Читать книгу My Lady Captor - Hannah Howell - Страница 8

Ruari cried out, opened his eyes, and saw only blackness. It was a moment before he could subdue his panic enough to realize he was still beneath Sorcha’s cloak. At some time during the slow, torturous journey he had lost his grip on consciousness. He felt smothered, and struggled to move his wounded right arm enough to tug the covering from his face. His awkwardness made him curse even as the cloak was pulled from his face. Taking a few deep breaths, Ruari stared into Sorcha’s rich brown eyes.

“We are about to camp for the night, sir,” Sorcha said. “As soon as the campsite is readied, I will see to your wounds.”

“And the lad?” he asked.

“Margaret has helped him o’er to a tree. His wounds arenae severe. Once we were out of sight of the battlefield, he sat up on the pony. We believe he was banged on the head, fell, and was left behind.”

Slowly turning his head, wincing as even that small, cautious movement brought him pain, Ruari looked around the camp until he espied his young cousin Beatham. Despite his anger over Beatham’s disobedience, Ruari was relieved to see that Sorcha was right; the youth did not appear badly hurt. In truth, the boy was clearly well enough to indulge in a little flirtation if Margaret’s smiles and blushes were any indication.

Still moving cautiously in an attempt to minimize his pain, he watched Sorcha prepare a fire and then looked over her choice of camp. He had to admire her selection. It held enough trees and undergrowth to allow them shelter yet not so much that an enemy could approach them completely unseen. It was also on a rise that allowed her a good view on all sides. Someone had taught the girl well, he mused, and wondered why. The expert way she set up camp only added to his curiosity.

All interest in her strange skills fled his mind, thrust aside by his pain, as she and Margaret shifted him from the litter to the bedding Sorcha had spread out by the fire. His wounds were serious, made all the more so by the long hours they had been left untended. As the women removed his armor and clothes, the urge to slip into the blackness was strong, its promise of sweet oblivion from his pain a great temptation. He clung to what few shreds of awareness he could, however. Ruari did not fully trust his rescuers yet.

“Ye would ease our distress greatly if ye would swoon,” Sorcha muttered as she washed the blood and dirt from his body.

“Our distress?” Ruari spoke through gritted teeth, even her gentle touch almost more than he could bear. “I am the one in pain, woman. What trouble can it cause you?”

“I have always found such stubborn bravado troubling. I ken that ye cling to your senses as if ye held the Holy Grail and I am some heathen trying to snatch it from your hands. Ye allow yourself to suffer needlessly. That, my fine knight, is the act of a fool.”

“The mon is in great pain, Sorcha,” Margaret said. “’Tis unkind of you to insult him.”

“He deserves such insults.”

“Heed me, woman,” Ruari began.

“Hush, fool. Ye can bemoan my impudence later. Bite on this,” she commanded even as she stuck a thick piece of leather between his teeth. “Ye have three deep gashes that need stitching—the one on your right arm, the one on your belly that nearly cost ye your innards, and the one on your left leg. Either ye were attacked by a veritable horde of Englishmen or ye were too stupid to fall after receiving your first serious wound.”

“’Tis a miracle he has not already bled his life away,” murmured Margaret.

Sorcha thought so, too, but said nothing, concentrating on closing the worst of his injuries. She closed her ears to the sounds of pain he could not fully stifle. Although she detested adding to the man’s agony, she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had no choice. The moment she tied off the last stitch, she looked at his face. His eyes were so glazed with pain they had lost all color, as had his face, and she knew he was barely conscious. She urged Margaret to go and finish tending the youth’s minor hurts, and bandaged Ruari herself.

Now that she had finished the more onerous task of treating his injuries, she found herself taking an unsettling interest in his battered form. He was a big man, tall and strong, yet not bulky. His was the lean, hard strength of a wild animal. His skin was smooth, taut, and several shades darker than her own, almost as if he had allowed the summer sun to touch every inch of his body. As she wrapped clean strips of linen around his wounds, she found it difficult to resist the urge to smooth her hand over his skin to see if it felt as good as it looked. There was no hair on his broad chest. Tiny dark curls started just below his navel, ran in a straight line to his groin to provide a soft protection for his manhood, and diminished to a light coating on his long, well-shaped legs. He was, she decided, an exceptionally fine figure of a man.

Inwardly cursing her own weakness, she quickly finished bandaging him and covered him with her cloak. It was fortunate that his wits were dulled by pain or he would have noticed her ogling him like some greedy whore. She brushed the sweat-dampened black hair off his face, realized she was lingering over the chore and flushed guiltily. Sorcha wondered what ailed her as she tugged the piece of leather from between his still-clenched teeth.

