Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (12 page)

Ana spotted a tall willow basket in the corner and skirted two assistants wielding cleavers on haunches of spiced mutton to reach it. The basket was brimming with small rounds of white bread. Gathering her apron into a makeshift carryall, she appropriated several.

Then she made for the door.

Staying silent was not an option. Niall would hound her until she gave him an answer. Of course, since he’d seen nothing with his own eyes, she was free to make up any tale she liked. The challenge was coming up with a story that would satisfy his thirst for information.

She had a feeling Niall wouldn’t be easy to satisfy.

•   •   •

Niall polished his sword while he waited for Ana to return.

Using wet sand, he rubbed the blade from tang to tip, removing tiny spots of rust that speckled the steel and leveling out the nicks and scrapes. Then he stroked the blade along a large whetstone, honing the cutting edge to lethal sharpness. When the sword could whisper through a piece of leather, he lightly oiled the steel and wiped it down with a soft linen cloth he borrowed from Ana’s medicinal stores.

The weapon was leaning against the wall, reflecting the blaze of the fire in its smooth surface, when Ana returned to the bothy.

She glanced at it and frowned. “Can you not put that away?”

“Nay,” he said. “Leaving it in the leather sheath causes rust to form. A good sword deserves a seat around the fire.”

“There’s no such thing as a good sword,” she muttered. Crossing to her chest of foodstuffs, she pulled out dried beans, barley, and onion. A quick chop at the table and then all went into the freshly cleaned cauldron, along with some water and black pepper. She nodded to the food chest. “Best ease your hunger with bread. The pottage will not be ready for some time yet.” A blush rose in her cheeks and she looked away. “I should have put the pot on hours ago.”

Although the memories of what they’d been doing
hours ago
were sweet and tantalizing, Niall’s need to know what she’d found in the steward’s records was keen. “Tell me what the notation read. Word for word. Leave nothing out.”

Ana swung the cauldron over the hottest part of the fire, then turned to face him. “On the seventh day of December, in the thirty-sixth year of the reign of Alexander III, king of Scotland and the Islands, one gold necklace set with three matchless rubies was delivered to Baron Duthes by”—she hesitated ever so slightly—“Laird Leslie.”

It was a challenge to watch those lips move without dwelling on how sweet they’d tasted, but her lie made it easier. “Laird Leslie?” he pressed softly. “Are you certain?”

Her gaze flickered to the thatched roof. “Aye.”

A tight spot of anger bloomed in his chest. He had begun to think he could trust her. Now this. Rising from the bed, he slowly advanced on Ana. Using his size to full advantage, he herded her back until she collided with the table. “That’s a lie.”

“Nay.” Her slender, elegant throat worked as she swallowed.

Planting a hand on either side of her, caging her against the table, Niall pinned her gaze. “Laird Leslie was in France in December, celebrating the Yule with his daughter and new grandson.”

“I can only tell you what the record stated. I cannot attest to its veracity.”

He stared at her, hard. Whose name was truly recorded? “Who are you protecting?”

“No one.”

He ran a thumb over the bright red crest of her cheek. “Lying to me is a grave mistake.”

Her gaze met his. “After all that I’ve done, after all the risks I’ve taken to see your goal gained, why would I lie now?”

Why indeed? “Perhaps the name is that of a family member.”

Her face fell. “My mother and father are both dead. I have no siblings, and I never knew my grandparents. I have no family to protect.”

Her response, though delivered without a hint of self-pity, stirred him. More than most, he knew what it was like to be alone. But a lack of family did not mean she had no one to protect. “I am not so easily gulled,” he said. “I suspect it is your lover that you protect.”

“My lover?” She snorted. “
You
are my lover.”

He shook his head. “The previous man you welcomed into your bed.”

The flush in her cheeks deepened to a fiery scarlet. “You think me a faithless wench who jumps from one man’s bed to another?”

He preferred to think nothing of the kind. But that just made him a fool. “You are lying to me. I would have the truth.”

“The truth is this interrogation has naught to do with the necklace,” she said hotly. She placed both hands flat on his chest and shoved. “You are simply jealous.”

