Читать книгу Highland Warrior - Hannah Howell - Страница 10

The sound of the door being unbarred brought Fiona to her feet. She had been both annoyed and relieved when she had been secured inside the room with Simon. A soft pallet had been made for her by the fire and even her demand for a bath had been fulfilled, a painted wooden screen set up in the corner of the room to give her privacy. Fresh clothing had been brought to her and Fiona thought she looked rather nice in the soft woolen gown, the deep blue complementing her eyes. Mab had left to be with her son, Simon had passed a peaceful night, and she had slept well, too. There was no reason for her to feel irritated, for her treatment as a hostage had, thus far, been exemplary. She knew, to her disgust, that the lack of any word or sight of her captor was the cause of her annoyance. That implied that she had missed him and she cursed her own weakness.

Gregor entered the room, followed by Mab, and he smiled at Fiona. “Ye clean up weel, lass.”

Fiona inwardly cursed the blush she felt sting her cheeks. “Thank ye.”

“How fares the lad?” he asked as he moved to the side of the bed to look at Simon.

“No hint of fever,” said Mab who, after setting a tray holding a bowl of broth and some water on the small table by the bed, felt Simon’s forehead and cheeks.

“He passed a quiet night.” Fiona stood at the foot of the bed and smiled at Simon, who blushed when Mab yanked down the covers to look at his bandaged wounds. “The wounds looked clean when I changed the bandages this morning and put a wee bit of salve on them. Do they look clean to ye, Mab?”

Gently easing aside the bandages enough to peek at the wounds, Mab nodded. “Verra clean. Ye must tell what your salve is, for ’tis clear that it works wonders.” She tugged the blankets back up and, with Gregor’s assistance, eased Simon into a partially seated position against the pillows. “I have broth, water, and some cider for ye, laddie. And dinnae make that face. Ye ken ye must nay eat too heartily for a wee while.” She looked at Fiona. “A day or two, aye?”

“Aye. Broth today, I think, and if there is still no sign of fever or infection, something a wee bit heartier on the morrow. They werenae verra deep wounds.”

“Mere scratches,” said Simon. “I will be out of this bed soon.”

“Nay until Mab and I say ye can or we will be lashing ye to that bed. The wound upon your belly could be set to bleeding verra easily. Ye will be in bed until it closes and then ye will be verra, verra careful for a while after that. It wasnae deep enough to gut ye, but ’tis more than a scratch. I will see it closed tight ere I let ye prance about.”

“I ne’er prance,” grumbled Simon, and sighed when everyone just grinned at him.

“I brought a potion to give him to ease the pain,” Mab said, glancing nervously at Fiona.

Fiona almost laughed at the looks of alarm that swiftly passed over Simon and Gregor’s faces. “Weel, he slept easily all night without a potion, Mab. True, that could have been because he was too exhausted to be troubled by any pain. Best we leave it to Simon to decide.” She had to grin at the identical looks of relief the brothers quickly hid from Mab.

“Do ye need something for the pain, lad?” Mab asked Simon.

“Nay, Mab,” Simon replied. “I willnae say it doesnae hurt, but ’tis nay bad enough to drink a potion. Those things make my head ache and my stomach churn when I wake up again.”

“Come then, Fiona-of-the-ten-knives,” Gregor said, grinning as he took her by the arm and led her toward the door. “Time to break your fast.”

“Why did he call her that verra odd name?” Mab asked Simon.

Fiona sighed as she and Gregor stepped into the hall and he shut the door on Simon’s reply. She supposed it had been too much to hope for that all the details of her capture would not be told. There had been twelve heartily amused men there, after all. The people of Scarglas were going to think she was very odd, she mused, then almost laughed. Recalling all Mab had told her, odd was almost a rite of passage at Scarglas.

“Simon will heal, will he not?” asked Gregor as they entered the great hall. “He looked weel enough. Better than I had expected.”

“I believe he will be just fine,” replied Fiona. “Another day or two without a sign of fever or infection and then all one needs to worry about is keeping him still enough to let his wounds close tight.” She hid her surprise when Gregor led her to the laird’s table.

“Would ye really lash him to the bed?”

“In a heartbeat,” she replied, ignoring his soft laughter. “If ’twas just the wound upon his arm, he wouldnae have to be too confined, but the wound upon his belly requires that he be verra still if it is to close weel. Every time he moves his body, he tugs at those stitches. In truth, ’twill be a week or more ere I will e’en allow him to don the loosest of clothing. So, if he tries to get up, he will have to do so naked.”

