Prologue
Thirteen February 1692
Glencoe Scotland
Clan MacDonald’s keep
Dawn broke with blood-curdling shrieks and shouts. Gunfire fed into the chaos. Though the bitter winds of winter howled outside, scorching hot air, thick and stifling to the lungs, filled the halls of the stronghold.
Acrid smoke, heavy with the oily scent of pitch and burned flesh, hung low across every room. Tarred brands embedded deep wherever they’d landed crackled and blazed as their black oozing fuel took hold and gained strength.
Alexander MacCoinnich rose from his crouched position behind a bullet-riddled column, stealing a glance beyond its cover. Relief washed across him as he peered through the choking haze and located his brother. Graham hurried in his direction, was almost to him, in fact. Duncan and Sutherland, the youngest of the four MacCoinnich brothers, followed close behind.
Thank God he found them. A bullet cut Alexander’s thankfulness short as it burrowed bone deep into his upper thigh. He staggered back against the column, struggling to remain upright. Teeth clenched, he leveled his pistol, took aim, and downed the bastard that had shot him.
His brothers reached him. Alexander motioned toward the end of the room where the chieftain’s overturned table was consumed by fire. “Behind that table. Past the burning tapestry. A passage. We canna win this.” Another shot bored into the meat of his shoulder, almost taking him to the ground. Burning pain radiated through his body. “Move! Now! I’m feckin’ tired of getting shot!”
“Graham, carry the great hulking beast!” Duncan flinched and glanced about for the source of closer gunfire. “Sutherland and I’ll guard your backs.”
A man, wild-eyed and screaming Clan Campbell’s battle cry, plowed toward Duncan who, with the agility born of countless battles, side-stepped away from the man’s bayonet then took the intruder down with a single swipe of his claymore. Sword held at the ready, Duncan backed closer to his older brothers. “And ye ken Sutherland and I’ll be reminding the both of ye that from this day forward the youngest MacCoinnichs bested the eldest brothers, aye?”
“Aye,” Sutherland said, chiming in as he ducked under the arm of another raging swordsman and plunged his dagger deep into the man’s side. He yanked the dying man’s sword out of his hand, admired the weapon, then secured it into his own belt. “Never hear the end of it if we let Alexander die. The nagging bugger would haunt us the rest of our days, ye ken?”
“I’m no’ dead yet,” Alexander said as he shoved his pistols into his belt. Ammunition gone and pistols useless, a sense of doom tightened deep in his gut but he wouldna give it free rein. This isna the end. He drew his dagger from its sheath, wishing he had the strength to heft the weight of his claymore hanging at his side. Wishes were futile in this hell. The bullet robbing his shoulder of its strength was the reality.
His sight dimmed for an instant and the steady high-pitched ring of blood loss hummed in his ears. Palming his dagger, he blinked hard against the suffocating fog of agony threatening to overtake him. Past battles had been worse. He’d push through this and get his brothers safe and tended to afore he relented and gave in to the darkness threatening to knock him on his arse. I’ll be damned if I pass out and let Campbell and his bloody regiment take me. He staggered to one side.
Graham hitched himself up under Alexander’s arm and clenched him tight around the middle. “Ye can do this, damn ye. Dinna let them win.” Gunfire sounded close behind them. The smell of spent gunpowder followed as quick as thunder follows lightning. Graham grunted and jerked a step forward. He bowed his head and grimaced, pain evident in his scowl.
Bullet-riddled columns and upended tables provided little cover. One arm clutched around Graham's shoulders, Alexander stumbled and half-crawled the remaining few feet to the blazing chieftain's table. They made their way past it, then pushed into the shallow alcove concealed behind the flaming tapestry. Duncan and Sutherland stayed close behind, then took up guard on either side of the alcove.
Heat from the ignited tapestry threatened to sizzle his flesh and the sharp scent of burnt hair surrounded him. Alexander pushed away from the support of his brother. Roaring against the excruciating torture of his wounds, he slammed his hands against specific stones inlaid in the wall and shoved. The hidden doorway opened. Thank God. He staggered into the darkness, sagging back against the rough slab of the inner wall and pulled in a deep breath of the cool dank air. He motioned at the still open door as his brothers dashed into the tunnel with him.
“Those stones,” he said as he struggled to remain upright. “Push the two stones at the base and it will close. The bastards willna be able to follow.” He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to MacIain, Clan MacDonald’s chief, for sharing the keep’s secrets before the attack. The hidden tunnel bettered their odds of surviving.
Duncan and Sutherland shoved at the blocks Alexander had pointed out before they lost the light of the blazing tapestry. Stone ground and gritted against stone and inky blackness blotted out all light as the massive door settled back in place. Alexander slumped against the wall then fisted his hands so hard his knuckles popped. He’d failed. Failed in their mission to protect Clan MacDonald of Glencoe as hired to do so by MacIain’s kin, the Lord of the Isles himself, the chieftain of Clan Donald of Islay.
The bile of defeat burned the back of his throat. Alexander closed his eyes a scant moment, pulling in deep breaths and blowing them out. Now isna the time to wallow. Must move on. They had but one choice. Save themselves. Live to fight another day and perhaps, if God so willed it, avenge those murdered this day. For that was what this was: murder. Not battle. Not war. Not a skirmish between clans. This attack had been a calculated act of cold-blooded murder.
Alexander shifted in the darkness, a darkness that played hell with a man’s equilibrium. He turned to hitch his way forward, deeper into the tunnel. “This way.” He forced himself to sound a damn sight stronger than he felt. “MacIain said the tunnel leads to the back of the keep. If the way is clear, we can make it to the trees and then to the cave.”
“Horses?” Graham asked. His pained wheezing echoed in the dank, cool darkness.
“Do ye truly think they left the stables untouched?” Alexander couldn’t help biting out the words. His wounds were pushing him to the edge of sanity. “The bastards probably set fire to them first. Ye ken that as well as I.”
