The Raven's Moon (19 page)

Rowan looked down. "What's wrong?"

"Naught. I just twisted my arm."

"You might have had worse. The troopers were out tonight to take down the Lincraig riders. Reivers out after you, too."

"So you have done it," she said hoarsely.

"I told you I would," he murmured.

They rode the miles in silence, beneath the white moon and the whining wind.

Chapter 13

He turned her ower, and ower again,

And oh but she lookt white!

—"Edom o' Gordon"

Agony swamped Mairi when Rowan lifted her down from his horse, once inside the barnekin walls of Blackdrummond Tower. As her feet touched the ground, she stumbled, and Rowan caught her, jolting her shoulder. She cried out.

"Your arm hurts so much as that?" Rowan asked.

"'Tis just pulled," she said hoarsely.

"Are you sure that is all?"

Nodding, she stepped away, although she shook with pain. The injury was worse than she would admit; she feared the shoulder was out of joint. Yet she was angry with him and unsure of her safety, and would not show her vulnerability.

Rowan believed that she had attacked another rider on the Lincraig road. So he had pursued her and dragged her off of her horse for that reason, as savagely as Clem Elliot had tried to do. Rowan Scott had taken her down, just as he had promised. Now he would arrest and imprison her.

But she had no strength to explain anything to him. The pain in her shoulder took all her strength and will. She wanted to lie down, sleep until the pain subsided. Perhaps rest would be enough to relieve the pain. Later she would tell Rowan the truth.

"This way," Rowan said, taking her right arm and turning her toward the stone tower.

She stumbled along beside him. "Am I under arrest?"

"I caught you in the red hand. I told you that I would take you down—whoa, can you walk?" His arm came around her waist to support her.

"I'm... tired," she said huskily.

"Well, you can rest here," he said, and banged on the heavy door of the tower.

Rowan knocked twice, shouted once, and finally the latch rattled and the door opened. Sandie Scott peered out at them, his eyes pinched from sleep, a gleaming pistol in his hand.

"Och, Rowan," he grumbled, lowering the weapon and stepping aside. "I thought 'twas bold reivers." He looked at Mairi. "What—"

"We left our horses in the yard," Rowan said, guiding Mairi past him into a dark, short corridor.

"But who's that lad with you?"

"Horses, Sandie," Rowan said, as he opened a second door and led Mairi through. Sandie, grumbling, went outside.

"What will you do with me?" Mairi asked.

"I am not yet decided."

Another pain jabbed through her shoulder, and she swayed toward Rowan.

"Mairi?" His voice was close, deep, safe. She leaned against him for a blessed instant, breathing in the scents of leather and smoke, absorbing comfort. She closed her eyes. "Mairi, lass," he murmured.

Then she pulled back with a cry of protest and pain. Rowan Scott was the Black Laird, notorious reiver, deputy—she had to remember that, no matter how good he felt.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Aye, well. Come with me." He touched her back, and she stepped ahead into a small foyer.

Torchlight crackled overhead, revealing two sets of turning steps. One stair, she knew, led upward to the living quarters, where there would be light and warmth, and balm for her pain. Lady Anna could tend to her arm up there.

But Rowan guided her down the other staircase into shadows. She missed her footing, and he put an arm around her waist. At the bottom, he took her along a corridor and reached out to shove open a creaking door.

Shaking with pain, Mairi shuffled into a small, black room that smelled dank and old. Rowan left her side.

"I'll leave you here, then," he said. His voice sounded oddly reluctant through the fog that seemed to surround her. "'Tis where we keep our prisoners."

She dropped to her knees as blackness began to sweep her away. She inhaled against the horrid sensation that she was about to slip into that void.

Rowan knelt beside her. "Jesu, I cannot leave you like this. It is more serious than I thought—what do you need, lass?"

"A bed," she muttered hoarsely. "And a dram. And I will be fine." She reached out and he caught her fingers in a warm and solid grip. "And I need—"

She almost said his name as darkness smothered her.

* * *

Rowan caught the girl in his lap as she fell forward. He touched her cheek, murmured her name. Cupping his hand over her shoulder, he felt, now, the odd angle of it even through her quilted doublet.

"Wee silly fool," he murmured. "You should have said."

He opened the neck of her garment and slipped his hand inside, shoving his fingers beneath her linen shirt and over the soft curve of her breast and swiftly past, to round his fingers over her shoulder. Then he realized that her arm was askew in its socket.

Angry at himself for trying to make a vengeful, stupid point when she was in serious straits, he withdrew his hand, then maneuvered so that he stood and lifted her in his arms.

She moaned. "Rowan?"

"I have you, lass. Easy, now." He carried her effortlessly up the steps. His boots scuffled as he turned at the landing and climbed upward, past the great hall toward the sleeping level.

Candlelight brightened the top of the stairs. He glanced up. Jock and Anna stood on the top step, watching him. Anna, wearing a shift and a shawl, held a candle. Her mouth hung partly open. Jock, in a shirt and breeches, merely frowned as Rowan looked up.

"'Tis Mairi Macrae," Anna said in surprise. Footsteps sounded behind Rowan, and he turned.

"What the de'il is going on here?" Sandie asked, stomping up the steps. "Rowan! You left Valentine and a lathered black mare roaming free in the yard. 'Tis not like you to do that—by hell, that's Mairi Macrae!"

"Open the door of my bedchamber," Rowan said as he reached the top step. "And bring some wine. She needs to get swine drunk."