Her push, even as furious as it was, could not contend with the strength of his thighs. Niall held his position with ease. “You think too highly of your charms, lass. I’ve never been a man who clings to a lover. You could invite a hundred men into your bed—I would not care. Only one name matters.”

“The name of the
man
I’m so determined to protect.”

His grip tightened on the table. “Aye. Confess it now and we’ll be done.”

Her hands dropped limply to her sides. “We’re already done.”

He scowled. “You’ve not yet given me the name I seek.”

“I’ve given you everything I have,” she said quietly. “There is no more. Now let me pass.”

Anger Niall understood. This cool, unemotional response he did not. “Laird Leslie did not bring the necklace to Duthes.”

“Then you must look past the name and seek other evidence. Let me pass.”

He studied her lovely face. Resolution was written in every gentle angle. Whatever name was written in the steward’s records, it was clear she believed it a lie. He could accept that. But he could not accept her insistence on keeping it from him. It suggested she was more loyal to another than she was to him—and that wounded him more than he expected.

“I have no desire to let you pass.” He bent his head and stole a quick, hard kiss.

She held herself stiffly, unyielding. “If you wish to sup, you’ll let me be.”

“Perhaps I’ve a hunger for something other than food.” He nibbled his way along her jaw to her earlobe. Drawing that tender flesh into his mouth, he suckled. His hands left the table and sought softer, gentler terrain.

Her eyes drifted closed. “And if I don’t share that same hunger?”

He smiled. She now gripped the front of his lèine tightly, holding him to her. “Say nay, and we’ll go no further.”

Confident that her lips would never utter that word, he blazed a trail of hot kisses down her neck to her collarbone. “Last chance for dissent, lass.”

Her answer was to tip her head back to give him greater access to the silky skin of her throat.

With a grunt of satisfaction, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed.

•   •   •

Ana slipped out of bed before dawn and pulled on a clean sark. Niall had given her another taste of heav-en, another aching glimpse at a life anyone but she could enjoy. But a glimpse was all she could endure.

Studiously averting her gaze from the temptation that lay large and naked on her bed, Ana built up the fire. Without her body curled alongside him and with only one thin blanket, he would soon grow chilled. Last night had been a perfect example of why she needed her freedom. Even as he had boldly stated he cared not one whit for her, she had succumbed to her desire to have him. Had she no pride?

The coals in the pit eagerly embraced the added peat, bursting into flame.

He had invited her to take a hundred lovers. What kind of woman allowed such an indifferent man to feast upon her body? She flushed in the dimness. And he
had
feasted. No doubt about that.

She glanced at the bed.

The blazing fire cast a golden glow about the room and the rugged angles of his face were clearly visible. She was helpless against the sincerity of his desire. He displayed no shame in wanting her, made no effort to hide the need that coursed through his body. And she felt like a goddess in his arms. She had only to spy the heat in his eyes and the sinful curve of his lips and her resistance melted like snowflakes.

And it would happen again. As surely as the sun would rise.

No matter how much she prayed for more strength, no matter how much she convinced herself that holding her distance was the only way to keep him safe, she would allow it to happen again. When it came to Niall, she was as weak as day-old tea leaves.

Despite his overbearing and mistrustful nature, she wanted desperately to believe in a future together. She loved the rotter.

She grimaced. Not that he’d given her reason to think he wanted such a future.

Ana padded barefoot over the packed dirt floor to her clothing chest. Careful to lift it without the wood creaking, she gathered her meager collection of sarks and overdresses and stuffed them in a canvas bag. Her comb and a pair of snow white wimples went into the bag, as well. Desperation had forced her hand. She could not leave Duthes while Lady Elayne still struggled with illness, but she had another option—she could take the baron up on his offer to house her in the manor.

Inconvenient? Definitely. She would need to be especially vigilant around Bébinn.

But succumbing to Niall’s seductive charms was proving to be the greater risk.

She dragged a woolen dress over her sark and rammed her toes into her leather shoes. It would be better this way. Even now, her traitorous body was urging her to return to the bed, snuggle close to his warm body, and lose herself in the dream. Unless she was strong now, she had no hope of resisting him. Leaving was the wise thing to do.

But it was not an easy thing to do.

