Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (6 page)

The answer to that was obvious, so he turned to stir the soup. A savory scent rose from the cauldron as the fat melted and thick gravy formed around the vegetables. Perhaps the meal would be bearable after all.

“I was
not
leaving.”

“Not the now,” he agreed. “Later, when all were abed.”

“Nay,” she protested. “I would not abandon the baroness. Not unless I had no choice.”

“And what circumstance would drive you to that end, pray tell? A stranger masquerading as your husband? A blackguard threatening to expose your past? A fiend strapping you to the bed?”

“A madman bent on setting fire to my soul.”

A quick glance confirmed she was serious. “The priest?”

“Aye.”

“Why would he wish such a fate on you?”

“He thinks I pray to the heathen gods.”

Niall had encountered several zealous clerics in his time—robed devotees who railed against his Pict heritage and scorned his heathen rituals. It was easy enough to imagine a blackfriar harrying a healer for any successes that were not directly linked to Christian prayer.
Too
easy, in truth. The vixen was a skilled liar. ’Twas far more likely she’d crafted the tale to stir his sympathy and evoke her release.

Using Ana’s only clay bowl, he scooped up some bubbling soup. He fished a hazelwood spoon from the pouch at his belt, then crossed the room and sank to a crouch at her knee. Raising the broth-brimmed spoon to her lips, he bid her, “Eat.”

Her chin lifted with foolish pride, and she tightened her lips, refusing his offering.

Niall shook his head. “Are you not the one who said,
Better a pinch of shame than an empty stomach
?”

“I’ll not eat while I’m bound like cattle in my own home.”

“Then you’ll go hungry,” he said, rising to full height. The savory smell of the food stirred a growl from his belly, and without further ado, he proceeded to empty the bowl in front of her. Despite the sorry lack of meat and an overabundance of onions, which he detested, it was a fine stew.

She watched him consume every bite, even licked her lips as he spooned the last of the broth into his mouth. But when he held out the bowl and arched a questioning brow at her, she turned her head. Stubborn lass. She’d endure the night on an empty stomach.

Niall swung the cauldron away from the flames burning in the pit and blew out the candle. The firelight cast a subtle golden glow around the room, drawing unnecessary attention to the feminine slopes of Ana’s body. He frowned. He needed no encouragement to imagine her curves beneath his hands—those thoughts already hounded him incessantly. As he approached the bed, she launched from her perch like a wild bird on a jess, yanking at her tether.

“Tie me if you will, beat me if you must, but I’ll ne’er submit willingly.”

He grabbed her hands. Stroking her lightly with his thumbs, he calmed her like he would a new hawk—with quiet words and a gentle touch. “Cease. You injure yourself for naught. I’m not a man to force himself upon a reluctant maid.”

She ceased her struggles, but her eyes remained wary.

“If you submit,” he said, “I assure you, it
will
be willingly.”

With a snort of disbelief, she slid to the packed dirt floor next to the bedpost.

He untied his belt and tugged his lèine over his head. Ana averted her gaze from his body as he dropped to the mattress and removed his boots. A single threadbare blanket lay folded on the bed. Niall tossed it and his heavy winter cloak over Ana’s shoulders, then reclined on the heather mattress. Having slept in the open forest on many a frigid winter night, he was content with the heat of a contained fire and a roof over his head. A blanket was a luxury.

Clad only in his braes, his hands pillowing his head, he stared up at the thatched roof. What had he done to offend the gods? Something dire, to be sure. To send him a woman of rare beauty and courage, who stirred his blood and his imagination as few women had done before, and then give her a duplicitous soul, that was cruel punishment.

He’d had his fill of untrustworthy women.

But that didn’t make it any easier to lie there. Not with her soft, warm body lying mere inches from his fingers. Not with her gentle breaths sighing in his ear. Not with her sweet fragrance filling his nose. Cruel punishment indeed.

Niall forced his eyes to close.

