Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (9 page)

She followed the road to the edge of the forest, where the leafless trees stood like dark sentinels, silent and resolute. Bent arms and boney fingers stretched toward the sky, swaying with the breeze. Ana swallowed. Lord, her imagination could run wild. Forests had given her shelter more times than she could recount.

She pressed forward into the gloom.

What clue she sought, she did not know. With no torch to light her path, everything she spied was a relentless shade of gray. But an increasing sense of urgency and a certainty that she would find something gave wings to her feet.

She had been striding along for a goodly time when a low moan drew her up. It came from the right, somewhere up the hill. A sharp tingle in her hands told her she’d found what she was looking for.

Cutting through the trees, the thick brush pulling at her skirts, Ana scrambled up the incline. “Niall? Where are you?”

Another moan guided her to a dark shape prostrated beneath a large oak tree.

Much too large to be a badger. She touched the shape, reassured by the nubby texture of wool weave under her fingers—until she realized it was not only cold, but wet. She brought her fingers to her nose.
Blood
. Working by feel, she quickly located the source of the trouble: the shaft of an arrow protruded from his broad back. Fearing the worst, she slid a hand under his body and felt for the arrowhead. Only the tip of the steel had broken through his feverishly hot skin.

She grimaced.

The rest of the arrowhead was still lodged in his chest, and as long as it remained there, she could not use her gift to heal him. The little she could feel of the arrowhead also failed to tell her if it was a simple bodkin or something more troubling, like a swallowtail. If the arrowhead was barbed, there was only one way it could come out. Straight through.

He stirred again, a restless movement accompanied by a nonsensical murmur.

The more pressing issue was to get him home. Remaining here, in the frigid chill of winter, would steal away what little chance he had of surviving. Niall was a very large man—too large for her to carry—and dragging him down the hill would not only take a great deal of time, it would injure him further. She needed help.

The kind of help that came with a cart.

But who could she enlist at this hour of night? And since she had no idea what Niall had been doing, who could she trust not to run to the constable?

Gordie.

The young wheelwright from Inverness. A month ago he’d come to her, blushing madly, seeking aid in removing an unsightly and rather inconvenient wart. Once cured, he’d beamed ear to ear for a sennight and promised her the moon—though she’d been satisfied with an iron-strapped water bucket at the time.

Ana packed some dried moss mixed with yarrow around the wounds, and wrapped his chest with linen strips as best she could. She took off her brat, tucked it around Niall’s shoulders, and then stood. The icy breeze immediately sent a shiver up her spine, but she had no regrets. Niall needed the heat more than she. Lifting her skirts, she hastened down the hill. Before she set off down the road, she planted a branch to mark the location. She could not rely on Niall’s moans to guide her a second time.

Then she raced for the village.

Time was of the essence. She had no idea how long Niall had been bleeding into the sod, and a fever was not a good sign. It usually took a day or two for infection to set in.

Gordie lived in the upper level of the smithy, which was on the far side of the village, next to the alehouse. She made good time, thanks to the fine fit of her leather boots, but was winded when she arrived. The door to the smithy groaned on its hinges as she swung it open.

“Gordie,” she called breathlessly, leaning on the door.

No answer.

“Gordie, you layabout, wake up. I’ve need of you.”

Hay rustled in the loft. A tousled head appeared over the edge, peering down at her. “Who is it?”

“Ana Bisset.” She waved him down. “Come quick now, there’s a good lad. I’ve need of you and your cart.”

He donned a leather jerkin over his lèine, then descended the ladder, leaping the last few feet to the ground. “Is aught amiss, Goodhealer?”

“Aye, but I must ask you to keep what you see this night to yourself. No word to anyone. Can I trust you to do that?”

The blond-haired young man tossed her a lopsided grin. “If you can keep silent about my concerns, I can certainly keep silent about yours. Lead on, Goodhealer. I’ll not breathe a word.”

Gordie harnessed a sleepy ox to the blacksmith’s cart, then led the way out of the barn.

