Читать книгу A Sword Upon the Rose - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10
ОглавлениеALANA’S TENSION WAS impossible to bear. He would not release her wrist, and his stare was colder now. “Dughall,” he said harshly, his gaze unwavering upon her face, “take the dagger from my chest.”
“Aye, my lord.” A tall blond Highlander knelt and ruthlessly yanked the blade from the flesh and tendon where it was embedded.
Alana cried out. The Highlander did not make a sound, although he paled and his grasp on her wrist eased as his blood spewed.
Alana jerked free and seized the hem of her skirts; she pushed a wad of it down hard on his wound. What had he been thinking?
“That was a fine way to remove the blade,” she said tersely. But the enemy blade had missed his heart; she was relieved to see the wound was high up, almost in his shoulder.
He eyed her exposed knee as another man handed her a piece of linen. Alana quickly put it on his wound in place of her skirt. The wound continued to bleed. Dughall knelt, offering the warrior a flask. He took it with his right hand and drank.
Now on both knees in the frozen snow, she shivered—but not from the cold. She was terribly aware of the Highlander she was trying to help. His presence—his proximity—seemed overwhelming. “Your wound needs cleaning. It needs stitches.”
His blue eyes were ice. “Why would ye help me—a stranger?”
She had no answer to give. She did not know why she was compelled to aid him. She did not know why she was worried. But he had clearly survived the attack—and she was relieved.
She had no explanation for her relief, either.
When she made no answer, his eyes darkened with suspicion. He struggled to stand. Instantly he reeled, as if he were a tree buffeted in the wind.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, left holding the bloody linen. She rushed to him to brace him to stand.
“Dughall, tell the men to raise our tents. We will spend the night here.” He did not glance at her, shaking her off, his gaze on the burning manor. It was mostly rubble and smoldering ash now, although some timbers still burned. He appeared satisfied. “No one will use this place against us now.”
Alana recalled what she had heard about Bruce—how his armies left no stones standing. So it was true.
He turned to Alana. “So yer an angel of mercy.” He was mocking.
She flushed. He did not seem grateful for her aid. He seemed highly skeptical.
“I could not let you bleed.”
He turned as if he hadn’t heard her. “And, Dughall, get a needle and thread.”
“Aye, Iain.” Dughall raced off.
Her pulse was racing. His name was Iain. Why did that seem to matter to her? “I can see a simple knife wound will not kill you. You should sit back down, my lord.”
“A true angel.” He eyed her. “Why not, mistress? Why not let a stranger bleed to death?”
She did not know the answer herself!
“Why were ye in the woods? Did ye flee the manor when we attacked?” He spoke sharply.
“No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.
“Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.
She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?
“And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”
“I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.
For a moment he stared.
“My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”
He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”
A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.
Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”
She again had no answer to make.
His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.
It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.
Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”
Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.
His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.
Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”
“Give her a blade,” he said to Dughall. To Alana, “Cut the leine off.”
She nodded, taking the knife Dughall handed her. And then he seized her wrist another time. Alana froze, meeting his hard gaze once again.
“Try anything untoward and ye will suffer my wrath,” he said.
She nodded. Did he truly think she might stab him now?
He released her. She quickly cut his leine down the front, to his belt, and pulled open the sides of his leine. She pretended not to notice the hard slabs of his chest, the dark hair there, or the small gold cross he wore. Then she uncovered his left shoulder completely.
The wound was bleeding again. Dughall handed her more linens, which she gratefully took and pressed to it. Iain inhaled in pain and their gazes collided.
“I am sorry.... I am trying not to hurt you.” She avoided his gaze now, acutely aware of him.
“You have no calluses,” he said.
She started, eyes wide, locking with his. What was he talking about?
“On yer hands.” He was final—triumphant.
She finally realized what he meant. If she were a farmer, her hands would be callused. Alana could only stare. She had been caught in her first deception.
His smile was slow, dangerous. “Who are ye, lady? Dinna tell me yer a farmer’s wife—falsehoods dinna sit well with me.”
“We were summoned to Nairn,” she managed to answer. “My grandmother carries healing potions.”
“An answer that is no answer,” he said.
