To Marry A Scottish Laird (2 page)

Chuckling, Cam finished donning his plaid and then eased cautiously to his feet. “Ye did no’ say . . . how long has it been since the attack?”

“You’ve been in a swoon for three days,” the boy answered, closing his bag and tightening the tie at the top.

“Three days?” Cam asked with disbelief, and then scowled. “And I did no’ swoon.”

“All right, you’ve been sleeping for three days then,” the boy said with a shrug. After a moment, he added grudgingly, “You were in and out of fever most of that time. It broke this morning.”

Cam grimaced, and glanced around. They were in a clearing by a river. He didn’t see a road anywhere. “Where are we?”

“I thought it best to get you somewhere safe to recover,” the boy said quietly and straightened with his bag. “Now that you have, I suppose you’ll mount your horse and be on your way so . . .” The lad nodded at him. “Thank you for saving me life. I’m sorry you were wounded. Safe travels.”

Cam’s eyebrows flew up as he watched the boy move over to sit on a small boulder by the river. The lad really expected he’d just get on his horse and leave him here now that he was on his feet. Although, on his feet was a rather generous way to put it. He might be standing, but his legs were shaking beneath him, and he felt extremely weak. He was in no shape to travel yet, and even if he were, he’d hardly abandon the boy after he’d spent three days nursing him back to health.

Spotting his sword and knife on the ground, Cam moved over and bent to pick it up, just barely refraining from crying out as his stitches pulled in his back. Damn. Mayhap he was glad he’d slept these last three days. If this is how it felt on the fourth day of healing, he was not sorry to have missed the first three.

Straightening with a grimace, he eased his sword and knife into his belt and then settled on a boulder next to the boy. He stared at the water moving slowly past and cleared his throat. “Thank ye fer tending me.”

“ ’Twas the least I could do,” the lad said with a shrug. “You were wounded saving me from those thieves . . . and I thank you for that.”

Cam eyed him silently, one eyebrow raised. The boy was an English peasant and obviously poor, his clothes threadbare and dirty, his hat in no better shape. All he seemed to have was the bag of medicinals. “What were they trying to steal?”

“Me bag,” the boy answered, brushing his fingers over the bag he’d set on the ground between his feet.

“For that they were beatin’ ye?” He asked with disbelief, wondering why the men would waste time pounding their fists on such a short thin lad when they simply could have taken the bag and left.

“Nay. They were beating me because first I wouldn’t let go of the bag until they forced me to, and then I kept chasing after them trying to get it back,” the boy admitted.

“Ye’d risk yer life fer a bag o’ weeds?” Cam asked with disbelief.

“They aren’t weeds. Weeds wouldn’t have saved yer life. They’re herbs,” the boy said stiffly, and then sighed, picked up a branch lying next to his boulder and began to absently strip the smaller twigs off. “ ’Sides, ’twas not the herbs I cared about, but a scroll that I am charged with delivering.”

“A scroll?” Cam asked curiously.

The boy nodded and began to dig in the dirt in front of his bag with the stick as he said, “Me mother asked me to deliver it on her deathbed.”

“Ah,” Cam said with understanding. “A deathbed request is a hard one to refuse.”

“Or fail at,” the boy added grimly. “I have to deliver the scroll. Mother said she’d not rest peaceful in her grave if I didn’t.”

“I see,” Cam murmured, his respect for the boy rising. He hadn’t taken the beating to save some small trinket, but to fulfill a deathbed request. He had honor, and obviously loved his mother. The boy’s voice had deepened several octaves when he’d spoken of the woman. That thought made Cam realize that the lad still had a higher voice, which meant he was even younger than he’d first thought.

His gaze dropped to the bag and he shook his head. The thieves wouldn’t have been interested in the scroll or the weeds in the boy’s bag. Had he just given it up, they probably would have upended it, spreading the contents on the ground and then—finding nothing of value—would have left him alone and continued on their way. But his refusal to give up the bag, and then his determination to have it back, had no doubt convinced them there was a king’s ransom stashed in the small satchel.

