Highland Warrior (4 page)

“Can he be moved once ye stitch him?”

“How far do ye have to go and is it rough ground?” Fiona knew it would be best if Simon rested for a few days before he was moved, but understood that their safety required them to leave this place.

“Near half a day, but nay too hard a ride. A pallet wouldnae be too rough on him.”

“And ’tis verra necessary to leave here right now? Hold him steady, please. I fear this will burn some, Simon.” As soon as Gregor and Ewan pinned Simon to the blanket, Fiona washed his wounds with uisque-beatha. “Ah, good, that sent him into a swoon.”

“Why did ye pour that onto his wounds?”

“It has proven to be a help. The wounds dinnae seem to get infected when ye bathe them in the drink. Now, if ye would be so kind as to keep holding him still, I will stitch him up.”

Ewan watched the skillful way she worked, her stitches done quickly, but neatly. Simon would be left with scars, but her small, tidy stitches ensured those scars would not be like the ugly, ragged ones marring his flesh. The swift efficiency with which she worked assured him that she had not lied or boasted when she had claimed knowledge of healing. Then Ewan recalled her question about the necessity of moving Simon.

“The men who attacked us were Grays,” he said as she completed her stitching and began to cover Simon’s wounds with a salve. “Some fled. They could gather more men and return within but a few hours. Now that they ken we are here, I think that it exactly what they will do.”

“So, this wasnae a planned attack?” She tied off the bandage she had wrapped around the wound on Simon’s arm and, with Gregor’s help, began to wrap a bandage around the youth’s stomach.

“Nay, I think they just stumbled upon us. I am certain they will be eager to try again, however.”

“Then we move on. Can Simon be taken upon a pallet without costing us too much time?”

“Aye, I planned to do that. Tis why I feel we will need half a day to reach Scarglas.”

Fiona nodded as she stood up. “Make the bed of it as soft as ye can with blankets and tie him to it. Twill lessen the roughness of the journey.” She picked up her bag. “I will see if there are any other injuries that need tending.”

“A few wee ones. We were lucky. We lost no one. We had warning enough to be
ready for them.”

Ewan watched her move toward his men even as he ordered two men to make a pallet for Simon. She was suffering over what she had done. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. Although someone had trained her how to fight, and trained her well, Ewan felt sure she had never had to kill a man before.

He sighed, feeling both regret and anger. She now had blood on her hands because of his family. His father had ensured that they were surrounded by enemies, too many of whom would like to rid the world of anyone who claimed Scarglas as his home. Ewan could not recall when, if ever, he had been able to spend a day, even an hour, without watching for an attack. It was wrong to drag her into the midst of all that trouble, yet he had no choice. He could not leave her wandering about such a dangerous land on her own, nor could he deny his clan the chance to gain some much-needed ransom for her. The best he could do was work hard to make certain her stay in this benighted land was not a long one.

Which was not going to be easy if she continued to refuse to tell them who she was and where she was from, he thought as he helped prepare the pallet for Simon. Ewan considered threatening her, frightening her into telling him what he needed to know, then quickly shrugged aside that idea. Not only did he doubt he would do so effectively since he could not actually carry out any of his threats, but he doubted it would work. Instinct told him that threats and intimidation would either be disbelieved by Fiona or would simply make her even more determined to tell him nothing.

Once prepared to leave, Ewan found himself with yet another problem. It should have been a simple one to solve, but his own contadictory emotions made it difficult. Fiona had to ride with someone, but he found he was reluctant to have her share a saddle with any of his men. Inwardly cursing, he set her on his saddle and mounted behind her. Having her so close was undoubtedly going to make the ride to Scarglas a long and uncomfortable one. Unfortunately, he suspected watching her ride along in another man’s arms would be even worse.

After only an hour of feeling her slender body so close to his, catching her sweet scent each time he breathed, Ewan knew he needed to distance or distract himself. “Is today the first time ye have been in a battle?”

“Aye,” Fiona replied, fighting the urge to nestle back against him. “I have been in a few wee fights, e’en wounded a mon or two, but I have ne’er killed a mon.” She shivered as the image of the man’s empty, staring eyes filled her mind.

“He was about to take Simon’s head from his shoulders.”

“I ken it.” Feeling chilled and her back aching from the struggle to keep a distance between them, Fiona cautiously began to relax against him. “There wasnae any other choice. E’en if I could have borne letting Simon die, I still had to do it. Once Simon fell, the mon was coming for me.” She sighed and relaxed against Ewan’s broad chest a little more. “I always feared I would hesitate when it came to actually killing a mon.”

“But ye didnae.”

