Читать книгу Lord of The Isles - Debbie Mazzuca - Страница 9

Fairies. Only you can save him. The words echoed in Ali’s head. She turned to gape at Fergus. “What the hell are you talking about?”

The big man shot a furtive glance over his shoulder before saying, “Hush, you canna’ let the laird ken what I’ve told you.”

“Know…know what? That you think I’ve been sent by fairies?” she hissed.

“Och, now, lass, doona’ fash yerself,” Fergus pleaded, keeping his voice low.

“I’m holding a knife, preparing to cauterize the wound of a man who is wide awake, and you’re telling me I’ve been sent by fairies…fairies…for God’s sake. And you expect me to stay calm?” She glared at him.

“Aye.” He grimaced. “Please, lass, I promise I’ll explain everythin’ to you once ’tis over.”

Ali’s brain swirled with images and emotion, panic leading the way. She felt like she’d been tossed into another world where everything she knew didn’t matter, and her confidence plummeted. She didn’t trust her abilities, not here, not now. She wanted to run as far and as fast from Dunvegan as she could. Part of her hoped it was a nightmare and that she’d wake up, but she knew it wasn’t. Just as she knew the man in the bed was real, and beautiful, and strong. So unlike anyone she’d ever met before. And she couldn’t run away and leave him to bleed to death.

Ali glanced over her shoulder at Rory. His eyes locked with hers. He gave her a weak but encouraging smile, as though somehow he sensed her distress. She knew then she wasn’t going to leave him—not yet.

“You have no choice, lass, it has to be done,” he said quietly.

Ali gave him a brisk nod. He was right. Fairies aside, no one else was stepping up to volunteer for the job. The sooner it was done the better—for both of them. She thrust the knife into the flames, letting out a yelp of pain when the handle heated along with the blade.

“Fergus, did you no’ wrap the hilt?” Rory growled.

Sheepishly, the older man shook his head and retrieved the knife. “Sorry, lass.” He dug through a battered chest and found a piece of leather and a cloth to wrap around the metal shaft before reheating it over the flame.

After handing it to Ali, he went to stand behind Rory. She shook her head and pointed to where she wanted him. “I need you to hold the wound together while I sear it closed.”

The man paled.

“Iain, it would be better if you sit behind your brother and hold him by his shoulders,” she advised the younger MacLeod, whose mouth was set in a grim line. “Right about there, Fergus.” She motioned once more to the side of the bed, grateful he would shield Rory’s face from her line of sight. “Now press the edges together. No…no, I don’t want to burn you. All right, much better.” She tried to ignore Rory’s agonized curse.

In an effort to center herself, Ali closed her eyes, only to find herself back in the operating room with a panicked Drew, her supervisor and ex-boyfriend, yelling accusations at her, the equipment flatlining—a young mother dead.

“Lass, are you all right?” Fergus’s tone was gruff with concern.

“Yes…yes, I’m fine.” I will be. I have to be. You didn’t make the mistake, the little voice in her head reminded her. Drew did. You’re a good doctor, no matter what he said. Heat leeched from the red-hot steel blade to Ali’s palm. A stinging reminder of where she was, and what she had to do.

Before she lost her nerve, Ali lowered the blade to the wound. The sizzling sound was quickly drowned out by Rory’s shout of pain. His body jerked, then went still. Ali gagged as the smell of burnt flesh assaulted her nostrils. She pressed a fist to her mouth, and Fergus gently removed the knife from her trembling hand.

“Yer a brave lass,” Mrs. Mac crooned, wrapping a comforting arm around Ali. “Come, I think you could use some lookin’ after now.” The woman gently guided her away from the bed.

“But…I…” she began to protest, looking to where Rory lay unconscious in the bed, his blue-black hair a sharp contrast to his paper white skin, his full sensuous lips pulled into a thin line of pain.

“Fergus and Iain will watch over him fer now. I’ve prepared a hot bath fer you and laid out a change of clothes.”

There was nothing else she could do for him, other than pray the wound didn’t become infected. If it did, Ali didn’t know if she’d be able to save him. “Thank you.” Exhausted, her muscles aching, Ali allowed herself to be led away.

