Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (16 page)

•   •   •

The hunt was a huge success. The king took down the twelve-point stag that was driven toward him by the baron’s men, and he left Duthes at midday, with the antlers as a trophy. By late afternoon, the Black Warriors were once again settled in their camp.

Niall was no closer to discovering the identity of his traitor, but he had made giant strides with Jamie. The lad no longer trembled in his presence, and he actually spoke more than one or two words when pressed for the answer to a question. Niall’s horse gleamed from repeated brushing and his clothes were folded neatly in his chest.

All the lad’s doing.

As Niall watched Jamie diligently polish the brass rivets on his targe, he saw a hint of his cousin Wulf in the determined cant of the boy’s shoulders and his meticulous eye for detail. The fierce warrior would be proud of his son this day.

If he were alive.

Yet that was unlikely. Wulf was a force to be reckoned with. When raised to anger, there was very little that could hold him back. Niall couldn’t imagine anyone or anything being able to contain his cousin’s rage over the death of his wife and son for three long months. Only the cold hand of death could do that.

The time had come to acknowledge that in his absence, Niall would have to raise Wulf’s son.

He just hoped he was a fine enough man to do the task well.

•   •   •

The sun was warm—a herald of spring. Ana kept the door to her hut open as she worked to take advantage of the light and the heat. Despite the enjoyable weather, she had to start her batch of pain relief salve a second time because she forgot an ingredient. She was too busy reliving her journey from Lochurkie to Duthes, identifying the faces she’d met along the way.

She’d met up with the merchant caravan a sennight after her escape from the dungeon. By then, she was no longer experiencing dizzy spells from her head wound and she’d regained a wee bit of weight—thanks to an excellent growing season for nuts and seeds. But she’d still been looking over her shoulder, fearful that she’d be discovered.

It had not been easy to earn her seat in the caravan. The merchants had been highly suspicious of her dirty clothing and tangled hair. Only by showing her familiarity with the ways of a merchant and correctly naming one merchant’s supply of unguents merely by the smell was she permitted to join them. Even so, they’d watched her carefully for weeks.

“Goodhealer?”

Ana looked up. A red-faced young page stood at her open door, breathing heavily. “Aye?”

“Lady Elayne has taken a tumble,” the lad said. “She said it weren’t naught to worry about, but there’s blood. I thought it best to fetch you. She’s in the chapel.”

She grabbed her satchel from behind the door. “You did the right thing. Lead on.”

They took off at a run. The wind cut through her clothing, but the icy feeling in her veins came less from the weather than from the direction of her thoughts. The chapel had a stone floor. A tumble there could have serious consequences. Had it been any other woman with child, she’d not have worried overmuch. Lady Elayne was no ordinary case, however. She was much thinner and frailer than the norm.

Ducking into the kirk, she stood for a moment to adjust her eyes. The instant she could see Lady Elayne at the back of the room, she pressed on. The baroness lay on the slate floor, curled in a ball and moaning. Friar Colban held her hand and murmured words of encouragement.

“Be brave, Lady Elayne, and our Lord God will look after you.”

Ana dropped to her knees beside them.

“The babe does not stir,” the friar whispered.

Elayne’s pale blue skirts were darkened with blood—not a lot, but enough to be concerning. “What happened?”

“She stood up after confession, and then promptly fell.”

That did not sound as if the friar had offered her a helping hand to rise from her knees after prayer. Chivalry was apparently not his strength. “Had she eaten anything of late?”

Friar Colban frowned. “How would I know this? Food is forbidden in the kirk.”

Judging by the sallow color of her skin, the answer was no. Ana ran a quick hand over the woman’s belly, prompting a low moan. The friar was right—there was no immediate sign of life—but that did not mean there was no hope. It wasn’t appropriate to lift the noblewoman’s gown while in the presence of a man, so she turned to the Friar and said, “Thank you for tending her so well, Friar. Please send a lad to fetch me the baroness’s handmaiden, Bébinn. And a litter.”

With a frown, he rose to his feet and walked away.

