Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (3 page)

“Two can dance that jig, goodman.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Play me false and I’ll share the whole of your activities that night. You freed another prisoner, in addition to me.”

He smiled—a crooked smile that stirred something deep in Ana’s belly. “No one will believe your story. I’ve patents in my possession that name me brother of a laird. If called upon, he’ll stand for me, and your word will be discounted.”

The confident set of his shoulders and the easy way he met her eyes told her he spoke the truth. Ana’s heart sank. Duthes was a lovely village and she had hoped to settle here. Plant the garden she had vowed to seed, make some friends, maybe even set up a stall on market day to sell her tisanes and unguents. But it was not to be. As with every place she went, her welcome had all too quickly worn thin.

She scanned the small room, already planning what she would pack.

The gray woolen blanket folded at the end of the bed, the sturdy boots the shoemaker had traded for a remedy for his gout, the herbs drying in sheaves on the wall. When her gaze lit upon the shabby leather satchel hanging by the door, she bit her lip. Her healer’s pouch. How could she have forgotten Lady Elayne, even for a moment? The young baroness was deathly ill. Leaving wasn’t possible. Not yet.

“If you’re thinking to run, think again.”

Although that had indeed been the bend of her thoughts, Ana denied it. “I’m not so quick to renege on my debts as you might think. I owe you my life, so I’ll aid you.” But only for a time—until Elayne and the babe were in good health. Then she’d be gone, no matter what threat he made against her person.

“There’s a good lass.” He unpinned his brat and tossed it onto the cot, then peered into the iron cauldron hanging over the banked coals in the fire pit. “Have you naught to eat? A bowl of pottage, perhaps?”

She bristled at his condescending
good lass
. “I have a name. If you hope to convince the villagers that you are indeed my husband, it might be wise to learn it.”

His gaze lifted. He studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes hard, his expression unreadable. “Take care, Ana. I’m not a man you should cross.”

A spot of annoyance bloomed in her chest, just under her breastbone. So full of anger and threats, this man. It was all too easy to forget that he’d saved her life. But as discomfited as she was by his reappearance, she owed him more than she would ever be able to repay. Only a mean-spirited hag would begrudge him a meal.

And he
had
learned her name.

“I’ve some bannock and a round of cheese,” she offered, unable to soften her tone into anything resembling gracious. At his nod, she brushed by him to reach the small wooden chest next to the bed. The brief rub of his sturdy arm against hers sparked a memory of him lifting her up the dungeon steps. Strange. She could barely remember the agonizing pain in her legs, but her recollection of the warm strength of his body remained as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

The chest opened with a creak of damp wood. In addition to the bread and cheese, it held her store of kale, beans, and onions. She broke off a sizable piece of cheese and handed it and the bread to her guest.

He grunted his thanks. “Whisky?”

“I’ve naught but water. If you seek more potent brew, you’d best visit the alehouse.” Alcohol interfered with her ability to heal, so she did not consume it. People looked askance when she declined ale, but she could not risk the outcome of her patients.

“Water from the village pond?” he asked, frowning.

“Nay, from the baron’s well. He’s been kind enough to let me draw from it.”

“Water it is, then.” As she did not possess a stool or a chair, he claimed her narrow cot, his large size causing the rickety frame to squeak in protest. Then he bit into his meal with hearty eagerness. She studied him out of the corner of her eye as she repacked the chest. His lèine had ridden up over his knees, displaying a fine pair of brawny legs decorated with a scattering of hair. A man familiar with hard labor, it would seem.

Ana fetched him a cup of water from the pail by the door, trying not to let her imagination stray to how they would pass the night. Who would get the bed? It was too narrow to accommodate both of them—thank heaven—but she didn’t relish spending the night on the cold, hard floor. Especially as she only had one blanket.

“You took a great risk, claiming to be my dead husband. How did you know that I had presented myself as a widow?”

He pointed to her linen brèid. “You cover your hair like a wedded woman, but require a guard to accompany you to the marketplace. It seemed safe to assume there was no husband.”