Mrs. Mac opened the door to an adjoining room. “’Twas the Lady Brianna’s. Come,” she said when Ali hesitated in the doorway of a room twice the size of Rory’s. The four-poster bed covered in maroon satin looked inviting, but it was the large wooden tub-like structure in front of a blazing fire that drew her in. She inhaled the lavender-scented water in an effort to alleviate the acrid smell that still invaded her senses. “Lovely.” Ali sighed. Her gaze took in the pastoral tapestries that lined the walls and covered the floors. “What a beautiful room.”

“Aye, the laird spared no expense when it came to his lady.”

“He must have loved her very much.” Ali tried to ignore the tightening in her chest when she stated the obvious.

“Aye, that he did,” the older woman said. “He’s had a hard time of it.”

“When…when did she die?” Ali asked.

“’Tis been almost two years.”

She hesitated before asking her next question. “How did she die?” Afraid she already knew the answer.

“In childbirth, lass.” Mrs. Mac watched her closely.

Ali spun on her heel and headed for the door. “I’m sorry, but I really do have to talk to Fergus.” She tried to get around the woman who now stood between her and the door.

Mrs. Mac shook her head, taking Ali’s ice-cold hands in hers. “’Twill do you no good, lass. There’s nothin’ can be done aboot it now.”

“Wh…what do you mean?”

“Yer bathwater is coolin’. I promise we’ll answer all yer questions once you have a chance to freshen up.”

“You know?”

“Aye, I ken what’s happened.” She nodded, sympathy in her gray-blue eyes. “I’ll help with the laird while you bathe, and then we’ll talk.”

Goose bumps rose along Ali’s arms and she shivered, noting the inviting warmth the steaming tub offered. “All right,” she agreed, “but I won’t be put off.”

The woman nodded, then headed out the door.

Unbuckling the belt, Ali laid it on the floor along with the length of plaid. Shrugging out of her T-shirt, she stepped into the tub and slid down. She grimaced when her right hand hit the water, and turned her palm up. The outline of the knife’s shaft was clearly visible. Slowly, she submerged it, sucking in a breath until the throbbing eased. She reached to take the bar of soap from the stool beside the tub and sniffed. Lavender—obviously Mrs. Mac thought the aromatic scent would calm her. Ali closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep through her knotted muscles and tried to do just that. But her thoughts were in turmoil. Rory MacLeod, the beautiful sixteenth-century laird, alive—at least she hoped he was—in the room next door.

It was unbelievable, inconceivable, and part of her refused to consider the possibility it was true, but the annoying little voice in her head kept flashing the evidence before her: the differences in the castle’s interior from when she’d first arrived, no Duncan, no electric lights, no doctors, no medicines. And the most damning evidence of all—Rory MacLeod himself.

Fergus’s words came to mind. That’s why the fairies brought you. You’re the only one who can save him.

Ali cursed and hopped out of the tub. Grabbing the towel off the stool, she rubbed herself vigorously. Fairy flag—it was that stupid fairy flag. Well, if the fairies had brought her here, they could damn well send her home.

She ran her fingers over the amethyst gown laid out on the bed, frowning when she lifted it to reveal what looked like a delicate white nightgown and a long ruffled skirt. She wondered which one Mrs. Mac wanted her to wear. Shoving them aside, she searched for a pair of panties and a bra.

There was a light tap on the connecting door, and Ali wrapped the towel around herself.

“’Tis only me, dear,” Mrs. Mac said, coming into the room. “I thought you might have need of me. Here.” The older woman held out the sheer, white nightgown. “The chemise goes on first.”

Ali ducked her head, lifting one arm and then the other to slip through the armholes before she released her grip on the towel.

Mrs. Mac tsked. “No need to be shy, lass.”

“Sorry. I’m not used to someone helping me dress.”

“Aye, well, there’d be a lot you’ll have to get used to,” the older woman chided, fastening the ruffled skirt at her waist.

Ali’s response was muffled as Mrs. Mac pulled the gown over her head.

“Ye look verra bonny, lass. I didna’ put out a corset fer you, but if you…” She prattled on, lacing the gown with brisk competence.

“Ahh, no, I’m fine.” She barely got the words out of her mouth before Mrs. Mac nudged her toward the bed.