The hay-lined cart rolled with remarkable quiet down the lane, and Ana said so.

The young man smiled. “If there’s one thing I do well, it’s craft a fine wheel.”

Almost an hour after Ana left Niall in the forest, they returned to the base of the oak tree. Ana immediately checked for a heartbeat and was relieved to feel a heavy pulse beneath the hot, dry skin of Niall’s neck. Gordie helped her carry Niall down the hill to the cart, taking care not to disturb the arrow. Niall did not stir with the movement.

“Hurry, Gordie,” she said, climbing into the cart.

In response, he clucked encouragingly to the ox and tapped its hindquarters with his birch switch. “Get up, Belle.” The cart lurched forward at a good clip and Gordie jogged alongside, keeping the cart straight in the road with an occasional
gee
or
haw
.

Ana knelt beside Niall in the hay and checked his bandage. Moving him had caused another gush of blood, but it was already slowing. She replaced the moss and applied fresh linen strips. He was silent and still throughout, which concerned her. She would have been happier to hear Niall moan with every rut in the road, to hear him fiercely battling the injury. His silence meant he had slipped into a very deep sleep—from which he might never awake.

The cart rolled up to the door of Ana’s bothy and stopped.

Ana leapt down and opened her door. “Let’s get him inside.”

With Ana at his feet and Gordie supporting his shoulders, they carried Niall into the hut and over to the bed.

“Sit him up,” she said. “I’ll need your help to dislodge the arrow.”

Awkwardly, thanks to the protruding arrow shaft, they managed to get Niall onto the bed in a seated position. His head rolled forward, his chin to his chest, his dark hair matted with blood and sweat. While Gordie held him upright, Ana lit two candles. Then she unwrapped the bandages, removed the moss, and cut away Niall’s lèine with her knife until his entire chest was exposed. Crusted blood covered a large portion of his skin, and the flesh around the wound was so swollen that she could no longer see the tip of the arrowhead.

Ana rolled up her sleeves.

“Hold him as tight as you can.”

Picking up a steel-headed mallet from the table, she climbed onto the bed and circled around to Niall’s back. Her stomach was churning, but she ignored it. This was the only way to heal him; she knew that. To keep her hands steady, her resolve must be unwavering.

Bracing her feet on the bed frame to firm her balance, Ana settled her mind and stared at the notched end of the wooden arrow shaft. She did not let herself dwell on how small the target was, or on how the arrowhead would rip through Niall’s flesh. She simply took a deep breath and swung the hammer.

It struck the wood with a solid thunk and Niall jerked. But not a sound escaped his lips.

“It’s through,” Gordie said hoarsely.

Ana hopped off the bed and swiftly packed more moss around the now gushing wound. Her decision to push the arrow through had been the correct one—the arrowhead was small but barbed. She glanced at Gordie. His face was an alarming shade of green, and she nodded to the door of the hut. “If you’ve a need to empty your spleen, I’d be grateful if you’d do it outside. But come back, I still require you.”

He leapt up and ran for the door.

Holding Niall gently to her bosom, his breaths shallow but even against her neck, she listened to Gordie wretch for a few moments. A man’s pride did not suffer such moments well. When he returned to the hut, unable to meet her eyes, she said matter-of-factly, “There’s fresh water in the bucket by the door.”

He rinsed his mouth, then returned to her side.

“Hold him while I saw off the arrowhead.”

Gordie was a stalwart lad—much braver than she’d been the first time she helped her mother with an arrow injury. He rolled Niall’s head back to give her better access, took hold of Niall’s shoulders, and held him firmly in place.

Ana’s saw was small with fine, sharp teeth, and it cut through the wooden shaft with six determined glides of the blade. Then she cleared away the blood-soaked moss, tugged the arrow out of Niall’s back, and repacked the wound tightly. Through it all, Niall remained silent and unmoving. Ana tried not to worry about that.

