Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (4 page)

“Good.” Ana bent to tuck the blanket around the baroness’s back. As she leaned forward, one of her pendants—a silver rod entwined with a bronze snake—slipped free of her sark and swung into view.

Bébinn gasped. “Lord save us.” Stepping back, she crossed herself.

Grabbing the swinging pendant, Ana straightened. Her stomach sank at the young woman’s wide-eyed expression. Holding the token up so the handmaiden could clearly see it, she said, “There’s naught to fear, Bébinn. ’Tis an ancient Greek symbol of healing called the Rod of Asclepius, gifted to me by my mother.”

“Satan takes the form of a snake.”

“Satan takes whatever form he feels will gain him power,” Ana responded firmly. “Not all serpents are evil. Do you recall the tale of Moses and the copper snake?”

The handmaiden frowned.

Pressing her advantage, Ana added, “When poisonous snakes attacked the Israelites, the Lord bade Moses to craft a bronze snake and place it upon a pole. Any who had been bitten and then gazed upon that serpent would live.” She paused to let the crux of the story sink in. “This snake is bronze, too. ’Tis a sign of healing, not Satan.”

Bébinn’s features softened.

Ana reached inside her sark for the second pendant she wore—a pewter cross. “It rests around my neck next to the most sacred of symbols.” She pressed the warm pewter to her chilled lips, then held it up, too. “The Holy Rood.”

A flicker of relief passed over the handmaiden’s face.

“Each and every day, I thank God Almighty for blessing me with the ability to heal.”

Bébinn smiled. “Indeed.”

Ana turned to Elayne. The baroness’s expression reflected only mild curiosity. Ana tucked the two pendants inside the neckline of her sark and tightened the ties. “I’ll return anon. I’ve some lemon balm to add to the broth. Bébinn will tend you while I am visiting the cook.”

Nodding respectfully to both women, Ana left the room. Once she was in the corridor with the chamber door shut solidly behind her, she sagged against the wall. The rough stones caught at the wool fabric of her dress, pulling threads, but her heart was beating too fast to straighten. The fate that awaited her if Bébinn shared what she had seen with the friar would not be pleasant. He would label her a witch, forsooth. Drowning and burning at the stake were the two most common deaths for witches—both of which, she knew, were horrid ways to die.

She shook off old memories and pushed away from the wall. Bébinn had been successfully distracted this time, but counting on luck to save the day was beyond foolish. She had to take more care and ensure the woman never had cause to look at her strangely again.

Else she might end up like her mother.

Smoothing her skirts with damp palms, Ana strode to the stairs.

•   •   •

Niall adjusted his grip on his knife.

If he waited in the shadows at the base of the stairs and caught them by surprise, he could vanquish the entire group of men. But the discovery of dead soldiers in the cellars would cause an unacceptable stir. This moment called for a strategic retreat.

He reached for the nearest door and tugged. It rattled but didn’t budge—a lock hung from that latch, too. The buttery, perhaps? It made sense that the baron’s expensive casks of French wine and aged whisky be kept under key. He glanced at the door across the corridor. It was locked, too. Duthes’s steward was a very untrusting man.

The boot steps were nearing the bottom of the stairs.

He blew out the candle above his head to darken the corridor and dove for another door. This one swung open, revealing stack upon serpentine stack of colorful cloth bolts. Spindles of various sizes wrapped with wool and thread filled every nook and cranny. He squeezed inside only seconds before four burly soldiers descended into view. Thankfully, the hinges didn’t groan as he closed the door behind him. With the door marginally ajar, he watched the men march forward.

No laughing or joking among this lot. The leader was a mountain of a man with a swarthy complexion. All were grim-faced, stiff-shouldered warriors alert and ready for treachery. Hands on the hilts of their blades, they peered into every nook as they passed. The baron might not have a large army, but he hired skilled men.

Although Niall was confident the soldiers hadn’t seen him, his heart pounded as they drew closer. His hand tightened on the wooden handle of his knife, the twisted-rope pattern offering him a sure grip. If they discovered him, he’d take the leader first, then the slim-faced one with the cold eyes. A deep stab into the collar, a quick slash across the throat. After that, his strategy would largely depend on how the others reacted.