“Here are yer stockings and slippers.”

“Are you sure whoever you got these from doesn’t mind?” Ali asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “They look like they’ve never been worn.”

“They havena’, the laird ordered them fer our lady. Spoiled her he did. Never wanted to give her father anythin’ to complain aboot. Not many have gowns such as these. They were a gift fer after the bairn was born.” She gave a sad sigh before she went on to explain, “’Tis why they’re long enough fer you. I didna’ have a chance to alter them fer her.”

Ali didn’t know what to say, so she concentrated on pulling up the stockings, wincing as the fabric scraped across her palm.

“What’s wrong, lass?” The woman reached for Ali’s hand. She tsked, and shook her head. “Fergus should have been the one to see to the wound, but I ken he couldna’ do it. No’ after the last time.”

“The last time?”

“Aye, he tried to help Dougal, you see, doin’ as you did fer our laird. Killed him instead,” she said as she bent to roll on the stockings for Ali.

Ali’s eyes widened. “Oh, ah…I’m sorry.”

“Aye, well, these things happen, but at least our laird had you to care fer him.” Stepping back she gave Ali the once-over. “Yer set now.”

Ali got up from the bed, anxious to check on her patient. Not sure she was ready to have her suspicions confirmed. “Did Rory wake up when you were in his room?”

“Nay, but he seems to be restin’ comfortably. Doona’ fash yerself, lass. You can see to him once we’ve had our wee chat.” Mrs. Mac opened the adjoining door and called out to Fergus and Iain, gesturing for them to come inside.

“I’d rather not leave him on his own. We can have this conversation in his room.”

“Nay, we canna’ do that. I have a lass sittin’ with him. If need be, she’ll call.”

Fergus and Iain came into the room, looking ill at ease, unable to meet her eyes. Mrs. Mac closed the door behind them. “Sit, lass,” she ordered.

Ali obeyed. The woman was bossy.

Iain rubbed the shadow along his jaw with the palm of his big hand, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Do you ken what happened?”

Ali chewed the inside of her lower lip, wondering if she dare risk the embarrassment of explaining exactly what it was she thought had happened. It was so far-fetched as to be laughable, but she wasn’t laughing, and she needed to know what was going on.

“When your brother was wounded you thought he was going to die, so you raised the fairy flag, and poof, here I am.” She tried to make light of it.

The three of them stared at her in stunned silence.

Oh, my God, they think I’m crazy.

Please, don’t let anyone be recording this. Surreptitiously, she searched for cameras in the crevices of the gray stone walls.

“How did you ken?” Iain asked.

“Duncan Macintosh, Dunvegan’s caretaker, he told me about the fairy flag when he took me on a tour of the castle this afternoon,” she said absently, until she realized what Iain had asked. “What do you mean, how did I know? Are you trying to tell me that’s what happened?”

“Aye.” Iain grimaced.

She jumped off the bed. “Well, wave it again and send me back.”

“We canna’ do that. There’s only one wish left,” he explained, backing away as she strode toward him.

“I’m telling you to do it, now.” She stabbed a finger into his broad chest.

“I’m sorry, lass, we canna’. We have to think of the clan,” Fergus said quietly.

“What about me? You expect me to stay here, stuck in the sixteenth century, never to go home?” She choked back a sob, determined not to cry.

“Ah, lass, I didna’ mean for this to happen. But I had no choice. I couldna’ let my brother die.”

“’Tis no’ the lad’s fault. He only raised the flag and the fairies did the rest.”

Mrs. Mac, who had remained quiet the entire time, stepped forward. “Lass, do you have bairns you’d be leavin’ behind?”

“If by bairns you mean children, then no, I don’t.”

“A man…a husband?”

Ali shook her head. She didn’t, not for the last five months. And Drew Sanderson was one person she wouldn’t miss. He was a lying, disloyal slimeball, who not only broke her heart; he did a good job destroying her reputation while he was at it.

“Mother, father…a family of any kind?”

“No,” Ali snapped. She didn’t need this woman to remind her how little she had left behind. “But I have a friend and my career.” Now that just sounded pathetic.

“You can make friends here, lass, and we’re in need of a healer.” The older woman gave her a sympathetic smile.