With Gordie’s help, she stripped away his remaining clothes, washed off the blood, and laid him on the heather-stuffed mattress. Although her primary interest was in his injuries, Ana could not help but appreciate Niall’s fine form. Few men she had treated carried their weight so well. He was truly a masterpiece of corded muscle, narrow hips, and lean limbs. She ran a finger down the long scar on his arm. Far from perfect, but still the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

“Will he live?” the young wheelwright asked.

“The wound itself is survivable,” she said. “But his fever concerns me.”

Gordie nodded, then picked up the arrow shaft. “I had assumed by your desire for discretion that he’d been poaching.” He stroked the pale gray fletching. “But the constable and his men use only black and white feathers.”

“I’ve no need to know who shot him or why,” Ana said, draping the blanket over Niall’s lower body. Given what she knew of the man, the story no doubt involved brigands and murderers. “If he lives, that might be worth exploring, but for now, my only goal is to heal.”

“Have you further need of me?”

“Nay. Get along home now.” Ana offered him her palm “My sincerest thanks, Gordie. You were a great help.”

He shook her hand. “It’s not often I have an adventure of this sort.”

“A good thing, I should say.”

“Aye,” he agreed, smiling. “May the rest of your night be uneventful, Goodhealer.” He exited, and a few moments later she heard the low rumble of the cart as it moved away.

Eager to return her hut to a tidy state, Ana scooped up the remnants of Niall’s bloody clothing from the floor. They were heavier than expected. Digging through the folds of the linen and wool, she discovered his purse. Had this been any other patient, she would have put the leather pouch aside, not even glancing at the contents. But Niall had stolen her father’s ring.

This was her chance to get it back.

She thrust her hand inside and rooted around. Sensing something small and weighty, she pulled it out—but it was not the ring. It was a midnight blue stone carved with a circular symbol—a piece of northern slate, if she wasn’t mistaken. An odd treasure, to be sure. Ana replaced the stone and dug through Niall’s coins until she found what she was looking for.

She quickly tucked the ring back inside the tin box and hid it beneath the bothy wall.

Returning to the bed, she checked Niall’s wounds. The bleeding had slowed to a mere ooze, so she cleaned the moss away and applied a liniment that included agrimony, oxeye, and yarrow. His skin was scalding hot, his cheeks flushed.

Ana brushed Niall’s hair from his face. The fever bothered her. The wounds were swollen and red, to be sure, but no more or less than she would expect. The angry red coloration and clotted pus she normally associated with a wound gone sour had not made an appearance. So why then the fever? And the unusually deep sleep?

If it wasn’t so unlikely, she’d almost think . . .

She bent and retrieved the arrowhead from the floor where it had fallen. The swallowtail was coated in blood and dirt, but she brought it to her nose, closed her eyes and sniffed deeply. The heavy metallic scents of blood and steel overwhelmed her senses initially, but as she took another sniff, a faint edge of bitterness surfaced. Her heart stumbled.

Poison.

Worse, it was not one she could name. And if she could not name it, she could not craft a cure.

Ana stood and laid the arrowhead carefully on the table. Her healing gift was a wonder, but it had limitations. To use it effectively, she had to visualize exactly where in the body to send the healing heat. Blood-borne illnesses—especially poisons—were extremely difficult to cure.

She turned to look at the handsome man on the bed.

Her heart thudded slow and heavy. Her healing failures were few, but all of them had been cases of blood-borne illness suffering a delay before treatment could begin.

Even if she expended every effort and drew on every ounce of her strength, there was a very good chance that Niall would die.

A
na’s eyes itched with unshed tears.

Damn the man
. She should be rejoicing at the prospect of being free of his unreasonable demands. She should be happy to put his threats behind her. She should
not
be feeling like fate was ripping the heart out of her chest once more.
No attachments
. That was her solemn vow.

But his actions that November night in Lochurkie had changed everything.