She glanced at Dughall, her cheeks aflame. “Can you bring me warm water and soap?”
“Aye, my lady.” He slipped from the tent.
“The truth,” Iain said.
Alana felt mesmerized by his unwavering stare. “We do not know why we were summoned,” she lied, feeling desperate. “But we believe my grandmother’s potions are needed.”
His blue gaze moved over her face now, feature by feature.
Did he believe her, when she was so deliberately lying? When she hated doing so, when she was a poor liar by nature? And Duncan of Frendraught was his enemy—would such a lie even protect her? “You should not speak. You should rest.”
“Ye do not play these games well. Ye have no ready answers.” He had become thoughtful.
She checked to see if his wound had stopped bleeding, and was relieved that it had. “Saving a life is no game.”
He said, “Ye cannot or will not tell me who ye are. A spy would be prepared.”
“I am no spy, my lord,” Alana said tersely. He thought her a spy? She was horrified. “I am no one of any import.”
He smiled coldly at her. “Ye have import, lady, or ye would not hide from me. And—” he paused for emphasis “—I am intrigued.”
She was dismayed. She did not want his interest, not at all!
“A young woman, alone in the woods with her grandmother, not far from Nairn. A young woman who does not flee from a battle, but goes into it—and warns a stranger of treachery. How long do ye think it will take for me to learn yer name?”
If he wished to find out who she was, he would certainly be able to do so, quickly enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.
“And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”
“Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”
“Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.
“Are ye frightened?”
Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”
His gaze was on her face.
“Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.
“So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.
He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.
And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.
No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.
She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.
He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.
“Grandmother!” Alana hurried to her, relieved. “Are you cold? I am sorry I have been so long!” she cried, hugging her.
“I paused before the fire, Alana, so I have warmed up.” Eleanor hugged her back while Alana flinched. Now Iain knew her name. Tomorrow, if he made enough inquiries, he would learn the truth—that she was Elisabeth le Latimer’s bastard daughter, from Brodie Castle, and that her father was Sir Alexander. He might even learn that she was a witch.
She must leave his camp before he made any inquiries about her.
Iain was watching them closely. “Yer granddaughter has been kindly tending me, Grandmother,” he said.
“Of course she has, for no one is as kind,” Eleanor said. “May I help you, as well, my lord?”
“It is Iain, Grandmother.” He glanced casually at Alana. “Iain MacDonald.”
Eleanor went to him and knelt, responding as Alana had feared she would. “I am Lady Eleanor. Well, the wound is deep. You will need stitches. Alana, bring me the bowl of water.”
Alana met Iain’s amused gaze. He had just ferreted out her grandmother’s name, as well, easily enough. When he asked about them, he would quickly learn that they were from Brodie Castle. It would not be difficult now.
They had to leave his camp as soon as possible.
Alana did as her grandmother instructed, then remained silent as Eleanor cleaned the wound. She did not look at Iain, but was aware that he was watching her. When Eleanor was done, she said, “Alana’s hand is steadier than mine, and she makes a fine stitch. She will sew you up, my lord.”
“It is Iain,” he said. “I am no lord, just a fourth son.”
Alana handed him the flask, absorbing that bit of information. Younger sons were either churchmen or soldiers of fortune. He had clearly chosen the latter. “I will need at least two men to hold you down.”
He took a long drink from the flask. “Ye will need no one. Bring me the blade,” he said.
He would struggle when she stuck a needle in his flesh, all men did. “My lord,” she objected.
“Bring me the blade, Alana,” he ordered.
She inhaled. It was so odd, unnerving, to have him call her by her name. Alana handed it to him.
She took up the needle, which was threaded. He would only make her efforts more difficult. It would be hard to remain steady if he struggled. How silly, to be so proud.
And Iain put the hilt of the dagger in his mouth. She carefully pricked the needle into his skin. He tensed, making a harsh sound, but he did not move.
Alana knew better than to look at him. Very swiftly, with determination, she put ten stitches into the wound, closing it completely. He did not move, or flinch, again. She knotted the thread, and Eleanor snipped it. Finally, she looked at him.