Sleep might not come easy, but it
would
come.

•   •   •

When the cadence of Niall’s breathing fell into a deep, regular pattern, Ana began to work on the knot of the rope in earnest. If the wretch thought she would sit here all night, cowering under the blanket like a chastened child, he was sadly mistaken.

Unfortunately, the knot lay neatly between her wrists, making it impossible to reach with her fingers. So, she tackled the rope with her teeth. But even that wasn’t easy—whatever else she might disparage about him, Niall could tie a fine knot. The blasted rope refused to loosen.

Ana resisted a growl of frustration and kept at it.

Even if it took her hours, she was determined to get free.

As luck would have it, it did not take her hours. Although the movement sorely abraded her wrists, she gradually twisted her hands, opening the knot to her teeth. Finally able to gain purchase, she chewed at the rope until one end was free. After that, it took only minutes to untie her leash.

She was just about to spring to her feet and make her escape when a large, heavily muscled arm encircled her waist, hoisted her onto the bed, and shackled her. Not to the bed this time, to his body. Ana struggled, but her labors were in vain. There was not an ounce of give in his hold.

“Let me go.”

“Nay.”

She clawed at his bare arm. “I will not rest until I am free.”

“Then you will greet the day with bleary eyes.”

“As will you,” she promised hotly. “I will happily see you sleepless as I work to get free.”

“You’ll not enjoy my company should you rob me of rest, lass.”

“I care not. Your company is already unbearable.”

With a heavy sigh, Niall tucked her tightly against him, threw a leg over hers, and leaned into her. Just like that, she was effectively pinned. His body pressed her into the mattress, his weight like warm steel.

“Sleep,” he murmured into her hair.

Ana stared at the fire in the pit, barely able to breathe. Not because his weight was excessive—he’d put just enough of his body over hers to stop her from moving—but because she could feel every inch of him along her back and legs. And the glimpse she’d gotten of him as he settled for the night had scorched a permanent portrait in her thoughts: dark blue symbols tattooed across his left shoulder, a rippled belly, and narrow hips. Every muscle was exquisitely carved from silk and stone, every limb a perfect blend of power and grace. She’d never seen a man so braw.

Did he truly believe she could slumber in his arms?

Impossible.

She couldn’t deny the comfort provided by the heat of his body, however. An hour spent on the inhospitable dirt floor had chilled her rump and feet to the point of numbness. But as she lay cocooned in his embrace, the cold bite of winter fled with the swiftness of a humiliated foe—her icy flesh thawed and her shivers ceased. She had the strangest urge to press herself deeper into his arms—to take full advantage of the protection he was offering—but she dared not move. His breaths, now softly fluttering the hairs behind her left ear, had slowed again. Moving would surely rouse him, and Ana much preferred the sleeping giant to the bitter knight.

At the moment, his only interest was rest. If he woke fully and grew conscious of the feminine curves pressed into his groin, he might change his mind about forcing an unwilling maid. With any luck, his grasp on her would ease during the night, and she’d be free before such awareness took hold.

All she had to do was remain awake until her opportunity arose.

Given her fierce determination to be free, that should pose no problem.

•   •   •

Niall woke to the sound of a barely discernible whimper.

It was still dark in the hut, and his right arm felt as if a thousand pins were poking his flesh. Ana lay in his arms, her sweet form fitted perfectly to his, but her sleep was not restful. A shudder rocked her body, and she murmured something unintelligible. Something that sounded like a protest.

He frowned.

Was she reliving the night he’d abandoned her in the forest? The night she’d been chased by a Lochurkie guard and injured her head? That scar would forever serve as a reminder of how he’d failed her.

“Nay,” Ana murmured, jerking.

He gathered her closer, ignoring the uncomfortable heaviness of his arm and the voice in his head that called her
enemy
. “Hush, lass. You’re safe. The wretch is long gone.”