He had saved her. And nothing he’d done since—not the harsh words, not the binding of her hands, not the cool dismissal of their kiss—had shaken her valiant view of him. Rather, a dozen little things had nurtured it, like the way he’d defended her in the cellars, the way he’d held her safely in his arms on a cold winter night, and the way he’d insisted on accompanying her home. Meaningless things. And now . . .

Now her chest felt so heavy she could barely breathe.

He could not die
.

She wouldn’t allow it.

Ana rolled the loose sleeves of her sark up to her elbows. She carried the water bucket over to the bed and peeled back the woolen blanket, exposing Niall’s bare chest. Digging into the folds of her neckline, she located the Rod of Asclepius pendant, drew it from around her neck, and kissed it. She dropped to her knees beside the bed and placed the bronze token in Niall’s right hand. The pendant had no power—her mother had given it to Ana after her first successful healing, to welcome her as a practitioner of an ancient art—but if the gods were kind, perhaps they would watch over her efforts this night.

Then she closed her eyes and rubbed her palms together, summoning the healing warmth.

From deep inside, it came. First as a bloom of heat in her chest, then as a tingle of energy that crept down her arms toward her hands. Ana opened her eyes and watched the fine red swirls grow like crimson vines, wrapping around her forearms, curling and weaving until they reached her fingertips.

Then she placed her hot hands on either side of the wound on Niall’s firm chest.

He did not stir.

Concentrating hard, she pictured the entrance to the wound in her mind’s eye—the swollen flesh, the parted skin through which the arrow had passed, the blood that pumped weakly through his veins—and immediately the heat flowed into his body, mending as it went.

The track of the arrow through his body was her guide. In her mind, she gently tested the ragged edges, seeking out the dark blots of poison. First she sought to nullify the venom, then heal its rancid effects. Blackened flesh became pink. But for every healed inch, she paid a stiff price. Waves upon waves of icy chill and pain washed up her arms, evoking racking shivers.

She ignored them as best she could.

When the poison had been drawn from the immediate area of his wound, she extended her efforts, hunting deeper and broader. The easy part was done. Chasing the poison coursing through his body would be the real challenge.

Settling herself as comfortably on the floor as possible, she painstakingly searched for droplets of poison buried in every heavy muscle of his body. There were many, but they were small. It took immense concentration to hunt them out and destroy them. It also took time. Pent-up power pooled in her fingers, straining for release, and the pattern on her skin rose up like a welt. Her skin heated to an unbearable level. Fighting the odd mix of scalding hands and a shuddering chill in her torso, she lifted one hand and dipped it in the water bucket. Cold water embraced her hand, providing instant and sigh-worthy relief. With the burning in one hand temporarily abated, she switched hands.

On and on it went.

Bent to her task, Ana lost track of the hours. At some point, the starry sky gave way to the rosy blush of morning, but she knew not when. All she knew was that when she finally sat back, she could barely keep her head up. Her limbs trembled with exhaustion. Pain radiated from every joint in her body.

It had been a long time since she’d healed a body so broken.

She stared at the strong angles of Niall’s face and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The feverish flush still colored his cheeks and his breathing remained so slow and shallow that each drawn breath threatened to be his last. She’d done all she could, but it may not have been enough. He’d lain in the forest for hours. It was possible the poison had seeped places she could not imagine.

If so, his fate was in God’s hands.

Her eyelids drooped.

She was so tired. So very tired
.
As much as she desperately wanted to stay awake to watch over Niall, her drained and depleted body would not allow it. Her head felt as if it weighed ten stone, and she could barely convince her fingers to move as she commanded. If she didn’t soon lie down, she would collapse.

But she couldn’t leave Niall. If he died while she slept, she’d never forgive herself.

She tucked the blanket around him, scooped some water from the bucket, and dribbled it between Niall’s dry lips. Then she entwined her still-patterned hand with his and laid her head on the mattress next to his arm. An awkward position for sleeping, to be sure, but her body would not care. Not until she woke to stiff limbs, that is.

Ana squeezed Niall’s hand.