Her feet dragged as she walked to the door, her belongings in one hand and her healing satchel in the other. Ana unlatched the door and slid it open a crack. Before the heat of the hut could escape into the dark winter night, she squeezed through the gap and quietly shut the door behind her.

Leaving him felt a little like betrayal, but she tried not to dwell on that. With her breath a white fog in the moonlight, she strode down the lane toward the manor.

N
iall woke with a bitter taste in his mouth. The bothy was bright with a new day—so bright, it hurt. He jammed his eyes shut. Rolling to the edge of the bed, he sat up, trying to tame the wicked pound in his head. His maladies were consistent with a night spent overindulging in wine. Except he’d not had anything to drink.

He scrubbed his face and squinted around the room.

He was alone. The fire in the pit had died to a low yellow blur, suggesting Ana had been gone for an hour or more. Pushing to his feet, he made a beeline for the water pail. His tongue felt woolen and his feet were unsteady. He poured icy-cold water down his throat, but anger boiled in his belly just the same.
By God
. The bloody wench had drugged him.

She’d added something to his soup.

As he lowered the water pail, his gaze fell on her clothing chest. A small corner of white linen hung over the edge. Knowing in his gut what he would find, he set the water on the ground and crossed to the chest. Raising the lid, he stared inside.

Save for a lone, threadbare shift, it was empty.

The vixen had run.

A low growl escaped his lips. The woman was determined—he’d give her that—and a shade more devious than he had imagined. She’d lain in his arms, apparently at peace, all the while plotting to poison him and run off.

But run off where?

East lay Aberdeen, which she admitted to knowing quite well. West lay the Red Mountains, a decidedly harsh region during the winter months. South would take her to Fife and north would put her on the road to Elgin. With no knowledge of her past, other than her brief story about the ring, he had little to go on. Of course, his imagination insisted on detailing all the possible mishaps that could befall a woman traveling alone—wolves, brigands, starvation.
Damn it.
Any other man would curse her existence and forget about her.
He
was making plans to go after her.

Niall tugged on a fresh lèine and pinned his multihued brat over his shoulders.

One small mercy—she couldn’t have gotten far in an hour.

He slammed the door behind him. Crouching in the lane, he studied the marks in the dirt. An overnight thaw had softened the ground, leaving a telltale imprint of her leather boots—and a clear indication of her direction. She’d gone left, deeper into the village. His gaze lifted to the parapets of the manor visible above the thatched roofs of the neighboring bothies. Perhaps it would be easier to find her than he thought.

With raw determination in every stride, Niall gave chase.

Inside the walls of the manor, activity had reached a fever pitch. With only a day left to prepare for the king’s arrival, there was much to be done and done swiftly. Gillies ran about with arms full of linens and kindling. The ladies sat before the fire, stitching at a frenzied pace, hoping to repair any tapestry or clothing trim that did not shine.

Niall shouldered past a gillie sweeping the rushes and marched up to Eadgar.

“Have you seen my wife?” he asked the steward.

The very nature of the conversation was intriguing, and all around him, people paused to listen. The steward met his gaze, quiet and firm. “Goodhealer Ana has requested a pallet in the manor so that she might better tend the Lady Elayne.”

“Given the king’s imminent arrival, it was very generous of you to agree.”

The steward correctly interpreted the chill in Niall’s voice and took a step back. “All I could offer her was a spot in the lady’s chamber.”

Niall headed for the stairs.

“I trust this matter will be swiftly resolved?” Eadgar called after him.

“Count on it.”

Mounting the stairs two at a time, Niall reached the baroness’s chamber in short order and knocked. The door was opened by the same maid he recalled from his first day in Duthes. He pushed past her and entered. His eyes found Ana immediately, over by the fire, placing a damp cloth on the lady’s forehead.

Niall acknowledged Lady Elayne with a bow. “Your Ladyship.”

Then he turned to Ana. “Where are your belongings?”

Her eyes narrowed. “It matters not. I am not leaving.”

Spotting her healer’s satchel and a burlap bag next to the bed, Niall snatched them up. “I never took you for a coward. And yet, rather than deal openly with our concerns, you chose to run away.”

She scowled. “My duty lies here at Lady Elayne’s side.”

“A woman’s first duty is to her husband.” He smiled at the baroness. His most charming grin. “Is that not so, Your Ladyship?”

