Captured Heart (15 page)

She stared at the brown liquid. “Are you sure you didn’t eat any?”

“I’m sure.” He pushed her three small mushrooms around with his spoon. “These were in yer cup.” He pulled a bowl from Hamish, who sat on the other side of him.

“If you’re so hungry for Bess’s stew, I’ll get you some more.” Hamish tried to grab the bowl back.

“No mushrooms,” Caden said.

Meg frowned down at the offending fungus as Caden checked several more bowls. No other mushrooms were found.

Caden stood. “Where’s Bess?”

Gwyneth walked up then. “Caden, I need to tell ye.” She lowered her voice, though Meg could plainly hear her, and she spoke in English. “Chief Davidson sent word that he’s received a letter from an Englishman.” She glanced at Meg. “Something about witchcraft.”

Even though Caden didn’t show any outward sign of worry, from contact with his arm, Meg sensed the clenching of his stomach, the jump in the pounding of his heart. Her own stomach twisted around the bread she’d just eaten.

“Witchcraft?” she asked.

“Where’s Bess?” Caden growled, ignoring Gwyneth’s announcement.

“My cousin said Chief Davidson said the letter mentioned Meg Boswell,” Gwyneth continued.

“I’m aware of the accusation. I’ll send word to Gilbert telling him to ignore it.” He strode off toward the kitchens.

Gwyneth slunk back down the table to sit.

Meg sat, just sat, for a long while, as Caden’s words sunk in. A letter about her, from England, sent to holdings in Scotland? From her father? And Caden already knew about it. The acid flooding her stomach churned into nausea. He must have received one, too.

Caden came out with a frowning Bess. “I didn’t put any mushrooms in the stew,” she insisted.

“What are these, then?” He pointed at the poisonous little tops. People all along the table peered into their half-eaten soup. Meg stared at the mushrooms, her mind whirling. Would she have been dead before her aunt could reach her if she’d eaten them?

Bess’s lips pursed into a hard line. “I didn’t put them in her soup, I swear. Perhaps cook had them on a shelf and they fell in.”

“Cook doesn’t keep bloody poisonous mushrooms sitting on her shelf,” Caden said.

“You are aware of an accusation against me?” Meg asked softly. She tried to take a sip of wine but Caden intercepted it first and took a large swallow. When he didn’t keel over he handed it to her and she set it down.

“Meg, the mushrooms—” Caden started.

“You are aware that an Englishman is calling me a witch?” she asked. Fury blended with shock and fear.
I’m in danger and he didn’t even tell me.

“I received a letter,” Caden said and then glanced at Bess. “Figure out where the mushrooms came from and how they got into Meg’s soup.”

Bess curtsied. “Of course.”

Caden swiped the mushrooms into the rushes and crushed them under his heel. “Until then, all of Meg’s food will be tasted first.”

Meg stared at the retreating woman. “And you didn’t tell me,” she said, her voice still low even though the thoughts in her head screamed. Angry tears threatened at the back of her eyes.

Caden’s eyes were hard when he turned to her. Irritation, worry, anger? “I didn’t want to concern ye.”

“You didn’t want me to know that someone was hunting me for witchcraft?” she asked incredulously.

All conversation around them had ceased.

“Ye were leaving England, Meg. I assumed ye already knew.”

“I was leaving to visit my aunt.” Well, it was true, but not completely. She blushed.

Caden stood and leaned down to her ear. “While watching over yer shoulder the entire time.” He straightened and grasped her hand. “Perhaps ye, too, should have mentioned yer father.”

Meg forgot to breathe. He knew it was her father. He knew that the man who was supposed to love her wanted to try her for witchcraft and possibly kill her.

“I want to read the letter.”

“The missive was destroyed.”

Meg stared with wide eyes. “Destroyed?”

“Fell into the fire,” Ewan called from down the table. Meg’s attention snapped toward him. Ewan waved his hand as if the whole affair was nothing to fret about. “The letter just mentioned the possibility of being examined for witchcraft. Ridiculous! Not worth acknowledging.”

“Gilbert Davidson seemed worried,” Gwyneth mumbled, and received a glare from Ann. Gwyneth shrugged and raised her eyebrows in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry…I just thought ye should know.” She bit into a piece of bread.