She collapsed against his chest with a sigh, and Niall felt a moment’s satisfaction. But then she gripped his forearm, her nails digging deeply, and she cried quite distinctly, “Mother! Oh, gods, nay!
Nay!
”

The last word extended into a low keen of despair and Niall felt her pain vibrate though his body. Unfamiliar with the ways of comforting a woman, he simply continued to hold her tight, all the while gently rubbing her back and kissing the top of her head.

Eventually, the nightmare faded. The stiffness left her limbs and her breathing evened.

Niall held her until he was certain she had regained a peaceful slumber, and then he eased from her side and rolled off the bed.
Hellfire
. He’d known it would be a mistake to touch her, but he hadn’t guessed just how serious it would be. Holding her in his arms had felt unbelievably
right,
like a gaping hole in his gut had been filled.

Flexing his hand to revive it, he studied the woman on the mattress, trying with all his might to harden his heart. She was
not
the bonnie, courageous lass he insisted on seeing. Everything pointed to her involvement in the devastation of his clan—her presence in Duthes, her knowledge of poisons, her survival against unbelievable odds—so why did he continue to desire her with all the fury of a Highland tempest?

It made no sense.

He was generally impervious to the wiles of women.

But from the moment he first laid eyes on her, something about Ana had stirred him. Rescuing her had not been his intent, but once he looked down upon her beautiful, bone-thin face, he’d been unable to turn away. And afterward, as they ran for the forest, her quiet determination to press on in spite of pain and weariness and trembling illness had impressed him to no end. He knew big, strapping men who would have dropped under such conditions.

He turned away.

Damn
, he was doing it again. Her waiflike appearance in the dungeon had likely been a ruse, which meant she was hale and hearty that night, not infirm. Putting another peat brick on the fire, he summoned his memories of Lochurkie. Truth be told, though, if her frailty had been a ruse, it’d been a bloody good one. Hauling her up the dungeon steps had demanded little effort—she’d weighed no more than a goose down pillow.

But he couldn’t deny she’d been plotting to run this eve.

If she succeeded in leaving, his ability to enter the manor uncontested would vanish along with her—an unacceptable circumstance. Yet, come morning, he’d have no choice but to set her free. She couldn’t tend to her patients with a rope about her wrists. How then would he keep her in the village? Reveal his interest in the necklace and allege a willingness to share the prize?

Nay. The fewer people who knew his intentions, the better. He knew too little of Ana’s roots to trust her with even that much. Who knew what affiliations she had? She might well be in league with the brigands in the woods. He needed something less revealing. A possession, perhaps, that she couldn’t bear to part with.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Her twill sack lay crumpled in a heap at the end of the bed.

What about the items in her metal box? Given the care with which it was wrapped, wasn’t it likely the ring held a personal appeal to her? Even if it held no sentimental value, a gold ring set with a sapphire would surely be her most worthy possession. Would it be enough to hold her?

Only the morning would tell.

He glanced up through the chimney hole in the roof. Stars winked from a sky black as coal. The moment of truth was still several hours away—which meant he should return to the bed, or prepare to spend the remainder of the night on the floor. One option held infinitely more charm than the other, but he grabbed his burlap satchel to use as a pillow and settled himself on the floor next to the bed.

Resistance always strengthened the steel.

“W
hat name does the friar go by?”

Ana groggily opened her eyes. Niall was staring at her from the other side of the fire pit. The handsome wretch was now fully attired and devouring another piece of her precious round of cheese. Exhausted by a less than restful night, she yawned and stretched, surprised to find her hands free. Had he left her free all night? Had she slept through her best chance of escape? “What does it matter?” she grumbled as she sat up.

He tossed her the rest of the cheese. “I intend to speak with him.”

“About what?”

“Among other things, his inappropriate comments to my wife.”

She blinked at him.
Take a holy man to task for inappropriate comments?
Is he mad?
“You’ll only raise his ire.”

“Worry not. How shall I address him?”