“Nay, God save my soul, I didnae. My brother was right. When confronted with someone who wants to kill me or kill someone I preferred to keep alive, I was able to find the stomach to do what I needed to. I just wish he had been wrong about how I would feel after I was safe again.”

“Twill pass. Your brother sounds a wise laird.”

She laughed softly as she felt her weariness begin to weight her limbs. “Nay always wise, but he kens how to keep us safe.” Fiona had the unsettling feeling she had just given Ewan some small hint about who she was, but was too tired to worry about it. A small hint would not help him much, and she would simply be more cautious in watching out for a trap. Too many carelessly dropped small hints could quickly add up to enough of a whole to end her game. After she had rested, she would try to recall all she may have let slip already, and be more wary in her answers and her conversation with everyone. As she closed her eyes, she prayed exhaustion would keep the dark dreams away for a little while.

Ewan grimaced as his body responded immediately to the soft woman resting against him, but then he smiled. Fiona was not so very skilled at deception. She could not hold all the truth inside. He would not need threats to gain the truth, just time. When at ease, Fiona spoke freely, unable to guard her tongue as closely as she needed to. He would warn everyone to listen carefully to all she said. It would take time, but he was certain that, piece by tiny piece, Fiona would reveal who she was, whom she belonged to, and where she was from. When he slipped his arm around her small waist to hold her steady, he told himself he was pleased. He sternly told himself he would be glad to see her leave and ignored the sneering inner voice that called him a liar.

Intimidating
was the first word that came to mind when Fiona got her first look at Scarglas. Dark, eerie, and lonely were her next impressions. The way it loomed up ahead, cold and somewhat threatening, tickled at a memory in Fiona’s mind. It made her think of sorcery and murder, but she could not think why. If she had ever heard of Scarglas or the MacFingals, the memory was proving obstinately elusive at the moment.

Scarglas Keep sat on a small rise in the midst of a brutally cleared area. Its outer walls were thick and high. A wide moat encircled those walls, and she knew it was probably dangerously deep. Several yards outside the moat was an encircling berm as tall as a man, yet another barrier an enemy must cross before reaching those trecherously high walls. Off in the distance, in a direct line with the four corners of the keep, she could see the tops of four wooden watchtowers. Everything about Scarglas bespoke a keep under constant siege.

The passage through the high berm was barely wide enough for a wagon. Fiona was not surprised to find that the bridge over the moat was the same. No enemy could approach the tall, iron-studded gates of Scarglas in any great number. The somewhat narrow strip of land between the edge of the moat and the base of the walls was cluttered with small stone cottages. Another obstacle, Fiona realized. Even if the thatched roofs were fired, that would impede the attackers far more than the defenders, and she doubted such fires would do any damage to those walls.

She wondered how long the MacFingals had held Scarglas. To build such a place would take many years and a lot of coin, something few Scots had. If the clan had been upon these lands for a long time, then why had she never heard of them? Fiona knew her knowledge of the various clans was not very extensive, but any clan so contentious it was surrounded by enemies would surely have been talked about. Yet, she had never heard one word about them, or could not recall one.

A brief glimpse of a village to the north of the keep, and an intriguing circle of standing stone to the south, softened the stark look of the place, but not by much. Fiona repressed the urge to shiver as they rode through the gates. Scarglas was certainly strong enough to protect her from Menzies if he was ever able to track her to it. Unfortunately, it seemed that hiding from one man was putting her in the path of many another eager to raze this place to the ground. It might be time to rethink her plan.

Ewan was just setting her on the ground when a tall man burst out of the keep. He flung open the heavy doors so ominously decorated with iron spikes as if they weighed nothing. Although his hair was white, the resemblance to Ewan was unmistakable. Fiona prepared herself to meet the man who apparently bred children and enemies with equal abandon. She was annoyed when he completely ignored her.

“Been in a fight, have ye, lad?” the man asked, glancing only briefly at Simon. “Lost the boy, did ye?”

“Nay, Simon is but wounded,” replied Ewan. “Twas the Grays.”

“Set a trap for ye?”

“Nay. I believe they but stumbled upon us and thought they had enough men to beat us.”

“Hah! The Grays were always fools. So, got yourself a prisoner, eh?” The man frowned at Fiona. “She doesnae look much like a Gray.”

“We didnae take her from the Grays,” Ewan began.

“Ah, so ye have finally found yourself a bride. That pleases me, laddie. I was beginning to get concerned.”

Fiona noticed the heat of a blush darken Ewan’s cheeks. “Concerned about what?” she asked, but both men ignored her.

“She isnae my bride. We found her, lost and on foot. Decided to hold fast to her until she tells us who her clan is. Then we can ransom her back to them.” Noting the telltale licentious glint entering his father’s eyes as he studied Fiona, Ewan held her by the arm and tugged her a little closer to his side. “Father, this is Fiona. Fiona, my father, Sir Fingal MacFingal.”