He dragged himself along, right shoulder scraping against the rough, grainy surface of the wall. Feet shuffling, he made a careful sweep of his boot before each step to avoid whatever surprise the darkness might hold. He was growing weaker, his injured leg heavier. He concentrated on breathing, remaining upright, and ignoring the burning stab of agonizing pain radiating from several places on his body. Three times he’d been shot. Four if ye counted the grazing across his ribs, and he’d lost track of how many wounds he’d earned courtesy of swords, bayonets, and daggers. Best talk of something to keep the pain at bay. “We best thank Almighty God and all the saints for revealing that cave to us on our way here to Glencoe. ’Twill give us shelter to rest,” he said to anyone willing to listen. “And tend to our wounds.”
“And then?” Duncan asked from somewhere behind him in the darkness.
“Leave ‘then’ to God,” Alexander said. “Only He kens that answer and I’m a damn sight too weary at the moment to ask Him.” One hand feeling his way, he sent up a silent prayer that his strength would hold until they reached the cave.
Alexander blinked hard at the cold sweat running into his eyes and setting them on fire. Sight was useless in the dark tomb of the tunnel. It felt as though they’d been crawling through this clammy black hell for hours. The sounds of the attack had grown quieter—at least as far as he could tell what with the roaring of his blood pounding in his ears. He didna ken if it was because they’d made their way well past the belly of the keep or if Campbell’s troops had finished their massacre of the entire clan. Damn Robert Campbell and his men straight to hell.
“I feel fresh air,” Sutherland called out. “Take care, brother. Who’s to say they’re no’ waiting for anyone trying to escape.”
“Hold fast.” Alexander stopped and leaned back against the solid wall, gulping in deep breaths to rally his waning strength. He’d emerge from the tunnels first. A winged bird. An easy target in case danger lay ahead. “The lot of ye stay here until I deem it safe and call out to ye to follow, aye?”
“Nay,” Graham argued. “I’ll go. I’ve shot left in my pistol and my wounds are no’ so bad as yours.”
“Ye will stay here.” Alexander adopted the growling tone he’d oft used to keep his brothers in line when they were lads. Aye, his wounds pained him something severe, but he wasna dead yet and as eldest, they best remember he was still verra much in charge. “I'll no' go to my grave with your death on my conscience, ye ken?”
“But ye’d burden me with your death on mine?” Graham took hold of Alexander’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders for support. “We go together. The pups can stay behind.”
“Like hell, we will,” Sutherland said. “And I’m no’ a damn pup, ye condescending bastard.”
“We all go,” Duncan interjected. “Or none of us go, aye?”
“God’s bones, every last one of ye pains me.” But his brothers filled him with pride. Alexander held Graham’s shoulder tighter and pushed himself forward. “Come then. Mother bore us all years apart but if we die today, we die together.”
An icy gust of wind swooshed into the tunnel just as Alexander spotted daylight winking in the darkness up ahead. They’d made it through the keep. If what MacIain had said was true, the tunnel opened a few yards out at the mouth of a shallow ravine. He’d said a burn was nearby and ’twas sheltered by a thick stand of pines. Water from the burn would be most welcome about now. Alexander swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He’d relish one last drink before he died. If he had his druthers, whisky wouldha been his first choice, but water would have to do.
He and Graham pushed their way through the ramshackle door. A circle of dense spiky hedging concealing the exit of the tunnel greeted them. Alexander stumbled, then cursed under his breath as the wicked gorse and its relentless spikes tore across his flesh.
A horse snorted and grumbled just beyond the barrier of thorns.
“Christ Almighty,” Alexander said in a strained whisper as he grabbed hold of Graham and pulled them both down into a low crouch. He hissed out a barely stifled groan with the effort. “We’re found.”
“Ready yourselves.” Alexander lifted his dagger. Faint shuffling sounded behind him. The metallic shushing of drawn steel. The click of pistols armed to fire.
“If ye shoot me or cut me, I’ll no’ save your sorry arses, I grant ye that.”
Relief flooded so hard through Alexander that it staggered him to one side. He clutched at a gorse branch for support. ’Twas Magnus. His closest friend. “Magnus, ye wily bastard. When the hell did ye arrive and how in the name of all that’s holy did ye know of the tunnel?”
“Ye can see the black smoke as far as Fort William. I got here as fast as I could.” The branches of the stubborn gorse bushes rattled as they shook then gave way as Magnus de Gray, dubbed ‘Ghost’ due to both his stealth and his looks, hacked them aside with his sword. “And never underestimate what secrets ye can discover about a keep by befriending lovely maids with a bone to pick with their former master.” Magnus grew quiet as he reached Alexander and Graham still crouching at the heart of the bushes. His mouth tightened into a grim line when he saw their wounds. “Hurry. From the looks of ye, we’ve no’ much time and rumor has it there be at least two more regiments coming to ensure there are no survivors and that no one escapes the glen from either of the passes.”
“There’s a cave. Higher. Above the northern rise.” Alexander winced, and a groan escaped him as Magnus and Graham helped him to his feet. Ignore the pain. Must make it to the cave. Darkness whirled around him, knocking him off balance and making him stumble to one side. “Shelter in the cave. Higher. Must go higher into the mountains.”
“Ye’ll ride my horse. The stables are nothing but smoldering ash and no’ a beast in sight. The rest of us will have to walk.” Magnus took Graham’s place under Alexander’s arm. He, Duncan, and Sutherland hefted Alexander onto the horse.
“I owe ye a bottle of the best whisky in Scotland,” Alexander said as he sagged forward in the saddle. It felt good to sit, or at least as close to good as he could get right now through all this worrisome pain. If he could just remain upright until they reached the cave, then he’d lie down and if anyone disturbed him, he’d damn well shoot them.
With more effort than he thought he could muster, he hitched forward in the saddle, breaking out in a cold sweat as the need to retch washed across him. He swallowed hard and pulled in deep breaths against the nauseating pain. “Put Graham behind me. He’s wounded as well and mighty Stoic can haul us both.” He leaned forward and patted the great horse’s shaggy neck. “Ye willna mind toting us both, will ye, Stoic?”
At the sound of his name, the large black horse tossed his head and responded with a friendly grumble and a stomp of one of his great hairy feet.
“I can walk,” Graham said in an insulted growl.
“Ye think I’m being generous but I’m not, dear brother. With your arse in the saddle behind me, ye’ll block that icy wind and keep me warm.”
