My Fierce Highlander (2 page)

“A bonny lad, he is,” Mora proclaimed.

Lad, indeed.
Rory was a lad. This
giant was a man full grown. But bonny, yes. In the soft
flame-light, his midnight hair, his equally dark brows and thick
lashes captured Gwyneth’s attention.

Open your eyes.

They would be dark too, would they not? Dark
as tempting, dangerous sin in the blackest night. Beard stubble
shadowed his authoritative jaw and framed his sensual mouth.

I am going daft, noticing such things at a
time like this.

Forcing herself to ignore his face, she
unfastened the brass brooch shaped like a falcon that held the
upper part of his blue plaid in place over his shoulder, removed
the brown leather pouch-like sporran from his waist and dropped the
brooch inside.

“Do you not think he’s the laird?” Gwyneth
raised his strong hand to show Mora the seal ring, the heat of him
seeping beyond her skin.

“Aye, I’d wager he is the young laird. I’ve
never laid eyes on the man afore now. Though I recollect hearing of
the old laird’s passing sometime back, and he does favor him.
’Course all the MacGraths have a certain dark look about them.”

Gwyneth tugged the ring from his finger and
placed it in the sporran.

“His clothes are of fine material.” Mora
pushed the doublet open. “And would you look at this.” She pulled a
gleaming brass-hilted dagger from inside the garment, near his
armpit.

She used the sharp weapon to cut his bloody
clothing away from his upper body.

Holding her breath, Gwyneth could but gape as
each inch of skin and sculpted muscle was revealed. Among the
multitude of scars on his chest, two long shallow sword cuts oozed
blood. A lead ball from a pistol had grazed his shoulder, leaving a
furrow of torn flesh.

She would stitch him up so he would heal,
good as new.

A slice in his plaid alerted them to another
wound. Mora unhooked his leather belt and eased his kilt down to
reveal a cut to the right side of his lean waist close to his
pelvic bone.

Wanton excitement stirred within Gwyneth at
the sight of this enemy Scot’s near-naked body.
I should close
my eyes, look away. He is a patient.
Heat seared her from the
inside out.

Though she’d attended to many an unclothed
man after a skirmish or during sickness, she had never seen a man
so beautifully formed. God had certainly smiled upon him.

“’Tis shallow,” Mora said. “He’s lucky they
didn’t strike his vitals.”

They cleaned his wounds with a wash of royal
fern steeped in clean water, stitched up the deeper cuts, then
smeared them with a paste of fern and comfrey.

“My, but a fine-looking man he is, aye?” Mora
smiled and winked. “Reminds me of my own big Geordie afore he
passed on.”

Indeed,
fine-looking
was too mild a
term, in Gwyneth’s estimation but she ignored the question. She
would not have Mora know of the embarrassing effect the man was
having on her.

Most men of her acquaintance were the
same—arrogant, cruel, and harsh. Whether fancy English gentlemen or
braw Scottish warriors, they only thought of their own superiority
and how they might wield power over others. Women were naught but
chattel and thralls. By helping to save this one’s life, she was
gambling, hoping to win peace.

“Och, here’s what ails him most.” Mora
examined the Scot’s head. “He’s bashed his skull and good.”

“Let me see.” Gwyneth knelt on the dirt floor
above him. His hair was sticky with blood, and a knot swelled on
the back of his head. “It seems to have stopped bleeding.”

“Aye. Not much to be done for it,
anyway.”

Nevertheless, Gwyneth cleaned the wound and
applied the herbal paste as best she could in his thick hair. She
concentrated on her task more intently while Mora covered him with
a blanket and worked his plaid out from under him. Gwyneth tried
not to think about his nakedness beneath it. Surely it was a sin to
hold such thoughts.

“We’ve done all we can for him. He’s in God’s
hands now. ’Tis off to bed, I am.”

Carrying his belongings, Gwyneth walked with
Mora back to the cottage and hid his things in a rough wooden
chest. She approached the bed where Rory lay. Relieved he’d slept
through the commotion, she kissed his forehead and straightened.
“I’ll go back out and sit with the MacGrath man for a short
while.”

“Suit yourself. Best take your
sgian
dubh
with you, just in case he wakes up none too happy about
where he’s at.”