“Brother Colban.” Ana nibbled on the piquant yellow cheese. Would he leave her alone while he visited with the friar? Would she get an opportunity to free herself? She got her answer a moment later, when Niall crossed the room to collect his cloak from the bed.

“I’ll be gone a wee while. I expect you to still be in Duthes when I return.”

“What you expect and what actually occurs may be two very different things.”

He pinned her gaze with his. “Leave and you’ll forfeit this.”

He held something up in his hand, and she saw the glint of gold.

Spying her father’s heavy gold band in his hand was a punch to her gut. Foolish girl. Why had she dug the box from beneath the bothy wall? It had been safely hidden there. Why hadn’t she left it alone until the day she ran?
Because it was all she had left to remember her da.
Leaving it behind was impossible to contemplate. Somehow, Niall had guessed that.

Still, he couldn’t know precisely what it meant to her. He couldn’t know what memories were attached to it. Nor did she ever want him to learn.

“Losing the ring would be a blow,” she acknowledged, smiling ruefully. “It’s the only item of any value ever traded to me for my services.”

His eyes narrowed. “From whom did you get it?”

“A wealthy merchant in Aberdeen. He offered the ring to me in exchange for saving his life. Poor sot fell under the wheel of a fully loaded wagon.” Ana crossed her fingers and hid them behind her skirts. She was a terrible liar. Her only salvation was that this story closely mimicked the truth. Her father had indeed been injured by a wagon in Aberdeen, and she had indeed healed him. But that wasn’t the day he gave her the ring.

Niall stared at her.

It took every bit of courage Ana possessed not to squirm under his intense gaze. Could he see the lie blazing in her eyes? Could he sense the fearful beat of her heart?

Apparently not. He tucked the ring into the pouch at his belt and said, “If you care to get it back, you’ll remain faithful until I complete my task.”

“Is your
task
likely to draw the attention of the constable?”

“Not if it’s well done.”

She frowned. “That’s hardly reassuring.”

“Just go about your business. Leave the worriment to me.”

How Ana wished she could do just that—hand off her cares and forget about them. Were she an ordinary maid with uncomplicated troubles, it might be possible. But her burdens were not the sort to share. Life had already taught her that cruel lesson.

“Today, my business includes an open door after the Terce bell rings. The village poor are invited to seek my services at no charge the third Tuesday of every month.”

He arched a brow. “A requirement of your tenancy?”

“My way of giving thanks for all I have.”

His expression remained hard and difficult to read, yet Ana sensed her response surprised him. “Will you be visiting the baroness today?”

She slid off the bed, brushing out the wrinkles in her dress and adjusting her brat. Normally, she did not sleep in her clothes—she had too few gowns to be so careless—but changing into a night rail last eve had been fraught with peril. Not the least of which was a lack of privacy. “Aye, as soon as I’ve made myself presentable.”

“You look lovely.”

A quick glance confirmed he was serious. Rather intensely so. She lifted a hand to her hair. The tresses were as tangled as she feared. “I think your eyesight is failing you.”

Retrieving her sack from the table against the far wall, Ana dug for her comb. She removed the brèid now pooled around her neck and unwound the leather thong at the end of her thick braid. Her hair was a nuisance, too straight to be attractive and too full to be easily tamed. Tugging the comb ruthlessly through the loosened braid, she made quick work of subduing the knotted strands. When she was done, her hair gleamed in the firelight like a sheet of fine silk.

She swiftly wove a fresh braid, retied the thong, and scooped up the brèid, prepared to cover her head once more.

“Wait,” Niall said hoarsely.

Ana turned.

He no longer stood a safe distance away—only an arm’s length separated them. She knew not how to interpret the look on his face, but it made her heart beat faster. The first word that came to her mind was
hunger
. As one moment passed in silence, and then another, Ana sensed it was not the inches that kept them apart, but the sheer strength of Niall’s will.