Getting the woman off the cold stone floor was imperative, but the first priority was stopping any bleeding. Gently lifting the baroness’s brocade skirts, she peered at the rounded expanse of Elayne’s belly. A huge bruise had spread across her left side, from rib to hip. Blood was seeping slowly between her thighs.

Turning to her satchel, Ana retrieved a length of linen and a handful of moss. She wrapped the moss in the linen and then carefully placed the soft padding between the baroness’s legs.

She glanced around. “Did she strike something as she fell?”

Colban returned to her side, nodding. He pointed to an elaborately carved oak stool near the wall. “The stool on which I sat as I took her confession.”

So he had sat, while a woman heavy with child prayed on her knees. Ana bit her tongue to hold back what would surely be a disastrous retort.

The friar frowned. “I cannot help but wonder if the Lord was displeased.”

Ana glanced at him. “Why?”

“She fell asleep while giving her confession,” he said, his tone clearly disapproving. “Twice.”

“Such events are to be expected,” Ana responded brusquely. “She has expended every effort to ensure the king’s visit was a glorious reflection on her husband. When she’s unable to hold food in her belly, her strength is severely depleted.”

“Confession is a requirement of the soul.”

“And food is a requirement of the body.”

He stared down his long, thin nose. “The soul takes precedence over the body.”

“Of course,” she said. She disagreed, but she also knew she’d never persuade the friar to her way of thinking. “I am merely explaining why the baroness had cause to sleep, and why she might have lost her footing. Her body needs rest.” Not a walk in the frigid winter air to give her confession to the priest. “Perhaps you can take her next confession at her bedside.”

Two castle guards arrived with a decorated wooden platform suspended between two poles. The litter was used infrequently—it had belonged to the baron’s mother and was meant to hold a chair—but it would deliver the baroness to the manor with a minimum of fuss.

The baron and Bébinn arrived at the same time, both wearing similar masks of worry.

Elayne was lifted carefully onto the litter and Bébinn covered her with a thick woolen blanket. The trip to the manor was made in short order, but the litter ran afoul of the stairwell inside. The corners were too tight to navigate. Displaying admirable strength and a clear sense of urgency, the baron carried Elayne up the stairs himself.

“Will my son survive?” he asked, as he laid his young wife on the bed.

“As soon as I have news, I’ll relay it,” Ana assured him.

Bébinn escorted him to the door and returned at a run. “What do you need?”

“Let’s start by changing her into a nightrail. These heavy garments are making it harder to tend her.”

Together, they made short work of the task. Elayne’s moans intensified as they shifted her, and as they removed her linen sark, Ana noted that the bruise had grown much larger. It now extended past her navel. A very unfortunate sign.

“Fetch a bucket of cold water and some rose oil,” she ordered the handmaiden. She’d seen similar bruising on corpses. If she did not use her gift, there would be dire consequences.

Bébinn left her side and Ana rolled up her sleeves. The door opened and closed. Aware that she might have little time to save the babe, she rubbed her hands together and drew energy from the depths of her being, the telltale tingle of her gift blooming in her chest.

“The guard will return anon with your requested items, Goodhealer.”

Ana clasped her hands tightly together, willing the tingle in her arms to cease. She glanced over her shoulder at Bébinn. The handmaiden met her gaze evenly.

“The baron asked me not to leave the room while you are tending the baroness,” the woman said quietly. “Mr. Hurley expressed his concerns about some of the herbs in your hut.”

Damn.

“Play the chaperone if you must,” Ana said roughly, “but stay out of my way. Take a seat by the fire.”

The energy of her gift continued to flow down Ana’s arms. She had no idea if it was possible to stop it now. The vines crept out from beneath her rolled sleeves and wound toward her elbows. A sweat broke out on Ana’s brow. Bébinn had not yet moved. She glared at the handmaiden, praying her bottom lip did not tremble with her fear. “Sit.”

Clearly reluctant, Bébinn obeyed. She ignored the needlework lying on the chair next to her and made a point of watching Ana. “No herbs.”