"Rowan!" his grandmother exclaimed.

"She's hurt, Anna, by the look o' her." Jock moved quickly to open a nearby door. "Fetch the drink."

Rowan went into his bedchamber, followed by his relatives, who jostled through the narrow door as he laid Mairi gently on his bed. "Her shoulder is out of place. It will have to be set."

"Och, she'll need more than wine," Sandie said.

"Draw a flask of the Danish aqua vitae," Anna called as he left the room. "And knock on Grace's door. Loudly." Anna turned back. "Is she awake?" she asked Rowan.

"Barely," Rowan answered, watching Mairi's restless eyelids. He swept off his helmet and unhooked his jack, tossing them onto the chair near the hearth. Yanking off his doublet, he shoved up his shirtsleeves and sat on the edge of the bed.

Anna set her candle on the chest by the bed. "We'll take her doublet off, then. Why is she wearing men's gear? And how did she get hurt?" She began to undo buttons.

"The lad can explain later, Anna," Jock said. He handed Rowan a dirk. "Use this."

Nodding in agreement, Rowan reached past Anna's hands to slide the blade under the shoulder seam of Mairi's doublet, slitting the cloth along her left arm. Anna helped him draw the ruined garment off her, leaving Mairi clad in a loose linen shirt with torn sleeve, and breeches and boots.

Mairi cupped her hand around her shoulder and watched Rowan. Her eyes looked haunted, dark-circled in the low candlelight, her cheeks deathly pale.

"That shoulder needs to be set straight," Anna told Rowan. "I have an ointment that will help the soreness. I'll fetch it and have Grace prepare a room for the lass." She hurried out.

"I was watching on the roof a while ago," Jock said. "I saw the beacons, and the fire. Iain Macrae's house, was it?"

Rowan nodded, unsurprised that his grandfather knew about the evening's events. Jock Scott's reiving years had given him the habit of staying up late at night. "Heckie Elliot and his lot came through the dale to fetch black rent," he answered. "The warden is trodding after them. Devil's Christie Armstrong was wounded in the raid."

"And the lass? Was she hurt by reivers?"

"She was attacked." Rowan saw Mairi watching him with wide, fearful eyes. Then Sandie came back, leather flask in hand, and Rowan turned, grateful for the interruption. He was unsure how to explain this to his very astute grandfather.

"This Danish hot water will take the sting out o' any hurt," Sandie said, handing Rowan the flask.

Freeing the wax plug, Rowan held the mouth of the flask to Mairi's lips. She grimaced as she swallowed.

"You need more for the pain," Rowan insisted, and held the flask until she took another sip.

"Good lass!" Sandie said with approval. "Enough o' that stuff, and she'll swarf out like a candle flame."

Rowan turned. "Perhaps you should watch from the roof," he said. "Let us know if aught else is going on."

"Let us see if more beacons are lit," Jock said. "Come ahead, Sandie. Anna will tend to the lass."

As the door clicked shut behind them, Rowan offered Mairi the flask again. She sent him a wary glance, but sipped.

"Well, you have what you wanted," he said. "A bed and a dram. More. There you are."

She sipped, and glanced at him. "What will you do?" Her voice was growing husky from the drink.

"I'll put the arm in place. I can do it," he assured her. "I had a comrade whose arm went out like that."

"And then what will you do with me? I am your prisoner."

"First we'll deal with the hurt." He put the flask to her lips again, and she sipped. A drop of liquor slid over her lip, and Rowan wiped it away, easing his finger along the sweet curve.

She closed her eyes, resting. Rowan sat, watching her as the candlelight flowed over her face. He studied the black, lacy crescents of her eyelashes, the brighter blush in her cheeks.

"Do you feel the spirits yet?" he asked softly.

"Mmm," she whispered, nodding. She lifted her head to sip as he held the flask. "Muckle strong," she said, lifting her delicate, dark eyebrows. "Enough."

"You're privileged," Rowan said. "My grandmother is covetous of her Danish aqua vitae." He smiled.

Mairi smiled too, a winsome lift that, with the high pink flush in her cheeks, gave her a soft and dazzling beauty. "Aqua vitae—water of life. This tastes like our Highland
uisge beatha,
which also means water of life."

"Aye. How is the pain?"

Mairi grimaced, shaking her head. He gave her another sip.

She shifted her hips to slide lower on the bed, exhaling a long sigh. "Ach, 'tis warm in here."

"We do call spirited drinks hot water," he said.

"Because it burns as it goes down?" she asked.

"I'll take off your boots," he offered.

She nodded and Rowan drew off one long boot and then the other, dropping them on the floor. When he turned back, Mairi raised her ankle to rest it on her upraised knee. Her stockinged foot hovered in his face.

"Take these off as well," she said.

He drew the knitted wool down her slender leg and pulled it loose. She raised her other leg as if in silent command, and he took that stocking off too. His glance skimmed the graceful curves of her calves and ankles and the fine bones of her feet.

She shifted on the bed, and uttered a breathy little groan. The sound struck Rowan, unexpectedly and deeply, in his groin.

He cleared his throat. "How is your shoulder now?"

"Hurts less. You're a fine physician, Blackdrummond." She smiled, and a drift of glossy hair fell over one eye. Rowan brushed the silky lock back with a finger and lifted the flask to her mouth.

"Just a bit more," he said.
"Slainte. "

She smiled. "You know some Gaelic."

"Only that much. Health, is it?"