Elayne returned his smile. “Indeed.”

“I will not go,” Ana said darkly.

“Your will is irrelevant,” he said. He tossed her bags over one shoulder, then swooped in to scoop Ana over the other. She shrieked, but he ignored her. “Lady Elayne’s house will soon be filled to the rafters with royal guests. She does not need another mouth to feed.”

“Put. Me. Down.” Ana pounded his back with each word.

Niall offered the Lady Elayne another bow. “Good day to you, Your Ladyship.” Then he carried Ana out the door and down the stairs. She struggled against him, kicking and punching, but he held her tight.

“This is unseemly,” she hissed. “People are staring.”

“I care not. The next time you poison me, I promise I’ll do more than drag you home before a gawking crowd.”

She suddenly ceased her struggles. “It wasn’t poison. It was a sleeping draught.”

“Call it what you will,” he said coldly. “But abuse my trust again at your own peril.”

A heavy sigh flowed from her chest. “You’ve made your point. Now put me down. You’ll reopen the wound on your shoulder.”

He did not slow his pace.

Only when they were back inside the bothy did he lower her to the floor and release her. “Understand this and understand it well. When I said nothing would stand in my way, I meant it. If you attempt to leave again, I will hunt you down, no matter how far you have run. Am I clear?”

He met her gaze with steely purpose.

“But you can enter the manor at will now,” she protested. “The guards recognize you. You no longer need me.”

“Am I clear?” he repeated.

“Aye.”

He hooked her satchel over the peg by the door. The movement drew a wince. His shoulder was very unhappy with his activities of late.

“Let me have a look at that shoulder,” she offered.

“And have you lay me low again? I think not.”

“Were I the blackhearted wench you paint so well, I’d have left you to die in the woods,” she said drily. “The sleeping draught was necessary because you seem to sleep with one eye open. I feared you would wake up and stop me from leaving.”

He grunted and removed his brat. “Why the need to run at all? We suit well enough.”

As he peeled off his lèine, she said softly, “I’ve no desire to suffer heartache, and you, sir, are a breaker of hearts if ever I saw one.”

He dropped his arms and stared at her.

Her gentle hands unwrapped the linen from his shoulder, but as he tried to peer at the wound, she pushed his chin aside. “I cannot do my work with your head in the way.”

“I wish to see the injury.”

“Can you not tell it is healing by the minimal pain? Let me do my work.”

“At least it’s my left shoulder,” he said, shrugging. “If I end up lame, I’ll still be able to wield a sword.”

“You’ll not end up lame.”

The chill of unguent slathered on his skin followed her words. It was an act of faith to let her ply her medicines on him—he had no knowledge of what she put in her salves. Still, when he looked at the earnest expression on her face as she tended him, he could not summon any fear.

“The baroness did not look well,” he said, his gaze trapped by the delicate hue of the skin that ran along her jaw to her ear. Pale as a winter moon. Not a freckle to be seen.

She frowned. “She insists on being involved in the preparations for the king, but she is not strong.”

Ah, yes, the king.

Niall glanced up at the chimney hole. In less than a day, the trumpets would blare and the huge coterie of retainers that regularly accompanied the king would descend on the keep. Yet the necklace that determined his brother’s fate still lay beyond his grasp. Failure did not sit well upon his shoulders.

“Be quick,” he told Ana. “I’ve work that needs be done and done swiftly.”

Tonight he had a chance to redeem himself. Best not waste it.

Ana was thankful that Niall’s thoughts, although clearly dark, kept him occupied. He did not try to examine the wound again. She quickly covered up his shoulder with fresh linen and tied a neat knot.

As she finished, he frowned. “Your hands are cool now, but the night you found me in the woods, they were very hot.”

She stiffened. Had he been conscious? “It may have seemed thus because your flesh was bitter cold. The winter night very nearly took you before I returned with the cart.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “No doubt.”

Ducking her head to hide the flush in her cheeks, she stuffed the remainder of the linen strips in a small chest by the table and replaced the wax stopper to her salve. Putting order to the table was far easier than reining in the chaotic tumble of her thoughts.

“I also recall,” he said slowly, “that your arms were dappled with a red pattern not unlike autumn vines.”