Angling her body to shield her arms from view, Ana scooped a bunch of fur pelts from the end of the bed and tucked them around the expectant mother. Then she thrust her hands into the pile of furs, flattened her palms on Elayne’s belly, and mentally followed the flow of energy into the young woman’s body. The babe stirred weakly at her touch. It was pressed hard against the cradle of her hips.

Ana searched for the cause of the bleeding and found it. A major blood vessel in Elayne’s belly was leaking heavily, damaged by the collision with the stool. Ana repaired the tear, and redirected as much of the blood as she could, easing the pressure on the babe. She immediately felt its movements strengthen.

There was a knock at the door, and Bébinn rose to answer it. She carried the bucket of water and the flagon of rose oil over to the table beside the bed.

“Is the babe alive?” she asked.

“Aye.” Ana pulled her hands back sharply and turned in the opposite direction. “Feel for yourself.” While the handmaiden leaned over Elayne, she thrust her hands in the cold water and pretended to wash them. The frigid water cooled her hands, and the crimson vines faded away.

Bébinn looked, but did not touch the baroness. “The bruise is gone.”

Too observant, this one. “I banished it with a firm massage. If you catch it early enough, you can hasten a bruise away.”

“I’ve never heard of such.”

“Each healer has her own methods.”

As the handmaiden watched, Elayne’s belly moved with a strong kick from the babe. She frowned. “The friar said the babe was no longer stirring.”

“Perhaps the winter chill had slowed its movements.” Ana removed the pad from between Elayne’s thighs and gently washed her flesh with a wet rag. “It moves quite vigorously now.”

Bébinn stepped back and genuflected. Under her breath, she muttered the words of the Lord’s Prayer.

“The babe is healthy,” Ana reiterated firmly. “The baroness, however, has injured her hip and must remain abed until the bairn is born.”

“A full fortnight?”

She nodded. “The lady is very weak and we cannot risk another fall.”

There was a second knock at the door, and Bébinn retreated to answer it. Her dark eyes still reflected concern, but Ana was at a loss as to how to banish it. She could hardly explain how the babe had come to stir again.

The door opened to reveal a gillie with a carved rosewood box in his hands.

It was a one-of-a-kind box, finely decorated with a woodland scene that included a red hind with a spotted fawn at her feet. The instant Ana caught sight of the box, a memory of her journey returned to her in a flash. Only a day or two after she joined the merchants, the caravan met a lone man upon the road. The caravan did not usually stop between burghs for fear of being attacked by brigands, but much as they had with her, the merchants decided a solitary traveler posed no real threat.

Ana had never seen the contents of his wooden box, but it had been the subject of a lengthy and hushed exchange with Thomas of Oban. The merchant had finally accepted the box, but his reluctance had been clear.

She tried not to stare as Bébinn carried the box into the chamber and placed it atop the chest by the window. Surely there could not be two such boxes in the world?

“A gift from the baron to his wife,” Bébinn said. “With hopes that she finds the strength to keep his son alive.”

“I’m sure she’ll thank him when she awakens.”

Was the ruby necklace in the box? If it was, this might be as close as they would ever get to it.

She had to tell Niall.

He’d gone into the forest again, to meet with the other Black Warriors. She could wait until he returned, but by then the box might be once again under lock and key. Nay. The sooner he knew, the better.

She had to go now. Lady Elayne was recovering and could spare her attentions for a short time.

“You may feed her clear broth if she awakens,” she said to Bébinn, as she tucked the furs snuggly around Elayne. “But do not let her out of bed.”

The handmaiden frowned. “You are leaving?”

“The baroness is sleeping well. I’ll return later to check on her.”

The challenge would be finding Niall in the forest. Never having been to the Black Warrior camp, she could not say for certain where it was located. But she knew where to start looking—the spot where she’d found Niall’s body.

Ana gathered her satchel, nodded to Bébinn, and exited the room.

No stranger to the forest herself, she would just keep walking up the hill. If his men were as skilled in the woodland as he implied, surely they would find her before she found them.

I
va
rr snared a hare for supper.

