The Clan MacDougall Series (64 page)

Patrick had taken the first watch and sat on a stool in the semi-dark hallway. Findley thanked him and told him he would take over in three hours time.

Maggy was already in the bed and under the covers when he returned. Her back was to the door, the covers pulled up around her ear. He felt sorry for her, exhausted from the journey and the worry over her son. And he’d been a damned fool for kissing her!

Nay, he didn’t regret the kiss, just the timing of it. The kiss had been beyond pleasant; he had felt it all the way to his marrow. His groin ached with remembering it now.

And how joyous he had felt when she returned the kiss. There was something there. He hadn’t imagined her melting into his arms or the soft sighs of pleasure. Mayhap when this was all over and done with, she might open to the idea of spending the rest of her life with him.

He was disappointed that she was asleep but relieved to know there would be no further arguing this night. Spreading his plaid out in front of the low fire, he lay down and tried to sleep.

But sleep was impossible. Maggy was but a few steps away and his mind kept wandering to what it might be like to be lying next to her in that warm bed. He took in a deep breath and realized she must have used rose scented soap in her bath. An image of her lying naked in the grass came to his mind. He thought of covering her nakedness in rose petals before kissing every square inch of her body.

He wanted to start with her toes and take a sennight to work his way up to the top of her beautiful head. Then take another sennight to work his way back down. Try as he might to push all those thoughts aside, he could not.

Tossing and turning on the hard floor, his mind could not settle. His thoughts ran rampant from images of a rose petal covered Maggy to devising creative ways of torturing Malcolm Buchannan. When he wasn’t thinking of clever ways to woo Maggy, he was making mental notes on all they would need to lay siege to the Buchannan keep.

He imagined he’d need at least fifty men, and a floor plan for the keep would be helpful. In between plans of courtship and plans of attack, he prayed.

He prayed that Angus would send the men he so desperately needed to help him get Ian back. He prayed that Ian was well. He prayed for God’s mercy and forgiveness. Forgiveness for letting his family down all those years ago and forgiveness for the wicked thoughts he was having of Maggy.

Just as he was finally drifting off to sleep, there was a knock at the door. Two quick taps followed by three slow told him it was one of his men.

He grabbed his sword just in case and carefully opened the door. Richard stood in the dim light with a very worried look to his face.

“Findley,” he said nervously, “Andrew is ill.”

Findley’s brow creased with worry as he lowered his sword to his side. “Ill?” he responded. “What is wrong?”

“He’s thrown up thrice in the past quarter hour,” Richard answered as he raked a hand through his hair.

“Does he have a fever?” Findley asked as his worry increased.

“Nay,” Richard said. “But the runs have set in as well. We’ve not enough chamber pots to keep up with the lad.”

Findley’s stomach tightened with worry. If Andrew were contagious there was a great risk that the rest of them would become ill. That thought left a great sense of unease in his chest. While the abbey was not far from town, he couldn’t very well leave a group of sick people with the monks. And forcing his men to travel whilst throwing up and fighting the runs would make for a less than delightful journey.

Maggy was dressed and standing beside him before he had time to think on it further.

“’Tis Andrew?” she asked, the sound of her voice giving Findley a start. He turned toward her and he could see the worry and exhaustion etched on her face.

Richard nodded his head. “Aye, I’m afraid so, lass.”

She gave a quick nod to both men and headed down the hallway with Richard and Findley following close behind.

Maggy hurried to Andrew. He was sitting on one chamber pot whilst he threw up into another.

“Och! Lad!” Maggy said as she felt his forehead with the back of her hand. “Ye’ve no fever,” she said quietly.

The other boys were awake and standing together watching their brother. Maggy looked at each of them. “Are any of ye feeling unwell?”

Each of the boys shook their heads and mumbled a nay. Maggy turned her attention back to Andrew. “Do ye have pains, lad?”

’Twas all he could do to nod his head. “In me guts,” he mumbled. “I think this is what it’d feel like to be run through with a dirk.”

Maggy felt his cheeks again. He was clammy, pale and dark circles were beginning to form under his eyes.

As she spoke gentle words of comfort to her son, Findley came and stood beside her and gently rested his hand upon her shoulder. “Lass, tell us what ye need and we’ll see to it.”

Maggy could see the sincerity and concern in Findley’s eyes. For some inexplicable reason, his hand on her shoulder and the genuine concern made her feel better. And for the first time in many years she did not feel alone.

“Milk thistle would be best if ye can find it. But ginger will work as well,” she said. “But where ye’ll find either at this hour, I dunnae.”

Findley gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do no’ worry over it. We’ll find it.”

Maggy nodded, having no doubt in her mind that they would. “Thank ye Findley,” she told him. “I’ll be needed some warm water and compresses as well. And I’ll need a kettle to brew the milk thistle tea with.”

She turned her attention back to her son. “I’m sure ye’ll be fine soon enough, Andrew,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile. She hoped her worried heart did not belie her words. She was worried but did not want to let Andrew know.

As long as he did not draw a fever, he should be well in a day or two. Maggy hoped that this current bout of illness would pass quickly and prayed that no one else would come down with the ailment.

Within moments, Findley sent Richard and Patrick in search of the items Maggy had requested. He took the other lads to the room next door so they might get some rest and told them not to worry too much over Andrew.

It had taken Richard and Patrick less than an hour to find the items that Maggy had requested. They returned to the room to find Andrew still doubled over in pain and vomiting. Neither man could hide their worry.

