on edge.

  Greer nudged him in the ribs, panic crossing her face. Roderick couldn’t understand what was happening and glanced around the room, trying to figure it out. He realized at the last minute that she was likely worried about what exactly supper would be, given as she didn’t eat meat or fish. He admired her fortitude and was truly surprised at how she could survive on the meager bits of food he’d seen her consume.

  Even though it was meant to be a silent meal, he murmured under his breath, “If ’tis meat, I shall give the abbot another coin to see ye’re given some bread and cheese, lass.”

  The expression of gratitude she gave him warmed him enough that he almost forgot about the pain in his leg.

  They found their seats and sat quietly waiting. It appeared to be a vegetable and barley soup from what Roderick could see. He was pleased when it was poured into their bowls and he saw he was right. Greer sighed beside him, relieved.

  Father Wesley gave a blessing for the food, and the men ate their soup in silence.

  Roderick glanced at Greer to see how she was enjoying the soup only to catch the attention of the abbot, who glared at him quite fiercely until he returned his gaze to his own supper. The soup was flavored with spices and was quite good. It had soft carrots, bits of onion, turnips, and wilted greens. He could have had another helping, though seconds were not offered.

  When the meal was complete, everyone carried their dishes into the kitchen and dipped them one by one into a rinsing bowl before drying them and stacking them on a wooden shelf.

  Outside once more, whispers started as the men hurried into the church for their evening prayer.

  “We must join them,” Greer said. “Will ye be all right?”

  “Aye.” Roderick gritted his teeth as the pain in his thigh reminded him he needed to rest. He limped his way down the covered corridor in the cloister toward the arched opening into the chapel where music from the church’s organ and harp were being played. His men knew better than to comment, but Greer was giving him a stern expression. He’d seen exactly the same expression on his governess’s face as a lad.

  “Your limp has grown worse.”

  He nodded grimly.

  “Ye should rest. I’m certain the abbot will excuse ye if ye’re not well.”

  Roderick flashed her an incredulous look. “Not well? I assure ye I am verra well. I’ll rest tonight when we sleep.”

  “Have ye a salve at least?” She slowed her pace, presumably to continue their conversation longer, because he hated to think she did so in order to cater to his limp. Hell, if he needed to, he could run miles. Had done so before.

  Monks funneled past them, but his own men also lingered behind, awaiting their laird’s entry into the nave.

  “I do. And if ye stop asking questions, I’ll promise ye I’ll apply it after the service.”

  She pursed her lips. “If ye warm it over the fire, the warmth will help to ease the pain.”

  “I will consider it.”

  She stopped moving altogether now, and when he stopped, exasperated, he caught her staring down at his leg and chewing her lower lip.

  “Let me help, Grim.”

  Roderick blanched. Did she not realize what she’d just suggested? The wound was on his upper thigh. The very idea of having her hands on him sent his mind reeling in a direction it shouldn’t, especially not in a house of God.

  “I’m certain that is nae a good idea, my lady.” He hoped his use of her title would help her understand the topic was not open for discussion.

  Apparently, she did not. “Why not? I’m the one who injured ye. Should I not be the one to care for ye?”

  Roderick shook his head firmly and quickened his pace away from her, ignoring the shooting pains in his thigh as he went. During the prayers, he worked hard not to rub at his thigh, hoping she’d think he was better. But he could tell by the looks she gave him from her bench in the section designated for noble women that she could see right through his lies.

  When they left, she hurried toward him, even though he tried to speed ahead.

  “My laird.” She caught his elbow. “Let me at least warm the salve.”

  “Ye’re not to come to the stables where I’m sleeping with the men, and I am not to come to your chamber. The abbot would send us all out into the night lamenting of our morals.”

  She squared her shoulders, and he waited for whatever argument she was about to give. If there was one thing he knew well about her, it was that she did not give up. “The kitchen then. Where anyone can walk in. Surely ye dinna think anything untoward will happen there?”