“Fiona what? Of where?” demanded Sir Fingal, scowling at Fiona.

Fiona scowled right back. “Just Fiona. Tis all I am willing to say.”

“Tis for the best she isnae your bride, I be thinking, Ewan,” said Sir Fingal, looking Fiona over in a way that made her want to strike him. “Too small, dresses like a wee lad, and she is scarred.”

It was not easy, but Fiona resisted the urge to cover her scarred cheeks with her hands. The man was insulting, arrogant, and rude, but that was not the reason she was beginning to heartily dislike him. It was the way the man acted concerning Simon that had her aching to kick him. Sir Fingal had appeared completely unmoved by the possibility that the boy, his own son, was dead. He had barely glanced at the boy and, when told that Simon was only wounded, had not even asked where or how badly.

“We need to get Simon into a bed,” Fiona said, looking up at Ewan. “I need to look at his wounds.”

“Mab will see to the lad,” Sir Fingal said and he looked toward the keep.

Following his gaze, Fiona saw a small, plump woman hurrying toward them. Her graying light brown hair was a wild tangle around her round face, and her clothes looked equally disordered. She stopped every few steps to pick up something she had dropped and put it back into the overfilled basket that swung wildly on her arm. If her healing supplies were in that basket, they were now well sprinkled with the dirt from the ground of the inner bailey.

Just as Fiona was about to curtly order the woman to stay away, she got a good look at the woman’s face. There was a kindness in the woman, a sweetness that Fiona suspected ran bone deep. Mab frowned in confusion as she noticed all the various bandages on the men. Fiona caught a glimpse of disappointment as well as fear upon her face and inwardly grimaced. Mab was undoubtedly the healer of Scarglas and Fiona had just trespassed upon her territory. The fact that Mab looked uneasy instead of furious told Fiona the woman did not feel secure in the position she had probably claimed for herself. Mab would not fight if Fiona turned her away, but Fiona knew she would feel like an ogre if she did that.

“I tended the wounds, Mistress Mab,” Fiona said, noting that Mab’s big brown eyes held only curiosity when the woman looked at her. “There was a battle which left a few men bleeding and I thought they would make the rest of the journey here in more comfort if those wee holes in them were corked.”

“Ye have some healing skills?” Mab asked.

“Some. I had some training, was taught by several weel-respected healers.”

“Who? Mayhap I will ken the name.”

Fiona thought out her answer carefully before replying, “I spent some time with
Lady Maldie Murray when I was younger.” She felt that made the association sound appropriately vague, thus useless to Ewan.

Mab gasped and clutched her small, plump hands against her generous bosom, causing several things to tumble out of her basket to the ground. “Oh, how verra fortunate ye are. Lady Maldie is a lauded healer. How I wish I could have met her ere I came to Scarglas.”

Not sure why Mab’s coming to Scarglas would mean the woman would never have the chance to meet Lady Maldie, Fiona picked up Mab’s things and put them back in her basket. Somehow she was going to have to keep this woman from using any of those now filthy items on the wounded men. She could not shame this woman or push her from her place in the clan, not in Mab’s eyes or those of the MacFingals, but Fiona was going to have to teach Mab a few things before she left Scarglas.

“Mayhap ye should find a basket with a top or use a bag as I do, mistress,” Fiona said. “Twould save ye the extra work of having to clean the things which fall upon the ground.” Fiona could tell by the look upon Mab’s face that the woman had not intended to clean the things nor knew why she should.

“Oh, of course,” Mab said. “I was in such a rush to see to the lads, ye ken, and just threw all my things into the first thing I could find.”

Inwardly, Fiona breathed a hearty sigh of relief. She had found the path to take. It would not be easy to make every lesson sound as if she was simply stating a fact Mab already knew, but she would try. Instinct told her that Mab would not take offense at more direct speech, but Fiona would do that only when they were alone or Mab asked a question. Somehow she knew that Mab desperately needed her place as the clan’s healer and Fiona could never be so cruel as to take it away, especially since she was not staying at Scarglas for very long.

“I need to get Simon to a bed, mistress, so that we may look at his wounds,” Fiona said. “The ride here may have opened them.”

“Of course, of course.” Mab looked at the two men who had unhitched Simon’s pallet from the back of Gregor’s horse. “If ye two could bring the lad along with us, please?” Mab grasped Fiona by the arm and started to lead her toward the keep. “Twill be wondrous to speak to someone who trained with Lady Maldie Murray. Just wondrous. I am always trying to find cures, ye ken. Tis my duty to keep the lads hale. I have recently mixed a cream that will make scars fade. I shall have to give ye some.”