A keen eye—she’d give him that. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“As long as it takes.”

She frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugged. “It’s all I can offer.”

“Might I know your true identity, at least?”

“As much as I’d enjoy hearing my name drop from your sweet lips, lass, it’s best we keep this ruse as simple as possible. If you knew my true name, you might stumble over it a time or two and I can’t have that. Here, in this village, I’m just Robbie.”

Heat bloomed in Ana’s cheeks. Pleasure at his compliment battled with a quiver of disquiet in her belly. Sharing her bothy with her handsome rescuer might be possible if their arrangement remained impersonal and based on threats, but if he insisted on making such intimate and provocative comments . . .

She spun away from the sight of him lounging on her cot and buried her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt. “You forget that I already know your given name. Someone hailed you as Niall that night.”

“And you recall so, three months later? How curious.”

A second wave of heat attacked her cheeks. Not curious at all, really. Over that time, her imagination had built her mysterious savior into a paragon of grace and valor. But the real man did not compare favorably. Too rude, too demanding, too . . . alarming. “Can we agree upon a false history, then? How long have we been wed? Where did we live before venturing to Duthes? Where are your kin?”

“All will be defined in good time.”

She snatched her healer’s pouch from the peg and began stuffing it with herbs. Lemon balm, while not as effective as cardamom, would soothe Lady Elayne’s belly. “I am not a skilled dissembler. I cannot conjure credible lies with ease.”

“Then don’t lie.”

“How can I not? The villagers here believe me to be the widow of a traveling merchant, because that is what I told them. I’ve never said aught to them about my husband working on the docks in Aberdeen. Now you expect me to—”

“Cease, woman.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned.

He had tossed aside the remaining bread and regained his feet. Holding her gaze firmly with his, he crossed the room. “Leave the story-weaving to me. If you find yourself alone, explain that you were too ashamed to admit your husband lost his caravan to a turn of the dice.” Unsmiling, he brushed a callused thumb over her cheek. “The color that fills your cheeks as you prevaricate will convince them it’s the truth.”

The rough caress sent a thrill of excitement from her cheek to her belly. It had been a long time since she had felt the tug of desire. But this was no eager young swain courting her attention—he was a blackguard on a nefarious mission. A rogue of the worst kind. Encouraging his boldness would be unwise. She took a step back.

“Perhaps,” she said flatly.

He did not take the broad hint in her voice. Instead, his fingers grazed the scar on her brow. “How did you come by this injury? When last I saw you, it did not exist.”

With her heart racing and her breath difficult to catch, Ana took a second step back, forcing him to drop his hand. Why did her body continue to respond to him, when his rudeness knew no bounds? “I fell.”

He frowned. “That night? Or some time later?”

“Does it matter?”

“Answer the question.”

Although tempted to refuse, Ana decided not to bait the bear. Who knew what he was capable of? “That night. While escaping a castle guard.”

A grimace flitted over his face. “Filthy wretch.”

She studied him with curiosity. Was that a hint of chivalrous anger in his eyes? Or was her fertile imagination seeing something that was not there? “I survived. That alone is a miracle, I’d say.”

“Indeed.” His expression cooled. “Why were you tossed in the oubliette? What crime did you commit?”

“Should you not have asked that question
before
you freed me?”

He said nothing, just continued to stare at her with an unforgiving look.

Ana relented. “I was accused of murdering the earl of Lochurkie.”

“A very serious charge.”

“Aye.”

His eyebrows lifted. “The man had six stone on you. How would a waif like you bring down John Grant?”

“Poison.”

His gaze slid to the sheaves of dried herbs on the wall. “Are you recounting the truth? Did you really kill the earl?”

Ana had no desire to be tainted by even the slightest suggestion that she would take a life. “No, I did not. But someone did.”

“With poison.”

“Aye.”

A dark look stole over his face. “What were the manifestations of this poison?”