“Is there anything else you think I know that you haven’t told me?” Meg asked as Caden grabbed her elbow and hoisted her out of the seat. “Or perhaps I should ask Gwyneth? Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere private,” Caden mumbled. Murmurs meshed together around the table. Caden walked them past the staring musicians. “Play something,” he growled.

Meg clasped the shawl closed across her collarbone to hide the blotchy blush that prickled its way up her chest. Her mind jumped from anger to fear. A letter, about her, sent out through the Highlands.

Her mother’s warning beat inside Meg. She wouldn’t let Rowland Boswell take her. She must find the evidence of his treasonous plans against King Henry. That was the only way to defend herself. She sank one hand into the pocket of her skirts, fingers curling tightly around the key she always kept near.

Caden reached the shadows near the stairwell and stopped to pull her before him. He placed heavy hands on her shoulders. His heart beat strong as his muscles tensed. She breathed in his scent, strength and man mixed with fresh Highland wind and pine. The man must bathe often to smell so good. Meg frowned. Instead of sniffing him, she should be yelling at him.

“Meg,” he said and exhaled. “There is a lot I must tell ye.”

She met his eyes. “I expect there is.”

“When I met ye in England I was on a mission,” he started. “Nay.” He shook his head. “Before that ye must know there was a feud.”

“A feud?”

“Aye, it started a hundred years ago, over a lass. Two stubborn chiefs wanted her.”

“What does that have to do with any of this?”

Caden stared hard at her, his fingers curling into her shoulders, willing her to understand. “Ye have to know the whole story.” He shook his head. “Not just the what, but the why.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Continue.”

“The chief of the Munros and the chief of the Macbains both desired the same lass.”

“How unfortunate.”

“The lady was not able to choose. So they met to fight for her, to the death. They fought valiantly, but the lady couldn’t bear to have either one die over her. When the Munro sliced down to finish the Macbain, the lady dove between them.”

Meg swallowed hard. “She died?”

“By the Munro sword. The Macbain slashed back in fury and killed the Munro and thus began a feud that’s been fed through the years by raids and attacks, leading to more deaths and more hatred.”

“Between the Munros and the Macbains?”

“Aye,” he said.

“Then I am—”

The sound of the front doors banging open cut into Meg’s words.

“A message!” a man called out across the sounds of the festival. “To be delivered in haste.”

“Finally,” Caden murmured.

“You’re expecting something?” Meg asked, but he had already turned. Could this be the letter inviting her to the Munro’s holding? She frowned at Caden’s obvious relief.

She followed him back into the festival where the gaiety hushed.

“I am The Macbain,” Caden told the snow-dampened man. “From where do you hail?”

“I am a Davidson. An Englishman brought this letter to be taken directly to…” His gaze moved past Caden to the filled hall. “Meg Boswell.”

Everyone froze for the briefest of seconds and then turned in her direction. If she’d wanted to hide, these good people would have given her away. So Meg stepped forward, propelled by expectation and what she’d like to think of as courage. Although in all honesty, she just didn’t want to stand out as a guilty coward by retreating.

“I am Meg Boswell.”

The man handed her a rolled parchment sealed with a rose of dark red wax.

“Bloody hell,” Caden said when he saw it.

Meg’s hand shook as she unrolled the scroll.

Dear daughter,

Rumors abound over your disappearance from England. Some say you ran from the accusation of witchcraft. If you are innocent of such heresy, you would not have run away. Therefore, I believe the other rumor that you were kidnapped by Laird Macbain and his men to be used to manipulate a truce with the Munros. They will be punished.

Do not fear, dearest daughter. I am on my way, with King Henry’s support, to rescue you from this nightmare. Be prepared to leave Scotland when I arrive. Your Uncle Harold and Aunt Mary travel with me and fear for your safety. If you are not at the Macbain or Munro holdings, I will assume you have run away in fear of God and his judgment. Your aunt and uncle will then stand in your place, as it was under their care that you were seduced by the devil.

You are once again under my protection and authority.

Your father,

Rowland Boswell

Meg’s inhale was shallow and hitched. A long moment passed before she was able to swallow. All eyes rested on her. She turned to where Caden stood, appearing none too patient. His hands were balled in fists, his face grim, legs spread in a natural battle stance.