A glance over her shoulder brought Fiona’s gaze in line with Ewan’s and Gregor’s. Both men quickly shook their heads and she understood. Mab’s tender feelings were obviously protected by a lot of people. Mab’s cures, however, were obviously meant to be avoided. Somehow she was going to have to convince Mab that she was happy with her scars. Since that was a lie, it would not be easy. Fiona shook the concern aside and followed Mab into the keep, forcing her thoughts to the more important matter of caring for Simon.

“I thought ye said she was a hostage,” grumbled Sir Fingal, scowling after Mab and Fiona.

“She is,” replied Ewan as he started toward the keep, Gregor and their father falling into step on either side of him.

“She doesnae act like one. Nay sure ’tis wise to let a hostage treat our men’s wounds.”

“Fiona has a true skill. She willnae be using it against the men, either.”

“How can ye be so certain of that? Ye dinnae e’en ken who the lass is. She could have been sent here by one of our enemies, could be here to kill me or ye, or to spy on us.”

Ewan considered that possibility as they entered the great hall, but could not rouse more than the faintest glimmer of suspicion. That was unusual, for he had learned long ago not to put much trust in women. He did not like to think he was letting lust and a pair of beautiful violet eyes steal his wits.

As he, Gregor, and their father took their seats at the head table, two maids swiftly setting ale, bread, and cheese before them, Ewan felt his briefly wavering conviction return. He could trust Fiona to care for Simon, for any of the people of Scarglas. The way she had tended the wounds of Simon and his men revealed that she was a healer to the very marrow of her bones. She would never use those skills to cause harm.

In every other thing concerning her, he would be wise to use caution, to carefully weigh her every word and deed. Despite that warning to himself, he still could not fully believe she had been sent to spy on them. Their meeting could not possibly have been planned. That still left the chance that she had been journeying to Scarglas to spy upon them and had simply stumbled into their path. Women, especially young, beautiful women, made excellent weapons and spies. It was a fact he would have to keep reminding himself of.

“How did ye get a hold on the lass?” Fingal asked.

Gregor answered and Ewan only half listened as he drank some ale and took the edge off his hunger with some bread and cheese. He did think Gregor found far too much amusement in the confrontation. Later, when he wrestled the unwise attraction he felt for Fiona into submission, Ewan knew he would also find it humorous. At the moment, however, he could only view Fiona’s advent into his life as a curse. He did not think it a good sign that his father saw little humor in the tale, however. His father saw enemies around every corner, and although the man did have far too many, he often carried caution to excessive lengths.

“Tis all verra suspicious,” muttered Fingal. “I think we ought to toss the lass out.”

“Nay,” said Ewan. “Ye cannae send a wee lass like that out alone. There is too much danger out there.”

“Ye may have brought danger right into our keep. I say she could be a spy, sent here to sniff out our weaknesses, mayhap e’en to find a way to let some of our enemies into the verra heart of Scarglas.”

“Then we watch her closely until we can find out who she belongs to and ransom her back to them.”

“And just why havenae ye found out who she is?”

“She willnae tell me. Says she willnae help me pick clean the pockets of her kinsmen.”

Fingal cursed softly. “So we make her tell us. I ken many ways to make someone spill the truth.”

There was a chilling implication behind his father’s words that Ewan did not want to think on too long. When Fingal felt threatened, he could act callously, even cruelly. The man saw threats and insults everywhere and often reacted without thought, which was one reason they found themselves ringed by enemies. About the only things that kept
his father diverted from thinking vast hordes of people were striving to steal all he had, betray him, or kill him were money and women. Since Ewan found the thought of his father turning his lecherous gaze upon Fiona extremely distasteful, he would have to make the man believe that she could greatly enrich them.

“There isnae any need to exert ourselves,” Ewan said. “We must simply take careful note of all she says. The truth will slip out. It may come in bits and pieces, but it will come.”

“How can ye be sure?”

“Tis already happening. I ken her brother is a laird, there is a close female relation named Gilly, and she has the sort of connections that would allow her to train with Lady Maldie Murray, a legendary healer. Once I can speak with Simon, I suspect I will discover e’en more, for she talked with him a great deal last eve.”

“Weel, that might work. No lass can hold tight to a secret. But are ye sure she will e’en be worth a ransoming? She isnae dressed as a fine lady and she had no escort as a fine lady should.”

“Her clothing is of a verra fine quality as are her weapons. Her mount is also one only a weelborn lass could afford. Despite her odd attire and skill with weapons, all else bespeaks a lass of good blood. Aye, someone will pay to have her returned, and ’tis best if she is returned to them unharmed and with no tales of cruelty to tell.”