The meal was a familiar if rowdy event. Cormac taunted the big warrior over the puny size of his catch, Leod disparaged the taste of Cormac’s fine stew, and Ivarr recounted the tale of how a man renowned for his woodland stealth had managed to get himself gored by a mother boar defending her young. As they laughed and ate and downed copious quantities of ale, Niall found it hard to imagine any of them trying to kill him.

He tipped his bowl to his mouth and swallowed the last drops of his stew.

If he could determine why, then he could determine who. Why would anyone want him dead? To prevent him from recovering the necklace, obviously. But why? All of the Black Warriors had sworn a blood oath to protect Dunstoras. As the sun rose and fell each day, they trained hard, their primary purpose to ensure the secrets of the caverns beneath the old fortress were never revealed. How would any of them gain from stopping him?

Leod sat on the log next to him and offered him a horn of ale. “Life with the healer appears to agree with you. I’ve rarely seen you as hale and hearty.”

Niall washed the stew down with a swig of ale.

The other warrior pointed to his own bandaged calf. “Think she could rid me of this damned lameness? I’ve little patience for hobbling about.”

An innocent enough question, and perfectly logical, given Leod’s injury. Still, it raised the hairs on Niall’s neck. Other than Cormac, the only person who knew he’d been injured and then healed by Ana was the man who had shot him. “No doubt,” he said. “She seems to know her craft well enough.”

“Perhaps you could bring her for a visit.”

“Perhaps.”

“Three sennights is overlong to be coddling a weak leg,” Leod said, pushing awkwardly to his feet. He slung a bow over his shoulder and picked up a plump wineskin. “It makes every watch a bleeding misery.”

Niall watched Leod limp off. The slim warrior’s shoulders were hunched, his head low. After several hours on guard duty, he’d be even more exhausted. Could the injured man have trekked through the forest in Niall’s footsteps, maintaining the pace Niall kept? It seemed unlikely.

His gaze shifted to Ivarr.

Which left only one serious suspect. How could he test the big warrior?

•   •   •

Ana got as far as the half-fallen tree before acknowledging that she might have to turn back. The wood had thickened as she advanced, the heavy underbrush tugging at her skirts and making every step treacherous.

She paused and slowly pivoted.

She’d been careful to note landmarks as she passed, and was confident she could return to the road, even if darkness fell. But the forest deepened in every direction from here, with no obvious path or landmark. No wood smoke hung in the crisp air, no flickering firelight beckoned her gaze between the gray tree trunks. Pushing on would only get her lost, and getting lost would be foolish.

She was just about to turn and head back when she spotted a large rock in the distance. Its gray shape blended with the surroundings, making it difficult to see, but the lighter circles of lichens told her it was a rock. One more landmark to guide her.

Left it was, then.

Batting aside a low-hanging fir bough, she pressed on. How much farther could the camp be? Surely it must be around here somewhere? Her eyes scanned the trees ahead, hopeful.

When she reached the obelisk, she rested for a moment against the weathered stone.

Her legs would be full of scratches by now had she no skirts to protect them, but the effort to drag the heavy material through the underbrush was immense. Sliding her brèid off, she let the cool wind feather through her hair. It was not enough to dry the beads of sweat on her brow, so she patted those with her brat as she looked around. Still no sign of the camp.

Disappointment tugged at her shoulders.

Why had she been so convinced she could find it? Aye, she knew the forest well. But not every inch of the woodland. Had she stayed in the village, she might be speaking with Niall this very moment. Instead, she had a very long trek ahead and a good chance she’d be supping after dark.

Ana pushed away from the rock and headed back the way she’d come.

Two steps along, she drew up. The subtle scent of wood smoke drifted past her nose. Faint, but unmistakable. She grinned and pivoted, nose in the air. The smoke was too thin to easily determine its source, but it came from a general westerly direction. With her goal in reach, Ana found renewed enthusiasm. Her legs plowed through the brush, snapping twigs and tugging withered leaves from branches as she passed.

Eagerly looking through the trees for a campfire, she failed to notice a lean man standing in the shadows. When he stepped out in front of her, only a few feet away, she shrieked in surprise.

He tilted his head as he studied her.

