Trouble with a Highland Bride (3 page)

The evening was not going well. Jack slid down the stone wall and leaned his head back against it. He was trapped in the castle, he most likely faced death either at the hands of the Highlanders or his own uncles, and his foot was starting to throb. Maybe his uncles were right about him. He was too soft, too tenderhearted to be a true leader. People needed to be led with an iron fist, otherwise, they took advantage.

Surely his uncles would never have given up the twig of leaves without getting something in return. They would never have gotten in this position in the first place because they would have taken out Gwyn Campbell by any means necessary. They would not have stayed their hand, letting her go. They would have most likely subdued her by shooting her in the back from behind a tree. His charity would be the death of him.

He heard the door open and he struggled to stand. He would face death, torture, or whatever they planned for him with the courage and reserve of an Englishman. When the lovely Gwyn Campbell slipped inside the wooden door, his relief was palpable. He took a shaky breath. He was resolved to meet his fate with courage, but he would so much rather talk to a pretty young thing, even if she was a Scot.

She approached cautiously, though there was nothing of timidity about her. Her green eyes shone bright and her long, blond hair was simply dressed in two long plaits. She wore no veil, though her body showed her to be of age. She was clearly young and perhaps had not yet taken up the veil. Her green kirtle matched the color of her eyes and hugged her shapely body. Jack closed his eyes to stop the direction of his thoughts. This was how he had gotten himself into trouble in the first place.

“Greetings, milady.” He stepped closer, forgetting his injury. He winced as pain shot through his foot up his leg. He grabbed on to the gate to keep from falling and managed to slide down the stone wall slowly to a seated position on the ground without falling over or hollering in pain, but he still felt the fool.

“What is wrong?” Gwyn rushed toward him, though careful this time not to get within arm’s reach. “Are ye hurt? Is that blood?”

He was bleeding through his boot, but had hoped not to call attention to his injury. This was not the time to show weakness. “Was that not your plan, to injure me?” He closed his eyes to fight a wave of nausea. His foot was paining him something awful.

“I did try to kill ye, I fear. But I dinna ken I cut ye.” She crouched down to see him better. “How have I hurt ye?”

“Not you. I hurt myself.” He tried to give her a smile but feared it came across as more of a grimace. “I stepped on one of my own caltrops.”

“Caltrops! Ye were dropping those vicious things outside our door?” Gwyn rolled back on her heels and stood up, her momentary sympathy assuaged.

“Yes. It was a poor choice,” he admitted.

“Do ye mean to tell me there are more caltrops out there to maim unsuspecting folk, friend and foe alike?” Gwyn folded her arms across her and glared down at him, the softness in her eyes gone.

“Yes, and so far the only one I have injured is myself. Since I have been the only one to be afflicted, perhaps you will consider me well punished of my own accord.”

The corner of her mouth twitched up. “I will agree only that ye have gotten what ye deserve.”

“I would never disagree with such a fair lady.” When in doubt, flatter. And yet he did not have to stretch the truth to say he found her attractive. In truth, he wished she had been more hag-like in order to retain cogent thought when she was near.

Gwyn shook her head and crouched down once more to look at the extent of the damage. “There is a good deal o’ blood here. Ye need to get this wound dressed.”

“It will not matter much once your brother comes and the torture begins.” Jack had spent too much time with his uncles not to have a firm understanding of how the real world worked. It was not pretty—much unlike the sweet thing before him.

“Ye think my brother would torture ye?”

“I believe he will treat me to the same hospitality that my uncles would show him if the situation was reversed.”

“Then yer uncles need a lesson in hospitality. And we Highland Scots will have to give it to ye.” Gwyn had fire in her eyes in a manner most becoming. If she could prevent him from being hurt or killed, her value in his estimation would raise even higher.

“I would be most obliged to be taught this lesson in hospitality.”

“Well then.” Gwyn wiped her hands on her kirtle in a direct manner. “Let me inspect yer wound and dress it.”

“You would provide me aid?”

Gwyn gave him a critical appraisal, leaving him to wonder if he met her approval. He would feel more a man if he could stand on his own feet.

“I will help ye, though ye dinna deserve it.” She frowned at him. “Toss yer weapons beyond yer reach, for I have learned to be cautious.” She stood and stepped back from the gate.