“We must go,” Magnus advised with a concerned look around. Dark smoke billowed from every orifice in the once grand castle behind them and flames licked out around the blocks of stone. Unmistakable sounds of pillaging and men on the move grew closer.
“Verra well then.” Graham feigned a bow that ended in a flinching grab of his wounded side. With Magnus’s and Duncan’s help and a great deal of cursing, Graham pulled himself aboard the huge horse and settled in behind Alexander.
Alexander grunted as Graham shifted behind him and wrapped the length of his kilt around them both. The slightest of moves pained him. Perhaps staying warm wasna the best idea. At least if he grew cold, he might grow numb as well. As if in answer to this thought, a sudden gust of icy wind cut across him and huge clusters of snowflakes filled the air. Snow. A double-edged sword. It could hide their tracks or grow so deep they’d founder.
With a hard wince that stole his breath, he hunched forward in the saddle and urged the horse into a faster trot toward the cover of the dense thicket of pines. Magnus, Duncan, and Sutherland fanned out, dashing into the woods on either side of the horse.
“God be with us,” Alexander whispered, a pained grunt escaping him and his breath fogging in the frigid air. Agony pounded through him with every jolt of the horse’s gait. He blinked hard, head swimming and vision fading in and out of focus. He peered up into the murky sky, not even bothering to blink as the heavy, wet snowflakes plopped into his eyes.
“God get us to safety—or at the verra least, save my brothers and Magnus.” His breath steamed across the frosting folds of the kilt bunched at his throat. He dragged the sign of the cross against his chest then sagged to one side, the world around him fading into a fog of darkness. “Please…”
Chapter 1
Tor Ruadh - Clan Neal’s keep
Ben Nevis - Scotland
February 1692
“Ye tied these laces tight enough, I give ye that.” Gaersa yanked at the leather strips snugging the fur shaft of the boot around Catriona’s calves. The old woman bent lower, scowling at the knots as she plucked at them with her thick, crooked fingers.
Catriona Neal clenched her fists in her lap to keep from brushing Gaersa’s stiff, knobby hands out of the way and untying the boots herself. Stubborn Gaersa Aberfeldy, housekeeper to Clan Neal as far back as Catriona could remember. She reckoned the old woman would best the task in her own time. 'Twould hurt the housekeeper’s feelings o’er much if Catriona took the job from her.
I’ll ne’er be free of these boots.
Catriona forced herself not to fidget. If she moved, Gaersa would try to hurry then fumble at the chore all the longer. The door to the turret room burst open and banged against the wall, startling all thoughts of footwear out of her mind.
Gaersa yanked the boot off Catriona’s foot and threw it at the red-faced young lad hopping in place in the doorway. “Sawny Fitzgerald, I’ll box your ears for ye, I will! Gave us such a fright, ye did. What do ye mean blowing into a room like that?”
“Hunters,” Sawny said between huffing gasps. Eyes wide and hands held high with fingers outspread, he skittered back and forth like a wee scarecrow caught in a strong wind. He swallowed hard, sucked in a great gulp of air, then blew it out. “Hunters are back and…” he paused to draw another deep breath.
“And what?” Catriona prompted. If the boy had just startled the life out of them to tell her the hunters were back and they’d managed to find meat, she’d box his ears herself.
“Men!” Sawny dragged the back of his hand across his mouth then thumped it to the center of his narrow chest. He leaned forward, bobbing his shaggy head in such an excited jerking nod 'twas small wonder that he didn’t snap his spindly neck. “They found men. Near dead they are.”
Sweet Jesu, now what?
Catriona yanked off her other boot and shoved both feet into the everyday shoes she’d left in the turret room before going outside to walk the path atop the skirting wall. “How many?” She rose from the bench and shook her heavy woolen skirts down into place.
“Two, mistress.” Sawny grew more animated as he fidgeted in the doorway. He edged his way back out into the hallway, waving for Catriona to follow. “But Mr. Murtagh says there be more still out there in the snow. He said to fetch ye with great haste.”
“More?” Catriona shooed the boy forward, hurrying down the hall beside him. “Are ye telling me they left some out there to die in the cold?” She knew Murtagh was no lover of his fellow man but he wasna heartless.
Sawny’s blue eyes rounded even wider. He gave a dismissive shrug as he scurried along beside her. “I’m only saying what Mr. Murtagh said say to ye, mistress.” He scuttled and hopped, struggling to keep up with Catriona’s long-legged stride. “I be begging your pardon if it offends ye, mistress, but I swear on me mam’s grave that’s what he said say.”
Catriona bit back her words to keep from quashing the young boy further. It wasn’t the lad’s fault. He was naught but twelve years old and small for his age. A child. He adored Murtagh Aberfeldy and shadowed the stable master’s every step when he wasn’t tending to his duties as a kitchen boy helping Cook. “I thank ye for fetching me. Now hie back to the kitchen. I’m sure Cook will be looking for ye to help with the evening meal.”
The lad’s shoulders sagged, and his round face fell as they hurried down the last winding curve of stairs leading to the main floor of the keep. It was quite plain to see that Sawny would much rather return to Murtagh than see to his responsibilities. His forlorn expression pulled at Catriona’s heart. She set a hand on his shoulder and paused their descent down the winding stairwell. “If your sister Jenny can do your share in the kitchens, just this once, ye may come and help Murtagh rather than help Cook.”
Sawny’s little mouth twisted to one side. His pitiful look shifted to one of guilt. “I dinna ken if Jenny will do my share as well as hers for Cook. She’s still a bit red-arsed about…” Sawny’s words trailed off and the lad seemed quite unable to look Catriona in the eye. After a deep breath, he peered up at her through his shaggy fringe of unkempt hair and drew his shoulders into a cringing shrug. “I dinna think she’ll help me.”
“What did ye do to Jenny?” Catriona had four brothers. She was well acquainted with young boys' antics.
“Me and Tom caught a rat and put it in Jenny’s room.” Sawny shifted sideways with a guilty twitch. “But it was mostly Tom’s idea.” Sawny drew closer and lowered his voice to a secretive tone. “I think he likes Jenny.”
Catriona rolled her eyes and shook her head. Males. “If ye canna find a way to make things right with Jenny so she’ll do your chores, then ye canna come and help Murtagh, ye ken?”