“No…no, I can’t stay here. I won’t.” Ali’s chest tightened, panic inching toward hysteria. “Don’t you understand? I’m not like you. For God’s sake, I’m from the twenty-first century!” She closed her eyes to keep from crying. Memories of her childhood crowded in on her. The images tormented her. The fear and rejection she’d felt, being shipped from one foster home to another after her mother’s death, mirrored the emotions that now threatened to overwhelm her. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Please, please, just send me home.”

Iain grabbed her by the arm. “Are you sayin’ the fairies stole you from the future?” He didn’t give her a chance to respond. “Fergus, can you believe it? She’s from the future! Oh, Ali, there’s so much I want to—”

“Quit yer blatherin’, lad. Can you no’ see the lass is havin’ a hard time of it?” Fergus said, watching her with concern.

“Drink this, lass. Come on, there’s a good girl.” Mrs. Mac pressed a cup to her mouth.

Ali took a deep swallow. The liquid burned a path to her stomach, and her eyes watered. She swiped a hand across her mouth. “What the hell is that?”

“Uisge na beatha.” Fergus grinned. “Not many a lass can stomach it.”

“Why doona’ you take a wee nap?” Mrs. Mac suggested, patting her shoulder.

Ali shook her head. “No, I’ll go and sit with Rory.” She’d see to her patient, and after she reassured herself he would be all right, she’d work on a plan to get out of this nightmare.

“Lass, you canna’ tell my brother about the fairy flag.”

“Why not? Maybe he’ll agree to use the flag to send me home.”

“Nay, I swear to you, he wouldna’ do it. My brother puts the well-being of the clan above all else. ’Tis why he canna’ find out. He’d kill me if he kent what I did.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Iain.” But the look on the faces of Mrs. Mac and Fergus reminded her she didn’t know Rory MacLeod. The man was a warrior, very different from the men she knew. She’d been thrust into a time where brutality was an everyday occurrence. One more reason she had to find a way home. The fairy flag was the key, and if they weren’t going to help her, she’d find it on her own.

“Aye, lass, if he didna’ kill me, for truth he’d never forgive me, and I canna’ live with that.”

Ali sighed. How could she fault him when his only crime was that he loved his brother? She knew she wouldn’t be able to make him suffer because of it. “I won’t tell him, Iain, I promise. I know you were only trying to save him. It’s not your fault those damn fairies picked me to do the honors.”

A look of relief lightened Iain’s handsome features. “You’ll forgive me then?” he asked, taking ahold of her hand.

Ali nodded. “You, but not your fairies.”

He pressed her hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Mrs. Mac cuffed the back of his head. “There’ll be none of that, Iain MacLeod.”

“Can I no’ kiss the lass’s hand?”

The older woman folded her arms across her ample chest. “Nay, she’d no’ be fer you, lad.”

Iain frowned. “And who would you be thinkin’ she’s fer?”

Ali opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, the woman said, “The fairies sent her fer yer brother.”

“Now just a—” Ali began.

Iain shook his head. “Mrs. Mac, you ken as well as anyone my brother will never take another. He loved only Brianna.”

Mrs. Macpherson shrugged.

“Hello, I’m right here.” Ali waved her hands at the two of them, annoyed to be treated like a prize up for grabs. “Just so we’re all straight on this, I have no interest in Rory MacLeod, or any other man for that matter.”

Fergus raised a bushy auburn brow. “You doona’ like men, lass?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she grumbled in frustration. “Yes, I like men, but I’ll choose one on my own, thank you very much.” Because you did such a good job the last time, the little voice in her head said. “Now, if we’re finished here, I’d like to look in on Rory.” She walked toward the door.

“A moment, lass,” Fergus called out to her.

Ali groaned. “I have a name, if any of you are interested. It’s Ali.”

A frown furrowed Mrs. Mac’s brow. “’Tis an odd name, lass.”

Ali rolled her eyes. “You can call me Aileanna if you’d prefer.”

“Aileanna. ’Tis better.”

She pressed her face into her hands, shaking her head before looking at Fergus. “What were you going to say?”

“We need a story, la…Ali, to explain where you’ve come from.”

“Right. We wouldn’t want to tell people the fairies sent me, now would we?”