“Boswell,” he said.

Meg drew a breath. “It seems the devil has caught up with me.” She handed the parchment to him. “He’s coming to take me to hell.”

Chapter Eight

20 December 1517—Feverfew: small white flowers

with yellow centers.

Give half a cup tea for fevers, nervousness, hysteria, induce monthly flux, and treat low spirits. Infuse into honey for wheezing. Bruise and heat mash into a poultice to stop pain and swelling from bug bites, face ache, and earache.

Although often found in dry areas, the best plants are found along damp, windy mountain paths.

“The bloody hell he is!” Caden slammed his hand down on the table. The festival was over, everyone gone home except his council and Ewan. Meg had retired immediately after receiving her father’s threat. For that’s what it was, cloaked in a letter of concern.

“We did kidnap her, even if she doesn’t know it,” Ewan pointed out. “She wasn’t running away because she was a witch.”

“She
was
running away when we found her,” Caden said. “From Boswell, though, not a charge of witchcraft.” He didn’t care what Meg could do with her little blue light. The woman wasn’t a witch. A witch had a pact with Lucifer, hurt people and animals, and usually had gnarled teeth and fingers and stringy gray hair.

Meg was no witch.

“The last letter promised food and weapons to fight the Munros,” Kenneth said. “Do you think that offer still stands?”

“What are you saying?” Angus demanded. “The lass is innocent and sweet as honey. She fixed my cough. We’re not just giving her up to those damned English bastards.”

Caden’s blood surged inside him. His muscles twitched with battle energy. Aye, he needed to kill something. And if Ancient Kenneth wasn’t careful, it just might be him.

“I’m just saying…if the lass decides to go with him, I wonder if he’d honor his first proposal.”

“He’s English,” Bruce said. “He won’t honor anything.”

Kenneth continued. “Maybe when he gets here, we can demand the food and weapons before Meg goes out to him.”

“Meg is not going anywhere,” Caden annunciated with such poison that his words drew fear out of Angus’s and Bruce’s faces as they took a step back. His gaze bored into Kenneth, waiting for the old man’s challenge.

A slow grin spread across Kenneth’s bearded face. “Ain’t that telling?”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Caden growled.

Kenneth chuckled. “Meg’s not going anywhere,” he said. “Sounds like you have a fondness for the Munro lass.”

“She’s not a Munro,” Caden said.

“Oh, then she’s what? A Boswell? A
Sasunnach
, an English?”

Fury welled up inside him. He slammed his fist onto the oak table again, making all the tankards and bowls jump and wobble.

“You think Boswell will kill her?” Ewan asked. “His own daughter?”

Caden concentrated on breathing and not grabbing his sword. His gaze followed a knot in the oak table. “Aye. The man killed his wife. Meg thinks it was because her mother found some damning evidence against him, something that showed him to be a traitor. I think the man is desperate to kill off anyone who could possibly bring out the truth.”

“How can we keep her?” Ewan asked. “What she needs to be is a Macbain, legally, that is.”

A Macbain? Of course, a Macbain!
Caden’s head snapped up, his gaze connecting with Kenneth’s. The old man raised his eyebrows, waiting, as if he’d come to the same conclusion but needed his young laird to reach it on his own.

“Angus, where was Father Daughtry headed after us?” Kenneth asked.

“The Macleods’ holding.”

Caden nodded and Kenneth did, too. Aye, it was the best thing to do. Meg would officially be under his protection. A blood bond with the Munros would force a peace. And most important, a marriage union would keep Meg at Druim, with him…forever.

“Ewan, take a small group of men to Colin Macleod’s to fetch the good father. Leave before first light.”

“Will he be giving the Englishmen last rites?” Bruce asked, and chuckled.

“Nay,” Caden said. “He’ll be performing a wedding.”

…

Meg stared at the bright spot of sun trying to break through the gray clouds. The snow had finally ceased. She was so tired of her room that she had climbed the narrow stairs to the catwalk on the roof of the keep. The view allowed one to see the countryside all the way to the forest on every side. She breathed in the fresh, crisp air.

“Be careful,” Hamish called as he walked the perimeter of the roof. “’Tis slippery.”

She listened to his steps fade as he rounded the corner, watching over the people stirring below. Was Caden down there? Her eyes caught sight of a black beast sitting at the edge of the forest.