Ana choked out a sharp laugh. Dear Lord. He
had
been awake. “What a curious vision. Delirium had set in, obviously.”

His gaze met hers, serious as sin. “Perhaps.”

Ana’s heartbeat slowed to a breathless pace. “Are you satisfied that I healed you with all due care?”

He glanced down at the bandages. “Aye, I am.”

“Then all is well.”

He nodded. “For now.”

•   •   •

Niall found her response to his queries decidedly flimsy, but pursuing the truth of what happened that night was far less important than retrieving the necklace. At least, for the moment. Tonight might well be his last opportunity to break into the baron’s coffers. Once the king’s guards descended upon the keep, every corridor would be closely watched.

After the eventide meal, the repair work in the cellars would cease, and he would have an excellent opportunity to pick the lock. Assuming he could get past the guard at the gate.

“I need a tabard and helm,” he said to Ana.

She frowned. “Like the ones worn by the constable’s men?”

“The very same.”

“And why do you mention this to me?” she asked, bristling.

“The size of helm I require is a fine match to the guard who carried your neeps back to the castle the day I arrived in Duthes. That helm also had a telltale dent in it that others would be quick to recognize.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “And what? You want me to waylay the poor fellow in some alley and rob him of his accoutrements?”

“Nay. Visit him in the guardhouse on pretense of tending the guards’ training injuries and make good use of those nimble fingers.”

Her eyes grew round as targes. “Snatch the items right before his eyes? In the middle of a troop of armed men? Are you mad?”

Niall smiled. She definitely had no sense of the distraction she posed. “’Twill be easier than you imagine.”

“I think you’ve lost your wits.”

He handed her the leather satchel and pointed to the door. “Make haste. I need the garb by gloaming.”

Glaring, she grabbed the satchel and stomped out.

Niall rooted through his purse and found his meager supply of coin. Three silver pieces and a dozen pence. One of the more valuable scraps of information he’d gleaned from the stable hands was the name of the local whisky maker—One-Eyed Thomas. A useful fellow to know, to be sure.

An hour later, he returned to the hut with his booty.

Ana was waiting for him with a triumphant grin on her face and a heaping basket of bread in her hands. “They traded bread for my services and were most appreciative.” She dumped the basket on the bed, and a gleaming silver helm rolled out amid a scattering of loaves.

Niall shrugged, unsurprised. “We’re all fools before beauty.”

She tilted her head. “You really think me beautiful?”

“Lovely enough to tempt a dead man from the grave,” he admitted. “But as beauty proved the downfall of Samson, Julius Caesar, and Achilles, it’s hardly the most admirable of traits.”

She tossed a round of rye at his head. “Wretched cur. I risked my life and this is how you reward me? With insults?”

He grabbed her wrist before she could lob a second loaf, and yanked her to his chest. “If I admit that I’m as beguiled as any, would that temper the offense?” he whispered. Then he fiercely claimed her lips, goaded by a burning desire that refused to be satisfied any other way. She might be devious, she might be a liar, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. He wanted her, and that was enough. Temporarily lost in the soft press of her body against his, and the responding pound of blood through his body, he took everything she was willing to give.

After he pulled away, her eyes still held shadows. “Do you truly believe me capable of murder?”

He shook his head. “A murderess would not have tended Aiden’s wounds while he was in Lochurkie’s dungeon.”

She blinked. “You knew about that?”

“Not as fact. I knew someone had treated his wounds. He wore poultices on several of his more severe injuries. Once I knew you to be a healer, it was an easy leap to make.”

“Then why let me believe you thought me a poisoner?”

Niall’s gaze roved the sweet curves of Ana’s face. “I’ve been led astray by a pretty face and gentle ways before. Expect the worst, and you’re prepared for anything.”

“So you still do not trust me.”

“Take no offense,” he said, donning the tabard. The two front panels hung to his knees, the sides open. “I trust no one. Not even my brethren in the Black Warriors.”

“The Black Warriors?”

“Those men who aided me in freeing Aiden.” He buckled his sword at his side, enjoying the familiar weight and the knowledge that, for a short time at least, he was once again a knight of Scotland.

“What of your kin? Surely you trust
them
?”