Wasted planning, as it turned out—the soldiers halted one door before reaching him. A large iron key was produced, the latch unlocked, and the door swung wide on groaning hinges. Niall could no longer see the men, but he could hear them rattling about inside what was likely not the buttery at all, but the armory.

“Allez-y, allez-y. Vite, vite.”

Niall grimaced. Normans.

Not unexpected, of course. Trained soldiers—especially those with coin enough for armor and steel weapons—were in short supply in the Eastern Highlands. Many a lord hired mercenaries from the continent. Still, you couldn’t pay for passion, and these laggards would never defend Scotland the way a Highlander would.

Though perhaps that wasn’t a pressing concern for Baron Duthes. With the Norse raiders subdued and the English king reluctant to foster bad blood with his dead sister’s former husband, the only turmoil that darkened Scotland’s doors these days was the petty bickering between powerful families.

“Ramassez les epées de pratique.”

They were gathering practice swords for a session in the lists. Wood scraped along the floor, something heavy hit the wall, and a heavy metal object crashed to the ground.
“Cochon!”

It wasn’t clear who or what the soldier was cursing as a pig, but the other men laughed.

“Tu es chanceux qu’il n’a pas coupé ta bite.”

As the men continued their hunt for practice swords, more rattles and bangs emanated from the armory. Seizing his opportunity, Niall stepped into the corridor. The open door to the armory effectively hid him from the soldiers’ view, but just to be safe he grabbed a dusty sack of cornmeal from a nearby pile and tossed the hundred-pound weight across his shoulders. He was dressed as a common laborer; he might as well play the part. With his eyes appropriately downcast and his legs making strong, sure strides, he headed for the kitchen.

He was just about to round the corner and disappear, when one of the soldiers spoke.

“
Allo
,
ma petite poule
. Where do you go in such a great hurry?”

Niall paused. Apparently, one of the soldiers had stopped a woman at the bottom of the stairs. He had no cause to believe it was Ana, save for an odd tingle on the back of his neck. It was probably one of the seamstresses. Or a weaver lass.

“What I do is none of your concern. Let me pass.”

Or perhaps not.
The tart tones of Ana’s peeved voice rippled down his spine. Niall slipped the sack of cornmeal to the ground and turned. Sure enough, his wife stood at the far end of the corridor, her hands on her hips, impeded by the outstretched arm of the huge sergeant.

Niall frowned. But before he could take a step, Ana’s gaze lifted to meet his.

The message in her eyes was clear and certain:
Do not interfere
.

His lips tightened. Was she mad? Did she really believe he would stand back and allow a mongrel to waylay his wife in a dark corridor? Even a false wife?

Eyes on the big brute, he moved forward.

“Why so grave, my lovely?” The Norman put his hand on Ana’s face, and icy fury sped through Niall’s veins like spring runoff. Almost without thought, his knife was in his hand. “Are Scottish men so lacking in bed that they cannot put a smile upon your face?”

“Perhaps you should pose that question to my husband.”

The soldier grinned and patted the hilt of his sword. “I would be happy to.”

She pointed over his shoulder. “Excellent. He’s right behind you.”

Niall skidded to a halt less than three feet from his target. Every muscle in his body was pumped with rage, but thanks to Ana, he’d lost the edge of surprise. He could still cripple this filthy hedge-rat—teach him a lesson he’d never forget—but not quietly. And there was the rub. As the sergeant spun around, Niall slid his dirk into the sheath at his belt.

The soldier’s eyes widened with disbelief. “This is your wife?”

“Aye.” The piece of shite had no notion how close he’d come to losing an arm. The only thing saving him even now was that he was no longer touching Ana. Niall offered his hand to his wife. Their wedded state was only a ruse, but he must play it like the truth. And if she were truly his, he’d
never
allow another man to touch her. “Come, sweetling. I’ve yet to visit with the carpenter.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she put her hand in his. “I’ve nothing to say to the carpenter.”

He tugged her gently toward him and whispered in her ear, “Then I’ll not hear any complaints about the bed squeaking each time we use it.”

As he’d hoped, sparks replaced the fear in her eyes and her pale cheeks warmed to pink.

