The Age of Knights and Highlanders: A Series Starter Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “That useless old man?” Conor spat. “He cannot possibly be of help. I came to get ye, Grandmother. We should go to her.”

  “It’s so dangerous,” his mother replied. “Everyone who goes there does so knowing an archer could mistake them for a McLeod and spear them through the heart.”

  Everyone retreated to his or her own thoughts for a brief moment.

  Finally, Elspeth’s mother spoke. “How bad was the injury?”

  Conor shook his head. “From what I could see, he stabbed her in the shoulder area.”

  “Perhaps a shallow injury.” The woman wiped a tear. “My poor girl.”

  Elspeth’s mother looked to the doorway. “We cannot tell Gil or my husband. They will rush there without care for their lives.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement. Finally, Ceilidh held up a hand to get everyone’s attention. “I will speak to Ian; he may be well enough to be transported there. In exchange, we will retrieve Elspeth.”

  At the idea, everyone brightened.

  Elspeth’s mother’s pleading gaze met hers. “Go speak to him. Hurry. We will make the excuse to my husband that ye and she, along with Conor, went to take him back to the keep.”

  Upon entering the sick room, Ceilidh lost her bravado. She’d never actually spent more than a few moments alone with the warrior. Although injured, he was intimidating. His gaze snapped to her when she entered, the blue-green eyes, the color of the loch in the late summer, not wavering.

  She neared his bed, her gaze going to his injured midsection. It was too soon to move him. They were putting his life in danger to save Elspeth.

  “How fare thee?”

  Ian seemed surprised by the question and grimaced. “Well.”

  It was obviously a lie, but she let it pass and went to a side table to mix the herb tincture Elspeth had taught her to make for pain. “We need to take ye to Ross Keep. However, I am worried it may be too soon.”

  When she turned, he was studying her. “I will survive.”

  Although he didn’t ask, she felt compelled to explain. “Elspeth was injured today at the battlefield. An injured man plunged a knife into her.”

  His eyes widened just a bit. “Tis a dangerous thing she does by going there.” Seeming to collect his thoughts, he frowned. “Where is she?”

  “Yer laird took her.”

  “Malcolm? Why would he…” He stopped himself from continuing. “So ye wish to exchange me for her.”

  It was a statement, not a question but she replied. “Yes. Her family…we want her back. We need to treat her.”

  “She will not be harmed. Our healer is well practiced.”

  Although she wanted to believe him, she knew firsthand how cruel Clan Ross was. “Ye cannot expect me to believe that.”

  “Tis true. My laird would never harm a defenseless woman.” He shifted as if to move and groaned in pain. “I will need help.”

  She met his gaze and something in her chest shifted. He was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Even with only one arm, he was formidable. “I feel badly. Ye are not healed enough.”

  Ian lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I can remain in bed there the same as here.”

  Ceilidh neared with a cup in which she’d mixed the herbs with ale. “Drink this. It will help with the pain of moving ye.”

  Their hands touched as he took the cup. His gaze passed over her face and then down to his left where the sleeve of his tunic hung limply.

  It would take time for him to become accustomed to the missing limb. She wanted to reassure him that regardless of it, he would heal and become as strong as before.

  “Do ye plan to go to battle upon healing?” she asked as a form of assuring him she didn’t see him as an invalid.

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure he would reply. Finally, he nodded. “I wish to, yes.”

  “I was hoping ye would say no.” Ceilidh smiled. “However, men can be so stubborn.”

  He let out a breath. “Without a woman to ensure we remain controlled perhaps, aye.”

  Emboldened by his banter, she pretended to ponder his words. “Sir, tis not true. Ye do what ye wish at all times. I can see that in yer gaze.”

  His lips curved, just a bit. She waited for him to drink every drop of the liquid and remained by as his eyelids drooped.

  Suddenly, his eyes opened and he met her gaze. “Ye are quite lovely. Why is it ye are not married?”

