Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (13 page)

He snorted. “My mother was perpetually lost in her cups. She’d have sold me for a keg of ale had anyone expressed an interest.”

She passed him the helm. “And your father?”

“Fed me and clothed me, as he deemed just dues for his bastard, but he could barely remember my name.”

“Is there no one upon whom you rely?”

He held up a hand. “Enough, lass. There’s no value in this conversation. Trust makes a man weak.”

She touched his sleeve. “I disagree.”

He slid the helm over his head and stared at her through the eye cutouts. The metal was cold against his ears and he briefly coveted a hooded gambeson. “The only thing I trust is that you won’t willingly reveal your past to the constable. That’s enough for me.”

Her hand dropped away.

Niall felt her withdrawal as decidedly as his hearing was made hollow by the helm. A coolness settled over her features and she stepped back.

“Then there’s little more to say.”

“Agreed,” he said. Then he spun on his heel and left the hurt look in her eyes behind.

•   •   •

As the door snapped shut, Ana mentally kicked herself.
Why?
Why had she continued to press him for details of his past? Wasn’t it enough that she refused to let go of her valiant image of him? Now she also had glimpses of him as a young lad, barely recognized by his father and abandoned by a drunken mother. What boy deserved such a fate?

How lucky she’d been to enjoy the close bonds she’d shared with her father and mother. No, their lives had not been easy. Far from it. But through it all, they’d had each other. Niall had had no one.

She should be grateful that he’d driven a wedge between them.

He deserved so much better than she could offer him. He deserved a wife who could give him a steady, uncomplicated life full of children and laughter and love. He deserved all the things his childhood had denied him. He did not deserve the miseries a lengthy association with her would bring.

Aye, she thrilled to his kisses. Aye, she warmed to the look of desire in his eyes. And aye, she would leave a piece of her heart behind when she ran.

But it was undeniably, unequivocally for the best.

•   •   •

Niall was of two minds. Part of him wanted to return to the bothy, scoop Ana into his arms, and take her to bed. With dedicated effort, he could sweep the wounded look from her eyes. But time was short.

He had but one chance left, and this was it.

He picked up the sack he’d left outside the door and marched toward the manor. He affected the stiff-legged gait of a patrol soldier and approached the gate in a steady, relentless fashion. As was the norm for this hour of the night, the portcullis was down. A solitary guard stood just inside the iron grate, rubbing his hands and stomping his feet to ward off the chill of the icy mist that had filled the glen and crept up the hillsides to the manor.

Boldness won the day, not reticence. Niall strode up to the guard with confidence. “Bloody cold night.”

“Aye, I’m freezing my bollocks off.” The guard peered at him through the portcullis. His eyes lingered on the dent in Niall’s helm. “Garret, is it?”

“It is.” Best keep the conversation limited. The echo of his helm would only take him so far.

The guard’s gaze slipped to the misty road behind him. “What were you about?”

Niall held up his burlap sack, the contents rattling on cue. “Paid a visit to One-Eyed Thomas.”

The guard grinned. “That old bugger makes the best whisky in the Highlands.”

“That he does.”

A hopeful gleam appeared in the young man’s eyes. “Would you be willing to spare me a wee dram?”

“I can do better than that, if you and the gateman are willing to omit my unsanctioned foray from your report to Mr. Hurley.” Niall dug into his sack and pulled out a flagon of whisky. Holding it aloft, he asked, “What say you?”

The guard grinned. “Consider yourself unseen.”

Niall handed the man his whisky and waited while the gateman on the wall above winched up the portcullis. Once inside the close, he headed for the kitchen entrance. The faint rosy glow emanating from the archway told him the baking was done for the night and the coals in the ovens were banked. The kitchen gillies would return before dawn to bake fresh bread for the king’s visit, but at the moment, stillness reigned.

The inner walls of the kitchen were still black from the fire, but several new beams—their wood pale against the dark ceiling—had replaced the charred rafters.

Niall wasted no time.

He strode through the baking area and down the corridor to the coffers door. Laying the burlap bag on the ground, he dug through the contents for the hoof pick and needle. The lock was a simple enough mechanism, but it had been many years since Niall had relied on his ability to break one.

In the years before his father reluctantly took him in, thieving had been his primary source of food. With his mother ever flat on her back or drinking away the coin she earned in a fruitless attempt to forget who and what she was, he was alone more often than not. He’d learned early that a meal only came to he who was brave enough to fight for it.

He slid the pick into the keyhole and felt for the latch that held the lock secure. So focused was he on the inner workings of the mechanism that he failed to note the five shadows standing in the lee of the stairwell—until the slither of steel alerted him to their presence.