Her gaze, unbidden, dropped to his lips. They were the finest she’d ever seen on a man—firm and wide, with just a dash of sinful curve in the upper one.
Would he kiss her again? And if he did, how should she respond?

The first kiss had been a simple press of flesh. Definitely intriguing, but the full impact had been lost to the shock of the moment—the curious crowd, his dramatic claim, her choking fear. By the time her wits settled, it was over.

She lifted her gaze, hoping the primitive burn of desire in his eyes had faded.

It had not. If anything, her study of his lips had fueled it to a white-hot blaze.

Ana swallowed thickly. An odd feeling of melting from the inside besieged her. Her belly grew warm, and her chest insisted on drawing inadequate, shallow breaths. Conveniently forgetting the bevy of heartrending mistakes she’d made in the past, her body was urging her to make one more.

And it was all too tempting to yield.

Fortunately, Niall’s willpower exceeded her own. He did not kiss her. With a sight more composure than she would have guessed, he reached out and pulled a small piece of bark from her hair.

She watched the wood chip float to the ground. This outcome was better.
Absolutely.
There was no room in her life for a man, handsome as the devil or not. She gave him a wide berth as she set sail toward the door. Grabbing her healer’s pouch, she gave him the barest of nods. “I’ll return anon.”

“Ana.”

Her pulse skittered at the husky timbre of his voice. An unfair weapon, that. She paused, hand on the door latch. Slowly, she swiveled to face him. “Aye?”

All suggestion of barely contained passion had been wiped from his expression. His eyes were once again polished, flat stones. “Wait for me at the manor. I’ll accompany you home.”

“That’s a needless courtesy,” she said, shaking her head. “I travel hither and yon every day without an escort.”

“You were a widow then. Now you’re a wife.”

Although principle demanded she remind him that their marriage was a ruse, Ana erred on the side of caution. The danger had passed. Why poke a slumbering badger? There would be plenty of time to test his temper when next they blew out the candle.

She nodded. “I’ll wait.”

Then she turned tail and ran.

•   •   •

Morning prayers were over when Niall reached the village square, but the last stragglers had yet to depart the chapel. He lingered outside for a few moments, but the wait swiftly grew tiresome. Spying a pair of hands working in the nearby stables and knowing the quickest way into their good regards was to ease their lot, he picked up a shovel and mucked out a stall. Once the smiles broke out and the joking began, he carefully guided the conversation to the weeks following Lochurkie’s death.

Unfortunately, his efforts were wasted. The lads could not recall any visitors to the manor prior to the Yule festivities, save for a caravan of traveling merchants.

The sun crept higher in the sky, and Niall glanced toward the kirk. No one had come or gone from the small stone building in some time. The friar was finally alone. He hung up his shovel, nodded his farewells to the stable hands, and stepped inside.

The thin-faced friar was seated at a small pine desk close to the door, a quill in hand and a sheaf of parchment on the table before him. As the village record keeper, he was responsible for noting all events of consequence including marriages, births, and deaths. Head down, seemingly engrossed in his task, the holy man failed to acknowledge Niall’s arrival.

After the long wait outside, Niall’s patience had run thin. He nudged the leg of the table with his boot, rattling the ink pot.

“Brother Colban, is it?”

About to apply ink to parchment, the priest paused. He waited for the table to cease wobbling, then scripted a word with strong sure strokes. When his ink ran dry, he looked up. “I am.” His cool gaze ran from Niall’s unshaven face to his scuffed boots, a frown rising to his brow. “And you are?”

Niall offered a grimy hand. “Robbie Bisset, husband of Ana Bisset.”

“Ah, that explains the unfamiliar face.” The friar hesitated briefly, then met him palm to palm. “Welcome to Duthes, goodman. How can I assist you?”

“I’ve come to discuss my wife.”

“Oh?”

“She says she was here last eve, praying in the kirk.”

The friar stared at him for a long moment. “Do you have cause to doubt her?”