“Aye,” Sawny said in a dejected tone as he plodded down the remaining steps. By the time he’d reached the main landing, determination squared his narrow shoulders, and he darted off toward the kitchens. Sawny was not a lad to give up on an opportunity.
Skirts fisted in both hands and held high above her steps, Catriona hurried into the heart of the keep: the clan’s meeting hall. Just inside the front entrance to the great room, closest to the tall double doors that led outside to the bailey, six of Clan Neal’s hunters and Murtagh stood clustered together. Amid the hunter’s hulking fur-wrapped forms lay two men. They had been placed across a pair of benches pulled together to keep them up out of the muck and wet snow tracked inside. The men appeared dead, so still they were and so absent of color. Murtagh turned at the sound of her approach and the rest of the hunters shuffled back a few feet.
Catriona circled the unconscious men stretched across the benches, apprising their grim condition. Sweet Jesu. Look at them. Barely drawing breath. So near dead. She looked up at Murtagh. “Sawny said there were more?”
“Aye. Found them on the northern ridge between here and Glen Coe.” Murtagh frowned down at the pair as he shrugged off the heavy fur cloak from around his shoulders and tossed it across a nearby table. Strong, healthy fires crackled in the two great hearths of the long hall, making the high-ceilinged room too warm for outdoor clothing. “Old MacAlpin’s cave. Seven of them.” He dipped his grizzled chin in a single nod toward the lifeless men. “These two were the worst, so we brought them here.” He locked eyes with Catriona, a grim look of finality on his face. “They’ve but one horse betwixt them all and the drifting snow be too deep for them to walk here in their condition. Might survive another few days. A fortnight at best. They’ve no food or water. Ill prepared, they are.”
“Gather additional men and whatever ye need to fetch the rest. We’ll no' be leaving anyone to suffer and die.” Peering under the bloodied plaid wrapped around the man on the left, Catriona cringed. Gunshot wounds. Cuts. Deep slashes in dire need of stitching. She pressed the back of her hand to the side of his neck. Fever. The man burned hot to the touch even after traveling in the frigid weather. She checked the second man. He was overly warm, too.
“Storm’s a coming,” Murtagh said, as he retrieved his fur cloak and the gloves he’d tossed on the table beside it.
Catriona knew Murtagh wasn’t arguing with her request. He was merely stating a fact. She looked up at him and nodded. “Aye, I saw the clouds to the north of us. Ye’d best hurry.” She turned to the hunters still hovering close by. “We canna leave those others to die. Think how ye would feel if it were your own kin lost in this weather.” She stood taller and lifted her chin. “A storm doesna exist that a Neal hunter canna best. I ken ye will all be safe enough, aye?”
The biggest and burliest of the group, Ranald, stepped forward. “Aye, mistress. We’ll get them all fetched afore the storm hits. Ne'er ye fret.” He turned and glared at the other men still skulking back in the shadows beneath the gallery running the circumference of the great room. “Ye heard Mistress Catriona. Each of ye fetch an additional man and be quick about it. Extra supplies as well in case the storm delays us.”
“And rig up some sledges. Five of them,” Murtagh said. “I willna be taking extra horses just to risk losing them in the pass.” He turned back to Catriona, scowling at her with a pained expression. After a stolen glance at the hunters scattering to gather supplies, he leaned in close and lowered his voice. “Ye will light a candle and say the words for us, aye? As your mother always did?”
“Aye.” Of course she’d light a candle and say the words. She just wished she’d inherited her mother’s talents when it came to the mysteries and influencing the way of things. She’d yet to see any results from uttering words, lighting candles, or burning bundles of herbs.
No time to mourn lost abilities now. Catriona motioned forward the ever-growing cluster of servants peeping into the room through multiple arched doorways lining the great hall. “Come. The lot of ye. We’ve work to do. Our healing room will be here in the hall.”
Gaersa emerged from the turret stairwell, her face round and shining with sweat and her plump arms pumping at her sides. She waddled as fast and furious as her matronly form would allow. With a swipe of her fingers across her forehead, she tucked in the strands of gray hair escaping out from under the ruffles of her white cap. After a deep intake of air, she clapped her hands and barked out her orders. “Blankets. Linens. Hot water and basins. In front of the hearths. Off with ye now!”
Servants mobilized. White-capped maids scurried to fetch the required items and scullery lads rushed to pull the long dinner tables and benches out of the way.
Catriona gazed down at the two wounded men, concern, compassion, and indecision fighting for supremacy within her. Who in God’s name did this to ye? And will they follow ye and do the same to us?
“Are ye tetched?” The familiar bellowing sneer echoed from across the room.
“No worse than yourself, dear brother.” Catriona spared a glance back at her belligerent twin. “I’ve no time to deal with ye, Calum. Take the boys and go if ye’re no' inclined to help us tend to these men.”
“We can help.” Twins Murray and Dougal sprang out from behind their older brother. The pair of nine-year-olds grabbed hold of a nearby bench and started wrestling it toward the wall.
“Fine boys, ye are, the both of ye.” Catriona gave them a proud nod. At least her youngest brothers were still her allies. She waved a hand toward them as she turned her attention back to her other two siblings who would just as soon feed her to the wolves. “The two of ye could take lessons from Murray and Dougal. Willing to help their fellow man, they are. It might do both your souls some good to learn their ways, I grant ye that.”
Calum and her fifteen-year-old brother, Angus, glared at her from where they stood beside the chief’s chair on the raised platform at the head of the room. Both stood with chests puffed out like insulted birds of prey, glowering at the readying of the hall for the wounded.
“Dinna worry after my soul, dear sister,” Calum said. A low growl added a deeper level of hatred to his words. He made a pompous sweeping motion with one hand, encompassing the entire room. “The dead of winter and ye’re taking in more mouths to feed?” He glared at her and took a threatening step forward, fisted hands trembling at his sides. “Damned foolish, it is. Ye’re showing complete disregard for the well-being of your own clan.”
Catriona ignored him as she directed Geordie and Tamhas, two men from the hunting group, to place the injured men on tables the servants had padded with blankets and placed close to one of the hearths. “Gentle as ye can, lads. Gentle as ye can.”