He shifted his gaze to the French soldier. “I trust we’ll meet again,” he said softly.

The other man’s eyes met his without wavering. “No doubt.”

Niall escorted Ana to the kitchen, but it took long moments for his blood to cool. He blamed it on his pride—backing away from a fight, even for good reason, galled him to no end. But it may have had more to do with the way Ana’s fingers were tightly entwined with his.

•   •   •

Aiden scooped up his accoutrements and stepped around the mountain that was Ivarr to tie his bags to the saddle of his horse. With a bit of hard riding, they could make Braemar by nightfall and cross the River Dee at first light.

“Two days, laird,” Ivarr argued. “Give us two days to find the necklace. Then we’ll all journey to Lochurkie together.”

With a sharp tug, Aiden cinched his saddle tight. “We’ve wasted far too much time on this cursed hunt as it is. I can’t give up two days more.”

“But you’re the chief. You ought not to journey with such puny protection.”

Aiden spun around. “’Tis precisely because I am the chief that I must go. It’s my responsibility to see Dunstoras returned to MacCurran hands, and I’ll not sit on my arse praying for success when I can be honoring the memories of our lost kin.”

Ivarr’s lips thinned. “We are not sitting on our arses.”

“The results are much the same,” Aiden said. “We are no closer to knowing who stole the necklace, and the king is about to give Dunstoras over to a new lord.”

Graeme looked up from his packing. “Not for lack of effort.”

Aiden slipped the bridle over his horse’s head. Perhaps not, but the ground they’d covered in search of answers these past two months ultimately meant nothing. His father had spent forty long, hard years building the reputation and wealth of the MacCurran clan—helping Walter Comyn free the king from English tyranny during his minority, fighting alongside the king at Largs, and even accompanying Princess Margaret to Norway for her wedding. Now, under Aiden’s leadership, the one possession his father prized above all else—Dunstoras—was about to be lost. “True enough,” he said. “But that effort has not sired results. It’s time to take a riskier stand.”

“Traveling in a small party is an invitation to brigands and rogues,” Ivarr said.

“Niall insists on remaining here to find the necklace,” Aiden said with a shrug. “We’ve no choice but to divide our efforts.”

“I do not speak idly,” the big warrior cautioned. “Cormac and I found a small band of thieves in the hills northwest of here, preying on hapless travelers.”

Seated on a log by the fire, Leod trimmed a thin shaving of aspen from the robin he was whittling. “Thieves tend to be rather wary of attacking armed men.”

“We’re hardly hapless travelers,” said Aiden. “But to be safe, we’ll circle them wide on our trek up the glen.”

“What do you truly hope to find in Lochurkie, laird?”

“Answers.”

“And how do you intend to get them?” Using the sharp tip of his dirk, Leod cut two tiny nostrils on the beak of his bird. “The earl is dead.”

“He wasn’t the only one who knew the identity of the man in black. There were others.”

“Perhaps,” Leod said gently. “But I think it may be your pride driving your need to return, not your wits.”

There was a degree of truth to that, and it stung. “Lady Isabail, the earl’s sister, knows more than she has admitted. As chatelaine, she is responsible for all who bed under her roof. She chooses a place for them at mealtimes, plies them with ale and wine, and finds a pallet for them to lay their heads on at night. She
must
know the identity of the man in black.”

“And if you discover your man in black is merely a specter conjured by your imagination? Will you still be satisfied with your answer?”

“Aye.” But the man in black was real; Aiden had no doubt of that
.
The cloaked cretin had cost him his home, his family, and his reputation. One way or another, he intended to track him down and make him pay.

“Uncle Aiden?”

Aiden spun around. Jamie, Wulf’s eldest son, stood behind him, looking a little like a beaten pup. “You’re to stay in camp and mind your elders,” he told the boy. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Why can’t I come along?”

“It isn’t safe, lad. Your da would kill me if I put you in harm’s way.”

Aiden hoisted himself into the saddle and waited patiently for his reluctant partners to mount. Across the clearing, Leod held up the finished robin for all to see, then tossed it to Aiden. “I hope your little bird sings you a sweet song, laird. And I wish you a safe journey.”

Aiden nodded.

Moments later, he rode out of the camp, accompanied by Duncan and Graeme.