“Aileanna, ’tis no’ somethin’ to make light of. Folks might think yer a witch, and that would be a verra dangerous thing,” Mrs. Mac said, her expression serious.

“A witch?”

“Aye, and there’s a priest in these parts who has stirred up some trouble of late. ’Tis why our healer left,” the woman explained.

Ali rubbed her temples. This just gets better and better. “So, where am I supposed to have come from?”

“You said yer last name is Graham and I’m thinkin’ the laird will have some memory of that. Do you ken any Graham that could slip us up, lad?” Fergus asked Iain.

“Nay, but I canna’ say for certain Rory doesna’.”

“We’ll hope as no’.” Fergus gave Ali an odd look. “I hate to say it, but I’m thinkin’ we’ll have to say she’s English. It may goes a way to explainin’ her strange way of speakin’.”

“’Tis a shame, Fergus, but you have the way of it,” Mrs. Mac agreed.

Ali frowned. “There’s nothing strange about the way I speak, but what’s the problem with saying I’m English?”

“We canna’ abide the English, lass.”

“We could say she’s from the borders. Not so bad, aye?” Iain piped up.

Fergus nodded, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Aye, and because of her healin’ abilities, those bloody Fife adventurers kidnapped her to take her on to Lewis. But she escaped and we gave her shelter.”

Mrs. Mac’s eyes widened. “’Tis quite a tall tale to swallow.”

“Can you think of somethin’ better?” Fergus grumbled.

“Nay.”

“’Tis settled, and now I’ll be off to get somethin’ to eat,” Iain said, heading for the door.

“I’ll join you, lad. Doona’ fret, Ali, we’ll take good care of you,” the older man promised.

“Thank you.” Despite everything, Ali was touched by his offer.

“’Tis the truth, Ali. The clan is in yer debt fer savin’ my brother. No one will say a word against you.”

“That’s good to hear.”

After the men left, Mrs. Mac turned to her. “Go to the laird, Aileanna, and I’ll bring you somethin’ to eat.”

“Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.”

“A wee bit of broth, then. And, lass, though I’m sorry fer yer troubles I’m glad ’twas you the fairies brought to us.”

Moisture gathered in Ali’s eyes at the woman’s kind words. Afraid she might cry, Ali nodded and opened the door to Rory’s chambers.

When she entered the room, a young girl popped out of the chair beside the bed. Her mouth dropped open as Ali came closer. “My lady,” she stammered, bobbing a curtsy.

Ali waved off the formality. “Please don’t do that. I’m not a lady. I mean, I am a lady, just not the kind of lady you mean.” She blew out an exasperated breath. It was obvious the girl didn’t know what she was talking about. “Has Lord MacLeod awakened yet?”

“Nay,” the young girl said, her eyes downcast.

“Well, thank you for watching over him. I’ll sit with him now if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

The girl bobbed another curtsy and scurried from the room with one last look at Ali.

Taking a seat on the hard wooden chair the girl had vacated, Ali looked at Rory. She smiled at the unruly wave of thick black hair that fell across his forehead, smoothing it from his face, pleased the skin beneath her hand was neither hot nor clammy. Without thinking, she allowed her fingers to trail along his cheekbones, to his strong jaw. He stirred. Guiltily she looked up, but his eyes remained closed. Long lashes rested against sun-bronzed skin, with no sign of his previous pallor. When her fingers grazed his full lips they twitched, curving into a smile. Butterflies quickened in her stomach.

Ali pulled her hand away, shaking her head at her foolishness. This was no time to be weaving fantasies about the man, no matter how beautiful he was. She needed to come up with a plan to get home. The sixteenth century was no place for her. Wearily she stood and eased back the bedding to get a better look at her handiwork. She winced. The wound was fiery red and swollen.

Her gaze wandered over his broad chest, the hard muscles beneath the taut skin of his belly. The man was in amazing condition. Muscles stiff, she lowered herself in the chair only to find Rory MacLeod looking at her. Or at least she thought he was, until she heard him say, “Brianna.”

He reached out to stroke his long, calloused fingers along her cheek in a gentle caress. He smiled, then closed his eyes. His arm dropped back to the bed.

Ali groaned. She had to find that damn flag.