He could hardly blame her. He paused for a moment, considering his limited options. He was not sure why she had returned only with herself, not an armed contingent of angry Highlanders, and could only assume that for whatever reason, she had not told anyone of his capture. He did not believe for a moment that she would be here alone if his presence was known. But why had she not revealed him?

Whatever her reason, she might be the only reason he was still alive. He needed her. Besides which, a sword would do him little good trapped between the gates. They could simply use him for target practice. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it aside, though further down the corridor, not through the gate. He took the golden knife and did the same.

Gwyn crept closer. “Now put yer foot through the gate, and I’ll look at it.”

Once again Jack paused. She could either be wanting to help or wanting to cut his foot clean off. He shoved his boot through the hole in the gate. His foot hurt so much, cutting it off might be a relief.

She edged closer to him, never taking her eyes off him. She took hold of the boot and shook her head. “The boot needs to come off.”

He knew it. He nodded. It was going to hurt, and he gritted his teeth together to prevent him from doing something unmanly, like crying out. She tugged on the boot, and he felt like she was tearing his foot in two. Another tug and the boot came off, along with a wave of nausea and blinking lights. He held on to the grate and willed himself not to lose consciousness from the pain.

He looked at his foot, which was a mistake. It was covered in blood and gore.

“Sorry to pain ye,” said Gwyn in a soft voice. It was comfort, and he held on to the words like a lifeline. “I’m going to need some supplies.”

He nodded and leaned his head back against the stone wall, closing his eyes. He listened to the swish of her skirts as she left. His foot may be lost. She was probably going now for a bone saw.

***

Gwyn ran back to her quarters where she slept with the other Campbell maidens and pulled some supplies out of a trunk. Why she should be helping this knight, she could not say. Practice maybe. Or perhaps the disturbing thought that if she did not help him soon, he would be in danger of losing his foot. And a man that handsome should not be maimed, even if it was his own fault.

She slipped across the dark courtyard back into the storeroom. Sir John was slumped against the wall next to the gate, a pool of blood growing on the ground beneath his foot. She approached cautiously, but he did not appear able to put up much of a fight. She sat on the ground next to him, the iron gate between them.

“Whiskey?” She held out a bottle.

He opened his eyes and shook his head. “Need to keep my wits if I have any left to keep.”

“It is yer own stupid fault for stepping on one o’ yer own caltrops.” She chastised him to prevent herself from blurting out her concern about his foot. It truly looked bad. The spike had punctured his leather boot and gouged the ball of his foot.

“I can only agree with you.” He winced as she poured water over the wound to clean it and better inspect the deep puncture.

“Why were ye out there, all alone?” asked Gwyn, to get his mind off of what she was doing.

“Thought it made sense at the time, but now I blame my uncles.”

“Then they be no friend o’ yers.”

“I know it—ow! What in blazes?!” Lockton tried to pull his foot back inside the gate, but Gwyn held on to his ankle as she poured straight whiskey over the wound.

“Isabelle believes cleansing a wound with Scots whiskey helps it to heal without festering.”

“Much obliged to her, I’m sure,” said the knight in a shaky voice through gritted teeth.

“So ye’re Isabelle’s kinsman?” asked Gwyn.

“Yes. Isabelle is my cousin, though I only met her once. I was very young.”

“Ye still look a wee lad,” said Gwyn.

“I certainly act the green ’un,” muttered Lockton. “I am twenty, but my uncles all still think of me in leading strings.”

“I am seventeen and one o’ the youngest o’ many siblings, so I have no hope of ever being treated like an adult. I’ll be treated like a babe my whole life.”

“I’ll be lucky to have much of a life. My uncles see me as an obstacle to get the inheritance of my father—ow! Including this castle.” Lockton took a shaky breath.

“Bad blood wi’ yer uncles?” Gwyn tried to be as gentle as possible, but she knew what must be done pained him.

“I inherited many lands, including this one, after my father died last year. I have no other brothers, so if something happened to me…”

“Ye mean yer uncles are trying to kill ye?” gasped Gwyn.