Gregor laughed again as he urged her into a seat next to Ewan. “I believe he will stay abed.”

Fiona simply nodded, too unsettled by being near Ewan to think of a coherent reply. A part of her found the way she reacted to Ewan fascinating, even encouraging, for she had begun to think she would never feel such interest in any man. She never had before Menzies had begun tormenting her, and she had feared that Menzies’s actions had killed all chance that she ever would. What irritated and alarmed her was that her body, perhaps even her heart, would choose to be drawn to a man who had every intention of selling her back to her family.

“How is Simon?” asked Ewan after glaring at Gregor, who sat down on his right.

As Fiona replied, he studied her. Dressed as a lad, she had been beautiful, too beautiful for his peace of mind. Dressed as a woman, she took his breath away. She was temptation on two pretty feet. Just the sound of her slightly husky voice had him taut with need. A glance at his father revealed that the man found Fiona attractive, and Ewan scowled. The man could not possibly be thinking of trying his charms on a lass over thirty years younger than him, could he? Ewan not only found that distasteful, but realized a small part of him was afraid that his father might succeed. That tasted of jealousy and Ewan inwardly grimaced. He was in a lot more danger than he had realized.

“Why are ye still tending the lad?” demanded Sir Fingal.

“I was there when he was wounded,” replied Fiona. “I believe in finishing whate’er I have begun.”

“Mab can do it.”

“Ah, but if we both tend the lad, we can both have time to rest, aye?”

“Where did ye get those scars?”

“Da,” Ewan protested, but his father ignored him.

Fiona calmly finished the piece of honey-coated bread she had been eating and met Sir Fingal’s gaze directly. “A mon felt my face needed some improvement.”

“What do ye mean by that, ye daft wench?”

“I wouldnae call her a wench if I was ye, Da,” murmured Gregor.

Ewan grabbed Fiona’s hand when she reached for the knife used to cut the cheese. The feel of her small hand in his sent the heat of desire straight to his loins, but Ewan struggled to ignore the feeling. He was interested in her answer to his father’s question.

“Explain,” Ewan said and almost smiled at the way her violet eyes nearly sparked with annoyance.

“A mon sought my hand in marriage,” she replied, fighting to ignore how strangely bereft she felt when he released her hand. “I refused him. Although I did so most kindly, he took offense. He hunts me, and each time he has caught me, he marks me. These were the first.” She lightly touched the scar on her right cheek. “He has caught me three other times. He says he intends to make me unmarriagable, to force me to accept him if only because none other will have me.”

“Who?”

“That can be of no interest to ye.”

Ewan decided not to argue that just yet. “Then why were ye out riding alone?”

“Constant confinement, e’en if ’tis for one’s own safety, can make a person act foolishly.”

He nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. The fact that he could never go anywhere alone because they were surrounded by enemies often made him feel the same. One did not need high walls to feel confined. Ewan also wondered if one reason she was being such a complacent hostage was because she had come to her senses and realized the danger she had put herself in. She was now safely behind high walls again and well guarded.

“I think ye must tell me who this enemy is,” he said, watching her closely. “He could follow ye here.”

“Since I dinnae ken where here is, I dinnae think he will be able to find me.”

“He trails ye, hunts ye. It isnae impossible for him to trail ye to our gates.”

Fiona calmly finished her porridge as she thought over the matter. Only her family knew about her troubles with Menzies. Even if Ewan could find a kinsman of Menzies to speak to, she doubted many of Ranald’s clan would know what he was doing to her or would admit it if they did. Since Menzies had caught her at times when she had thought herself safe, it was indeed possible that he could find her at Scarglas. The MacFingals did not need another trouble kicking at their gates. It would also be to her advantage to tell Ewan, for he would guard her against that threat. She just wished he would not be doing so only to protect her value as a hostage, but hastily shook aside the odd pang that knowledge caused her.

“His name is Sir Ranald Menzies,” she finally said. “He rides with six men.” She almost smiled when Ewan grunted in reply, for he reminded her very strongly of her brothers for a moment.

“So, this fool thinks to make ye worthless as a bride for any other,” said Fingal, then scowled at her. “Has he bedded ye then?”

“Da!” Ewan and Gregor protested together.

“What!? Tis a reasonable question. Tis a sure way to make her unweddable to another. Mon wants his wife untouched. Ye should have a virgin for a bride, Ewan.”

“She isnae my bride,” Ewan nearly shouted, “but a hostage for ransom.”