  Ceilidh wasn’t sure how to reply. By the unfocused way he watched her, the herbs had taken effect and it loosed his tongue. “Perhaps I am waiting for a fierce warrior to carry me off.”

  When his brows furrowed, she wanted to laugh. It was taking time for the words to filter.

  “I would carry ye off.”

  A chuckle escaped. “No, ye would not. I am far too independent for ye.”

  “My wife will nay be a woman with no opinion. I like yer way.”

  He would probably have no memory of what they’d said. Ceilidh nodded. “Very well then. Once ye recover, I will await to be taken away.”

  Ian’s eyes fell closed but his lips curved. “I will not fail.”

  Just a few moments later, his mouth went slack as he fell asleep.

  “We will be gentle with ye,” Ceilidh whispered when his head lolled to the side. Then as gently as she could, she pushed the hair on his forehead aside and placed a light kiss upon the warm skin.

  When Elspeth’s father and older brother entered to help move Ian, she watched them without speaking, as she wasn’t sure what they’d been told. The grandmother oversaw the transport of Ian, her eyes meeting Ceilidh’s conspiratorially.

  Finally, Ian was placed in a pile of blankets and covered with furs that were tucked into his sides to keep him comfortable and, hopefully, from jostling too much.

  Conor went to the bench and pretended to be aggravated. “What is taking Elspeth so long?”

  The grandmother went to her son and grandson. “Can ye come and assist me in moving the kitchen table? I want to scrub the floors.”

  The trio went inside and Ceilidh hurried to the back of the wagon. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and over her head in the hopes that if either of the men looked out, they’d mistake her for Elspeth.

  “Go slowly,” she instructed Conor. “We can’t jostle him too much.”

  Over his shoulder, Conor gave her a worried look. “I pray we make it there and back without Da discovering what we are doing.”

  Chapter Eight

  The mists gave way to a sunny day as Aiden peered out over the loch. His dark gaze moved from across the wooden view. As usual, other than an occasional bird, the vantage point from his bedroom was useless.

  If he truly wished to see more, it would have to be from the rooftop where archers maintained constant guard. He went there every other day, not too often as he didn’t wish to raise suspicions as to why he was so interested in the surroundings.

  Cursing, he turned to the bed. Upon it, his cousin lay, fast asleep. Verity was nothing more than a conquest. A means to an end. They’d been sleeping together for only a few weeks and already he’d grown bored with her.

  Clinging and demanding, she pressured him daily to go forth and ask for her hand in marriage.

  If not for not wanting to wake her, he would chuckle. His cousin, Malcolm, would not only laugh him out of the room, but also send him to be whipped for daring to touch his precious sister.

  Idiot.

  His father was no better. Always bowing to the laird, never in charge, but more of an advisor. It churned his stomach to watch the man follow behind the laird like a dog in need of a spare morsel.

  Verity stirred and so did his manhood. Perhaps he should take his frustrations out on the woman. He marched to the bed and yanked the coverings off of her nude body.

  “Get on yer hands and knees,” he ordered without ensuring she was fully awake.

  She frowned, her dazed eyes meeting his. “What?”

  Not waiting for her to say or do anything
else that would annoy him further, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and rolled her to her stomach. “I said get on yer knees.”

  “I’m not awake and a bit sore from last night…” she said and then whined when he yanked her up to the position he wanted her in. “Shut up, Verity.”

  Her wide eyes met his over her shoulder. “What are ye doing?”

  Taking himself in hand, he nudged at her entrance. “Taking ye as I want. Fucking ye until ye cannot take more.”

  Not waiting for her to be prepared, he thrust into her until fully seated and then pulled out and repeated the movement.

  The sounds of slapping as their bodies collided made him even harder and he dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her buttocks, holding her in place as he pounded into her. He wanted to punish her, to take out his fury on who represented the family that he was dependent on.

  Verity’s mewls made him angrier. The bitch was enjoying it. She let out a loud scream as her sex constricted around his hardness. Aiden wanted to pull out and not finish, but he’d gone past the point of no return.