“Ye will do me the courtesy of listening when I speak, Catriona. Do ye hear me? I willna have ye risking the survival of our clan by taking in complete strangers who look to have been involved in who knows what sort of ill-gotten venture. Did it ever occur to ye that ye could endanger all of us by taking in possible traitors to the Crown?” Calum glared at her as though she mattered less than the scraps thrown to the dogs. “'Tis damned foolish and I’ll no’ permit it, ye ken?”
“Aye,” young Angus chimed in, taking another step forward to keep himself shoulder to shoulder with Calum.
I’ve no time for your arrogant arses, dear brothers. Catriona drew in a calming breath and released it in a slow, controlled hiss, determined to hold her tongue and not rise to Calum’s bait. She’d learned long ago that ignoring Calum was the surest way to vex him and she did so at every opportunity.
“Fetch Elena,” she said to Sawny as she tended to the man who seemed to be in the worse condition of the two.
Sawny bolted toward the door, barely pausing long enough to bundle up with an extra plaid before rushing out into the bitter cold weather to follow his mistress’s orders.
“I bid ye respond, sister!” Calum slammed a hand down hard atop the chieftain’s table. “In fact, I demand it!” His deep voice boomed with barely held fury. Calum’s temper matched the flaming red of his hair and his cruelty knew no bounds. All in the keep feared him. All except Catriona.
Spoiled bastard. Mother had always coddled him, justified it by saying he’d nearly died at birth whilst Catriona had thrived. Catriona squared off and faced Calum. “I hear your words, brother. Since it’s obvious ye’ll be of no help, I bid that ye at least stay out of my way. Can ye manage that, Calum? You and your wee shadow there?” Teeth clenched, she lifted her chin and glared at her brothers, daring them to challenge her. She was in no mood to try to keep Calum appeased today.
“Come, Angus,” Calum said with a dismissive huffing snort. “We shall deal with Catriona later, after I’ve apprised Father of this foolhardiness. Last I checked, he still led Clan Neal.”
Angus shot Catriona a taunting sneer before trotting off to catch up with his older brother.
Fools. 'Twould do little good to run to Father. Their sire’s only concern of late was how quickly he could drown himself in whisky and port. He cared even less about kith and kin than he had when he was strong enough to emerge from his rooms—and then he didna give a tinker’s damn.
Catriona returned her attention to her deathly still patient. As gently as she could, she peeled away the man’s blood-encrusted léine. A low hiss escaped her as the clotted wounds fought to hold tight to the weave of the cloth then oozed with fresh blood when she pulled the material free. Judas, so much blood and damage. How could one man survive such?
She unsheathed the blade she kept belted to her waist and cut away the soiled bloody garment bit by bit. Bile rose at the back of her throat. A hard swallow kept it at bay as she clamped her lips tight against the sight before her. She refused to flinch or turn away.
“Blessed Mother,” Gaersa whispered from the opposite side of the table. “The man’s a bloody mess. How does he still draw breath?”
Catriona agreed. 'Twas small wonder this great brute of a man still lived. His body looked as though he’d fought an entire regiment.
“Best prop his injured leg a bit higher,” Catriona said as she uncovered the vicious wound in his thigh. “'Twill ease the stress off the wound as we work.” She pulled away the remainder of his kilt, revealing his man parts in the process. Sweet Jesu, Mary, and Joseph. Her breath caught in her throat at the increased pace of her heartbeat. The braw comely warrior was quite blessed indeed.
“My my…a giant of a man and no' lacking beneath his kilt either. That’s for certain.” Gaersa hurried to drape a linen across him and gave Catriona a stern shake of her head. “'Tis no' proper for a lady, a maiden, mind ye, such as yourself to be seeing such. Ye tend to his wounds from the waist up. Elena and I will tend to his injuries from the waist down.”
Elena Bickerstaff, Clan Neal’s healer, appeared at Gaersa’s side. The frail crone shrugged off her wraps and cloak and handed them to Sawny without taking her eyes off the man stretched across the length of the table. “This warrior has seen great troubles.” The old woman stretched her bent frame up on tip toe to peer closer at the man. With narrowed eyes and sparse white brows knotted together, her thin, bony hands flitted all across his body, examining every wound.
She finished with a sharp shake of her head. Her knobby hands planted on the side of the pallet, she straightened as much as her twisted back would allow and scowled across him at Catriona. “Still full of lead, he is, and some of his wounds already set to festering. We’ll have to get the bullets out of him and cauterize the wounds.” She gave him another slow sweeping, up and down look. The silver-white wisps of hair peeping out from under her cap fluttered about her wrinkled face like cobwebs. “He’s a great beast of a man, he is. Muscled. Strong. 'Tis probably all that’s kept him alive.” She hitched her way over to the second man and began her examination of him.
“They’re both huge,” Gaersa said as she toddled over to the hearth, swung an iron bar out from the fireplace, and hung a kettle of water on it before swinging it back over the roiling coals. “We’ll be needing plenty of boiling water, that’s for certain.”
Catriona stayed by the man with the more severe wounds, smoothing his dark hair away from his face and resting her palm across his burning brow. So many wounds. What horrors have ye seen? The thought of the pain he’d already endured and the agony of healing yet to come grabbed hold of her heart and twisted.
“Ye’re safe now, lad,” she whispered to him. “Safe and warm.” It didna matter that he might no' hear her words. She needed to say them. Perhaps 'twould somehow help him.
She wrung out a cloth in the basin of warm water and set to the task of washing him, cleaning away the blood and dirt from his great hulking body with as gentle a touch as she possessed. She had to ensure they didna miss the tending of a single wound. Even in his disabled state, the man was a wondrous sight indeed. A chest broader than any she’d seen. His entire body so muscular, it felt rock hard to the touch. The silent strength of him beneath her hands mesmerized her as she ran the soft, wet cloth across his ridges of muscle. Catriona swallowed hard, strange warm flutterings surging through her. What was he like when he was whole and awake? What sort of man might he be?
While Gaersa and Elena tended to the other unconscious man, Catriona was quite aware of their glances her way, watching to ensure that she didn’t tend to any part of the man that a maiden shouldn’t touch unless that man happened to be her husband.