Gwyneth nodded and touched the dirk hidden in
her bodice to be sure it was still there. She hoped she wouldn’t
have to defend herself against a man she was trying to help. But,
the truth was, she didn’t know him or what he might do.

Above the dark rounded peaks of the
mountains, a quarter moon peeped through the clouds, providing the
faintest of light for her to navigate the path to the byre. A
whitish-gray mist crawled up from the glen, reminding her of the
souls of the recently departed and giving her a chill. She inhaled
the scent of rain before entering the tiny building and closing the
door.

The handsome stranger lying insensible on the
floor drew her gaze. The old plaid blanket did little to conceal
his fine form, large and well-trained for battle, hard and heavy
with muscle. She hoped she wouldn’t regret helping him. If he
carried a peace treaty, surely he was a good man. A better man than
Donald MacIrwin, at least.

Now, if only this MacGrath would awaken and
return to his own lands, she would rest much easier. If he could
somehow bring peace, she would be doubly grateful. But she feared
there would be no peace as long as Donald MacIrwin drew breath.

Through the door, the haunting, fluted call
of a curlew reached her. Gwyneth shivered. Mora had told her more
than once that a curlew heard at night was a bad omen.

***

Gwyneth startled awake at a low rumbling
noise, then realized it was thunder. Stiff and cold from lying on
the hard dirt floor of the byre, she pushed herself to a sitting
position while pulling her woolen plaid
arisaid
closer
around her shoulders. Though ’twas June, the temperature never
warmed here in the Highlands as it did in England. Rain pattered on
the thatch, and thunder sounded again. At times like this, she
missed the featherbed and cozy counterpane of her youth. And she
would prefer a roaring fireplace to the single lit fir root which
served in place of a costly candle.

The injured Scot shifted and mumbled.

She moved closer, touched his forehead and
found his skin hot and dry. The fever had started.

May God protect him.

His recovery would take several days, if he
survived the fever at all. He had to. He simply had to survive. She
could not see such a strong, well-favored man leaving this life at
so young an age. Surely, he was no more than five years older than
her own three and twenty.

She pulled the cloth from the bowl of cool
water, squeezed it out, and stroked it gently over his face. She
wished to brush her bare fingers over his skin instead but
squelched the urge.
How silly of me.
The linen snagged
against his beard stubble. His dark lashes fluttered above his high
cheekbones.

“Leitha,” he said, his voice a deep rumble.
Though slurred, the word was clear. He jerked his head abruptly.
“Nay, I cannot believe it.” After turning his face away, he
stilled, as if he’d dropped into a deep sleep.

Who was Leitha? His wife? A sliver of envy
made her bow her head in shame. The woman was sure to wonder where
he was, perhaps even think him dead. Was he a good husband to her,
or a rotten one like Baigh Shaw had been to Gwyneth?

She had found it no easy task being demoted
from a wealthy English earl’s daughter to the wife and thrall of a
low-born, violent Highlander almost twice her age with two grown
sons who despised her.

Her father couldn’t have punished her any
more thoroughly for her one unforgivable sin had he tried. All had
been stripped from her six years ago. She possessed nothing of
material value, no property or inheritance, not even a wedding
dowry. Therefore, she had little choice but to stay where she was.
Trapped in the godforsaken Highlands.

Thunder cracked overhead, and the MacGrath
jerked.

Gwyneth washed his face again, smoothing the
cloth over his thick dark brows and stubborn but appealing mouth.
What would his lips feel like…?
I should not think of such.
She hated her sinful sensual side; it had already ruined her
life.

His next string of slurred words were Gaelic,
and the only one she understood was “
athair
.” Father. If he
was the chief, then his father was surely dead. Was he seeing
specters in his fevered dreams?

Near dawn, he became too quiet and still. She
checked his breathing. When it didn’t seem as strong as before, she
froze, then clasped his muscled forearm in her hands and said a
prayer.

***

Alasdair MacGrath was fair certain he’d never
before awakened to such stabbing pain in his head. He loved good
sherry and whisky but never overindulged, so it couldn’t be the
drink banging on his head.

A voice sifted through his agony. A
high-pitched, senseless prattle.

“I’ll get you, you worthless MacIrwin
bastard.”