  And somehow, he found himself nodding in agreement, because the idea of standing here and arguing more only made him sweat, and the pain in his leg was only growing worse.

  Greer marched toward the kitchen with an air of importance and authority that she’d learned from her mother. Inside, she found one of the brothers, presumably the cook, hunched over a barrel. He jerked up and started to flail his arms in protest of her entry, but she set him with a glower she’d seen the Countess of Sutherland give when she was having a disagreement.

  “Laird Roderick needs his salve warmed. He has a grave injury on his leg that needs tending. I ask ye kindly, Brother, to allow me to stoke the fire to warm a salve for my guardian.”

  The monk eyed her warily, and just when she thought he was going to deny her, he nodded without speaking.

  Greer went to work stoking the fire, all while the cook stood off to the side watching her.

  “I hope I am not interrupting your duties, Brother. Please dinna mind me.”

  He nodded again, and returned to the barrel he’d been sifting through before, pulling out one cupful of flour after another, presumably to make bread. While he did that, she found a pot, filled it with water to boil, and managed to find a spare rag she could soak with boiled water to soothe his leg prior to the salve. Preparing the injury with the heat always seemed to aid salves in doing their work, or at least that was her experience at Dunrobin.

  Moments later, Roderick arrived, a small pot in hand, which Greer took from him. One whiff, and she could make out the strong contents of comfrey, calendula and ginger.

  “’Tis strong stuff,” he murmured.

  “Aye, I hope it helps.”

  Leaving the cork off, she placed it on a stone within the hearth, inches from the flames. While they waited for the salve to warm, she dipped the rag in the boiling water with a spoon and then pulled it out and allowed it to cool only for a second or two before she wrung it out. Roderick remained standing, arms over his chest. He leaned against a wall and propped one foot over his ankle, as though he were simply waiting or relaxing.

  “Why do ye nay sit?” Greer suggested. “Let your muscles relax. We’ll put this rag on your leg to soothe ye afore the salve is ready.”

  “I�
�ve been sitting for days. And I dinna need soothing.” The expression on his face was so full of obstinance, she could almost glimpse what he must have been like as a lad.

  Greer refrained from tapping her foot or putting her hands to her hips. Instead, she decided she needed to approach him with softness. “Riding and sitting are not the same thing, my laird. Riding takes a lot of work with the legs. And your leg is angry with ye. Let’s calm it down.”

  With the rag in one hand, Greer took Roderick by the elbow and felt him flinch beneath her touch. The cook eyed them from the corner where he was kneading dough for tomorrow’s meal.

  “Come sit down.” She led him to the stool and gently shoved, surprised when he didn’t balk and sat heavily.

  With her hand out, she offered him the rag, which he took with a grumble and shoved beneath the borrowed monk’s robe.

  “Lay it out so it gets the most coverage.”

  He raised his brows, about to argue, but she pinned him with another of her sternest looks. He grumbled some more but did as she asked. Greer watched to make certain it was done right, but her face heated as the hem of his garment lifted up over his calf, then his knee, revealing the corded muscles of his lower thigh. Then his hands disappeared, keeping the wound hidden.

  She whirled around, not wanting him to see her heated face—and also because she could feel the judgment of the monk behind her.

  Peering into the jar, she saw the salve was slightly melted around the edges. “’Tis probably warm enough now.”

  “Aye.”

  She tapped her finger on the side of the jar and tested its warmth. It was too hot to pick up, so she fetched another small spoon on the shelf of supper dishes, promising the cook she’d wash it. She scooped out some of the contents of the jar and carefully carried the spoon heaped with salve back toward her patient. She nodded at his leg. “Dinna be shy. Show me.”

  Roderick raised his brow, crossed his arms over his chest, and didn’t move. Greer groaned on the inside. Why did he have to be so difficult?

  Smiling sweet as honey, she coaxed him as she would Jewel when the hound didn’t want to obey. “Come on then, dinna be shy. Right now, I’m a healer. Would ye be shy with a healer?”