“Are ye done mauling me, woman?” Ruari asked, astonished at how weak his voice was.

“Aye,” Sorcha replied. “Ye may yet live.”

“He is going to be all right?” asked the youth as Margaret helped him over to the fire.

“’Tis in God’s hands,” Sorcha murmured as she began to prepare a meal of oatmeal and barley bread. “Howbeit, he survived for many an hour with no aid. A mon that stubborn should do weel once he is clean and mended.”

“And still awake?” The youth cast a nervous glance toward Ruari then paled.

“Aye,” Ruari said, his voice strengthening as his pain eased.

“’Tis glad I am that ye have survived.”

“Ye willnae be so glad when I regain my strength, laddie.”

“Now, Cousin…”

“Cousin?” Sorcha asked, looking from the youth to Ruari and back again.

“I am Beatham Kerr,” the lad replied. “Sir Ruari’s cousin.”

“Who was supposed to stay at Gartmhor,” Ruari grumbled.

“But, Cousin,” Beatham protested, “how am I to become a knight if I am always left behind with the women and children?”

“There is many a mon guarding the walls of Gartmhor who wouldnae appreciate ye calling them women or bairns.”

“I am twenty now, Ruari. I shouldnae be coddled so.”

“Asking ye to see to the protection of my keep isnae coddling ye.”

“Enough,” Sorcha snapped as she moved to Ruari’s side. “Neither of ye are weel enough for this childish squabbling.” She ignored both men’s glares as she helped Ruari raise himself up enough to sip from the wineskin she held to his lips.

“’Tisnae wine,” Ruari complained.

“Nay, ’tis a fine cider. I have little stomach or head for wine and I hadnae anticipated entertaining guests.”

“Ye are verra sharp of tongue, wench.”

“So I have been told. Ye must rest. That is a fact whether I tell ye sweetly or tartly. We have a long way to go on the morrow over rough ground and mayhaps farther still on the next day. That will depend on how much ye slow us down.”

“We have traveled a fair distance already.”

“Aye, though not as far as I would have liked.”

“Ye must live verra near to the border with the English.”

“Sometimes too near, but Dunweare is a hard keep to take, as ye will soon see. ’Twas built for defense.” She shook her head as she returned to the fire and the food she was preparing. “And now ye have me talking with you as if we are but guests at some banquet. Ye need to lie quietly, fool.”

“And while we speak of fools, which one of your kinsmen allowed two wee lasses to travel o’er this dangerous land to a battle?” Ruari winced as he tried to move into a more comfortable position only to restir the worst of his pain.

“We are hardly sweet, helpless lasses. Margaret and I can fend for ourselves. We left Dunweare not long after my headstrong brother did. We wished to be close at hand if he should need some help. Since he slipped away alone, we felt that was verra possible. At times my brother forgets his responsibilities.”

“There is naught wrong with fighting the English. Your brother could bring great honor to your clan.”

“At times, sir, a clan may need the mon far more than it needs honor. Now, be silent. I dinnae ken where ye get the strength to talk or why ye should be so eager to do so.”

“I think ’twas all those hours of lying on the field alone, unable to help myself and with little hope of anyone coming to my aid.” Ruari spoke in little more than a whisper, then closed his eyes, startled that he had spoken so honestly. He decided Sorcha was right. He badly needed to rest.

“Here now, isnae that just like a mon. He pesters a lass until she fair wants to scream, but just when she needs him awake, he sleeps.”

The soft, husky voice, so close to his ear, as well as her words brought a swift halt to Ruari’s descent into sleep. Her remarks carried a distinctly sexual meaning to his mind, but he sternly scolded himself for such thoughts. Then he opened his eyes and met her gaze. The glint of mischief was clear in her dark eyes, and he frowned.

“Ye should choose your words with more care, lassie,” he warned. “Someone could mishear them.”

“Nay, I think not. I fear I have the habit of speaking most plainly. Margaret, prop this fool up so that I may try to put some food in his belly.”

Although Margaret’s softly rounded form was a pleasure to lean against and the plain fare Sorcha fed him was remarkably tasty, Ruari found that he lacked the strength and wit to appreciate either very much. A fierce will to live had kept him clutching at life and consciousness. Until his wounds had been tended, he realized he had feared slipping into unconsciousness, had feared that blackness would lead to the neverending oblivion of death. Now that someone had taken care of his needs, his battered body called out for sleep. He began to find even the simple chore of eating too much for him.

“Enough,” he finally said, turning his head to avoid the spoon Sorcha held to his lips.

“Aye,” agreed Sorcha. “Ye ate weel for a mon so close to death. It appears that eating has made ye cease to be so stubborn and recognize that ye need to rest.”