Niall dropped the pick and spun around, drawing his own sword as he turned.

Before him stood Constable Hurley and four of the manor guard, all with their weapons at the ready.

“I knew there was something off about you, Bisset,” Hurley said.

Niall did not respond. There was a good chance Hurley was bluffing about knowing his identity. If he spoke, the game would be over for certain. He quickly assessed his opponents, sizing up their strength by the way they held their bodies and their weapons. Hurley was by far the most formidable foe—his stance was loose but brimming with energy, and the hand that held his sword was steady and sure. But all of the men were trained soldiers. This would not be as easy as thwarting the thieves in the woods.

“Step away from the door,” Hurley ordered.

Niall held his ground. The door protected his back and he had no intention of giving up what little advantage he possessed.

There was only one way for this to end well—he had to escape with his helm intact. Hurley might suspect his identity, but as long as his helm remained on his head, the constable had no proof. That lack of proof was the only protection Niall could offer Ana at the moment.

All was not lost, though—this time he had his sword.

By God, the blade felt good in his hand. The calluses on his palm and thumb fit smoothly against the leather-wrapped hilt. So familiar were the heft and balance of the great sword to his arm that his muscles bunched with excitement. The entire length of his body knew what came next and was primed to act. Wielding a sword was what he did best.

“Come now, Bisset,” taunted Hurley. “Why risk injury? Come along quietly and you’ll enter the dungeon a whole man.”

For Ana’s sake, Niall might have considered surrender. But he wasn’t a fool. The punishment for attempting to rob the baron would be severe. If he saw the inside of the dungeon at all, it would be as a bruised and battered replica of the man he was now. Worse, the instant Hurley confirmed his identity, he’d send a troop of soldiers to Ana’s bothy and have her arrested.

Surrendering was not an option.

Feigning a nervous hold on his weapon, Niall hid his intent until the last possible moment. He let silence increase the tension. Only when the eagerness to do battle got the best of his opponents did he make his move. As the soldiers’ blades wavered with restless anticipation, he leapt.

Hurley’s conviction that Niall was a simple peasant betrayed him. His defense was not as rigorous as it should have been. The pommel of Niall’s sword pounded Hurley’s hand, knocking the constable’s weapon loose. Before the blade had time to hit the dirt, a fist to the man’s temple dropped the thinner man to his knees.

Niall blocked a sword thrust from one soldier with his blade and booted the exposed knee of a second opponent. A sharp yelp echoed in the corridor. Metal slid along metal, and sparks flew. One of the guards pulled a dirk from his belt and dove into the fray with two lethal blades, slashing and stabbing. Niall took a long slice to his left arm before he had a chance to step clear.

Pain ripped up his arm.

He ignored it. Pain wasn’t nearly as inconvenient as death. And he was no stranger to pain. In battle, the man who won was the one who remained on his feet. Pressing two of his opponents with a fierce attack, he took down a third with a hooked foot.

Spinning away from a pair of arcing blades, he struck the prostrated man with the flat of his blade, knocking him unconscious. His left arm was dripping blood, and as he dodged another slashing blade, he slipped.

Niall quickly righted himself, but took a jarring blow to his helm.

Ears ringing and head pounding, he pivoted. He met the next blow with his sword and used his considerable size and strength to push his attacker back a foot. And another. When his chance came, he took it—he buried his blade in the guard’s exposed thigh. His success came at a price. As he yanked his sword free, he felt a sword edge slide along his ribs.

Very aware that blood loss would end his campaign for freedom if he did not swiftly bring the battle to a halt, he summoned every last reserve of might he possessed. With a low growl, he went on the offensive.

Clang, clank. Kick.

His third opponent fell.

Gaining strength from the knowledge that the odds were now two to one—odds he knew he could win—he jabbed and feinted and sliced with all the finesse and power he possessed. He fought like an animal caged. He scored a slice on one man’s right arm, and the fellow’s blade spun off into the darkness. Niall finished the man with a solid head butt.

Ears ringing, blood dripping, he faced his last foe. The man with two blades. Beneath his helm, the fellow’s teeth were clenched in a raging snarl. Clearly not about to surrender or run, despite how the battle had turned.

Killing the man would be simple—Niall outweighed him and outmatched him. But he’d come this far without slaying any of the baron’s men and it behooved him to maintain that record. The intensity of the hunt for him after all was said and done would be commensurate with the insult he delivered. Why put Ana at increased risk?

Better to let the man live.

Unfortunately, his foe made that choice a difficult one. He attacked with a furious roar. Every swing of his blade was followed by a slash or jab of his dirk. Smaller and uninjured, his movements were nimble and quick. Opportunities to drive a fist into his face or pummel his head were rare, but Niall pursued every one, determined to end the encounter.