“Wide eyes, delirium, rapid heartbeat, raspy breathing, and convulsions.”

He pinned her gaze. “Can you name the cause?”

“Dwale, or some infusion that included it, most likely. It’s a well-known poison, and there are curatives. Had I been permitted to continue tending the earl, he might not have died. Instead, because I had recently paid a visit to the apothecary, I was dragged to the dungeon at the first rumblings of poison.” No need to mention the accusations of witchcraft.

“I’ve heard that dwale is an easy way to poison a group of people—all who sample a specific dish, for example.”

The bitter cast of his words gave her pause. An example? Or a piece of personal history? “Perhaps,” she said softly. “’Tis rumored that King Duncan used it to poison an army of invading Danes. Ground to a fine powder, it will dissolve well in ale or whisky . . . or even children’s mead.”

He said nothing, but the muscles of his jaw tightened.

“I’ve tried many a time to reason out Lord Lochurkie’s murderer,” she said. “Only three people tended him in those last hours before he took grave—myself, his sister, Isabail, and his personal attendant, Daniel—and I cannot believe any of us were eager to see his end. He was a good man.”

Her companion snorted. “A good man? Come now. Does one good man brutally torture another?”

Ah, yes.
The other prisoner he’d given aid to that night.
MacCurran.
“I cannot speak to why he would have tormented your friend, but I can tell you that the John Grant I came to know would never have done such a thing without righteous cause.”

“Then your judgment is sorely lacking,” he snapped. “My friend did nothing to earn such abuse. He was dragged to Lochurkie’s dungeon, accused of a crime he did not commit, and beaten near to death when he would not confess.”

Ana stiffened. “Perhaps there was some misunderstanding.”

“The events were deliberate, I assure you.”

“How can you know that? Grant is dead. He cannot speak to his deeds.”

He favored her with a hard stare. “Because my friend is alive to tell the tale. No thanks to Lochurkie.”

“But—”

“Enough,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Defend the man further at risk to your life.”

She bit her lip. After a year spent in Lochurkie, tending the lord and his family on numerous occasions, she was confident in her assessment of John Grant. But pursuing that hare would be unwise. All foolish daydreams aside, her rescuer was clearly a dangerous man.

Ana’s hand slid to the stag-antler knife she kept on her belt.
His
knife, given to her in kindness. Her fingers tightened on the hilt. Which only proved that even a blackguard could be generous on occasion.

“No doubt my faith was misplaced,” she said, her tone conciliatory.

His gaze fell to her hand, then returned to her face. His lips twisted with icy amusement. “Hold fast to your weapon if it eases you, lass, but know that nothing, not even a blade honed to a razor’s edge, will stop me from attaining my goal.”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she left her hand where it was. “Is it not possible for you to gain whatever it is you seek without abiding here with me? I vow to assist you in any way that I can.”

“No.”

There was not an ounce of give in the man, and the cruel edge that had infused his voice since the talk of poison made her decidedly uneasy. She was gathering herself for a passionate protest, in spite of her resolve not to raise his ire, when a sharp rap sounded upon her door.

“Goodhealer Ana! Open the door in the name of the constable of Duthes.”

N
i
all’s hand instinctively reached for his sword—a sword that for once was
not
strapped to his side. Common villeins did not carry weapons of war and, to support their disguises, both he and Aiden had left their long blades back at camp. He shot Ana a look as he stepped forward to open the door. Had he misjudged her fear of the law? Had she somehow signaled her distress as they left the market?

She shook her head.

Her face was pale, her eyes dark with concern. She was as surprised by this visit as he was. Sucking in a deep breath and envisioning the various ways he might fight his way to safety with only a simple dirk, he tugged open the door. A tall, bearded man garbed in a belted red tunic stood before him, flanked by a pair of guards with black leather hoods.

“Constable?”

The other man frowned. “We are not acquainted, sirrah. Who might you be?”