Ana swallowed. The look on his face made her stomach knot with nervous tension, though she couldn’t say why. He was one of Niall’s men, surely?

“Are you the healer?” he asked.

She nodded.

He removed the bow from his shoulder. “You’ve been a wee thorn in my side,” he said, as he drew an arrow from his quiver. “My troubles would be long over, were it not for you.”

Their gazes met in the fading light.

Ana’s heart pounded.

The urge to flee was a strident bell in her head, but what chance did she have against a man with a bow? A sense of doom held her fast in her tracks—until she noticed the bandage on his left leg. It went against her beliefs as a healer, but the opportunity presented to her was her only hope—she gave him a vicious boot in his wounded calf. When he doubled over in pain, she yanked the bow from his hands and ran for her life.

•   •   •

Niall lifted his head and listened.

“Did you hear something?” Ivarr asked.

“Aye.” The sound did not repeat, but he did not need to hear it twice to know what it was—a woman’s scream. And there was only one woman he could imagine traipsing this far into the woods. Ana. He grabbed a bow and a full quiver of arrows. His sword, sadly, was still hidden in the heather thatch of Ana’s bothy. “Pack up the camp. It’s time to end this. If I don’t return shortly, meet me at the stone bridge at Kildrummy. If I can come, I’ll be there within a day or two. Take care of Jamie.”

Ivarr looked unhappy with his orders, but he nodded. “Watch your back.”

Niall slipped into the woods, heading east toward the sound. His gut was tight and his blood pumped vigorously through his veins. Leod had headed in this direction only a short time ago.

He traveled swiftly and silently, scanning the trees for any sign of trouble. Night was falling and the gloaming blurred the landmarks into their surroundings. Eerie shadows clung to every trunk and branch. Still, he had no difficulty tracking his prey—a clear path was mowed through the brush and snow, as wide as a woman’s skirts. Her boot prints were several feet apart, suggesting she was on the run.

Weighted down by swathes of twill and linen, Ana had little hope of outrunning a pursuer.

A sudden vision of her body, lying broken and bleeding in the forest, spurred him on. He charged through the trees at a breakneck pace. Ana wasn’t the sort to scare easily. If she had run, she’d surely had reason.

•   •   •

Ana raced through the woods, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder. She wasn’t entirely certain the man was following her—she couldn’t hear the pound of his footsteps—but her gut told her to keep going. Retracing her path, she made good time through the brush. She had almost convinced herself she’d escaped unharmed when a heavy weight struck her back, knocking her to the snow-covered ground. Air chuffed from her lungs as she fell.

A hand looped around her braid and yanked her head back.

“Hold still, you damned wench.”

Ana grabbed the knife sheathed at her waist and swung it, determined to free herself at any cost. He knocked it away with a heavy fist that numbed her fingers. The blade spun off into the brush, and Ana’s hope went with it.

Her attacker wrenched her braid again. “Another witless move like that and I’ll break your neck.”

She believed him. She ceased struggling.

The hold on her hair eased. “Whatever magic you used on Niall’s shoulder, use it now, on me,” he said. “Heal my leg.”

“I used no magic.”

The yank on her hair was so full of vehemence and hate, it brought tears to her eyes. “Liar! I know I hit him true—I saw him fall. The arrow struck him right through the back.”

“I cannot speak to what you saw,” Ana said thickly. She eyed the ground for something—
anything
—she might use as a weapon. “I can only describe the wound I treated. ’Twas a scratch, no more. He’d filled his lèine with bark and leaves—the arrow barely broke his skin.”

“Nay,” disputed her attacker. With a sharp yank on her shoulder, he forced her to face him. “That’s not possible. And even if it were, your accounting does not explain how he survived—the arrow was dipped in poison.”

Ana briefly considered admitting the truth, but decided the feral gleam in the man’s eyes did not bode well for her survival either way. Her death was written in those eyes, of that she had no doubt.

She shrugged. “He was delirious for a time, but I attributed that to fever, not poison. It would seem too little of the poison found its way into his body.”

“You lie,” he accused. His fury had abated, replaced by cold determination. “Heal me now, as you healed him, or you’ll be a fine winter’s meal for the wolves tonight.”