His foe was brave and fierce.

But eventually, the right opportunity arose.

As he dodged one of Niall’s kicks, his right arm lifted a tad too high, exposing his ribs. Niall smacked his torso with the flat of his blade so hard he heard the air huff from the guard’s chest. As the man instinctively crunched forward, Niall hammered his head with his fist. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and down he went.

For a moment, the only sound was Niall’s labored breathing.

He eyed the lock.

Then surveyed the bodies at his feet.

Hurley was stirring. Once the constable awoke, the chase would be on. Even without proof that Niall had attempted to rob the baron, Hurley was likely to be ruthless in his search for vengeance. Niall needed to warn Ana before he escaped into the woods.

But did he have time to snatch the necklace
and
warn Ana?

Boot steps on the stairs behind him answered his question.

Niall sheathed his sword, gave the lock one last rueful look, then loped down the corridor to the kitchen. From there, he hooked left and headed for the postern gate, located behind the stables. Disappointment was a boulder on his chest. His best chance at redemption was lost.

After tonight, the baron would be a fool to leave the necklace where it lay. Niall could only hope that wherever the ruby ended up, it was easier to pilfer.

For now, his job was done.

U
nable to sleep for worry, Ana was mixing a new batch of unguent when Niall burst through the door. She glanced up. His grim expression set her heart to racing.

“Constable Hurley and his men will be here anon,” he said, removing his helm and tossing it aside. “If you wish to run, pack a bag as swiftly as you can.”

Her throat tightened. “He knows about Lochurkie?”

Niall shook his head. “I’m not sure what he knows, but his men were lying in wait for me when I arrived at the manor.” He peeled off the tabard.

That’s when Ana noticed the blood. How she could have missed it she did not know—the sleeve of his lèine was soaked a dark crimson. She snatched up a handful of dried moss and ran to him. “You’re wounded.”

He shrugged her off. “We’ve no time for that. Did you not hear me?”

“Hurley is coming,” she repeated, pressing the moss against his arm. A surprising calm settled over her—she was about to be dragged back to a dungeon cell, and instead of trembling hands and wild-eyed panic, deliberate actions and cool thoughts prevailed. It was a miracle, really. “But he may not know that I was tried and condemned for murder at Lochurkie.”

Niall frowned. “He was expecting me—that’s cause enough for worry.”

Ana spied a second slice along his ribs. A shallower cut than the one on his arm, but bleeding just the same. Why did men insist on solving all their problems with a sharp blade? “Even if we run, we won’t get far. Did they see you without the helm?”

“Nay, but Hurley will come here first. He called me by name. He’s convinced it was me.”

If Hurley had not seen Niall’s face then there was still a chance. But a very slim one. Ana’s heart thumped in her chest. “If his search turns up no helm, no sword, and no injured man, will he not be forced to rethink his assumption?”

He stared at her. “What are you suggesting?”

“Under the woodpile, on the left side, there’s a hole. We can hide the helm and tabard there.” She glanced around . . . and then up. “The sword can be hidden in the thatching.”

He snorted. “And the injured man?”

Ana took a deep breath. Her belly quivered with nervous tension. She had not shared the truth about her healing talents with anyone since . . . Could she truly do this? Heal Niall before his very eyes? How would she bear the look on his face if he thought her an abomination? She straightened her shoulders. If it meant saving his life, she could bear anything.

“Let me deal with that,” she said. “Hide your accoutrements.”

“Nay. Running is the wiser option. If they find me here, it will not go well for you.”

She met his gaze, the calm returning. “If I do not treat these wounds, running will not save us. I must ask you to put your faith in my abilities. Would it not be better for Hurley to discover us asleep and unharmed?”

Niall gathered up his belongings, doubt a deep furrow in his brow. “Perhaps.”

“Then go. Hide your belongings and return swiftly.”

Despite his obvious reservations, he did as she bid. Once the helm was hidden and the sword was buried in the heather thatch above their heads, he sat down on the bed and offered up his arm. “Do your worst.”

She dropped to her knees before him. “Are you a brave man?”

He said nothing, just stared at her.

“Because what I’m about to do will strike fear in your heart—but you must hold fast.”

The steel in his gaze did not bend. He rolled up his sleeve to reveal the whole of his injury. A parting of flesh from elbow to wrist that ran along his previous scar. “Time marches on, lass.”

Ana rubbed her hands together. Immediately, the healing heat bubbled up in her chest and poured down her arms. The delicate red pattern rose on her skin, twisting and twining its way to her fingertips.