  Once again, he took hold of her hips and thrust in once, twice and a third time. Just as he came, he pulled out and spilled his seed onto the bed.

  Fully spent, Verity collapsed, her breathing labored. Aiden stalked back to the window. How he hated his lot in life.

  The interior of the room was so very different than her bedchamber at the village and Elspeth did her best to not gawk as they waited for the healer to appear. Her wound had been washed out as she’d directed and then to her chagrin, the servant girl had refused to sew it closed. Elspeth eyed the door with suspicion. She’d not allowed any type of pumice to be stuffed into the wound.

  For his part, Malcolm paced from one side of the room to the other, often barking orders and ignoring requests that he sit.

  A woman entered and walked to him, her hips swaying a bit too much in Elspeth’s estimation.

  “My laird, would ye like me to arrange for a bath in yer chambers? I can accompany ye there if ye wish.”

  The darkened gaze met hers for a split second before landing on the woman. “Nay. Go and leave me be.”

  When the woman turned to Elspeth, her eyes were like daggers. “And who is she?”

  Instead of replying, Malcolm took the woman’s arm and none-so-gently pulled her to the door, opened it and pushed her out. “Go see about my bath.”

  He turned back, his gaze moving over her. This time, it was not like back at the loch when it had been more than obvious what was on his mind. No, this time there was concern. “I should send a messenger to yer family.”

  Elspeth gasped at considering she’d not thought of that. Surely, everyone at home was fretting and her poor mother probably feared the worst.

  “That would be most appreciated.” She couldn’t bring herself to add “my laird” as he wasn’t over the village where she lived. Neither was it McLeod territory.

  Instead, the area where her village lay was part of Clan Urquhart, who rarely bothered to oversee them. The arrangement suited both the older laird and the villagers just fine. They didn’t have to provide but a small payment yearly and the clan chieftain left them be. It was, however, not a good thing at a time like this when two warring clans surrounded the village.

  Finally, the healer entered the room and Elspeth found herself enthralled by the man’s speech. His words melted over her, the deep, melodic tones like none she’d ever heard.

  “Where are ye from?” she had to ask as the man inspected her wound and, seeming satisfied, called for needle and thread.

  “I come from a land across the ocean. Spain.”

  She didn’t understand how it could be that such a man would end up in Scotland, but neither did she ask, as he did not seem inclined to give any additional information.

  The stitching was painful and Elspeth found herself crying openly as he sewed and stretched the skin closed.

  To her surprise, Malcolm held her free hand and spoke to her in low tones. “I thought ye to be tougher and not cry over a simple needle prick.”

  She frowned at him. “I am not a fragile creature,” she snapped. “However, this hurts.”

  “No more than a bite from a wee flying creature,” he retorted.

  Did he really compare the tearing of flesh by a thick instrument to a simple insect bite?

  Elspeth wanted to push him away, but flinched when the healer dug the needle in once again. This time, she cried out and sniffed loudly. “Go away, Malcolm Ross. Ye are not helping.” In direct contradiction, she squeezed his hand harder when the healer pulled the string through.

  How many times had she done this very same thing to others? Most warriors hadn’t bothered to flinch as she’d sewn their wounds shut. Either they’d thick, unfeeling skin or she was, indeed, a weak creature.

  “Malcolm.” A man entered the room and Elspeth thought she’d died and gone to the ever after.

  He was the most perfectly formed, most beautiful human she’d ever seen. Whoever it was had golden hair that formed a halo around the exquisiteness of his face. With thickly lashed hazel eyes, a square jawline, perfectly formed nose and lips, he was what she imagined creatures from heaven were like.

  The man was the same height as Malcolm, but his shoulders were wider and he had a strange almost distant way about him. His eyes moved to meet hers. They were flat and without any kind of emotion.

  “Someone is here to see about yer patient.” The golden being’s upper lip curled in distaste. “Should I ask the servants to prepare for a festival of some sort?” Sarcasm dripped heavily from each word.

  “Nay.” Malcolm looked to her. “This ignorant brute is my brother, Kieran.”