His eyes were closed, long, thick lashes fanning his skin. His face was white and covered with perspiration. For a moment, she thought he had fainted. And she hoped that was the case.
Eleanor began to apply a salve to the wound. His eyes flew open, gazing at her, not her grandmother. “Thank ye, Alana.”
“Do not speak now,” she told him. “Most men would be unconscious with such a wound. You should sleep.”
He studied her, very closely. “Angel,” he finally said.
Alana felt her heart flutter oddly. This time, she had not heard mockery in his tone. She lifted the flask to his lips—he drank. Then his eyes closed and his breathing deepened. He had fallen asleep instantly.
Suddenly exhausted, she rocked back on her heels.
What had just happened?
He was the warrior from her last vision, yet he was a stranger, and now, there they were, together, in his tent, with her in attendance upon him! Why had she foreseen this battle—why had she foreseen him? And why was it so important to tend to his welfare? To prevent his death? He was a ruthless Highlander, renowned for his savagery in battle.
She could not tear her gaze away from him now. In sleep, his hard face relaxed, he was dark and handsome, but the MacDonald men were known for their dark hair, their blue eyes, their arresting features. And like any Highland warrior, he was powerfully built, his arms chiseled from years spent wielding sword and ax, his legs sculpted from the mountains he ran up and the horses he rode.
What kind of man was he? To suffer such a wound, as he had just done? To remain awake while she sewed him together? To lead his men so far from home in dangerous battle? To be known as Iain the Fierce?
Did he really leave no enemy alive? Hadn’t she just seen him rescue a woman and her children from the burning manor—putting his own life at risk to do so?
She instinctively knew that she did not want him as her enemy, even if that was what they were. And while she had thus far been able to avoid telling him the truth about her family—her father—he would soon find out about her Comyn blood.
Would they be allowed to leave, once he had awoken?
Could they leave before he woke up?
Eleanor had finished applying the healing ointment, and was laying linen over the wound. She sank down onto her stool, facing Alana, her gaze searching. “I don’t want to awaken him to bandage it. We can do so tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Alana gasped. “Maybe we should leave now, before he awakens—before he finds out who my father is.”
Eleanor took her hand. “We can hardly leave now, Alana. It is a short walk to Nairn, but it is dusk already and it will be too dark to travel soon.”
She was right, they could not leave now. Alana looked at Iain. He was so soundly asleep now, his face softer, as if he were a little boy. But she was frightened. He was so suspicious of her.
“Alana—what has happened?” Eleanor whispered.
Alana turned to her, clutching her thin hands. “It was as I suspected, Gran! The battle for Boath Manor was the battle of my vision—and he is the stranger I saw being betrayed by his own man.”
The two women stared at one another.
“I cannot comprehend this,” Alana finally said, low.
Eleanor shook her head. “Nor can I. One day, we will know why you had such a vision...why you saw this man.... But it is useless to dwell on it now. There will be no answers tonight.”
Alana realized that her grandmother was tired. She put her arm around her. “I am so sorry I let you come with me! You could be safely at Brodie Castle now, asleep in your own bed!”
“You did not have a choice, granddaughter.” Eleanor smiled. “But what worries you so?”
Her grandmother knew her too well. “He is the enemy. He rides with Bruce. He was fighting Duncan’s men,” Alana whispered, worriedly. “What if he does not let us go? He is already suspicious of me.” She did not add that she would never tell him about her visions.
“If he learns you are the Earl of Buchan’s niece, we will have to tell him everything, Alana, and pray he realizes that we have no value as hostages.”
Alana hesitated. Buchan and Bruce were the worst of enemies—each wanted the other dead. Bruce would surely be pleased to have her in his control as a hostage, even if no ransom were forthcoming. She did not feel confident that Iain would blithely allow them to go on their way if he ever learned the truth. He seemed ambitious and terribly ruthless. They might explain that her uncle and her father had no care for her, that they would not ransom her, but he might not believe them. And even if he did, her instincts told her he was a complicated man—that his actions could not be predicted. He might think her a card to be kept up his sleeve.
She glanced at him again. He lay asleep, unmoving. He was so handsome, in such a powerful and masculine way.