“Have ye e’er seen so many scars?” Gaersa asked as she hefted another steaming kettle of water from the fire and sat it on the bench between the two men. She waved for the two maids carrying candelabras with fresh candles to come forward and place the additional lighting on benches at the heads of both men. “These lads have seen their share of battles afore whatever happened this time. Some of those scars are old. And they favor each other. Reckon they’re kin?”
“Hair black as soot and both the size of great hulking bears? Aye. They’re kin. I’d wager maybe brothers even.” Elena covered her patient with a light blanket, then bent with a stiff shuffle and scooped up the cloth sack she’d brought with her. “We’ll be needing a mighty poultice for the both of them once we rid them of their bullets.” She hitched her way toward the kitchen, then paused and turned back, shaking a crooked finger at Catriona. “I’ll no' have ye about whilst we cut out the bullets and cauterize the wounds. I ken you’re the lady of the keep since your mother’s death and ye’ve guided this clan during your sire’s ill health, but ye’re still a maiden and it’s no' proper for ye to witness such.” Elena waved away any possibility of argument as she walked away. “Content yourself to lighting a candle for them and saying the words.”
A fool candle and strange words willna heal this man. Prayers? Aye. But I’ll no’ waste my time mimicking my mother’s dabbling in the ancient ways. Elena’s advice heated her blood, made her resolve to help the man beneath her hands all the stronger. She meant to tend to this poor warrior and Elena's druthers were better directed elsewhere. Catriona drew in a deep breath and eased it out as her gaze settled on the man’s large hand resting at his side. Two of his fingers swelled with a hideous purple coloring and were more than likely broken. With as gentle a touch as possible, she repositioned his arm and propped his injured hand atop a folded cloth. They’d have to splint those later. So many wounds. Braw mighty man or no’, how could anyone survive this? She feared all their care and mending might be for naught.
“Do ye hear my words, Catriona?” Elena repeated in a tired but firm tone. “I’ll no’ have ye seeing such.”
She met Elena’s scowl with a defiant tilt of her chin. “Ye will be in need of my help.” She looked over at Gaersa to include her in the conversation. “Your combined wisdom is great and I respect the both of ye more than ye’ll e’er know but the both of ye are older and your strength wanes. I’ll be helping with the tending of these men. I dinna believe in shirking duties no matter how unpleasant. These two need attention as fast as we can give it.” As if to cement her vow, Catriona pulled the linen back, uncovered the man in front of her, and dabbed away the blood and grime from the wound high on his upper thigh. “And I verra much doubt that the washing of an unconscious man is a grave danger to my maidenhead, ye ken?”
Inwardly, she smiled. Aye, her maidenhead was quite safe, but in all fairness to Gaersa and Elena’s reservations, the sight before her did set her to musing. What might it be like to be wanted by such a comely made man? She blew out an excited breath and swiped the back of one hand across her forehead. The hall seemed overly warm, and she wondered at the prudence in placing the men so close to the hearths.
For the sake of her own temperature, she drew the linen back across the man’s middle and busied herself with tending to his other wounds.
Chapter 2
His screams shattered the nighttime peace of the hall, but the word scream didna provide an accurate description of the heart-wrenching sound. The warrior’s growling roars sounded more like unimaginable pain unleashed from the depths of his anguished soul. 'Twas a hellish sound that echoed off the rafters.
Jolted awake, Catriona sprang up from her pallet and rushed to the thrashing warrior’s side. Thank the saints, they’d strapped him to his sickbed or he would have tumbled to the floor by now. The man's safety demanded restraints. There had been no choice. He’d never survive another round of bleeding.
“Shh…'tis all right. ’Tis all over. Ye’re safe now.” She wrung out a cloth in a basin of cool water and sponged it across the suffering man’s forehead, daubing the sweat from his brow with slow, gentle movements. She laid a hand to his cheek, against the side of his neck, then rested it on the center of his broad heaving chest. Her heart lifted at the cool, clammy touch to his skin. “Praise be. Your fever’s broke at last.”
A relieved breath escaped her as she pressed the damp cloth along his throat and collarbone, wiping away the sheen of sweat the fever left in its wake. Praise the Almighty, 'tis at last broken. Fierce thing it was. They’d rid his body of bullets, staunched his bleeding with red-hot irons, and sewn closed the worst of the damage left by the blades, but the fever had held to him with the stubbornness of a life-sucking demon. The man, nay, Alexander had faired no better for so long that Catriona had feared they couldna save him. She’d feared he’d die within days.
“Alexander,” she said his name in a soft whisper, praying it would pull him from whatever dark terrors he still battled. “Alexander MacCoinnich, rest ye easy, lad. All is well and ye’re safe here at Tor Ruadh.”
Sutherland, the youngest MacCoinnich brother, had revealed Alexander's name. Catriona stole a glance around the hall. 'Twas as quiet as a tomb and dark as the maw of a cave except for what bit of golden light flickered from the hearths. A single candle sputtered on the mantel next to Alexander’s makeshift bed. The shadowy forms on pallets scattered around the room remained still. The other men had grown accustomed to Alexander’s outbursts during his fevered fits.
“Back to sleep with ye, my fine warrior. Find your rest. All is well.” Catriona had discovered that the more she spoke to him, the calmer the great bear of a man became even in his unconscious state. As before, Alexander stilled, relaxing into his blankets and ceasing his attempts to snap the bindings around his arms.
Catriona shuddered, struggling to push the troubling memory of cleaning his wounds back into the darkness where it belonged. Elena and Gaersa had been right. Catriona hadn’t been prepared for what they'd had to do to save him. 'Twas the stuff of nightmares. She cradled his face in one hand, the stubble shadowing the man’s cheek tickling against her palm. Sympathy for him swelled within her heart. God bless ye, my poor suffering lad. God bless ye and keep ye. Tending to Alexander’s injuries had cost him dearly, but it had been a case of damned if ye do or damned if ye don’t.
Catriona combed her fingers through his dark, sweat-soaked hair and raked it back from his face. She pressed the cool cloth along the side of his neck and across his collar bone. A tired smile tickled the corners of her mouth as Alexander’s breathing returned to a peaceful, steady rhythm with a gentle rise and fall of his chest. At last. The poor man rested. Stifling a yawn, she returned the cloth to the basin and turned away.