Niall’s gaze dropped to her hands and he frowned. But he did not pull away.

Ana took that as permission to continue. She laid her hands on the torn flesh, one above the other, covering most of the wound. Niall did not flinch when her hot hands touched him, nor draw in a sharp breath. He simply waited.

She pictured the sundered flesh knitting together, from one end of his forearm to the other. Inch by inch, along every carved thew. He had marvelous arms—lean and roped with muscles—and she drew easily from her memory the image of a successful conclusion.

“Hurry, lass,” he said softly.

She lifted her eyes. The frown still haunted his brow, but his attention had shifted to the door. “You hear something?”

“The clink of ring mail.”

“Toss your lèine into the fire and blow out the candle.” Once he had stripped, Ana closed her eyes and tried desperately to focus. If she did not have enough time, if even a portion of the wound remained open . . . Nay, she mustn’t think like that. She shifted her hands to the cut on his ribs, sent the healing heat into the wound, and prayed. Then she quickly cut away the bandages on his shoulder—the ones she no longer needed to hide the healed arrow wound—and peeled off her overdress.

He doused the light and the bothy sank into darkness.

Ana leapt into the bed and felt his weight slide alongside her. He threw an arm around her and pulled her close. Shutting her eyes, she tried to savor the strong warmth of his embrace, but the drumbeat of fear in her chest was too great.

A minute passed. And then another. The flare of fire from the burning lèine died away.

Then, without announcement or warning, the door flew open, hitting the wall with a loud crash. Ana shrieked and sat up.

Several men stepped into the hut, all wearing ring mail, one carrying a torch. A helmless Constable Hurley stood at the forefront, a large bruise blackening one eye. Niall leapt from the bed, his body forming a barrier between Ana and the soldiers.

“What is the meaning of this?” There was a rough edge to his voice, much as one might expect if he’d been roused suddenly from a deep sleep. Ana applauded his creativity.

Hurley’s gaze ran the length of Niall’s naked body, then shifted to Ana in the bed. She drew the blanket up, covering the thin linen of her sark. He did not answer Niall’s question. Gesturing to his men, he said, “Search the hut.”

To Niall and Ana he snarled, “Outside. Now.”

Fearing the discovery of the hidden items, she slid from the bed, dragging the blanket with her. As inappropriate as it was to stand before a group of strange men in her small clothes, if they were to stand outside, Niall needed the blanket more. She tossed it over his shoulders as they walked to the door.

“Nay,” Hurley said, snatching the woolen cover away. “I must examine him tip to toe.”

Ana glared at him. “It’s winter.”

He glared back. “I’m under orders from the baron. If you have a concern, take it up with him.”

“I will. Be assured of that.”

Outside in the lane, another half dozen men waited. Hurley sent several of them inside to help with the search, then grabbed a torch from one of his men and strode over to Niall.

“Hold your arms aloft,” he ordered.

For a moment, Ana thought Niall would refuse. The look on his face was dark and strangely still. But he lifted his arms away from his sides. Wise decision. She’d patched too many holes in the man already. Including that one along his ribs. . . . Tilting her head ever so slightly, she risked a quick look.
Thank God.
Nothing remained of his injury save a long pink scar.

Hurley peered closely at each of Niall’s scars. He frowned as he tested the gash on his ribs with a jab of his finger. “I do not recall seeing this scar the other day.”

“Your attention was centered on his upper chest, as I recall,” Ana said.

He grunted and circled around to Niall’s back. When he’d looked his fill, he thrust the torch at one of the guards, clearly disappointed to find no open wounds.

Behind them, disconcerting sounds emanated from the bothy. Rattles and crashes. The tinkle of broken pottery. The creak and snap of breaking wood. She grimaced. It seemed she was going to need that new bed after all.

A soldier scurried from the hut to Hurley’s side. He handed something to the constable—too small to be the sword or the helm. Hurley nodded sharply to the soldier, dismissing him, then marched over to Ana and Niall. He held out a handful of moss soaked in blood.
Niall’s
blood. “Explain this.”

Ana’s guts turned to water. But she knew if she failed this night, both she and Niall would hang. “I’m a healer, Mr. Hurley. I use such items to tend my patients.”

He shook the moss. “And from which patient did this blood come?”

She dug through her mind for a name. She’d treated no serious injuries today, other than Niall’s. If he questioned her patients, as he would surely do, he’d quickly discover her lie. Unless she named a person who might not recall which day he had visited her. “I tended a wound on Rory’s hip today. It’s his blood.”

Hurley studied her face in the flickering half light. “You’d best hope his accounting matches yours.”