A
s the hush of the forest closed around Ni
all, a familiar calm spread through his body. In the distance, a woodpecker hammered at some bug-ridden timber, and to his left, a gray jay stood guard on the branch of a towering elm. Beyond that, there was nothing but trees and snow-dusted earth for as far as the eye could see. And that pleased him.

Niall stepped off the path and headed into the thick of the trees.

Most travelers kept to the beaten trail, but Niall had been born under the boughs, not in the comforts of a home. A bastard never officially claimed by his lord father and born to a woman shunned by the village good folk for plying her chosen trade, he’d learned his way about the forest at a young age, living off the land and camping under the stars for most of his early life. As a Black Warrior, those skills had proven useful. Keeping the secrets of Dunstoras meant staying out of sight, even from their kin.

Fallen leaves crunched underfoot and his boots lifted the light dusting of snow from the ground, leaving a noticeable track. When he got a little closer to the camp, he’d take more care. Right now, making good time was more important.

Ever wary, he scanned the woods around him as he marched. But he relied on more than sight alone. Smells and sounds, especially in the crisp air of winter, added valuable details to his study. The pungent scent of badger guided him around, rather than over, a large mound of dirt that clearly hid a sett. The distinctive clicking of capercaillie had him avoiding an open stand—and the thunderous noise of the large birds taking startled flight.

Niall noted the disturbed leaves on the ground long before he reached the half-fallen tree that told him to turn left. Peering surreptitiously into the tree branches ahead, he was able to spot the vague outlines of several figures hiding in the shadows. An ambush in the making.
Bloody hell.
Of all the days he had to be without his sword, why this one?

Restrained by circumstance several times already, Niall was not about to turn from another fight. There had been too few opportunities to release the rage he’d felt since the deaths of Hugh and the others. And if he were honest, he’d admit the frustration at not being able to skewer Ana’s soldier still knotted his gut. He had accompanied her back to Lady Elayne’s chamber after her visit with the cook, but failed to meet up with the wretch on his way out of the manor.

Keeping his gaze level and the set of his shoulders easy and carefree, he marched steadily forward. He counted five men in the trees. Judging by their positions, they intended to ambush him when he reached the rotting yew stump about fifty paces ahead.

Which suited him just fine. He could use the stump to his advantage.

As for his opponents . . . Soldiers didn’t climb trees. These men were likely outlaws, men living outside clan rule, thieving for their supper. Perhaps they’d been unable to pay their tithe, or perhaps they’d been chased off by the village priest for their adherence to the old pagan ways. How or why they ended up in the woods was unimportant. What mattered was how desperate they were. A man with nothing to lose fought like a demon.

Whistling a jaunty tune, he glanced into the branches.

They didn’t appear to be overly lean or gaunt. Rather sturdily built, in truth.

Unsheathing his dirk, he marched up to the stump and halted. As anticipated, five grim-faced wretches quickly surrounded him, thumping to the frosty ground with their weapons at the ready. They made no demand for his gold, no call to put down his weapon. They simply attacked.

And Niall responded instinctively.

He pivoted to face a great bear of a man roaring toward him, ax swinging. Swiftly stepping inside the arc of the axman’s blade, he thrust his dirk into the crease of his neck. Blood sprayed and the fellow crumpled. Niall tugged his dirk free and ducked left, putting the stump between him and the second axman. Just in time. The double-edged blade whizzed by his ear and crunched into the wood.

A squat, bearded fellow attacked from the right, slashing.

Niall grabbed the hapless fellow’s arm and yanked him forward. Momentum made simple work of plunging his dirk into the man’s barrel chest. He shoved the faltering body into the path of his oncoming attackers and leapt atop the stump. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on the part of his foes, he vaulted to the ground behind the second axman and finished him with a swift jab between the ribs.

The remaining two outlaws were wiser than he gave them credit for—seeing three of their number slain in as many minutes, they spun on their heels and ran into the trees.

Niall did not give chase. Defending himself was one thing; slaying men as they fled, quite another. He lowered his arm and surveyed the scene around him. Three fallen men—a waste of life by any measure. Not that they’d given him any choice. Their intent had been murder, not thievery.

He frowned.