“Stay,” whispered a deep voice, hoarse and rough but still so weak she strained to hear it.
Catriona whirled about, fearing she’d imagined the sound. She eased closer to the head of the bed. His eyes were open, dark and confused, but clear and lucid rather than wild with fever. She leaned over him so he could better see her in the weak light. “I’m right here. I’m no' going anywhere.”
Even in the faint glow of candlelight, Catriona saw the uncertainty and leeriness in his eyes. Such dark eyes. Black as ebony but when the candlelight hit them just right they flickered to a shade of the deepest, richest brown.
“This…place?”
“Tor Ruadh. The keep of Clan Neal. Ye’re safe here.”
Eyes narrowing, Alexander’s dark brows knotted into a fiercer scowl. “How?” The word croaked out from between his dry, cracked lips, his unblinking gaze searching her face.
“Our hunters found ye in MacAlpin’s cave and fetched ye back here afore the lot of ye froze to death.” She poured cool water into a wooden cup, soaked the folded corner of a clean cloth, and held it to his mouth. “Here. Wet your mouth with this for now and if that goes well enough, we shall try a wee swallow or two of water, aye?”
Alexander didn’t answer, just allowed her to press the cloth to his lips, watching her with an unnerving look as she guided a few drops of water into his mouth.
Catriona squeezed the cloth against his parted lips, dribbling the water in a slow, steady stream until no more came from it. She took the cloth away and wet it again in the cup. He kept her locked in a fathomless, unblinking stare, scrutinizing her until her cheeks grew warm.
“Your kin are here, too,” she said. Surely, he’d be worried after them. “Four brothers and two cousins.”
“I dinna have four brothers.” Alexander’s voice still rasped rough as wagon wheels in gravel but seemed stronger for the water. He blinked hard and fast. His brow creased and his eyes narrowed. “Magnus. I remember Magnus being…there.”
“Aye.” Catriona nodded. “Magnus is here.” Catriona nodded toward the wide hearth on the other side of the room. “He sleeps even now. Over there.”
Alexander tried to rise, then halted with a jerk, emitting a low rumbling growl in tandem to falling back to his pillow.
“Be still with ye now!” Catriona grabbed the candlestick, holding the flickering light high as she checked the bandages wrapped around his thigh, shoulder, and midsection. “Shame on ye, sir! Ye canna afford more bleeding! I bid ye lie still this instant!”
Alexander rolled his head back and forth on his pillows with a frustrated groaning huff. At last, he stilled and the hint of a smile lifted the corners of the fine full lips that Catriona had noticed more than once. She’d even dared to wonder what those lips might be like if they ever touched hers. She’d ne’er been kissed before. Not really. Liam Bickerstaff had attempted a stolen kiss once when they were little more than children but that had been a clumsy bumping of lips, teeth, and noses. She blinked away the memory and forced herself back to the matter at hand.
“Daren’t ye smile at my scolding.” Catriona retrieved a cloth-covered crock from the bench. “Ye’ve shifted Elena’s poultice wrap from your shoulder. Lie still now whilst I apply another.” Stop being the fool about this man. What ails ye? Time to stop silly daydreaming about this fine warrior and concentrate on getting him healed.
Alexander’s smile grew as he pulled in a deep breath, winced, then released it. The smile disappeared when he attempted to lift his arms. He jerked his forearms against the bands of cloth securing him to the table. “Why am I restrained?”
Amazing how a man could sound so strong and in charge even when he spoke in a rasping whisper. Catriona removed the cloth cover of the jar and stirred the poultice, her eyes watering at the rotten oniony smell. “Ye were wild with fever and we feared ye would throw yourself from the table and reopen your wounds.” She removed the dislodged bandage from his shoulder and discarded it in a bucket under the bench. As she smoothed a generous amount of the stinking gooey paste on a fresh cloth, Catriona forced back a gag. The stuff stank like a rotting dung heap, but Elena swore it drew poisons out of the body.
“God’s teeth.” Alexander made a choking sound as he tried to shift away from her. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned his face away. “What the hell is that stinking mess?”
“A poultice. Draws out poisons.” Catriona drew in as few breaths as possible and took care to breathe through her mouth. “Once your fevers are gone and dinna return, we willna have to use it.” She forced herself not to smile as Alexander’s nostrils flared and his strong jaw clenched whilst he stared up into the darkness.
“There. All done.” She and Alexander exhaled together. The poultice still reeked, but the stench was bearable now that she’d covered it with several layers of linen.
“My brothers. Graham. All are here? And well? Graham's wounds. He lives?”
“Aye.” Catriona rinsed her hands in the basin then dried them on a linen towel tucked into the belted waist of her apron. She nodded to the left of Alexander’s bed. “Look over yon. Graham sleeps right there. His wounds were bad but not so bad as your own.”
Alexander turned his head toward Graham then seemed to relax even more while he watched the rise and fall of his sleeping brother’s chest. After a long moment of silence, he returned his focus to Catriona. “How long?” He paused and cleared his throat, flinching from the effort. “How long have we been here?”
“A wee bit less than a sennight.” Catriona eased a fresh blanket up over him. “Are ye warm enough? Or do ye need another blanket?” With his fever broken, she didna wish for the man to become chilled.
“Untie me.”
Catriona pondered the request. 'Twas true the fever had broken for now but who’s to say it wouldna return? It had taken herself, Gaersa, and four strong stable lads to hold Alexander down and tie the bindings the first time. At this unholy hour, everyone was asleep and needed their rest. What if the fever returned and Alexander had another fit? She shook her head. “I think not. This is the first time ye’ve been sane enough to speak and cool to the touch. I fear the fever might yet return.”
Alexander huffed out a frustrated cross between a snort and a groan. “I am fine. Untie me.”
“When I tell ye ‘no’, I mean it,” she said in the same tone she used when scolding her youngest brothers. “Now rest a while. When dawn breaks, if ye’ve remained cool to the touch, we’ll remove the ties and change your bedding, but I dinna wish to wake Gaersa or any of the lads at this late hour to help me, ye ken?”