Those words didn’t go with that innocent
voice.

Another voice, rougher yet still the same
growled, “You’re a no-good MacGrath coward. I’ll run you
through.”

What the devil is going on?
Alasdair
cracked one eye open. He lay on the hard-packed earth floor of some
sort of dark room that spun around him. Straw and the smell of aged
cow dung told him it was a byre. He squinted toward the open
doorway, trying to steady his vision. A wee lad with fair hair sat
in the patch of brilliant sunshine.

He continued to act out the battle scene
between two man-shaped twigs. “Take that, you puny toad-spotted
whoreson!”

If not for the piercing ache in his head—in
his whole body—Alasdair would have laughed outright. As it was, he
only managed a snort without doing himself in.

The lad sprung up, whirled around, and gaped
at him with wide blue eyes. “You’ve awakened.”

“Aye,” Alasdair uttered, his throat dry and
voice raspy.

“Ma! Ma!” The lad screamed and sprinted from
the byre.

A skewer to the ear would’ve been more
pleasant. Alasdair’s thoughtless attempt to shield his ears from
the child’s hellish noise brought gripping pain to his upper
body.

By the saints! What happened to me?
He
groaned and glanced down at himself. A woolen plaid blanket and a
pile of straw covered him. He lifted the blanket and the scent of
strong medicinal herbs reached his nostrils. A healer’d had hold of
him? Various cloth bandages littered his torso. Other than that, he
was naked.

Where are my clothes?

And where are my sword and dagger?
Cold fear settled in his chest.

Someone appeared in the doorway, blocking out
the light—the small frame of a woman. Though he couldn’t see her
well, he felt her staring at him a long moment. “How do you feel?”
she asked.

“As if I took a wee tumble from the peak of
Ben Nevis. Where am I?”

“MacIrwin land.”

In that moment three things occurred to
him—she was English, he was back from the dead, and he lay helpless
on enemy land with no weapons.
God’s bones.

A flash of returning memory distracted
him—he’d thrust his sword at a grizzly, outraged red-haired man.
Something, or someone, had hit him on the head. The powerful blow
had knocked him from his mount and all went black.

“Does Donald MacIrwin ken I’m here?” His sore
muscles tensed. Wincing at the pain, he forced himself to
relax.

“No.” The dimness hid her expression, but
wariness colored her tone.

“Where are my clansmen?” He prayed his
cousin, Fergus, and all the others had survived. But he knew that
was impossible. He’d seen some of them fall.

“About five or six died on the battlefield.
The others must have returned home.”

He didn’t even know which ones had perished
yet. Dear God, not Fergus or Angus. Fortunately, his brother
Lachlan had not accompanied them that day.

“I don’t understand how I came to be here
instead of with them.”

“After the skirmish, I went to see if I could
save the lives of any of my kinsmen, but you were the only man I
found alive.”

“You’re a MacIrwin, then?”

She crossed her arms. “The MacIrwin is my
distant cousin. My grandmother and his grandfather were brother and
sister.”

He’d best tread softly until he determined
whether he could trust this relation of his enemy. “You’ve the
speech of a Sassenach.”

“I grew up in England, yes.”

“Why would a MacIrwin, even an English one,
save the life of a MacGrath? We’ve been enemies for nigh on two
hundred years.” Alasdair tried to sit up, but a spasm of burning
pain latched onto his lower belly. “
Mo chreach!
” He fell
back.

“Do not get up.” The waif-like woman rushed
forward and knelt beside him. The pleasant smell of fresh air and
green herbs clung to her.

She placed a cool hand against his upper
chest and pressed him back. After shoving aside the straw and
lowering the blanket to just below his waist, she examined the
stitched wound on his abdomen.

“You’ve started this bleeding again.” She
flicked a glare of censure at him from her vivid blue eyes.

“Pray pardon,” he said, then wondered why
he’d apologized.

She could not have much MacIrwin blood in her
veins, else she would’ve left him to die on the battlefield. She
was nothing like Donald MacIrwin. This was the second time the
bastard had deceived them, under oath, into thinking he wanted to
sign a peace treaty, when in truth he wanted to murder those
bearing it. Alasdair craved peace for his people so badly he’d
become too trusting.