Brigands were opportunists. Ambushing a traveler along a trodden path made perfect sense. But here, amid the thick wood, in an ill-frequented part of the forest? What could they hope to gain?

Unless they were purposely accosting those entering or leaving the Black Warrior camp.

How likely was that? His men were very skilled. They had perfected the art of slipping silently through the woods and they’d have noticed were they being followed. And surely even a half-witted thief was savvy enough to seek out a fat merchant en route to the village rather than attacking a trained soldier.

Which suggested two things: Someone had told the outlaws which landmarks the Black Warriors used to find their way to camp . . . and someone had offered them a hefty prize in exchange for their services.

Niall wiped his blood-spattered face with a sleeve.

How unpleasant.

As inconceivable as the notion might be, it seemed there was a traitor among the Black Warriors.

•   •   •

By the time Ana coaxed several spoonfuls of turnip broth down Lady Elayne’s throat and escorted her back to bed, the late-afternoon shadows had overtaken all but the thinnest shards of daylight in the courtyard. A dusting of snow lay on the slate roof of the manor house, reminding her that she’d need to gather some fresh kindling on her way home. She closed the shutters and fastened them against the pull of a brisk northern breeze.

“Any queasiness in your belly, Your Ladyship?”

“Nay.” Elayne’s response was little more than a murmur.

Ana turned. As she suspected, the young woman lay against the pillows, her eyelids drooping. Her skin no longer glistened with clammy sweat and her cheeks held a faint touch of pink. “I’ll leave you to rest, then, but have Bébinn send for me if there’s a need.”

“Uh-hmm.”

Ana approached the bed. The handmaiden had departed a few moments ago to answer a summons from Baron Duthes, and with the baroness now drifting into sleep, Ana could heal without fear of discovery. Ever so gently, she shook Elayne’s arm.

The girl did not stir.

Discovery was always a grave concern. Her talent for healing was no ordinary skill. Ana rubbed her hands together, drawing energy from deep inside her core as she did so. Immediately, she felt a telltale bloom of warmth in her gut. She wasn’t entirely certain where her gift came from, save that her mother had been similarly blessed, as had her mother before her. And it truly was a blessing—when called upon, her healing powers were capable of great marvels. But as beneficial as those marvels were, they invariably begot fear and loathing, even among those who were saved from certain death—in part because of the telltale stigmata. As the gift flowed into her chest and down her arms, an intricate red pattern not unlike the finely wrought stitching on Lady Elayne’s linen nightrail rose upon her hands. Swirls and arcs that in no way could be labeled normal.

Ana glanced at the chamber door. It was firmly shut.

Delicately, she touched her hot fingers to Elayne’s neck.

This time, the girl stirred. But not enough to wake. Ana closed her eyes, imagined the raw flesh lining the baroness’s throat, and sent waves of heat through her hands to the injured area. As the healing commenced, the waves returned in full force—this time as cold, dark humors that numbed Ana’s arms and made her bones ache. It was a fair trade of pain for pain.
Nothing came for free
, her mother would have said.

Elayne’s injury was minor, so the pain was minor, as well. Once the aches had passed, all Ana felt was a light sense of fatigue, and in a thrice, the healing was done.

She pulled back.

Elayne slept on undisturbed. A light smile graced her lips.

Taking a moment to warm her chilled arms in front of the fire, Ana stirred the coals in the hearth and tossed a fresh log on the fire. By the time golden flames were licking up the bark, the lacy pattern on her hands had faded away. She picked up her leather satchel, gave Elayne one last check, and then headed for home.

Although preparations for the eventide meal had not yet begun, the great hall was surprisingly busy. Baron Duthes and his huntsmen were discussing the challenges of the afternoon hunt as they warmed their hands by the hearth, the steward and his poulterers were collecting the half dozen black grouse the hunters had brought home, and Bébinn stood off to one side chatting with her husband, Garnait, one of the baron’s men-at-arms. As Ana descended the stairs, Bébinn looked up.

Their eyes met briefly; then the handmaiden’s gaze dropped to the floor. She whispered something to Garnait, who threw a frown in Ana’s direction.

Ana’s stomach knotted.