“What’s your name boy?”

“Joan—Joan-as,” the boy answered.

“Jonas?” Cam asked, wondering if the boy had a stutter or some other speech impediment. Perhaps it was just his swollen face affecting his speech, he decided.

“Aye. Jonas,” the boy muttered, ducking his head.

“Well, Jonas, I am Campbell Sinclair. Cam to me friends.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance Campbell Sinclair,” Jonas muttered, ducking his head again.

“As I said, me friends call me Cam, and since ye saved me life, I think I’ll count ye amongst them,” he said with a smile.

“Cam,” Jonas murmured, and then cleared his throat and said, “You can call me Jo. ’Tis what my friends call me.”

“Jo ’tis then,” Cam said easily.

They were both silent for a moment and then Jo asked, “Isn’t Campbell a clan name?”

“Aye. ’Twas me mother’s clan. So she gave me her last name fer a first,” he explained.

“Oh,” Jonas nodded and then began digging again with his stick.

“Let me see the scroll,” Cam said abruptly. When Jonas’s head shot up, eyes narrowed, he shook his head and said, “I will no’ take it. I do no’ even need to touch it. I just want to see it.”

Jonas hesitated, but then set down the stick and opened his bag. After rifling through it briefly, he pulled out a small, but thick, scroll. Cam could see the wax that sealed it, but it was just a blob, probably from candle wax dripped on it. There was no mark in the wax, however, as would be on a nobleman’s message. But then a peasant wouldn’t have a family ring with a crest to press into the wax. On the other hand, parchment wasn’t usually something a peasant had either.

“Tuck the scroll in yer shirt,” Cam said finally. “ ’Twill keep it safe, and the next time someone tries to steal yer bag, ye will no’ risk yer life to keep it.”

Jonas’s eyebrows rose, but then he nodded and shoved the scroll down the top of his shirt. It pressed against the loose material, but you wouldn’t notice it unless you were looking for it. Satisfied, Cam nodded.

“You’re rubbing your stomach. Is it sore or are you hungry?” Jonas asked suddenly.

“Hungry,” Cam admitted with a grimace. His stomach felt completely empty. He was sure if he swallowed a coin, they’d hear it rattling around inside his hollow belly.

Jonas nodded and stood. “I’ll trap a rabbit and gather some berries.”

“I can help,” Cam said, pushing to his feet.

Jonas didn’t humiliate him by pointing out that he was wavering on his feet like a sapling in a stiff breeze. He merely shook his head. “I’ll be faster on me own. Besides, you’ll tire easily for the next while. You should rest while you wait.”

Before Cam could even respond, the lad had slipped away and disappeared into the woods. He’d also left his bag behind. Cam would have liked to think it was because Jonas trusted him, but knew the truth was the boy now carried the only thing of import that it had previously held. Still, the weeds had come in handy and might again, so Cam stooped to pick up the bag, mouth firming against the pain the action caused. Straightening carefully, he carried it over to set beside his own bag, and then eased his way down onto the ground and lay on his side. A little rest sounded a good idea.

J
O
AN WASN’T SURPRISED
WHEN SHE RETURNED
to camp and found Cam sleeping. She’d seen enough injured men to know he’d do a lot of that for the next day or two. Maybe longer. That was all right with her. She hadn’t slept much the last couple of days as she’d watched over him. She hadn’t dared sleep while he was feverish, and had instead spent her time soaking his plaid in the river’s cold water and then laying it over him in an effort to cool him off. It was the only way she’d known to fight the fever. Joan couldn’t even guess how many times she’d rushed back and forth from the river to the unconscious man. He’d been so hot, the cloth had seemed to grow warm and dry in minutes. The only other thing she’d been able to do was dribble willow bark tea down his throat along with other tinctures she’d thought might help . . . and wait. Now that the fever had passed though, Joan didn’t have to watch over him constantly. It meant she could actually get some rest too.