Niall snorted. “I’ve been absent from her bed nigh on eight months, and whilst I was gone, she received word I was dead. The better question might be: Do I have reason to trust her?”

“You fear she may have found another in your absence?”

Niall straightened his shoulders and drew in a full chest of air. “Aye. Though it best not be true.”

Even in the face of Niall’s bristling might, the friar did not sit back. A confidence born of his important position held him steady. No one would dare attack the village friar. “I cannot speak for the entirety of her time, but I
can
attest to her presence in the kirk last night. She prayed here for some time.”

“She also swears you demanded she bend the knee every spare moment.”

“I did.”

Niall shook his head. “I’m a great believer in the sanctity of prayer, Brother Colban, but I cannot permit that.”

A heavy frown settled on the friar’s brow. “Her soul is at risk, goodman.”

“That may be so,” Niall said. “But a man must be the master of his own house. Whilst my wife is here praying, there’s no food on the table, no mending of my clothes, no chores done about the bothy.”

“Surely you would make a small sacrifice to save her soul?”

“Nay. Not the now. My house is in shambles. Ana has been without the guidance of a husband for too long, and she’s inappropriately willful. I must curb her wayward spirit or face the rest of my days with a brazen chit.” Not all of that was a lie.
Willful
was scarcely a strong enough word to describe Ana. “The Lord values a submissive wife, does he not?”

Friar Colban nodded. “Indeed, he does.
Wives, submit to your husbands, as is fitting in the Lord
.”

“Well, then—”

The wide beam of sunlight cast through the open door flickered, and a sweaty, soot-covered lad ran into the chapel. “
Fire!
There’s a fire in the kitchens, Friar!”

So unexpected was the interruption, that the friar simply stood there for a moment, stunned.

Niall stepped into the breach. Dunstoras had once been gutted by fire. It had occurred long before Niall’s birth, but sooty reminders of the devastation remained on the granite stones to this day—and nine lives had been lost. If Duthes Manor was to escape a similar fate, every hand and every bucket would be needed. “Ring the bell backward,” he ordered the holy man.

The friar jumped up from his stool and raced for the bell tower steps.

To the young lad, Niall said, “Off to the garrison with you. Round up every able body.”

The boy left the kirk at a run, and Niall followed, dashing for the well. In the courtyard, fat plumes of dark gray smoke oozed from the rectangular kitchen entrance, but as yet no flames were visible.

“Find every bucket you can, lads!” he yelled to the gawking stable hands. “Hurry now.”

As he reached the well, the kirk bell began to toll out the chimes—in reverse order—sounding the alarm. Niall grabbed the wooden handle and swiftly cranked the bucket up from the depths of the well. He poured the water into a pail held by one of the stable boys and immediately dropped the well bucket back down the hole. The first lad ran off toward the kitchen, replaced by another. As more men arrived to help, Niall said crisply, “Form a line. Pass the buckets from one man to another.”

Again and again he pulled up a full load of water and poured it into a waiting pail. He favored speed over accuracy and ignored the water that sloshed over his clothes and boots. Before long, his lèine was soaked clear through. His shoulders ached with the strain, but he did not allow throbbing muscles to slow him down—too many lives were at stake.

The trail of buckets doubled up, snaking toward the kitchen door, as more villeins and guards joined the effort. Full buckets went down one side, empty buckets returned up the other. Niall had no time to check on their success. Exhaustion crept upon him. Another man took over the dumping of the bucket into the pails, which eased his efforts considerably, but even so, his shoulders began to tremble. Blisters rose on his hands, filled with fluid, and tore open on the wooden handle of the crank.

Niall gritted his teeth, pushed the pain to the back of his thoughts, and pressed on.

He cranked up another bucket, the weight of which seemed to equal that of a full-grown man. Just before it reached the top of the well, his hands slipped on the crank, and the bucket plummeted. Fingers numb, it took all his concentration to squeeze the handle and halt the bucket’s drop, but he succeeded.