Niall met his stare calmly.
Damn.
He’d neglected to learn Ana’s family name. The constable was unlikely to buy into the ruse if he couldn’t recite his own name.

Ana hugged his arm, pressing her soft body into his side. “Good day to you, Constable Hurley. Allow me to introduce my husband, Robbie Bisset, recently returned from Aberdeen.”

The constable’s gaze flickered to Ana’s face, then back to Niall’s. “I was unaware that your husband was hale and hearty, Goodhealer. Did you not inform us that he had passed away?”

She nodded, a pretty pink flush rising in her cheeks. “A tale I’m greatly relieved to say was false. Robbie was badly injured on the docks, but he survived. And now he’s come back to me.”

“How fortuitous,” the constable said, still studying Niall.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “Is there a cause for your visit today, Constable?”

“Aye. The baroness has taken a turn for the worse. She’s asking for you.”

Ana darted for the table, grabbed up her leather pouch, and gestured to the street. “Let’s away to the manor then.”

Niall gently but firmly took possession of Ana’s satchel. She wouldn’t stray far from the tools of her trade. Staking his claim with a hand to the small of her back, he addressed Hurley. “I’m certain you have pressing matters of the estate to attend, Constable. Please do not delay on our account. Nothing would please me more than to accompany my dear wife to the manor.”

Hurley glanced at Ana, then nodded. “As you wish.”

Cutting the encounter short, Niall guided Ana past the constable. “Good day to you, Mr. Hurley.”

They left the somewhat bemused constable behind and headed down the gravel lane. A cart pulled by a sleepy-eyed ox stood in front of the bothy next door, and a pair of burly peasants were unloading sacks under the supervision of a plump, bald fellow wearing a wax-splattered apron—the town candle maker, it would seem. Ana waved a greeting to her neighbor as they passed.

Although the sun had reached the highest point in the sky, the wintery air felt no warmer than it had when Niall had rolled out of his pallet at dawn. Leaving his brat back at Ana’s bothy had been unwise—the cold wind cut through his lèine with ease. He envied the rosy cheeks of the young children playing hoops in the street.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked Ana, as they wove through the shoppers and vendors hawking their wares in the market square.

She glanced up at him. “Would you offer me your lèine if I were not?”

“Nay, but I might purchase a thicker brat for you from the wool merchant.”

A frowned creased her brow. “That would only stir the gossips. Few can spare the coin to purchase such an item on a whim. You would know that, if you were truly my husband.”

“If I were truly your husband,” he said, “allowing you to take chill would shame me.”

She shrugged. “Better a pinch of shame than an empty stomach.”

“Only a woman would think such.”

They crossed the wooden drawbridge to the manor gate. The two guards, clearly familiar with Ana’s face, nodded crisply to her and ushered them under the portcullis. Once inside, Niall noted a half dozen men-at-arms scattered about the yard, each wearing hauberks of costly ring mail. The inner close of the manor was a tiny patch of trampled earth that somehow managed to include a stable, a kitchen, and a chapel. Two more soldiers defended the solid oak door to the main house, but not a single soul was practicing his craft in the lists. Slaggards.

Skirting the covered well in the center of the courtyard, they advanced to the door.

Again Ana was recognized, and again they passed without challenge.

Inside the great hall, remnants of the midday meal were being cleared away. The trestle tables were being wiped and dismantled. Hounds were sniffing the rushes in search of crumbs and bones. Two young pages were headed back to the kitchen with a large cauldron, and a laundry maid was gathering the soiled linens from the high table. All were busy and none took note of their passage across the room, save for the pinch-faced steward who spared them a brief glance as he hunted through the keys on his belt.

Niall was struck anew by his good fortune in finding Ana—and by the whole sorry mess of coincidences that accompanied that good fortune. As they climbed the candlelit stone stairs to the second level, he squeezed her arm. “There are to be no deaths whilst I’m in Duthes. I will not have it.”

She frowned. “Am I to be a miracle worker, then? Prevent all falls, all injuries in the lists, all accidents with the plow?”