Eleanor stood and put her arm around her. “Child, let’s find a place to rest. It has been a long and trying day. My old bones are aching. And you should cease worrying. That will not solve anything, not tonight.”
Alana nodded. She walked back to Iain and stared down at him for a moment, suddenly aware of being exhausted. How she wished she knew why he had been in her vision, and why she was now with him.
She bent and adjusted the furs, covering him up to his chin. As she did, she thought he stirred; she thought his dark lashes flickered. But he did not open his eyes.
“Child?” Eleanor called.
Alana turned and followed Eleanor from his tent.
* * *
THE SOUNDS OF the men taking down the camp awoke Alana.
She jerked upright. For one waking moment, she did not recognize the tent she shared with her grandmother, did not recall why she was there and not in her own bed.
And then all the events of the previous day came rushing back to her. The burning manor, the bloody battle, Iain of Islay...
Alana stared at the hides of the tent, stunned anew, and then looked down at Eleanor. Her grandmother remained soundly asleep.
She had hoped to be up and gone well before dawn. Now she remembered every detail of the previous day—mostly, she remembered just how suspicious of her Iain had been. She could not imagine what the new day would bring. But they had to get to Nairn, or suffer Duncan’s wrath. And mostly, they had to escape this camp before Iain decided not to let them leave—before he learned she was a Comyn.
She prayed that he remained soundly asleep, which would not be unusual, considering he was afflicted with such a stab wound.
Alana slipped out from the furs she and Eleanor shared. A pitcher of water was on a small table in the tent, and Alana used some to wash her face and brush her teeth with one finger. She quickly loosened and braided her long dark hair. Then she paused to gently awaken her grandmother. “I am going outside.”
As Eleanor got up, Alana lifted the tent’s flap and stepped out. The sun was just rising, and it was a freezing cold December morning. She pulled her fur more tightly about her. They had overslept, for the sun was rising from the dark mists.
Her trepidation increased as she glanced at the camp, hoping their captor remained abed. A dozen men were standing about the cook fire, bread and ale in hand, while the rest of the Highlanders were packing up their tents and gear and saddling their horses.
Alana saw the lady of Boath Manor. Pale and blonde, she sat with her children on the fire’s other side, the children busily eating bread and cheese. And Iain was with them.
She was in disbelief. He was up and about, as if he had not suffered a deep knife wound the previous day. And then she prayed that he would not ask about her identity another time, that he would thank her for all she had done and let her go on her way.
He had seen her. He was seated with the lady and her children, but now, he slowly rose to his full height, staring across the fire at her.
She no longer saw the woman and her children, or the other men. She hugged herself, unmoving.
His gaze unwavering upon her, he drained his mug, tossed a crust away and strode to her. “Good morn, Alana.” He smiled carefully at her.
“Good morning,” she managed to answer. His smile did not reach his searching eyes.
“Did ye pass a pleasing night?” he asked.
So he wished to make polite conversation? What tactic was this? “Fortunately, it was not too cold.”
He glanced at the brightening skies. “It will be colder today.”
He was probably right, as the skies were clear, which meant it would not snow. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes again. He did not seem like an injured man just then. Although his left arm was in a sling, he wore a long sword and a dagger. Beneath his fur, she saw his dark blue, black and red plaid, pinned with a gold brooch above his right shoulder. She was very aware that he was not bedridden, that he was powerful, masculine and very much the enemy.
“I did not expect to see you on your feet so soon.”
“Did ye truly think I’d linger on a pallet in my tent?”
Was he amused? It was hard to tell. “Your wound must pain you.”
“I care little about pain. It is always a good day when one awakens alive,” he said. “Will ye break bread with me, mistress?”
“I am not hungry.” She did not wish to share a breakfast with him. “We have been delayed as it is. We must get to our kin in Nairn.”
He smiled. “Ah, aye. Ye have been summoned there, to heal someone, and ye cannot spare a moment to eat.”
She knew she flushed. “It would be best to simply go on.”
His brow lifted. “But ye had the time to attend my wound.”
She could not help staring at him and their gazes locked.
“I will learn why ye nursed me, mistress, just as I will learn why ye truly go to Nairn,” he said.