She met his gaze, one hand creeping toward a nearby rock. “You’ll slay me either way, I think.”

“Perhaps,” he said, with a harsh laugh. “But you’ll live a wee bit longer if you heal me. Aren’t those minutes worth anything?”

She shook her head. “If I heal you, you’ll present a more formidable challenge to Niall, who will surely skewer you upon his blade anon.”

His narrow face darkened.

“I have no intention of returning to camp to face the bastard.” He bent to whisper in her ear. “So your hopes, sweet vixen, are for naught.”

Ana struck him hard.

The rock hit him in the temple with a dull but surprisingly loud
thunk
. He groaned and his eyes rolled back in his head. Taking advantage of his unsteadiness, however temporary, she yanked her braid free of his hand, pushed him aside, and rolled to freedom. She scrambled to her feet and tore off through the trees. Although it left no secret as to her route, she again took the path she’d already beaten. Speed was more important than secrecy.

The lichen-crusted obelisk loomed in front of her and she veered right. Somewhere up ahead in the gloom lay the half-fallen tree, and beyond that, the road. Her survival depended on reaching those landmarks. Hiking up her skirts, she threw all she had into the dash for safety.

Her lungs burned with every breath, but she did not slow.

Onward, Ana, onward.

This time, she did not ease up as the silence behind her grew steadily longer. Her attacker had surprised her once—she would not be fooled again.

Rivulets of sweat trickled down the sides of her face. Her heart pounded. Ana reached deep and forced her legs to churn through the brush. Compared to the last time she’d run for her life, she was strong as an ox. If she could succeed then, she could definitely succeed now.

She just had to keep going.

•   •   •

When Niall came upon the bloodied rock, his heart dropped into his boots. Sinking into a crouch, he picked it up and studied it for strands of long, dark red hair. Thankfully, there were none. But that did not mean the blood was not hers.

He had to find her pursuer.

Which was quite likely Leod. Niall stood and looked around. Leod’s unique ability to blend into the shadows made him a dangerous opponent, even injured. He could be here, watching him, and Niall might never know.

The trick to finding Leod was to become one with his surroundings, to absorb every clue the forest had to offer. Niall closed his eyes. Shutting out the visual world heightened his other senses—the scent of pine and rotting leaves filled his nose, and the distant burble of the burn reached his ears. Amid the noises of the woodland, he heard the almost imperceptible swoosh of a blade cutting through the air. Instinct made him duck.

The sword arced downward—through the spot where his head had been only moments before—and struck Niall’s thigh. Not full on, thank the gods, because he was moving. But the steel sliced into his flesh just the same, and blood streamed down his leg. He pivoted, his dirk at the ready.

Leod was nowhere to be seen.

Niall spun slowly, waiting for the next attack. A hunting dirk was an inadequate weapon against a great sword—especially a great sword wielded by a man he couldn’t see. He shrugged his bow off his shoulder. It wouldn’t be much of a shield, but if it could gain him an extra second or two, it might be enough.

“Show yourself, Leod,” he taunted. “Fight like a man instead of a coward.”

He got no response.

Nothing stirred the dried leaves and thin snow of the forest floor. Taking advantage of the deepening shadows, he stepped to the left, putting a solid trunk of a tall elm tree at his back. Leod’s first attack had come from the left. With his injured leg, he wouldn’t have traveled far—Niall guessed he was somewhere to his right.

Niall closed his eyes again and listened deeply.

As a young boy, he’d spent many a night in the forest, hunting for the food his mother could not afford to put on their table. In those days, failure had meant a belly cramped with hunger, so he’d learned to listen well.

Tonight, he heard a light breeze dance through the barren branches above his head and the harsh screech of an owl taking ownership of the night. He sifted past those sounds, seeking more subtle noises—the rush of air flowing in and out of lungs, the whisper of loam cradling a man’s feet. Nostrils wide, he drank in a taste of the night . . . and the faint scent of unwashed clothing. Gathering every bit of information the forest was willing to give up, he pinpointed Leod’s location.