Settling beside the fire, Joan turned her attention to cleaning the rabbit. It wasn’t the first time she’d performed the chore, so the process didn’t take long. Once that was done, she started a fire and then found a good-sized branch and skewered the animal on it. As she set it over the fire, Joan couldn’t help thinking that a pot would come in handy. Cam would have done better with soup than roasted meat, and she’d come across some wild onions and carrots while catching the rabbit. However, she had no pot, so they would have to make do with roasted rabbit and the vegetables she’d found, wrapped in the large leaves and roasted in the hot coals.

Sighing, Joan removed her hat and ran a hand wearily through her long hair as it fell around her shoulders. She was exhausted, and filthy. She hadn’t bathed since setting out on this journey two weeks ago and she itched everywhere. Two weeks and still she hadn’t made her way out of England and into Scotland, she thought with a shake of the head. True, her travels had been interrupted a time or two when she’d stopped to help an ailing or injured traveler, but still, she’d expected to be further north than this by now.

Sighing, she slid her hat back on her head and glanced to Cam. He seemed an all right fellow for a Scot. He’d troubled himself enough to stop and save her from a nasty situation. Many wouldn’t have. He’d even thanked her for tending to him afterward, something she wasn’t used to hearing from nobility. Generally, nobles took what they wanted without a by your leave, or reacted to a kindness as if they were entitled to it. But he’d thanked her.

Mind you, he thought she was a boy, Joan reminded herself. She didn’t know if that made a difference or not. Perhaps he still would have thanked her had he known she was a woman. She’d never know, because he’d never know she was a girl. Joan had told the truth when she’d said she was delivering a message as a deathbed request from her mother. The other part of her mother’s request had been an insistence that she dress herself as a boy for the journey. It had been a smart idea. After everything that had happened, Joan didn’t think she’d have got far on her journey had she traveled as herself. Even as a boy she’d encountered some pretty despicable characters with less than honorable intentions. She’d had some narrow escapes. This last one had been the worst, though.

Joan glanced to Cam again. It was something she’d done often over the last couple of days. It was impossible not to; he was a good-looking man with all that fair hair falling around his handsome face. He was also very well built. The man had muscles to spare. And his behind? Joan gave her head a shake, trying to remove the memory of the man’s derriere. She’d managed to avoid looking at it the first several times she’d tended his back, but temptation or perhaps exhaustion had weakened her and, of late, she’d found herself stopping to look at his behind as she’d tended his wound . . . and it was a fine behind. So fine she started to wonder if he had a lady wife. He probably did . . . and if not, then he most definitely had a betrothed. Things like that were arranged when a nobleman was a child.

Joan didn’t know why she even bothered to wonder about it. A lord would never be interested in a village lass, at least not for anything more than a dalliance. And Joan had no intention of being anyone’s dalliance. Truthfully, she didn’t think she wanted to be anyone’s wife either. From the time she was born her mother had taken her along to birthings and healings. Joan’s first memory was of a birth that had gone wrong. It was nothing but a fuzzy blur of blood and screaming, but that was enough. Since then she’d seen many other examples of what happened when a child was born. She’d seen women ripped up so badly below that their blood ran black. She’d seen women die with the child still lodged in their bodies. She’d also seen everything in between those two extremes when it came to birthing and it was enough to scare any desire to have children right out of her.

Nay, children were not for her. Joan was content with healing and midwifery and tending the sick. She had no desire to bind herself to another and bear children. No matter how attractive the man’s derriere was.

Chapter 2

“
M
MMM. ’
T
IS GOOD.”

Joan glanced sideways to Cam and nodded silently. They were sharing a small log as they ate the rabbit and vegetables by the small fire she’d built. The meal had turned out surprisingly well considering she’d had so little to work with. Or perhaps this meal tasted so good to her because she hadn’t had meat since setting out on this journey. Joan hadn’t wanted to draw attention to herself, or take the time to bother with a fire while traveling on her own, so had made do with berries and any wild vegetables she’d encountered. She’d also packed two loaves of bread in her bag when she’d set out, but had finished the last of that while watching over Cam.