“Truth. I must regain my strength.” He closed his eyes. “There are at least two people I must discipline.”

Sorcha smiled faintly when she saw how alarmed young Beatham was. She did not know Sir Ruari well, yet her instincts told her that the young man did not really have much to fear. If Ruari did anything more than loudly scold his cousin and perhaps insist that he do some less than knightly chores for a while, Sorcha would be very surprised. Her instincts told her that, concerning his family and friends, Ruari Kerr was more bark than bite, and at Dunweare her instincts had long been notorious for their accuracy. It was that confidence that, despite knowing that she was the second person Ruari felt he needed to discipline, kept her from being concerned about his threat. The only thing she did worry about was how he would react when he discovered he was to be held for ransom. That could easily put her on the side of his enemies in his mind. Sorcha was sure that having Ruari Kerr as an enemy was something any wise person would avidly avoid.

Inwardly sighing, she sat legs crossed before the fire and began to eat her meal. Ruari would undoubtedly be furious when she told him that he was her captive. The fact that he had relinquished most of his original distrust of her would only enhance his anger when she informed him that his clan would have to pay to get him back. Sorcha was startled at how sad she felt as she considered Ruari’s anger. She did not even know the man, yet the thought of him being angry with her, seeing her as his enemy, was highly distressing.

Unsettled by her thoughts, she attempted to distract herself by watching Margaret and Beatham who sat across the campfire from her. It was amusing to watch the youth flirt with Margaret. She clearly enjoyed Beatham’s attentions, which was not surprising. Beatham was a very handsome young man with his thick blond hair and fine blue eyes. He was a perfect match for Margaret. Even in his wit, Sorcha thought with an inner shake of her head.

After another few minutes of watching the pair, Sorcha grew uneasy. Margaret and Beatham were doing more than idly flirting. There was a natural rapport between them. Even though she knew it was not true, Sorcha got the sense that Margaret and Beatham had known each other for a long time. She was going to have to have a long talk with Margaret and prayed the girl would be in the mood to understand. Beatham and his cousin were prisoners. Even if Beatham was willing to forgive that, Sorcha did not believe that Ruari would. Anything more than a mild flirtation between Margaret and Beatham was certainly doomed.

“Margaret,” she said, gently interrupting a murmured confidence between the young couple. “I think Beatham should rest now.” She turned to the youth. “Ye should bed down next to your cousin. Margaret and I must take turns standing guard so we cannae watch over him as weel.”

“I can help ye guard the camp,” Beatham offered.

“Nay. Your wounds—”

“Arenae that serious.”

“True, but they have weakened you. They were left untended for far too long. Ye havenae got the strength to be a guard tonight. Howbeit, ye will have enough to tend your cousin if he needs aid.”

“And that will be a great help, Beatham,” Margaret said. “After all, if we had to stand watch and care for Sir Kerr, we would get no sleep at all.”

Sorcha inwardly grimaced as she listened to Beatham talk grandly about the honor of helping such bonnie lasses. She cleared away the meal and, ordering Margaret to help Beatham spread out his bedding next to Ruari, went to get the bed pack she and Margaret would share. Her pony playfully nudged her as she reached his side, and she took a moment to see to his needs. Margaret joined her just as she finished watering the animal.

“Do ye wish me to take first watch?” Margaret asked, idly scratching Bansith’s ear.

“Nay, I will.” She handed Margaret the bedding. “Spread this near the fire and keep your weapons close at hand.”

“Aye, I will.” Margaret studied Sorcha for a moment before asking, “Does something trouble you?”

Sorcha briefly pondered a way to gently explain her concerns to Margaret then decided that directness was best. “I think ye would be wise not to get too friendly with Beatham Kerr.”

“Why? He seems a nice young mon.”

“Oh, aye, a sweet boy.”

“Boy? He must be your age, twenty or so.”

“True, but there is still a boyish air about him,” Sorcha said, smiling faintly. “How I feel about him doesnae matter. I but try to stop you from losing your heart to a mon ye can ne’er have. He will soon count himself your enemy.”

“Why? What could we e’er do that would turn the Kerrs against us?”

“Hold Sir Ruari and Beatham for ransom.”

“I dinnae understand.”

Checking to be certain Beatham was still too far away to overhear her, Sorcha replied, “Dougal is being held by the English. They will demand a ransom for him. Ye ken as weel as I that we have naught to buy his freedom with. The Kerrs of Gartmhor have some riches. As soon as I ken what the English demand for Dougal’s life, I will ask that much from the Kerrs. I really have no choice,” she added when she saw how crestfallen Margaret looked.