She had little doubt he would soon learn all that she hid from him and she was so tempted to blurt out the truth. Instead, she cried, “I do not even know, myself, why I wished so desperately to save you! I saw the terrible treachery, my lord, and I ran to your aid without thought!”
He started, his regard probing.
Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. “That is the truth, my lord.”
For one more moment he studied her. “Come eat.”
She decided not to argue, aware that he had not forbidden her from leaving. Alana glanced toward their tent, but Eleanor had yet to come outside. She followed him closer to the campfire, took the bread he offered and quickly ate it. He continued to stare and it made her uncomfortable.
When she was done, she looked up and saw him flexing his left arm in the sling, wincing. He seemed pale beneath his days’ growth of beard.
She knew her stitches would hold, if he undertook no abnormal activities. But men died from infected battle wounds more often than not. “Maybe I should look at your wound before I leave?” Alana heard herself say.
“So yer concern for a stranger in a time of war remains.”
She did not want him to die, and she had already said as much—she would not say so again, especially when such desire was insensible.
He gestured. His tent had been taken down, so she followed him to a large wagon, one containing a catapult. He leaned against it, shaking his fur from his wounded shoulder. Their gazes danced together, his appraisal this time slow and steady.
She looked away, deciding that she preferred it when he looked at her with suspicion, not with interest. She pushed the plaid farther back over his shoulder. She did not look up at him as she untied the sling, but she felt his gaze upon her face. She had the feeling he was scrutinizing her every feature as he had done the past night. It made her terribly uneasy.
She removed the sling, then pulled open the neckline of his tunic. Someone had secured the bandage. She lifted an edge, and was instantly relieved. “You are healing nicely.”
“I have been well nursed,” he said softly.
Aware of the heat in her cheeks, Alana tucked the linen back into the wrappings, and covered it with his tunic. She helped him put his arm back in the sling and tied it. But there was no avoiding contact—no avoiding the feeling of male muscle and bone. “I hope you will rest and heal for a few days, at least. I do not wish for my efforts to have been in vain.”
“War waits fer no man.”
She took a step back, to put some distance between them. “Surely you will rest for a few days.”
“I am a soldier. I have no time to rest, mistress.”
She was in disbelief. “Then you might die, for you can hardly wield a sword with such a wound.”
He began to smile. “I will wield more than one sword today, my lady, I will wield two.”
Alana gasped. “How can you raise a sword in your left hand? And you think to fight today?”
His smile vanished. “Why did ye come to help me yesterday? The truth, mistress.” Warning filled his tone.
She froze. “I truly don’t know. I have told you what I do know.”
“That ye desperately wished to save a stranger—with no previous thought?” He was dismissive. “Did ye shout a warning to me?”
She had no intention of telling him that she had visions, and that he had been in her most recent one. She would not tell him that she had foreseen the battle of yesterday, and the treachery committed by one of his men, so that she had, indeed, warned him, not once, but twice. “You could not hear anyone shout from the woods,” she finally said.
“Aye, no man could hear a shout from the woods. But I saw ye standing there—and I heard ye scream at me, in warning. I heard ye as clear as can be—two times.” His eyes blazed.
She wet her lips nervously. She had shouted at him to warn him against his assailant. But how had he heard her? It was impossible!
“Did ye try to warn me?” he demanded.
“Even if I did, you could not hear,” she began.
He seized her arm. “I already told ye I heard ye! Confess! Did ye shout at me?”
Helplessly, she nodded. “Yes.”
He shook her, once. “How can that be? How could I hear ye—and how could ye warn me of treachery before it happened?”
Alana cried out. “I don’t know!”
“Ye shouted at me and there was nothing—then ye shouted again, and that bastard traitor stabbed me. Were ye privy to the plot?” His grip tightened.
“I was not privy to any plot!”
“Then ye must be a witch!” he cried furiously, releasing her.
She backed away, rubbing her arm. She had to lie. “I am not a witch,” she finally said, panting. “And I do not know why I shouted, everything is a blur in my mind!”
His look was scathing. Clearly, he did not believe her.
“Ye flush, perhaps with guilt,” he snarled.
She started; wet her lips. “If I am guilty, it is of aiding the enemy.”