His fingers tightened. “No
suspicious
deaths.”

“You mean no poisonings.”

Indeed, that was exactly what he meant, but he chose not to leave her any open doors for mischief. “I mean you must be a paragon. Hold yourself to the highest standards of healing.”

Mounting the last step, she freed her arm with a sharp tug. “I would do so whether you bid me or not.”

The indignant blaze in her eyes brought her too-serious face to life, and Niall found himself entranced. “Excellent.”

Ana gathered her skirts with a huffed breath and marched down the corridor to an alcove-set iron-studded door. It was opened swiftly to her knock, and a dark-eyed young maiden beckoned her into the room. “Welcome, Goodhealer. The baroness is asking for you.”

Glancing inside the chamber and spying the drawn curtains around the bed, Niall paused. As much as he’d relish an opportunity to search Baron Duthes’s private quarters, this was not the time. “Here’s your satchel, sweetling. I’ll leave you alone to do your good work.”

She tossed him an arch look. “You don’t intend to wait for me?”

He shook his head. “You could be a considerable time and I must see the carpenters about an urgent matter. We’ve a pressing need for a larger, sturdier bed.”

The handmaiden withdrew with a faint smile and the whisper of her linen hem over the rushes. Ana blushed madly. “I think the priority must be finding work, husband. Perhaps you should see the reeve instead.”

“Perhaps I’ll do both,” he said agreeably, enjoying her reaction.

Still a delightful shade of pink, Ana closed the chamber door in his face.

Amusement fading, he peered down the corridor in both directions. He had been tasked with finding a stolen treasure. If his informant could be trusted, the exquisite ruby necklace King Alexander had commissioned as a wedding gift for his new bride was hidden somewhere in this manor. Under lock and key, for certain. But in what room? A fortified manor this size would have upward of two dozen chambers; it would take a full fortnight to search all of them. A fortnight he didn’t have.

He’d have to focus on the obvious places first. The baron’s coffers, for example, which were almost certainly in the lower levels of the manor house.

Leaping the stairs two at a time, Niall arrived back at the main floor in a trice. He glanced quickly into the great hall to make certain no one was watching, then slipped down the stairs to the cellars. Here the corridor was wider and the candles farther apart. Grain sacks and barrels of pickled beets and onions lined the walls. If the trail of floury footprints was any indication, the passageway led to the kitchens.

With the midday meal complete, comings and goings should be minimal.

Several doors lined the corridor, each with iron hinges and door pulls. Storage rooms, no doubt housing Duthes’s dwindling supply of winter food. The room he sought lay midway down the corridor, a seemingly narrow chamber tucked tightly between two other doors.

He crossed the hall and lifted the lock dangling from the latch.

Solid iron, with nary a hint of rust.

Without a key, the only option was brute force. Niall unsheathed his knife, aimed the steel butt of the blade, and smashed it down on the lock with all his might. Other than an uncomfortably loud rattle, he got nothing for his efforts. The lock held firm.

He hit it twice more, wincing at the noise. Still no success.

As he paused to consider other options, the rap of booted feet echoed on the stone stairs behind him. He did a quick count of the footsteps. At least three men, some of whom were wearing ring mail, judging by the clinking.

He was about to be discovered.

•   •   •

Ana drew back the bed curtains and quickly assessed the woman reclining against the pillows. Elayne lacked the sturdy build of her younger sisters, and the wasting sickness that had troubled her for the past eight months had left her painfully thin. Today, with her skin pale and her light brown hair darkened with sweat, the young baroness looked as if she might expire on her next breath.

“Did something happen to cause this?” Ana asked Elayne’s handmaiden, Bébinn.

“Nay. She’s been feeling poorly all day and has been lying abed, retching as she so often does.” Bébinn pointed to the bucket at the foot of the bed. “But this last time I found blood in her sputum.”