Alexander didn’t respond, just glared at her with the muscles in his cheeks rippling as he gritted his teeth. It was all Catriona could do to keep from laughing out loud. Master Alexander MacCoinnich wasna happy with her at all.
Her heart went out to him. The man had to be suffering from lying flat of his back on a blanket-covered table. They’d done their best to cushion his legs and shoulders with blankets but they couldna turn him due to his injuries. An idea to console him came to her. Willow bark tea would ease his aches and if that went well enough, a wee bit of whisky could follow. Best see if he can keep down water first. She picked up the cup of water from the bench and held it where he could see it. “Will ye risk a swallow of water rather than the dribbling of a cloth?”
Alexander’s face lit up as though she’d offered him a keg of whisky. “Aye, lass. That I will.”
A belated thought dawned on her. Catriona realized she’d have to cradle his head and shoulders upward for him to drink without disturbing the stitched wound across his stomach. A sudden flush of warmth rushed through her. Aye, well, there’s no helping it. She swallowed hard then slid her arm beneath his head and shoulders and held him propped against her. “Small sips, mind ye, your belly’s been empty a great while.” She thanked the stars above that she sounded a great deal calmer than she felt, what with a man’s head and shoulders cradled up against her breast like a reclining lover. She did her best to concentrate on giving Alexander tiny sips.
“Ye’re trembling,” he said between sips, the look in his eyes sending an even hotter tingle through her.
“I’m having to stand on the tips of my toes,” she lied. Aye, ’twas a bold-faced fib and she prayed he wouldna realize the truth. “One more sip and then I’ll let ye lie back down for a while before we try the willow bark tea, aye? Elena’s been ready to serve ye a tonic but ye’ve been too ill to drink it.” She swallowed hard. Damned if she didna sound as breathless as a maiden caught in the gardens with a suitor.
Alexander gave her another look that took quite the toll on her already rapid heartbeat, then took one more long, slow drink from the cup. Damn him. ’Twas almost as though the man could see into her thoughts.
“Thank ye, lass,” he said with a satisfied sigh that let her know he’d not only relished the drink but maybe the giving of it even more.
The feel of him in her arms and the way he rumbled against her when he spoke made it difficult to draw breath without shuddering. With a slow careful shifting, she lowered him back to the bed and slid out from under him with a smile and a quick nod before turning to set the cup away and attempt to regain her composure. She’d ne’er held a man that close before and it disturbed her to admit that it had been rather nice.
“Lie ye down,” he said in a low tone that was no longer a rasping whisper. Replenished by the water, his voice was deep and strong yet quiet in honor of the darkness and all who slept around them.
“B-beg pardon?” Catriona turned back to him, heart now pounding so hard it almost choked her. She feared even Alexander could hear it. “What say ye?”
Alexander shifted on the pillow, turning his head her way. “I said, ‘lie ye down.’ Ye look weary and I fear I'm the cause.”
Catriona dropped her gaze to the floor, not knowing how to respond. No one ever worried after her. Never had. Well, no one but Gaersa. The housekeeper had shown some concern for her well-being, but nothing over much. Even when her mother yet lived, everyone expected Catriona to be the strong one. She’d been born to it, or so her mother had often said. Catriona raised her head and forced a smile. “Dinna let it trouble ye. I assure ye I'm well. Thank ye.”
Alexander watched her with those damned dark eyes of his that seemed to peer into her soul. After a brief moment, he gave her the barest nod and a smile. “Lie ye down, lass. I’ll be fine.”
“Call out if need be, aye?”
“Aye,” Alexander said, his voice like a gentle caress she’d craved all her life.
Catriona stretched out on her pallet then curled to her side with her back to Alexander, every fiber tensed as taut as a fiddle string. Catriona's stomach knotted. Sweet Jesu, what ails me? She’d prayed for the man to awaken ever since he’d arrived and now that he had… She swallowed hard. Now that he had, she wasna all that certain how she felt about it. Granted, she was more than pleased that Alexander fared better and the fever had at last broken, but the man stirred a great many feelings within her, feelings she’d ne’er be able to share or embrace.
“Lass?”
“Aye?” Catriona lifted her head and waited.
“What be your name?”
“Catriona.”
“Catriona,” Alexander repeated. The way he rolled her name off his tongue with a deep gentle burring of his ‘r’s’ made her shiver. He gave it a sound it had ne’er before possessed. “Catriona?”
“Aye?”
“Thank ye.” Alexander paused for a heartbeat then said, “Thank ye for all ye’ve done. For me. And my men.”
“Aye, now go to sleep.’’ Catriona’s cheeks warmed along with her heart at such appreciation. “Dawn will be here in but a few hours and ye need your rest.”
“Aye, lass. Rest ye well.”
Not bothering to answer, Catriona breathed in a deep breath to calm herself, then let it ease out in a silent sigh. If only. She winced at the thought, squeezing her eyes shut as though blocking out the possibility. Ye daren’t hope, fool. Clan Neal is your husband and family.
The tightness of unshed tears made her throat ache. Tears she’d held at bay ever since her dying mother had made her swear to watch over her younger brothers and see that her drunken brute of a father didn’t destroy the clan with his foolhardy ways.
Mother had protected them all before that, protected them from Father’s drunken tirades and shielded the clan as much as she dared. Catriona couldn’t hate Mother for the burden she’d left her. Mother’s vow of til death do us part had kept her married to a man she’d hated. A man whose cruel and calculating nature intensified with drink. Father was a soulless man who couldna make the right decision if his life depended on it. Mother had told Catriona that right before she had died. She’d also warned Catriona to always keep her chamber doors locked when she retired. Mother had ne’er said why. Catriona had suspected but ne’er asked. ’Twas easier to pretend an evil didna exist rather than speak about it.
And now a legacy Catriona ne’er wanted trapped her like the biting steel of a hunter's snare. The legacy to protect Mother’s clan. Catriona’s clan now. There would be no husband for her. What outsider would wish themselves bound to such a remote clan? What man would spend his life at Tor Ruadh, ever in the shadows of a drunk, inept chieftain and then under Calum’s cruel leadership while Catriona did her best to protect her people?
Aye. I’ll always be alone. I can ne’er leave Clan Neal.
She’d given Mother her word.
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