Of course, he thought it was good too. But then this was the first bit of food he’d had in three days. That was sure to color his opinion.

“So Jo,” Cam said suddenly around a bite of rabbit. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Joan answered without thinking, and glanced up with surprise when the Scot burst out laughing.

“ ’Tis sorry I am boy, but ye barely reach me chest, yer face is hairless, yer voice has yet to change, and ye’ve no’ developed a bit o’ muscle yet.” He shook his head. “If ye’ve seen more than twelve or thirteen years, I’ll eat me horse.”

Joan ducked her head, and picked at her meat, but her mind was in a bit of a muddle. She’d briefly forgotten that she was supposed to be a boy. That was a dangerous slip. Not that she believed Cam would harm her if he knew she was a female. She’d saved his life, after all, and that after he’d saved her. It didn’t suggest he was the sort to attack a woman traveling alone. Besides, there was little he could want from her. She had no money, and from what she’d seen of her face in the river’s surface when she was washing the rabbit, she was a mess. Joan had hardly recognized herself. Her face was almost universally swollen. Her eyes had black circles around them that were just beginning to turn green at the edges as the bruising started to fade. Her upper lip was swollen and cut and there was another bruise on her jaw as well. She wasn’t anywhere near attractive enough to move a man to want to attack her. Still, she’d donned this garb for the journey for a reason. ’Twas better to be safe than sorry. Besides, she didn’t want Cam to have to eat his horse.

That thought made her smile, which in turn made her wince as her split lip complained at the stretching.

“Who are ye to deliver the letter to in Scotland?” Cam asked suddenly.

Joan hesitated about answering. The Scots were well known for their clan feuds. If the MacKays were an enemy of the Sinclairs, would he try to stop her from completing her task? She frowned at the possibility.

“Ye will no’ tell me?” he asked with surprise when she remained silent.

Joan shrugged. “What can it matter to you?”

Instead of responding to that, he suggested, “Tell me about yer mother then.”

Her eyebrows rose with surprise. “Why?”

“Why no’?” Cam said with a shrug. “Neither o’ us is in any shape to travel, and we’ve naught better to do than talk. ’Sides, I’m curious to ken what kind o’ woman would move a lad to take on a quest like this. ’Tis a large task indeed for a young boy to try to make this journey on foot and with no coin. She must have kenned she was settin’ ye a difficult and dangerous task and yet she asked it o’ ye anyway.”

Joan lowered her head again. The fact that she was a woman made the task an even more dangerous one than Cam thought, and her mother had been aware of it. She’d repeatedly fretted over and warned her about the many and varied dangers. She’d insisted she take every precaution, and she’d berated herself for not handling the matter herself while she’d still been healthy enough to do it. Finally, she’d apologized to Joan, telling her that she loved her, and that she hoped Joan would always remember that and forgive her.

Jo thought about that now, wondering, as she had at the time, what was in the scroll she carried. She also wondered who the MacKays were and what her mother could possibly think she needed forgiveness for.

“Was yer mother a Scot?” Cam asked suddenly.

Joan blinked her thoughts away and shook her head. “English.”

“Are ye sure?” he asked. “Mayhap her mother was a Scot and—”

“Nay,” Joan interrupted. “She spoke often of my grandparents. They were both English. He was a blacksmith who died when she was a child, and her mother was a healer and midwife like she was. She trained my mother in healing until she died of a lung complaint. Just as my mother trained me until illness claimed her.”

“Ah,” Cam murmured and when Joan glanced at him in question, said, “I was wonderin’ where ye’d got yer healing knowledge.”

Joan nodded. “I was her apprentice. She taught me everything she knew.”

“Ye were close then,” Cam murmured.

“Aye,” Joan whispered and peered into the fire as memory overwhelmed her. Maggie Chartres had been a good woman, smart, skilled and loving. She’d been the best mother Joan could have asked for . . . and she missed her horribly. Losing her had felt like the end of her world. Her grandparents had been gone by the time Joan was born, and her mother was all the family she’d had. Now she was alone with no family, no home, and no purpose other than to complete this one last task for her mother.