“You haven’t abandoned me, Nickum.” The wolf trotted back into the forest as if something caught his attention. Would he follow her back to England? Her father would probably have him shot.

The thought twisted Meg’s stomach. Her nightmare had come to life. Returning with her father meant succumbing to examination, possible torture, and probable painful execution. If she refused or ran again, her aunt and uncle would be in her place and the Macbains could be blamed for an abduction they didn’t commit.

“Dear Lord, help me.” She trailed her finger in the melting snow along the wall.
What can I possibly do?

The door to the stairwell swooshed open and closed. She didn’t even look up, didn’t want to talk to anyone. She was too miserable to pretend courage right now, which is why she’d avoided the great hall for the last four days.

Warmth slid across her shoulders, a fur. A wooden soup bowl scraped along in front of her on the rock ledge. “Cook says eat. I’ve checked it already. No mushrooms. I’m checking all yer food.”

Caden’s voice made her stomach drop even more. Not only was she leaving behind the first taste of freedom she’d ever had. She was leaving behind…him. “Thank you,” she said.

He leaned on the wall next to her but didn’t touch her. “Eat the soup, Meg. Ye’re going to need yer strength,” Caden continued.

Tears stung the back of her eyes. Was he so ready to be rid of her?

Caden brushed the snow off the ledge. “We have a good life here in the Highlands,” he said. “Raw and rugged. Nature’s battle for survival can be ugly and harsh but breathtaking, too. We don’t have a lot here, not like the English cities. We live hard, fight hard…love hard.”

He leaned his back against the wall, and the warmth of his gaze fell on her. She sipped.

After a long moment her eyes met his. “Thank you for the soup.” She rubbed her chin along the fur. Did he want to say something? She waited.

“The council and I have been talking,” he said. “I…we don’t want ye to leave.”

Her breath hitched for a moment. “You don’t?”

“Aye. The men and I. Ye will be in danger if ye return with Boswell.”

Her heart sunk a little when Caden said it was the council and the men who wanted her to stay, although he had included himself. “If I don’t go with him, you all and my aunt and uncle will be in danger.”

“He can’t make ye leave, Meg. The decision is yers.”

She shook her head. “He’s my legal guardian.”

“What if he wasn’t?”

“He is.”

Caden paused and then spoke slowly. “Not if ye become a Macbain.”

“Become a Macbain? How exactly—”

“Marry me, Meg.”

Her inhale stopped inside her chest as it squeezed. Was he teasing?

Caden took her freezing fingers in his warm hands. “Wed with me and ye will be Meg Macbain with a full clan supporting ye.”

“Wed…you?”

Caden moved closer. His stomach gurgled, churning. Was he nervous? On the outside it didn’t show. She reminded herself to breathe.

He bent his head and brushed the warmest kiss along her cold lips. The simple touch held such promise. His hand moved to cup the side of her head, his fingers combing back her curls. He kissed her again, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world. Perhaps they did. Perhaps she could become a Macbain, protected, maybe even loved, free from worry over using her powers.

“I don’t need yer magic, lass, to know that I affect ye, too,” he said against her lips. “Marry me and we can explore more than just a kiss.”

“It could put the clan in jeopardy,” she said.

“The clan is behind me. And,” he paused as if weighing his words, “actually our union could end the feud between the Macbains and the Munros. Honor will dictate that yer uncle, Alec Munro, must end it if there is a blood tie between our clans.”

“So there is still a feud?” So much was coming at her, it was hard to keep everything straight.

“Aye, but the immediate benefit is that ye will be safe from yer father. Legally, anyway.”

She pinched her lips together. “Next time there is a letter that regards me, you must let me read it before it gets destroyed. Understand?”

He seemed to ponder her request. “Marry me, Meg, and ye will read all that I receive.”

She sighed. She’d only known him for three weeks. He was the most handsome man she’d ever met. Honorable and strong and his kisses melted her insides. No talk of love, only of safety and alliances. Marriages were started on much less than that. Disappointment was foolish though hard to ignore.

She smiled.

“Yes?” he asked, his own wide grin coming to the surface.

“Yes, Caden Macbain, I will marry you.”