“No dying,” she murmured. “I will not have it.”

Then she gave in to the heaviness of her eyelids and sank into a dreamless sleep.

•   •   •

The world tilted madly. Images rushed by—a dark snake slithering through the woods, an arrow whizzing through the air, a woman’s worried face. Then someone squeezed Niall’s hand and softly spoken words pierced the dizziness. “No dying. I will not have it.”

The voice was sweet and familiar, and the wild beat of his heart settled.

Niall struggled to open his eyes and eventually won the battle. But the dizziness did not abate. Candles flickered in and out of his vision, and the bed on which he lay felt as if it were tipping. He grabbed the mattress as tight as he could, determined not to spill to the floor. Easier said than done, as it turned out. One of his hands was already spoken for.

He peered down his arm.

Waves of dark red hair washed over the bed, ebbing and flowing like the tide. Beyond the red sea, a slender arm covered in bright red lace entwined with his. Niall tried to make sense of the view, but could not. He just knew that it felt right that she was there. A name came to his tongue, and he spoke it.

“Ana.”

She did not rouse.

He lifted his head to get a better look. The bed tipped in the opposite direction, and his stomach rolled with it. Sweat broke out on his brow. Black spots swam into view. He fought against the encroaching darkness, but to no avail. A cool numbness flooded his limbs and his head fell back.

With a heavy sigh, he sank into a dream, dancing with a beautiful, red-haired fae.

•   •   •

A firm hand shook Ana’s shoulder. “Wake up, Goodhealer.”

Ana lifted her head and blinked, her eyes gritty with sleep.

Mr. Hurley, the constable, was crouched beside her, a deep frown creasing his brow, his lips a grim line in his beard. Bold sunlight poured in through the open chimney in the roof, banishing the shadows to the farthest reaches of the room. She lay half on the floor and half on the bed, exactly as she had when she closed her eyes. But what was the constable doing in her bothy? Had something terrible happened . . . ? Her heart plummeted.

Niall!

Ana’s head whipped around.

Her valiant savior lay on the bed, his blanketed chest rising and falling in a slow, steady pattern. A healthy bloom of color filled his cheeks.
He had survived.
She put a hand to his brow. His skin was no longer hot. Not just survived; he thrived.

“Is your husband not well, Goodhealer?”

Ana scrambled to her feet and faced the constable. “Indeed not. He had a fever most of the night.”

Hurley folded his arms over his chest. “Did he suffer an injury?”

Not pleased with the direction of the conversation, Ana avoided the question and went on the offensive. “Was there a reason for your visit today, Constable? I do not recall inviting you inside.”

“I announced myself, but got no response. Fearing for your safety, I entered.”

“Thank you for your concern,” she said. Given the weariness still plaguing her limbs, his explanation was all too easy to believe. “And your reason for coming to my door?”

“The baron bade me check on you.” The tall soldier met her gaze evenly. “You did not oversee the baroness’s meal last eve nor help her break the fast this morn.”

Ana did not need to fake her dismay. She had completely forgotten Elayne. “I’ll offer him my sincerest apologies. I was tending my husband and lost track of the hour. Is the baroness well?”

“She’s fine. Bébinn says she’s eating more.” He glanced at Niall. “What illness befell him?”

“Nothing serious. A touch of the ague.”

The constable nodded agreeably, but continued to study Niall’s sleeping form with a keen eye. “I received a report from a citizen of good standing that a man with an arrow in his chest was carried into your abode in the middle of last night.”

Ana swallowed tightly. “Your informant was mistaken.”

“We’ve suffered greatly at the hands of poachers in recent months. I hope you won’t take offense, Goodhealer, but I must verify your husband’s health for myself.” Bending, Mr. Hurley grabbed the edge of the blanket.

Dear Lord.
What if the wound had not completely healed? What if she’d missed—

With a quick flick of his wrist, the constable bared Niall’s upper body.