“Could yer father ha’e been a MacKay?” Cam asked.

Joan smiled faintly, but shook her head. “I don’t think so. At least she never said he was. He died ere I was born,” she explained and added, “As far as I know he was a simple English stable boy.”

Cam nodded. They were both silent for a moment and then he asked, “What are your plans after ye deliver yer mother’s message?”

Joan smiled wryly, wondering if Cam didn’t have a touch of sight about him. His thoughts seemed to be running along the same lines as hers. Sighing, she shrugged helplessly, and admitted: “I’ve no plans.”

“Will you return to your village?” Cam asked.

“Nay,” she said huskily. “The home I was raised in actually belongs to the Augustinian Friary. Mother was allowed to live in it in return for her skills as a healer. She served the monastery, the abbey and the village. Now that she’s dead . . .” She shook her head wearily and he finished for her.

“They took back yer home.”

She nodded. “I’d hoped to continue Mother’s work in the village, and at the abbey and monastery.” Joan hadn’t just hoped, she’d pleaded with Friar Wendell to allow her to take over the position.

“But they said nay?” Cam suggested quietly.

“According to them I’m too young and need further training,” Joan said bitterly. “I told them she’d taught me everything she knew, but he just shook his head and said that God had other plans for me and he had already arranged a replacement for Mother. That he would need the hut for the new healer. Besides, did I not have a task to carry out for my mother?”

“He kenned about your mother’s message?” Cam asked with surprise.

“Aye. He visited daily when my mother grew sick. She found comfort in his company.” Joan smiled faintly at the memory. She’d often returned to the hut to find them deep in a solemn conversation that ended the moment she entered. It had seemed almost furtive to her. Once, she’d returned earlier than expected from a task and found the man writing on parchment. He’d quickly rolled it up and slid it up his sleeve before leaving, but Joan suspected it was the very parchment that now rested against her belly inside her shirt. One hand unconsciously rising to touch the scroll through the cloth of her shirt, she admitted: “I think he wrote her message for her. Mother was too weak to write at the end.”

“Your mother knew how to write?” Cam didn’t hide his surprise at this news and Joan supposed she shouldn’t be insulted by his surprise. It was rare for someone outside of nobility to know how to read or write.

“Aye, she was taught by one of the nuns in an abbey she worked at before I was born.”

“Did she teach you?” he asked curiously.

Joan merely nodded.

“ ’Tis a valuable skill, boy,” Cam said solemnly. “Between that and yer healing abilities ye shouldn’t ha’e any problem finding a position once yer task is done.”

Joan didn’t comment. What he said might be true were she a male as he thought her to be. But she wasn’t and that would make things more difficult. Her mother had only done as well as she had because she’d earned the favor of the abbess who ran the abbey in the village where she’d grown up. Joan had thought she had the affection and favor of both the abbess at Wellow Abbey and the Friar at the Augustinian friary, but both had gently but firmly refused her when she’d approached them.

“Mayhap this message yer mother left is a request fer a position fer ye,” Cam said thoughtfully. “She may no’ ha’e been Scottish, but that does no’ mean she does no’ have Scottish acquaintances. Mayhap she saved this Scot’s life and is hoping their gratitude will move them to offer ye a position.”

Joan frowned at the suggestion, but shook her head. “I don’t think so. She never spoke of anything like that, or even the name. In fact, I’ve never heard it before.”

“What name?”

“Mac—” Joan cut herself off abruptly and scowled at him. He’d nearly tricked her into naming the recipient of the message.

“Why do ye no’ wish to tell me their name?” Cam asked.

Joan’s eyebrows rose, not at the question, but at his expression as he asked. He looked almost suspicious. She understood why when he asked, “Are they enemies o’ my clan?”

“I don’t know who the Sinclairs count as enemies,” she said truthfully, and then admitted, “But if ’twas an enemy, would you try to stop me from delivering it?”