  Kieran didn’t bother to acknowledge her. Instead, he concentrated on Malcolm. “What do ye wish to do?”

  “Have someone escort them here.” Malcolm walked out with his brother and she could hear murmurs from outside the doorway. Unfortunately, they spoke much too softly and she was unable to make out what was being said.

  Moments later, Conor and Ceilidh burst through the door. Just behind them at the doorway was the handsome man from before.

  “Ye are alive!” Ceilidh rushed to her and took her hand. “I was so worried.”

  “No need,” Elspeth replied, noting that Kieran had left. “I plan to leave immediately and return home so that Father and Mother do not worry overmuch.”

  Conor looked over his shoulder to where Malcolm had disappeared. “Yer father thinks ye came to bring the injured man. We brought him here. And yer mother knows we came to get ye.”

  “What?” Elspeth sat up and grimaced when her wound protested. “He is not ready.”

  Ceilidh let out a shaky breath. “He did well and is being transported to a chamber. They are about to fetch the healer.”

  As much as she wanted to feel bad, at the same time, Elspeth was glad her parents were not fretting about her. “That was a good plan.” She smiled at her dear friend. “But we must return immediately.”

  “This chamber is wonderful,” Ceilidh said as she walked in a circle. “Have ye ever seen such luxury?”

  “Nay and we won’t again.” Elspeth slipped to the edge of the immense bed, not wanting to know whose it was. A part of her acknowledged it was probably Malcolm’s. Her wound throbbed and she looked down to the floor, wondering where her shoes were.

  A servant walked into the room, the slippered feet silent on the plush rugs. “I bring food and warm cider.” She placed a tray upon a table. “My laird insists ye eat before leaving.”

  Cheese, bread and meat were piled on the tray. Next, the servant returned with another tray with three cups. “Tis a brew made with yarrow root, Mistress,” the maid said as she placed the cups down.

  Conor and Ceilidh neared the trays just as raised voices sounded. Conor whipped around to the door. “I will see if something is afoot. Remain here.”

  Elspeth frowned. “I am sure it has nothing to do with us.”

  “Perhap
s I should go see if there is some sort of misunderstanding,” Ceilidh said, wringing her hands. “Could it be Ian is not doing well?”

  It was obvious to Elspeth that Ceilidh had become attached to the injured warrior. Although endearing, she doubted the feelings would ever be returned. The Ross clansmen were not the sentimental sort.

  “Go see, but be careful. We must leave immediately.” No sooner were the words out of Elspeth’s mouth did Ceilidh rush from the room.

  It occurred to Elspeth there was nothing wrong with her feet and she may as well get up, find her shoes and prepare to return home. If she’d not passed out after being stabbed, she wouldn’t find herself in this predicament. If something happened to Ian, she’d not forgive herself.

  “Where is she?” a voice boomed. “Ye will answer for this.”

  The voice was familiar and yet so out of place. Elspeth felt a shiver travel down her spine to the bottom of her feet.

  There was more murmuring of deep voices and she leaned forward in an attempt to decipher what was being said.

  At a thud at the door, she started, her wide eyes locked to the wood. Dear God, if it was who she suspected, what would the consequences be?

  Without thought, she climbed back upon the bed and grabbed the bedding, holding it up like a shield, her eyes glued to the door.

  Then it was as if time traveled at a slow rate. The door burst open. First, her father entered followed by Malcolm. After that, her older brother walked through the doorway and, lastly, the same angelic man who’d been there earlier, Kieran.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Her father’s bulging eyes moved from her face to sweep across the bed. “Why are ye upon the bed like a wanton?”

  Elspeth’s mouth opened and closed and before she could say anything, Conor interrupted. “She was injured. Laird Ross brought her here to be healed.”

  “Upon his bed?” Her father’s words seemed to echo, or perhaps it was that she’d not considered how it looked.

  Slowly, she lowered the bedding to show that she was dressed. It was then she realized her blouse had been torn open so the healer could care for her wound. Elspeth yanked the bedding back up.