A wave a hot relief poured over her. The wound was naught but a dark rose stripe—the flesh had completely knitted. It now looked to be several weeks old.

The constable pointed to the scar. “How did he come by that?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “He will not speak of the day he nearly died in Aberdeen.”

“Come now, Goodhealer. Surely you’ve seen a stabbing injury before? Your husband did not acquire a wound of this sort whilst moving cargo about on the docks.”

Ana put her hands on her hips. “Clearly, Constable, you’ve never worked the docks. If you had, you’d be aware that spears, harpoons, and pikes are regular tools of the fishing trade. Robbie is a good man who suffered a terrible injury. I will not hear aspersions against his name without due cause. You’ve seen your fill, sir, and he is obviously not the poacher you seek. Do not dare to tarnish his character simply to assuage your frustration.”

Mr. Hurley dropped the blanket and stepped back.

Offering her a courtesy bow, he said, “My apologies, Goodhealer. ’Twas not my intent to offend you.”

It most certainly had been, but Ana did not call him on the lie. She preferred to hasten him out the door before he thought to search the hut. If he found the bloody moss and the arrowhead, the conversation would turn ugly. “Please inform the baron that I will attend the baroness at noontide.”

“I would be happy to pass on the message, Goodhealer.” With obvious reluctance, the constable backed away. When he reached the door, he favored Ana with a steely stare. “Please have Robbie present himself to me when he is on his feet again.”

“Of course.”

Ana closed the door behind him and rested her forehead on the rough wood surface. How had she ended up in this untenable position? Two visits by the constable in a handful of days did not bode well. The voice in her head telling her to run buzzed so insistently she could barely think.

Had her father still been alive, it would have been his voice urging her to leave. He’d always been so careful, so protective. The slightest hint of trouble and he would be packing up the caravan. But she was on her own now, forced to make a difficult choice. If she fled, she’d be leaving Elayne and Niall behind, and that upset her mightily. But staying carried a great deal of risk. She was now under scrutiny from the baron, the friar,
and
the constable. It was only a matter of time before someone dug deeper than her charade could bear and determined her true identity.

Ana shoved away from the door.

By God.
Why did she constantly indulge in such morose thoughts?
Moaning about her situation would not remedy it. Only action could do that. If she was to stay, it had to be
her
choice and it had to be a
committed
choice. She could no longer blame Niall for holding her captive—the man was unconscious. And she had reclaimed the ring.

Bending to the firepit, she stirred the peat coals and set a kettle amid the flames.

Aiding Lady Elayne was the honorable thing to do. But Elayne was not the only reason she was reluctant to leave. Ana rooted through the jars on the table, lifting the lid from each and sniffing to confirm the contents. She added a liberal amount of dried willow bark to the kettle. Once the mixture had boiled for several minutes, she lifted the pot from the fire with her hook and set it aside to steep.

Then she returned to the bed and stared down at her patient.

He was much easier to admire when he was sleeping. Without the stern lines and the icy blue glare, his face was as bonny as any she’d seen. Like this, it would be a simple matter to dismiss her feelings for him as mere infatuation. The truth, however, was more complicated. Infatuation could not explain the horrible feeling of dread she’d endured when she thought he might die. Nor could it account for the warmth that filled her chest each time he publicly claimed her as his own.

Nay. She might as well admit it.

She cared for the blackguard. ’Twas a foolish and pointless love, but it was love just the same. Why else would she even consider entering the steward’s chamber in search of the records he desired? The mere notion set her belly atremble with fear. Yet, her thoughts had returned to the possibility several times as she tended the villagers yesterday. Why? For the hope of earning a smile from Niall. Because she wanted to do him proud.

If that was not love, what was?

Not that anything would ever come of it, of course. Ana turned and packed her satchel with herbs. She could not drag another person—especially one she loved—into the mess that was her life. Not when she knew what fate held in store for her. Watching her mother burn at the stake had tortured her father like no amount of running had been able to do. His heart had broken that day, and he’d never been the same.