Ana glanced in the bucket. Thin traces of crimson laced the contents, suggesting Elayne’s throat was raw from constant disgorging. A quick healing spell could have taken care of that, but not with Bébinn in the room. The handmaiden was as pious as a bishop. Any suggestion of heathen rites and the girl would run for the friar.

Ana laid a hand on the baroness’s forehead. Cool and damp. No fever. “Did you eat today?” she asked.

Lady Elayne shook her head. “Nothing appeals.”

“Not even bits of bread?”

“The mere thought of food has me begging for the pail.” She closed her eyes. “Just leave me be. Let me die in peace.”

Her weariness was understandable. Eight months of constant nausea, driven to retching by the mere scent of food, had taken a heavy toll. Most women suffered her condition for half that time, and most were stronger when illness beset them. Elayne, from all accounts, had been pale and listless before quickening, and nurturing the bairn within her was drawing on reserves the girl simply didn’t have.

“If you die, you’ll take the bairn with you,” Ana said crisply. “You’d never forgive me if I allowed that.” Sliding her arm beneath the young woman’s shoulders, she encouraged Elayne to sit up. “You need to take a wee walk, then try some bread soaked in clarified butter. I have Cook making you some broth, as well, but we’ll proceed slowly.”

“I’m too tired to walk.”

“We won’t go far,” Ana said, helping the girl shift her feet to the floor. “Digestion is aided by movement. To have a hope of keeping food in your belly, you must take short walks, drink sweet wine, and eat frequent small portions. Lean on me, Your Ladyship. I’ll help you take a turn about the chamber.”

Elayne looped her arm around Ana’s neck and pushed to her feet, cradling her rounded belly. Her entire body trembled, but with support, she was able to walk several steps toward the hearth. “Bébinn assures me nothing will work, that this illness is my cross to bear for being a daughter of Eve.”

With a harsh scrape of wooden legs on stone, the handmaiden moved one of the high-backed chairs by the fire to allow them to pass. “Those are not my words,” she contested. “Brother Colban spake them. He says the amount a woman suffers bringing a child into the world is commensurate with her sins.”

Ana wanted to ask how a proper young woman of ten and six, who’d regularly attended mass and confessed her sins, could possibly have accumulated eight months’ worth of sin, but she dared not. The friar had not given Ana his blessing yet. In his mind, she was a stranger and still unproven. Had Auld Mairi’s journeywoman not run off and wed a man from a neighboring town, he’d never have taken Ana’s oath to practice healing.

“Even if He intends for you to endure this illness the whole of your term,” she said gently to Elayne, “you mustn’t forget that the Lord Almighty helps those who help themselves. If you’ve the means to ease the nausea, you should use it.”

“I’m not convinced such means exist.”

“Take each day as it comes,” Ana said. “Claim every bite swallowed as a victory.”

Sensing the baroness’s legs were about to give out, she lowered Elayne onto the chair closest to the fire. The girl’s hands were cold and clammy. Ana beckoned to Bébinn, who quickly stepped forward and covered Elayne’s knees with a soft woolen blanket.

The young woman’s symptoms suggested a weakness in her blood. Ana had seen a similar frailty in lasses who’d newly begun their menses, and also in women with child, but never so severe. “Did you sample the black pudding I had Cook send up yestereve?”

Elayne grimaced. “Nay, the smell was unbearable.”

Finding the heat of the fire excessive, Ana loosened the ties on her sark. She mentally ran through the list of foods she knew had served other weak-blooded women well. Lentils, which could be baked in a lightly spiced dish. Clams, but those were few and far between in these parts. Grains. “If you succeed in keeping the vegetable broth in your belly, we’ll try some oats with honey and cream.”

“Oats and vegetables are for cattle.”

“And for childbearing women.” She didn’t bother to mention that most villagers ate oats and vegetables—and little else—on a daily basis. The baroness lived a very different life from her husband’s tenants. “How are the bairn’s movements?”

Smoothing her hands over her belly, Elayne smiled for the first time. “Strong and sure. He’s a brawny lad, constantly kicking.”