“Nay, o’ course no’,” he assured her, and then grinned and admitted, “But I wouldn’t help get ye there either.”

Despite herself, Joan found herself smiling at his words, and then wincing as her split lip complained.

“Come now, tell me who the message is for,” Cam coaxed. “The Sinclairs do no’ ha’e many enemies. ’Tis more likely a friend and then I can repay yer kindness in saving me life and escort ye there . . . or at least part o’ the way if they’re too far out o’ me way.”

Joan peered at him silently. She was too proud to ask for help, but not so proud she wouldn’t accept help were it offered. It would certainly make her journey less dangerous were she not alone. She debated briefly and then blew out her breath and just said it. “Laird and Lady MacKay.”

Cam’s lips split in a wide grin, and he reached out to thump her in the arm. “Ye’re in luck, lad. The MacKays are friends to the Sinclairs. Good friends.” He shook his head and then added, “Even better, they’re our neighbors, so I can see ye all the way there on me way home.”

Joan righted herself slowly. His friendly thump in the arm had nearly knocked her off the log. Managing a small smile that didn’t pull too much at her healing lip, she nodded. “Thank you.”

They ate in silence for a minute, and then Cam asked, “So no family ’sides yer mother?”

Joan shook her head and swallowed the meat she’d just taken a bite of. “Me father died ere I was born, me grandparents too, and I had no brothers or sisters.” She glanced to him curiously. “You?”

“Both parents still alive, two brothers, one sister, and more aunts, uncles and cousins than you can shake a stick at,” he said around the onion he’d just bitten into. He grimaced then and added, “I’ve family coming out me ears. More than anyone wants or needs.”

Joan raised her eyebrows at that. She would have loved to be able to claim such a large family. But then she was alone. “You don’t get on with your kin?”

“Oh aye,” he assured her. “ ’Tis just that me clan seems to think being blood means they can interfere in me life at every turn. ’Tis enough to make a man crazy at times.”

Joan nodded with an understanding she didn’t really have. She’d never had that problem.

“Actually, that interference is the only reason we met each other,” Cam said suddenly, a wry smile curving his lips.

“How is that?” Joan asked.

“Me family thinks I should marry again,” he added grimly.

“And you don’t want to?” Joan guessed.

“Aye. I mean aye, ye’re right and nay I do no’ want to,” he added and then shifted forward off the log so that he could sit on the ground and lean back against it. Eyes focused on the flames before them, he sighed and then said, “After me first wife . . .” He shook his head. “I do no’ want to go through that again.”

“Your first marriage was so bad?” Joan asked, trying to understand.

“Nay,” he answered at once. “She was pretty and smart, a good woman, and marriage was no’ so bad.”

Joan raised her eyebrows. “Then why would you not want to marry again?”

Dissatisfaction crossed his face, and he stared so long into the fire that she began to think he wouldn’t answer, but then he suddenly did. “We were married a year. ’Twas a good year. We got on well and it was a good match. But she got with child, and went into labor a year and a day after we married.”

“She died in childbirth,” Joan guessed, understanding immediately filling her.

“Aye,” Cam murmured, his expression full of regret.

Joan nodded silently.

“She was so small, and the babe was big,” he said grimly, and then added, “The midwife said the child was sideways.”

“Did the midwife try to turn—”

“Aye,” he interrupted. “She tried and tried, but said it would no’ turn.”

Joan didn’t comment. What could she say? She had encountered the same thing herself a time or two. Usually she could shift the baby, but sometimes it was as if the baby was caught on something and—

“It took her three days to die,” Cam said grimly. “For three days the whole castle listened to her scream as she fought to push our babe into the world. On the third day her screams were so weak . . . I kenned she was dyin’. My family tried to keep me out, but I forced me way into the room and . . .” He paled, his eyes closing. “There was so much blood.”

Joan waited a minute and then asked, “The child?”

“We buried them together,” he said heavily. They both stared into the fire now and then he straightened and said firmly. “I’ll no’ put another woman through that.”