It would seem she hadn’t been as convincing with her tale of Moses as she’d hoped. If the handmaiden had already shared what she’d seen with her husband, how long would it be before she was spilling her vitriol in the friar’s ear?

“Goodhealer Ana?”

She spun around. A young page with a long streak of soot on the front of his blue serge tunic stood behind her. “Aye?”

“Baron Duthes begs a moment of your time.”

She lifted her gaze over his shoulder. The potbellied baron had left his men and now sat in a huge carved armchair that faced out into the great hall. ’Twas the seat upon which he heard petitions and meted out judgments each Thursday. Given the fat pair of birds hanging on his squire’s string, his mood should have been light. Instead, his lips were set in a thin line.

“Of course,” she said, swallowing hard. Gripping her satchel with tight fingers, she followed the wee lad across the hall.

As she neared, the baron favored her with a serious stare. He waved her toward the stool. “Sit, sit.”

Ana sat. Offering her a seat was a good sign, wasn’t it? “Can I be of some assistance, Baron?”

“I require clarification,” he said grimly. “Bébinn has given me her accounting of the day’s events. Now I would have yours.”

Ana’s heart knocked against her ribs.
Dear Lord
. Had the handmaiden already accused her of engaging in heathen rites? Was she being asked to explain the pendant? “Sir?”

“Why is my wife expelling blood?”

Relief poured through her body in a heady rush. He was merely concerned about Elayne. “Although frightening to see, sir, the blood in the baroness’s sputum was not of significant amount. An irritation of the throat, that is all. She ate well this eve, and I expect no blood tomorrow, even should she be unable to hold her meal.”

Fingering the jeweled silver collar of his station, he absorbed her words. “Bébinn believes the baroness’s health to be dire.”

“Does she?” Ana did not give the handmaiden the honor of her gaze. “I was unaware that she was trained as a healer. Perhaps you would prefer Bébinn tend your wife and not I?”

The baron glared. “Mistress, you overstep your bounds. Bébinn is my wife’s cousin, where you are but a stranger. I have every reason to take her word over yours. Were it not for the attestations of Auld Mairi’s two apprentices and the safe delivery of my piper’s bairn at Yule, I would never let you near the baroness.”

Ana bit her lip. Curse her quick tongue. “Please forgive my insolence. I only seek to keep the baroness in the best of health. She is not well—I do not deny that. Her inability to hold food in her belly and her weak blood threaten both her and the babe. But I know what I am about, and with my aid and God’s will, sir, they will both enjoy the summer weather when it arrives.”

His frown did not ease. “Each time you visit, she eats well. The moment you leave, she’s spewing the contents of her belly.”

“Because the usual fare does not suit her. She must eat very bland food.”

“And how are we to meet her needs without you present?”

Ana chose her words carefully. “I have given Bébinn a list of appropriate aliments.” At this juncture it would be unwise to tell him the handmaiden refused to spend any time in the kitchen coaching the cook.

“That is insufficient. Collect your things. You will move into the manor.”

And have Bébinn reporting on her every action?
Nay
. “I’ve other villagers under my care, Baron. And my husband returned from Aberdeen today.”

“So Constable Hurley informed me. How fortuitous.”

“Indeed,” she said, feeling another blush rise into her cheeks. Why did even the mildest thought of her faux husband warm her to the tips of her toes? She stood. “Sir, I feel I serve you and your tenants best by remaining in my bothy. But I’ll endeavor to visit the baroness more frequently—perhaps before each meal.”

Arms folded stiffly across his chest, his heavy brow lowered, he studied her.

It took every ounce of willpower Ana possessed not to look away.

Finally, he nodded. “You may remain in your bothy for now. But my wife and son are very dear to me, Goodhealer. Should you fail to keep them hale and hearty, my wrath will know no bounds. Do I make myself clear?”

His message was very difficult to misconstrue.

“Aye. Very clear.”

He waved her off. “Go.”

With her satchel clutched to her chest, Ana beat a quick path to the door.

•   •   •

A thousand paces from the camp, Niall heard a familiar sharp whistle. He’d been spotted by one of his men, but there was no sign of anyone in the trees around him. He responded with a light whistle of his own, and an instant later, a hooded figure limped out from behind a gray tree trunk.