It was foolish to be hurt by his adamant refusal of her as a bride, Fiona thought. He was simply telling the truth. She had not come to Scarglas as a bride, but as a hostage. Even so, she mused, he did not have to be so angered, even appalled, by the suggestion.

She only half listened as Ewan and his father argued. As she finished her porridge and reached for an apple, she looked around the great hall. Many of the men in it bore a strong resemblance to Sir Fingal, and those who did were Ewan’s age or younger. The old fool was clearly trying to breed his own army. Fiona suspected the older men were all ones who had found their way to Scarglas and stayed, or remained after the previous laird died.

It was an impressive great hall with a massive fireplace at each end. Tapestries and weapons decorated the walls. The laird’s table had carved oak chairs, while the other men sat on sturdy benches. The hall was also surprisingly clean, she realized. Whoever ran the household did so with an iron hand. Women and boys moved quietly amongst the tables, refilling jugs and taking away empty plates. Either Sir Fingal had money or the previous laird had. Deilcladach had only recently begun to enjoy some of the refinements she saw here. It would not be a bad place to live if it was not so besieged by enemies, she decided, and then her thoughts were abruptly pulled back to the argument between the MacFingals.

“Weel, if ye dinnae want the lass,” snapped Sir Fingal, “Gregor can wed her. Time he wed and started a family.”

“I have two sons,” said Gregor, “and I will choose my own wife.”

“And I will choose my own husband,” said Fiona, glaring at Sir Fingal.

“Dinnae be daft,” said Sir Fingal. “Tis a mon’s place to choose a mate for the lasses in his family.”

“Nay in mine, it isnae. And ye arenae my kinsmon so ’tisnae your concern.”

“Ye are under my rule now, lass.”

Fiona snorted. “I dinnae think so. Now”—she stood up—“if ye will excuse me, I believe I will return to see how Simon is faring.”

Ewan signaled to his brother Nathan, who quickly fell into step beside Fiona as she left the hall. He glanced at Gregor and was pleased to see that his brother was as amused as he was. Their father looked stunned. Ewan suspected it was the first time any woman had faced him squarely and denied him. Even his last wife had been cowed and submissive right up until the night she had run off. Despite all the trouble it was going to cause him to have Fiona around, Ewan knew he would enjoy watching a female stand up to his father. He would just make sure she did not pay too dearly for that.

“That lass was raised with too light a hand on the reins,” Sir Fingal said.

It made Ewan wince to hear his father say something he himself had said. He was dismayed to think he had unknowingly accepted some of his father’s attititudes into his heart and mind. Although he found some consolation in the fact that he did not fault Fiona for her strengths, Ewan swore to himself that he would try much harder to turn aside the lessons his father tried to teach him.

“She is right,” Ewan said. “Ye arenae her kinsmon and have no right to pick a husband for her. She isnae here for that. She is here to be ransomed and fill our empty coffers.”

“She might have a fine dower. That could do as weel as a ransom.”

“Nay. She is to be ransomed.”

“Dinnae ken why ye are being so obstinate. Ye need a wife and show no sign of getting one. With your face, it willnae be easy to woo a lass, either. Why not take one who fell into your grasp?”

“Da, leave it be,” said Gregor. “Marrying her off to one of us could anger her clan and we dinnae need any more enemies.”

Sir Fingal snorted. “And ye dinnae think holding the lass for ransom will irritate her clan?”

“Tis an accepted practice. I suspicion they now ken that she rode off alone and willnae blame us for taking advantage of how she fell into our grasp.”

“Humph. Tis a sad waste of a young lass. She is bonnie enough despite the scars, and I think ye are right to say she is weelborn. Dinnae get many of that sort about this place.”

“Leave it be, Da,” Ewan said wearily, echoing Gregor’s words. “Leave her be. Tis clear she isnae going to willingly fall in with your plans. None of us wants an unwilling bride.”

His father glared and muttered, but said no more. Ewan had the strong feeling the man had not changed his mind, however. Now, along with everything else he had to watch out for, he was going to have to guard against his father’s plots to marry him off to Fiona. Or worse, marry her off to one of his brothers. Watching Fiona given to another, knowing that man shared her bed, would surely rouse the beast within him. It stirred to life at the mere thought of such a circumstance.

“I will warn the others of Father’s plots,” said Gregor as soon as their father had left the hall.

“Good.” Ewan sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. “A woman as strong as Fiona is must come from a strong clan. As ye said, we dinnae need any more enemies.”

“Have ye e’er heard of this Sir Ranald Menzies?”

“Nay, but there are Menzies nay too far from here.”

“Do ye mean to seek out some word on the mon?”