Lockton shrugged. “If they wanted to kill me, they would have done it by now. I doubt they want my blood on their hands, but they are not beyond putting me into the jaws of danger and watching to see if I am bit.”

“That’s horrible!”

“If I had brothers, I would not make such a tempting target, but I fear I have naught but sisters. Five of them,” Lockton said gloomily.

“I am one o’ seven sisters.”

“My sympathies to your brother.”

“He also has seven brothers.”

The knight’s eyebrows lifted. “That is a lot of siblings.”

Gwyn smiled. She always enjoyed her large family, except for the times when they were a trial to her. “There are a lot o’ Campbells to be sure. We are different in ways, but we do support one another. I canna believe, Sir John, that yer own kin would be so consumed wi’ greed as to wish ye dead.”

He shrugged. “Call me Jack,” said the knight with a lopsided smile and a gasp.

“I ken this pains ye…Jack.” To call him by his familiar name was too intimate for her enemy and prisoner, yet it felt right on her lips. “Would ye no’ like a draught o’ whiskey?”

“No. I am well, thank you.” His words and the tremulous tone of his voice were not in concert, but Gwyn was impressed by his stoicism. She knew what she was doing to clean the gory wound must hurt him something terrible, but he pretended to be only mildly affected.

She finally applied a salve that was Isabelle’s own creation. It burned like fire, but it was renowned for healing wounds. “This may sting a bit.”

“Is it quite necessary to set my foot ablaze?” he gasped.

“It will heal faster.” She wrapped the foot in a generous amount of linen.

“I thank thee.” He drew his foot back through the gate and breathed a sigh of relief that her ministrations were complete. “So you have a large family?”

“Aye, there are a lot of us Campbells. My mother died several years ago, so my brother and Isabelle are like parents to me, though everyone says I’ve grown up verra wild.”

“Wild? As in wearing a man’s costume and riding out to the parlay or sneaking out the side gate to pick flowers?”

“I was trying to save a life!”

“And endangered many others. You should not have done it,” he criticized.

“Och! This is the thanks I get for helping ye. If I wanted to be chastised, I would go to my brother.” She was particularly irritated because she knew he was right, but she thought it most uncharitable for him to mention it.

“Did you go to your brother and tell him about me?” His eyes were suspicious.

“Aye, o’ course I did. They will come when they have the time. Ye are no’ that important.”

“You told nobody.” He was confident in the answer.

“I will leave ye then.” Gwyn busied herself collecting her bandages and salves. She would go right now and tell David.

“Forgive me,” he said quickly. “’Tis the pain making me uncharitable. I thank thee for your assistance. I did not expect such kindness.” He reached through the gate and touched her hand. His hand was cold, yet it sent heat radiating through her. Very odd.

“Ye’re cold.” She placed his hand between hers. “And shaking.” His hand was trembling. A closer look revealed he was shivering beneath his hauberk.

“I am fine,” he lied.

“Nay, ’tis the shock. Ye need to keep warm. The evening grows cold.” Indeed it had. Thick, gray clouds had rolled in, bringing torrential rain. Though the gated passage provided shelter from the rain, the air was damp and cold.

“Not cold.” He shivered when he said it.

Gwyn bounded up and searched the storeroom only for a minute before she found what she was looking for and returned with her arms full of a long length of Campbell plaid. “Wrap yerself in this.”

The knight’s eyebrows rose. “You wish for me to wrap myself in the colors of your clan?”

Gwyn crouched beside him, for she doubted he could stand. “I offer ye the plaid to keep yerself from going into shock, ye daft man. But do as yer pride allows.”

The knight took the cloth. “My pride is cold.”

“Here now, ye should remove yer armor, or ye’ll ne’er get warm.”

“I cannot without help from my squire.”

“I shall squire ye.” Gwyn gave him a bold smile even as her heart beat faster. Was she truly going to undress this knight?

His eyes met hers and held them. Heat flashed up the back of her neck. His eyes were bright; his lips looked soft. She leaned a bit closer in spite of herself.

“Forgive me, but why are you being kind?” he asked.

“I dinna ken.” She was honest at least. “Ye did most likely save a young girl’s life. Seems right to return the favor. I hate to see any poor beast in pain when it is in my power to correct it.”