…

Colin Macleod rode at the front of the long line of his men. He glanced over his shoulder at the heavily draped priest. “You warm enough, Father?”

“Aye, though there’s a good amount of nip in the air,” the elderly man said, and sank farther into his cape.

Colin breathed in the frosty evening air. The fresh bite filled his lungs, dispelling some of his worry. He hadn’t seen Rachel since Isabelle had left that horrible morning, dutifully riding home to marry her father’s choice. Colin spit on the ground. Bloody horrid choice, too. Rowland Boswell had turned out to be the devil himself. If Isabelle’s father had known the man would dispatch his dutiful daughter to the witch’s flames, perhaps he’d have recognized Colin’s claim. He rubbed a hand across his full beard. They’d been handfasted together and Colin had loved Isabelle so much that when she begged him to let her go, he did. Bloody foolish!

And now he’d meet her daughter. Would she resemble his bonny Isabelle or the bastard devil that had spawned her?

“Druim,” Ewan called out and pointed ahead at the outline of a castle against three mountains.

Colin’s eyes rested momentarily on the largest mountain, the farthest to the right. How much time had passed since he’d visited there?
I should have stolen her away. Boswell would never have found her up in our cave.

The Macbain riders had reached him the evening before, requesting a priest to marry Isabelle’s daughter in an attempt to save her from that very devil, Boswell. Colin would have ridden through the night, but the elderly priest would not have weathered the journey. So they’d left at dawn, riding at a comfortably brisk pace.

“Keep watch for English,” Colin called, squinting as he scrutinized the hills and forest edge surrounding them. “Never know where the bastards might be hiding.” He caressed the hilt of his sword. The thought of running Rowland Boswell through made his palm itch in anticipation.

“Colin Macleod of the Macleods of Lewis brings the priest, Father Daughtry,” Colin yelled up to the guard in the watchtower at the open gates of Druim. Ewan and his men rode ahead to the stables. The villagers moved in and out about their daily business with the castle. This would change if the English laid siege to Druim. Or would Isabelle’s daughter go willingly, like her mother?
Damn!
He swallowed hard. This time it wouldn’t matter. This wasn’t his fight.

The guard waved them into the bailey. Colin dismounted and helped the elderly priest down. Several boys ran to walk the horses and Colin tossed them each a silver shilling. “See you walk and water them well, lads,” he said and led the way up the stone steps to the great doors.

The guardsman had descended from the wall and opened the doors. “Colin Macleod—”

“Brings his priest, Macbain.” Colin spied Caden Macbain standing near a long table with several other men. He recognized the council to the late chief and strode forward, meeting the gazes of the wiry old advisors before grasping Caden’s arm in greeting. “You’ve grown into your name, lad,” Colin said to Caden. “Even taller than your father.”

“Welcome to Druim,” Caden replied and released the hold. “Ale for our guests.” Several serving lasses retreated to the kitchens. Caden indicated a backed chair for Father Daughtry. “Thank you for making the journey to Druim. We have an urgent need for a clergyman.”

“A wedding?” Father Daughtry laughed. “For the tormented bridegroom it can seem urgent.”

Caden raised a brow at Colin.

“I have not gone into the particulars with the good father,” Colin supplied. Because Colin didn’t tell anyone anything unless absolutely required. And the good father tended to see wickedness behind every change in the regular running of things. The old man voiced his judgments in annoying length and detail, too.

Caden turned back to the priest. “Father, with this union a bloody feud will end. We wish to see it happen before any more lives are lost.”

The priest’s eyes gathered suspiciously. “Aye, then, it would seem ’tis urgent. Where is the lass?”

“Above.” Caden indicated the steps.

“Have the banns been published?” Colin asked.

“I placed them on the door of the small chapel here five days ago,” Caden said. His gaze bored into the priest. “I will swear on your bible that neither of us have been married before.”

“There will be a fee that will be returned if what you say is true. What can you pay?”

“Several cows are coming behind us,” Colin said. “For the celebration after the wedding.”

Caden nodded his appreciation.

“I pay two for the short crying of the banns,” Colin said. “A gift to then be returned to the couple.”

Caden seemed to exhale. Colin’s small smirk wouldn’t be seen through his thick beard. The big Highland warrior actually looked nervous. And it wouldn’t be about the English, but rather one little English lass.