Like nervous fathers, Findley and his men paced the hallway outside the bedchamber. Findley worried that the other boys and mayhap his men, might come down with whatever was plaguing Andrew. This could set their plan back by days, if not weeks. He felt instantly guilty for worrying about the delay instead of worrying about the boy. As a warrior and leader, he not only had to worry about those people he was responsible for, but he must also concern himself with the mission at hand. He wished Angus were there to take over the responsibility of worrying about the mission so that he might concentrate fully on Maggy and the boys.

They’d not been in the hallway long when Maggy stepped out of the room holding a very full and smelly chamber pot. Richard took it from her with the offer to dispose of it properly so that she might stay by Andrew’s side.

So it went for the next several hours, Maggy handing filled chamber pots to one man or another in exchange for clean ones. Andrew had vomited to the point that he now had dry-heaves but the diarrhea would not subside.

Maggy sent Patrick off to find large stones. He hesitated for a moment when she made her request.

“Do no’ worry, Patrick,” she said with a tired smile. “I mean not to pummel ye with them. I want to be warmin’ them in the fire for Andrew’s stomach.”

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing when Patrick blew out a sigh of relief. He returned a short time later with good-sized stones and helped Maggy set them in the fire. It didn’t take long before the stones were hot and she could wrap them in cloths so that Andrew could hold them against his stomach. As sick as he was, Andrew still apologized repeatedly for delaying their quest.

“Wheest, lad!” she told him more than once. “I’ll no’ have ye worrin’ over it. I think we all could use a day or two of rest. We’ll have yer brother back before you ken it, Andrew.”

“But had I not gotten ill we’d be even closer to getting’ him back,” he retorted weakly.

Maggy didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Sick or not, the only people who would have been any closer to getting Ian back were Findley and his men. Had Andrew not taken ill, they would, at this very moment be locked away at the monastery.

While Maggy was dreadfully worried over her son, she was glad for the delay. It would give her time to think of a plan, to come up with some way to not be locked away whilst Findley and his men rode on to Aberdeen without her. She tried to think of a means of escape but knew escape would be quite difficult with four young boys in tow, especially if they were all ill. She prayed often that Findley would not abandon her just yet, for if the rest of the boys grew ill, she would need his help.

Dawn had come and gone hours ago and none of them had slept well. Maggy’s back ached from sitting on the small stool next to Andrew. Her legs burned from the constant up and down of tending to her son.

Before she realized it, noon time had come and gone. Andrew was finally able to remove himself from the chamber pot and lie down on the bed. He was weak and exhausted and his stomach and bum were quite sore.

Maggy knew it would be at least another day or two before they’d be able to resume their trek. That was unless the others came down with the same ailment. She didn’t know which was worse; having all the boys sick at once or having it drag out for days on end with little to no rest for any of them.

She kept a watchful eye on her son while he slept fitfully in the bed. Her body had grown numb but she could not bring herself to leave his side just yet. Repeatedly, she would reach out to touch his cheeks and forehead and each time, send a prayer of thanks up to the good Lord for keeping fevers away.

“S
o, lad,” Malcolm asked as he placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Does me clean face meet with yer approval?”

Ian stared up with eyes wide at his captor. He didn’t have the courage to tell the man that no matter if he bathed a hundred times a day or shaved thrice daily, his mum would still not marry him. He nodded his head but remained quiet.

A broad smile came to Malcolm’s face before he threw his head back and laughed loudly. Ian could only stand on trembling feet and stare as the man’s belly shook with laughter.

After several long moments, Malcolm’s laughter subsided but his smile remained on his face. Ian did his best to keep his legs from shaking but it was quite difficult. He wasn’t sure which terrified him more: an angry Malcolm Buchannan or a happy one.

“Lad,” Malcolm said as he turned Ian and began to walk. “I fear yer still mightily afraid of me.”

Ian swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted to do was to say something that would anger the Buchannan.

Malcolm chuckled and gave the boy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I canna say that I blame ye, lad. I imagine I’d be pissin’ me pants with fear as well, were I in yer shoes.” He smiled thoughtfully as he led the boy down the stairs to the large gathering room.

“Do ye see how we’re cleanin’ our keep, lad?” Malcolm asked with a touch of pride to his voice.

Ian looked around the large room and was quite surprised to see the moldy rushes and dog poop had been removed. The room was full of women who were scrubbing floors and washing walls. A young woman, heavy with child, was industriously scrubbing the layers of smoke from the stones of the fireplace.

Though the faint scent of urine still hung in the air, the sight before him was a vast improvement over days past. Still, he knew that no matter how clean the Buchannan or his keep became, his mum would never agree to marry him.

“Do ye think yer mum would be pleased with the improvements, lad?” Malcolm asked hopefully.

“Aye,” Ian muttered.

Malcolm nodded his head and led Ian out the large door and down the stairs into the courtyard. In a matter of moments, four large and mangy dogs charged towards them. Ian’s eyes grew wide, instantly terrified the animals were going to attack. Reflexively, he jumped behind Malcolm and held on for dear life.

He could hear Malcolm laughing as he reached around and grabbed Ian. “No worries lad!” he told him. “I’ll no’ let them bring ye any harm!”

Ian’s eyes were closed tightly and he braced himself for an attack. He did not trust anything Malcolm Buchannan might say. He could still hear Malcolm laughing as the man bent down.

“There’s a good dog!” Malcolm said playfully. “Did ye miss me, lassie?”

Ian held his breath and waited for gnarled teeth to start eating away at his limbs. A short time passed and nothing happened. His curiosity was piqued, forcing him to chance taking a look. Slowly, he opened one eye.

There before him on the steps of the keep was Malcolm Buchannan lying on his back being licked to death by the four dogs. Malcolm was petting the animals, talking to them as if they were bairns, and laughing loudly.