“So ye admit that we are enemies.” His smile was hard, triumphant.
She hugged her fur close now, entirely intimidated. “No.”
“Do ye belong to Boath Manor or Nairn Castle? Or do ye belong somewhere else?”
Her mind raced. Should she give up her deception? And at least admit that she was from Brodie Castle? For then, perhaps, he would stop interrogating her.
“So ye still wish to deny me yer identity? Ye only pique my curiosity!”
She knew she must avoid revealing her relationship to the Comyn family, at least. God only knew what he would do to her if he knew she was Buchan’s niece. “What does it matter, my lord? When you have survived this battle, and this last act of treachery? When I will leave—and we will never see one another again?”
His smile was hard. “And why would ye think we will never see one another again?”
She started, incapable of comprehending him.
“Treachery is like a serpent with many heads,” he said abruptly. “Take one, and others appear, ready and able to strike.”
What did he mean? “I do not know treachery as you do.”
He made a harsh sound. “Ye knew of the treachery yesterday. Yer first shout is the proof.”
Alana finally whispered, “I have tended your wound, my lord. I believe you are in my debt. Will you let us leave? We are expected in Nairn.”
He slowly smiled at her, not pleasantly. “Are ye certain ye wish to play that card now, Alana?” He tilted up her chin. “That is a marker ye might wish to collect another time.”
She flinched and he dropped his hand. “What do you intend?” she gasped, shaken.
“It is hardly safe for two women, one old, one young and fair, to travel about the country.” His gaze was hooded now.
“Do you refuse to allow us to leave?”
“Ye have refused to answer my questions. Until ye do, aye, I refuse to allow ye to leave.” His gaze hard, his tone final, he turned abruptly away from her.
From behind, Alana seized his arm, shocking them both. He whirled to face her, eyes wide, and she dropped her hand. Touching him had somehow been a mistake, she knew that, although she did not know why. She gave up. “I am from Brodie. I am the daughter of Elisabeth le Latimer,” she said hoarsely.
His stare widened with surprise.
She could not withstand his intense interrogation, his cold badgering, his distrust—she could not. If she told him something of the truth, some part of it, he might lose interest in discovering the rest, and let them go.
“Elisabeth le Latimer,” he slowly said. “Is her sister Alexander Comyn’s wife?”
She swallowed. “Her cousin married Sir Alexander,” she somehow said. She could not believe her father had so quickly entered the conversation. “My mother married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, bringing him Brodie Castle, a part of her dowry.”
He studied her with no expression, and then said, “I take it Sir Fitzhugh is not yer father?”
She flushed. “No. He died before I was born. I am Mistress le Latimer, my lord.” She could barely breathe, and the conversation had become far too dangerous. “Duncan of Frendraught is my liege, and he has summoned us to Nairn.” She tried to smile and knew she failed. “You will probably march on Nairn today or tomorrow or in the next week. I did not think it wise to reveal myself to you.”
He was considering. “Duncan is lord of Brodie. Fitzhugh had no heirs?”
She shook her head. “Duncan became lord of Brodie when I was eight.”
“Why would he summon ye in a dangerous time of war? Surely there are others in Nairn with healing potions.”
She did not wish to lie again. “Duncan has no care for me. He never has. We did have an escort, a single guard, but he fled, abandoning us.”
His gaze darkened. “Ye did not answer, mistress.”
She hugged herself. “Have I not said enough?”
“I cannot imagine what could be so urgent that he would summon ye to Nairn now. But clearly, it is a wartime matter.”
She was grim. How right he was.
“Ye have no husband.”
Taken by surprise, she stared. But she had introduced herself as Mistress le Latimer. “No.”
“Why not?”
She tensed.
Just then, Eleanor stepped up to them. “Alana, are you ill? You’re pale this morning.”
Alana took her hand. “Lord Iain said we could leave, if we told him the truth. I told him we are from Brodie, and I am Elisabeth le Latimer’s daughter.” She knew her grandmother would never volunteer information dangerous to her survival. She faced Iain. “I have no husband because I have no significant dowry.”
He barely glanced at Eleanor. “Really? As comely as ye be, ye hardly need much of a dowry to wed some young knight.”