“The man is losing his wits. He might say anything at all.” The cold ground was already numbing her toes, and she shifted to her feet to keep them warm. “Just check his hip. You’ll see that I tended it.”

The constable’s gaze dropped to her shuffling feet.

“Mr. Hurley,” Niall said quietly. “I have a great respect for the law, so I’m willing to overlook the rousting of my wife and I in the middle of the night. I’m sure you have good cause. But my wife is barefoot and shivering with the cold. I will not see her suffer.”

Hurley turned to Niall, his expression sour. “Your will is of no importance to me.”

Niall stood taller, bristling with menace, despite his nakedness. “Allow my wife to return to the fire.”

“Nay.”

“Then give her the blanket and a pair of shoes.”

“You do not dictate my actions,” snarled the constable, rubbing his bruised temple. “I do as I please.”

Niall took a step forward, but was immediately halted by several sharp pikes. “She has done nothing to warrant this abuse.”

“But you have?”

Niall stood silent, his hands fisted at his sides.

Hurley closed the gap between them, coming toe-to-toe. “Go ahead, goodman. Attack me. I can see that you want to.”

Niall shook his head. “I’ve no desire to see the inside of the baron’s dungeon.”

“Then hold your tongue.”

Ana saw her opportunity and stepped between the two men. She put one hand on Niall’s chest and the other on the constable’s sleeve. To Mr. Hurley, she said, “If I catch chill, I will be unable to tend the baroness on the morrow. Perhaps you would allow us to beg the hospices of a neighbor while you complete your search?”

He scowled. “You can go, but not him.”

A childish comment worthy of a sigh. “Robbie has not fully recovered from the ague. He should not be standing naked in the night, unless the baron’s intent is to bury an able worker.”

“Constable!”

A guard had appeared at the door to the hut.

Hurley tossed them a triumphant look and spun away. He marched to the bothy, where he exchanged a few words with the guard, then disappeared inside.

Ana shivered. She carefully avoided looking at Niall, afraid that her fear for them both would be written all over her face. Had they found the sword? The blade alone would not be enough to prove Niall a malefactor, but it would surely incite Hurley and his men to tear the house apart looking for further evidence.

The constable returned to the door and waved to them. “Goodhealer Ana, your presence is required.”

She frowned, but obeyed. Niall was held back by three armed guards.

Stomach tight with worry, she entered the blissful warmth of the bothy. Inside the hut, all of her pots of herbs and unguents had been set on the table. One of the guards—a rather beefy fellow with sallow skin and a deep shadow of beard on his chin—was opening each one and sniffing the contents.

“Hamish here,” the constable said, “once worked for an apothecary. He has informed me that you are in possession of some very concerning items. Namely nightshade and foxglove.”

“If he worked in an apothecary, then he must also have told you that those herbs have medicinal value.” She edged closer to the fire pit and felt a tingle of life in her numb toes.

“Do you deny they are poisons?”

Ana crossed her arms. “Foxglove is used to settle an uneven heart and nightshade is used in an unguent for gout.”

“The baron has placed a great deal of faith in you,” said Hurley, “trusting you with the care of his wife and unborn child. He’ll not be pleased to discover you are in possession of such dangerous physics.”

“I possess a knife and a saw, as well. Does that make me a murderer?”

“Time will tell,” he said darkly.

Anger bloomed in Ana’s chest, but she tamed it, all too aware of how easily rational people could fall victim to misunderstanding about herbs. “Mr. Hurley, there has not been a single death in the village since I became the healer. Why would you accuse me of misusing these medicines?”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Auld Mairi died.”

“She was four score,” Ana pointed out.

“But hale and hearty before you descended on the village.”

“Auld Mairi was aged,” she repeated firmly.

Perhaps the surety of her voice convinced him, or perhaps he simply realized how ridiculous his accusation was—she could not be certain—but he nodded sharply and turned away. Addressing a senior guard, he asked, “Was anything else discovered?”

“Nay.”

The constable rubbed his bruised temple again, deep furrows of disappointment on his brow. “Let’s return to the manor, then.” To Ana, he said, “We’ll be taking your husband with us.”

“Why?”

“I do not answer to you, Goodhealer. I answer to the baron.”

“And did the baron demand my husband’s presence?”

“Nay,” Hurley admitted. “Baron Duthes has retired for the night.”

“Then you have no reason to hold Robbie.”

The constable’s eyes narrowed. “Have a care, Goodhealer. Unless you want to join your husband in the dungeon, you would be wise to cease your insolence.” He turned to leave.

“Wait.” Ana dug through the pile of clothing the guards had left in the middle of the room and located a brown lèine. She thrust the garment at Hurley. “Please see that he gets this.”