“If I can think of a way to send one of our men safely about to ask a few questions, aye. I am nay sure he would learn much so I hesitate to risk a mon. This Sir Ranald sounds mad and I suspicion his kinsmen willnae be wanting to admit he is one of theirs. I will think on it.” He finished off his ale and stood up. “Now, since Simon isnae suffering too badly, I believe I will have a wee talk with the lad. The sooner I discover who that lass belongs to, the sooner I can send her on her way.”

Ignoring young Nathan, who stood guard in the doorway of the herb shed, Fiona listened to Mab tell her all about what she had at hand, how it was gathered, and how it was prepared. When she was not trying to find some clever cure, Mab was probably no danger to anyone. The woman knew something about herbs and was well versed in simple medicines. Fiona wondered if there was any gentle way to get the woman to cease being inventive.

It was difficult to keep her mind set on what Mab was saying, for Fiona kept wondering what Ewan wanted to speak to Simon about in private. Try as she would, she could not recall everything she had said to the youth. She prayed Simon could not, either. If Ewan searched for clues as to who she was, she did not want him to gather too many too quickly. It might be foolish, but she was attracted to the man. Fiona wanted to stay at Scarglas long enough to see what that might mean or if, by some miracle, it might be returned. A deep hurt might lie ahead, but she was beginning to think it would be foolish to flee in fear of that when staying might show her that her doubts and fears were unjustified.

Mab started to speak about a potion she was mixing, drawing Fiona’s full attention. Before Mab could tell her what herbs she was stirring together, however, the woman’s attention was diverted by a small, fair-haired boy. Fiona smiled when introduced to Mab’s son, then shooed the pair out of the shed, assuring Mab that she would be fine on her own. After agreeing to meet Mab back in Simon’s room, Fiona turned her attention to the potion Mab was creating. She was not sure she was skilled enough, but she would at least try to guess at what Mab was brewing up now.

Fiona was close to solving the puzzle when she felt a presence directly behind her. Even before she looked behind her, she knew it was Ewan. The fact that, after so short an acquaintance, she could recognize his scent made her feel a little sad. She was obviously becoming more enthralled with the man with each passing hour, yet he showed no sign of suffering a similar affliction. Slowly, she turned around to face him.

“What are ye doing in here?” Ewan asked, clasping his hands behind his back in an attempt to kill the urge to touch her.

“Afraid I am mixing up a barrel of poison for the lot of you?” She shook her head when he just quirked one dark brow at her. “Dinnae be an idiot. I am just trying to guess what Mab has put into this potion she is mixing. She left ere she could tell me.”

Ewan moved closer, leaning forward to sniff at the small bowl holding Mab’s potion. His whole body tensed when he realized how close Fiona was now. When she took a deep, unsteady breath, her breasts brushed fleetingly against his chest. He nearly groaned and was not surprised to see that he had brought his hands forward to grasp the table on either side of her. He lifted his head just enough to bring his face even with hers. When she nervously licked her lips, he felt his belly clench with the strength of his desire.

“Do ye think ’tis her potion for scars?” he asked softly.

“Nay.” Fiona fisted her hands tightly at her sides, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him.

“They arenae so verra bad.”

When he brushed his lips over one of the scars on her cheeks, Fiona trembled. She turned her head slightly, intending to speak, only to find her lips brushing over his. He made an odd, strangled noise, and suddenly she found herself held firmly in his arms. She did not hesitate to wrap her arms around his neck. The heat of his soft lips against hers went rushing through her whole body. The feelings assailing her made her weak in the knees and she clung to him more tightly.

The first nudge of his tongue against her lips was all the persuasion she needed to open her mouth. He growled softly as he invaded her mouth with his tongue. With each stroke of his tongue, Fiona felt her need for him grow.

Then, abruptly, she was released. Fiona gripped the edge of the table tightly to keep her trembling body from sagging to the ground. The heat of desire was clear to see in Ewan’s stormy gray eyes, but he looked utterly dismayed.

“I shouldnae have done that,” he said, his deep voice hoarse and a little unsteady. “It willnae happen again,” he added in a stronger voice before striding away.

Fiona took several deep breaths to steady herself as she stared in the direction he had gone. She now had the proof that he was as attracted to her as she was to him. It was also clear that he did not want to be, was determined to fight it. A slow smile curved her still kiss-warmed lips as she brushed down her skirts. Every instinct she had told her that Ewan MacFingal was her match, her soul mate. If the man thought he could escape that fate, she was ready and able to show him otherwise.