Alana shook her head. He knew that something was amiss, of course he did. “I am a bastard, my lord, and my tainted birth has further limited my prospects.”
His gaze narrowed as they stared at one another.
Eleanor put her arm around her. “My lord, you owe my granddaughter a great debt. But you discomfort her instead. We must be allowed to go on to Nairn.”
He never even looked at Eleanor. “Who is yer father, mistress?”
Alana stared at him, aware of moisture gathering in her eyes. She was ready to admit defeat and tell him all, but Eleanor said, “We do not know. Elisabeth never said, and she died in her childbed.”
Alana closed her eyes, relieved. A silence fell as Eleanor hugged her close.
Iain turned, now impatient. “Fergus! Ye will escort both women, but not to Nairn.”
Alana gasped. “We had an agreement! I have told you the truth!”
“Did ye?”
“You let me believe you would allow us to go on our way if I told you who I am.”
“Bruce’s army is near Nairn. Choose another destination, or I will choose it for ye.” He strode past her.
Alana was furious. She ran after him and reached for his arm, jerking him back. He whirled, incredulous. “I have done my part. How can you do this?”
He shrugged his arm free. “I dinna ken what part ye play, but ye cannot go on to Nairn. I will not put ye in harm’s way. Make some other choice or ye can return to Brodie.” He was final.
“You do not care about me,” Alana finally said, but she felt as if she were asking a question. “Why would you care where we go? Or if we are at Nairn when it is attacked?”
For a moment, he did not answer. Then, for the second time that morning, he tilted up her chin. “Ye said so yerself—I owe ye a great debt,” he said softly.
She began to tremble. What was he doing? Were his eyes dark and smoldering?
“Then let us go to Nairn,” she said.
He made a harsh, disbelieving sound. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.
Alana went still, shocked, as his mouth claimed hers—in a hard, demanding, aggressive kiss.
And when he stepped back, her heart was thundering, her skin aflame and her knees buckling.
He gave her a look that could not be mistaken before he strode away, calling to his men.
Alana stared after him. What had just happened?
Iain did not trust her—but he had kissed her. She had never been kissed before. Men did not desire her, they feared her.
Except for Iain of Islay—who did not know she was a witch.
She became aware of Eleanor, for her grandmother had approached. Still stunned and breathless, Alana dared to face her.
There was no censure in her grandmother’s eyes. Alana saw speculation, instead.
“Will you speak?” she asked. “Will you berate me?”
“I have no desire to berate you, but later, we should talk about the Highlander. We must get to Nairn, and we must do so before it is attacked.”
Alana was finally jerked back to some sensibility. “He is sending us back to Brodie.”
“If your father and uncle were not on their way, I would wish to return to Brodie. We must get to Nairn, Alana,” Eleanor said. “I can make up a potion for Fergus, one to make him ill.”
Alana nodded grimly, as they had no choice but to poison Iain’s soldier. She gazed across the land. His men were all mounted now. The camp had been entirely dismantled, with no sign of it ever having existed. A dozen wagons were filled with their tents and war equipment. Beyond the army, the manor was a pile of rubble, except for one lone chimney that was still standing.
Their wagon and the mule had been brought forward, and Mistress MacDuff was beside it, with her two children in the back. Fergus held the mule’s bridle, and that of his warhorse.
Only Iain remained afoot, his long hair streaming about his fur-clad shoulders. It was as if she could still feel his lips on hers.
His squire led a big dark horse over to him. Iain leaped astride easily enough, gathering up his reins. And for one moment, the land was silent, except for the snorting of horses, the creak of leather, the jangle of bridles. Iain’s gaze was on her.
Alana stared back. He had been hostile and suspicious since meeting her, but he had kissed her with unimaginable passion. She did not know what to think.
He turned to face his men, standing in his stirrups, and he lifted his hand. “A Donald!” he roared.
A hundred men roared back at him, a reverberating Highland war cry. And then the army was galloping away from the burned ruins of Boath Manor.
Beside the mule and the wagon, Alana held her grandmother’s hand, staring after Iain until he was gone and only snowy mountains remained.