“But Beatham has played the courtier even though he kens he is a prisoner for ransom. Mayhap that means the Kerrs willnae hold it against us.”

“He doesnae ken he is a prisoner yet.” Sorcha idly rubbed at her temple, vainly attempting to massage away a beginning headache. She cursed Dougal for his impetuousness, for his mad search for glory which would now cost his family dearly. “I havenae told him or Sir Ruari.”

“Why not? It seems they have a right to ken we are not the rescuers they think we are.”

“They do, and I detest this deception, but it must be played out. They must not ken our plans until we are at the gates of Dunweare. We are but two lasses. Aye, they are wounded men, and we have fighting skills, but ’tis far safer if we play this game. If they ken my plan they may try to escape. Weel, I need not tell you of all the trouble that could come down on our heads.”

“Nay.” Margaret sighed and cast a longing glance Beatham’s way. “He is such a sweet, bonnie mon. I felt a true softening toward him.”

“I ken it. ’Tis why I felt I must warn you.”

“Mayhap Beatham would understand and forgive us.”

“He may, but Ruari is his laird, and that mon willnae forget and forgive.”

“Aye, I think ye are right. How sad.”

“I am sorry, Cousin.”

“’Tisnae your fault. ’Tis Dougal’s. He put himself in jeopardy. Although he can be an utter fool at times, our clan needs him. Ye must do all ye can to get him back. ’Tisnae your fault that I feel drawn to Beatham either.”

“If it will help any, what I ask of ye now may just make the end of that courtship come sooner than later.”

“What do ye mean? Dinnae ye think I could win the heart of a mon like Beatham?” Margaret demanded.

“Of course ye could. Aye, I suspect ye could draw a promise of marriage from him ere we reach Dunweare. And then he could meet our kinsmen and kinswomen.” Sorcha smiled crookedly as she watched a look of understanding slowly transform Margaret’s pretty round face.

“Oh, them.”

“Aye, them. Mayhaps ye can find some solace in the fact that my actions now will save ye from suffering through that confrontation. They would all gather at Dunweare if there was a wedding. Beatham does appear to be kind and sweet of nature, but e’en he may balk at taking the Seven Sisters into his family.”

“Aye and they are but a small part of the problem. I love my family dearly, but there are times when I wish I had been born into another clan.”

Sorcha laughed and nodded, in complete sympathy. “Go and rest. I will take the first watch.”

“Are ye sure we must be so vigilant? Ye must be as weary as I, and I could use far more than the few hours of sleep I can allow myself.”

“Margaret, we are in the land both Scotland and England claim, yet neither can rule. ’Tis an area that teems with rogues, thieves, and men banished from both countries. Our family has suffered from living just on the edge of this wild land. Aye, we must guard the camp. Shelter the fire so that ’tis enough to keep wild animals at bay yet not so large it will act as a beacon for the villains who call this land home.”

Nodding, Margaret left to spread their bedding out by the fire. Sorcha sighed, checked her weapons, and strode into the wood encircling the camp. She would establish a circular guard out of sight of the camp. As she studied her shadow caused by the moonlight shining through the trees, she realized she would present a small obstacle to any ruffian who wished to attack the camp. Her skill with bow, sword, and dagger was good, but it could never fully compensate for her lack of size and strength. Shaking off a brief attack of fear, she began her steady, watchful pace around the camp.

With each step she cursed her brother. He knew he was needed, desperately so, to carry on the line. While it was true that she could take his place as laird of Dunweare, that whatever husband she might gain could stand for her in court or in battle, it was not the same. The line could weaken, losing the strength it would gain in going from son to son. Eventually the Hay name itself could fade. Dougal had bred no heir yet, had not even tried to find a wife. It was his responsibility to ensure the continuance of the line before he threw his life away on some battlefield. He had been told that since boyhood, so he had to know, yet he continuously shirked his responsibility. This time his inconsideration, while not fatal, had seriously affected her and Margaret. If Sir Ruari Kerr was the vengeful sort, it could even affect the whole clan. It was past time someone forced Dougal to listen to reason.

“Better yet, mayhap I should slap some sense into his empty head,” she muttered then nervously looked around, her voice sounding far too loud in the quiet forest.

She sighed, kicked at a stone, then silently cursed as her toes painfully reminded her that her soft rawhide boots were not much protection against such nonsense. It alarmed her a little, but she had to admit that some of her anger at Dougal was because of Ruari Kerr. She did not understand why she was so attracted to the man or why the feelings had become so strong so fast, but she could not deny it. Because of Dougal’s foolish act, she was forced to make Ruari an enemy. That both infuriated her and saddened her. All she could do was let matters take their course and pray that Ruari would not turn the whole incident into a long, bloody feud.