Keeper of my Heart

Prairie Muse Publishing

©2014

ISBN
978-1-937216-58-0

Scotland, 1494

Màiri dropped the steaming iron cauldron back onto the hook above the fire and somehow managed to keep her thoughts together long enough to swing the kettle to the side so her stew wouldn’t burn.

She fisted a hand to her forehead and pressed hard. Sweet Magda, the pain was unbearable.

With her hand braced against the warm stones at the side of the hearth, she took one gasping breath, then another, fighting to ignore the agony and fragmented thoughts that seeped into her mind. Realizing her futility, she ceased her struggle and let the random emotions and feelings form as they would. She was powerless to stop them. Such was her gift.

Her curse.

Her breathing slowed as the turbulent storm washed over her. She saw it. No. She felt it. She felt his pain.

A cold sweat engulfed her, blinding her to all but his unrelenting agony.

Màiri took a steadying breath, then staggered across the floor of the one-room hut that had been her refuge for the past sennight and threw open the door. “Kenneth!”

Kenneth Buchanan looked up from a small pen where he’d just thrown his saddle over a crude board that made up the fencing that enclosed their two horses, then turned toward her. The expression on his face revealed his struggle to hide what she already knew deep inside her. The threat of unforeseen danger that alerted them both.

Kenneth placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, his face already etched with concern, his voice taut with unease. “No, milady! Stay where you are.”

Màiri ignored his words and stepped out of the hut.

The seasoned warrior walked toward her, his long strides as steady as ever, the width and breadth of his shoulders formidable. A fierce frown covered his weathered face, his complexion nearly matching the fire-red hair on his head. Patches of white streaked his beard, but because of the power and strength he exhibited, one hardly noticed he was well beyond his youth.

Màiri did not stop, but walked past him to where the horses now munched on thick grass. The pain she’d sensed from the first drew her to find the source. She could not let Kenneth stop her, even though she knew he was equally as determined to keep her hidden.

“Go back into the shelter. I canna watch over you out here.”

For the past week, Kenneth had been her protector, her guardian, her jailer, with the same diligence as he’d been her mother’s caretaker before her. Bound by a sacred oath given to the Buchanan laird long ago by his father and his father before him, Kenneth would guard Màiri and the gift she possessed. The gift that made the only daughter of the laird of clan MacBride a threat to her own father.

Now Kenneth watched over Màiri, his unrelenting diligence evidence of his determination not to let the same fate befall her as had her mother. Evidence that he would give his life to stop Màiri’s father from murdering his daughter because of his fear of her gift. A gift that revealed her father’s lies and deceit and evil intent.

Kenneth placed his hand on his sword, preparing for a danger she could tell him was no longer there. It was already past.

“What did you find out there?” Màiri asked, continuing her way to the horses.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with, lass. Our hiding place has still not been discovered.”

She stopped long enough to level her long-time guardian and protector with the determined look she’d perfected as a little girl. “What did you find, Kenneth?” she repeated.

The seasoned warrior heaved a harsh sigh of resignation then faced her squarely. “I happened upon a band of warriors. They’d been attacked.”

“By whom?”

“I do na know. I found them already slain.”

The pain grew fiercer. Màiri clutched her side and continued toward the horses. “What colors were the warriors wearing?”

Kenneth breathed a sigh of resignation. “MacAlister colors.

The breath caught in her throat, then she walked on with Kenneth at her heels. From little on she had learned to fear the name MacAlister. They were her father’s most hated enemy.

“And just where do you think you are going, lass?” Kenneth asked, stepping in front of her to slow her progress.

“I have to see them.”

“By the saints!” he roared, planting his feet in the soft earth in front of her, refusing to budge. “You are going nowhere!”

“I must.”

“No! They are dead.”

A wave of pain so severe she almost could not stay on her feet clawed its way through her body. “One is not.”

“He is more dead than alive. Leave him be.”

Màiri fought another wave of pain. “I cannot,” she whispered.

Kenneth stood rooted in place, as if seeking divine intervention to stop her. “By the saints!” he roared, raising his fist in the air. He bellowed his curse again, then stomped toward the horses, leaving her to catch up. “It’s your father and his enemies from whom I’ve sworn to protect you and now you’re determined to go out to save one of them. ‘Tis madness!” 

Kenneth threw a saddle over his huge, speckled roan, then saddled Màiri’s small, gray mare. All the while he ranted and raved, cursing her and himself and the sacred oath that had placed him here. But never once did he question how she knew about the danger he’d seen out there, or rail against the gift that told her one MacAlister warrior still lived.

’Twas a gift passed down from her mother that led her to know what others tried to hide. ’Twas a curse that let her see her worst nightmare, and know it had come wearing the MacAlister plaid.

. . .

Màiri rode at Kenneth’s side as they made their way ever so slowly through the wall of tall trees and overgrown shrubs that concealed their hiding place from the outside world. He rested one hand on the hilt of his sword while his gaze scanned the surrounding countryside for the first sign of trouble. This was the first time Màiri had dared to go beyond the confines of their isolated cottage since she’d gone into hiding, and she could tell from the worried lines on Kenneth’s face he was a little more than nervous.

He led the way through the muted shadows of the dense forest then out into the bright sunshine. They were almost there.

Màiri tightened her grip on the reins, keeping a firm hold on the skittering mare. The scent of blood permeated the air, the smell of death an acrid odor that sickened Màiri’s stomach and made her horse want to bolt.

Màiri could sense his nearness, feel his pain. She nudged her mare forward, then dismounted when she saw the twisted bodies on the ground. Kenneth dismounted with her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, urging her to stay back, but she walked across the meadow, distancing her mind from the bloody bodies ahead of her, concentrating only on the one warrior still alive.

She passed the slain men, their mangled flesh and severed limbs and haunted expressions a reminder of their final horrors, now frozen in death. Then made her way to the man barely hanging on to a whisper of life. She stopped. This was the warrior whose desperation to survive had compelled her to move amidst such tragedy.

A gnarled fist tightened deep in her stomach.

She cursed her gift.

He lay on the ground, his broad shoulders pressed against the earth. One thick, muscular leg lay bent beneath him in an unnatural angle, his head lolled heavily to the side. Màiri took note of the rippling muscles of his arms, hardened from hours of practice with his heavy broadsword. She focused her gaze on the deep, bronzed flesh beneath the gaping opening of his shirt, trying to discern even the smallest movement. She saw none.

“Let him die in peace, lass,” Kenneth whispered as she stared down at the MacAlister warrior.

Blood covered most of his body, staining the front of the tattered saffron shirt he wore and soaking through the green and black and gold tartan draped across his shoulder. His flesh stood open from a jagged gash at his shoulder and again at his thigh, the earth turning dark as life flowed from him.

The heat in the pit of her stomach increased, spreading with an encompassing warmth as she studied the strong features of his handsome face. A large slash separated the skin at his forehead, his flesh already black and blue from the bludgeoning blows he’d taken to the head.

Màiri fell to her knees at his side, the intense pain inside her ebbing and swelling with every shallow breath he took. With trembling hands she reached out to touch him.

Before her fingers touched his flesh, she anticipated her reaction. But she was not prepared for such intensity. Nor could she deal with the all-consuming turmoil that enveloped her. She pulled her hands away and covered her mouth to stop the gasp of air that caught at the back of her throat.

His weapon lay at his side, his fingers still clutched around the hilt of his finely honed sword. Blood stained the blade, and even though there were no bodies to prove he had shown himself mighty in battle, she knew many of the attacking warriors had gone to meet their Maker that day and had been secretly carried off by their clansmen.

She pried his fingers loose and held his hand in hers. A warmth of molten heat spread from the tips of her fingers where they touched, up her arm and through her breast, wrapping her heart in a blanket of searing coals. It moved lower to the pit of her stomach turning to a roaring blaze that set her afire. Màiri held her breath, waiting for his power and strength to ease.

Her curse had shown itself in varying forms, but never with such intensity. Never with such overwhelming confusion.

“We must take him home quickly, Kenneth,” she whispered, touching the MacAlister’s sun-bronzed face. Her hand looked fragile and small when placed against his magnificent features.

“Ah, lass. Are you sure you must do this?”

“Aye.”

Kenneth moved to pick up the unconscious warrior.

“Can you put him on my horse?” Màiri asked, helping to lift as much of his weight as she could. “I can ride with you.”

Kenneth nodded. “We will give your Milly an extra portion of oats tonight. She will deserve the reward. ’Tis not a small man she has to carry home.”

Màiri fingered the brooch that fastened his tartan at his shoulder. “Do you know his name?” she asked. Kenneth had spent far more time in her father’s hall than she. If the MacAlister had been there, he would undoubtedly know it.

“Aye. I have seen him once before when he came with his brother to accuse your father of stealing their cattle. He is the MacAlister laird. He is called Iain.”

“What do you think he’s doing here?”

Kenneth shook his head. “You know why he’s here as well as I, lass. You should be thankful a band of renegades found him before he found you.”

“Surely Father wouldn’t send for the MacAlisters to kill me? They have been mortal enemies forever.”

“Your father would send for Satan himself if it meant he could rid himself of your presence without staining his own hands. Never forget he is more terrified of your gift than he is of his worst enemy.”

A cold shiver raged through Màiri as she studied the formidable warrior draped across Milly’s back. She couldn’t stop the sense of foreboding that ran down her spine.

“Do na fear, child. He will probably not survive the ride home.”