Much Ado About Highlanders (The Scottish Relic Trilogy) Page 8

  The shirt slipped from Kenna’s fingers to the floor. Tears burned the back of her throat. The wound in Alexander’s side was a ragged stab. The gash was as wide as her hand, and it went deep. He’d lost so much blood. There was nothing she could do.

  She sat back on her heels and stared at the wound. She didn’t want to look into his face. She didn’t want him reading her thoughts.

  “Drink this.” She held the bowl to his lips.

  “So those tales were all lies,” he teased. “You’re no healer. You have no talent. They kept you there to tend the sheep and milk the goats.”

  “The nuns at the priory would have welcomed me even if I had no . . . no . . . no aptitude.”

  He labored to speak. “Or perhaps Magnus MacKay had to send . . . gold to the priory . . . to put up with you, since you obviously can’t take care of a wee scratch like this one.”

  Alexander couldn’t quite muster a smile. His tolerance for pain was impressive, but she saw his vitality draining out of him with every passing moment.

  Kenna’s gaze searched the hut again. There was no chance she could find a needle or thread. And she knew nothing of the damage done inside of him. But she had to save him, help him somehow.

  His eyes started to drift shut. She was losing precious time. The light from the window fell on the straw across the hut.

  “Help me. Walk with me to that bedding.”

  His eyes fluttered open. “Are we finally to make love, wife?”

  “Nay.” She pressed her lips against his fevered brow. “It’ll be easier for me to desert you if you’re away from the door.”

  With her help, he managed to get to his feet and took the faltering steps. “But I’ll come after you. In this life or the next.”

  “Why? Still for the good of the clan?”

  “Nay, lass. I’m getting used to you . . . as you get used to a wart.”

  He sprawled out on the bedding—his breathing as labored as if he’d climbed a mountain. She rolled him onto his back.

  “Not a bad response for an ape. You’re learning. But I’ve always been a good teacher.”

  No answer. Blood continued to run down his side, disappearing into the straw beneath him. Fetching the bowl, she tore off another piece of her shift and dipped it in the water, cleaning around the wound.

  He closed his eyes. His breathing became shallower. Kenna couldn’t stop the tears. She knelt beside him, her hand on his heart.

  “Don’t do this. Do you hear me? You can’t die on me.”

  His eyes remained closed. There was not even a hint that he could hear her. The beat of his heart was growing weaker.

  Prayers, calls for guidance filled her thoughts. She searched her mind for distant memories of days when her mother was alive. Many times, Sine MacKay went away to heal a child or see to a sick cottager or a wounded warrior. Staying in the shadows, Kenna often followed her, watched her as she performed miracles. Sine always wore the stone fragment. She always held it as she prayed.

  The skin near Kenna’s heart was growing warmer. Thinking of her mother, she reached for the leather pouch hanging around her neck, feeling the piece of tablet within. This was as far as she’d gone in relying on the stone before. But it wasn’t enough. Her husband was dying. There had to be more. Kenna opened the pouch and dropped the stone into her palm. Her fingers closed around it.

  Power surged up her arm, but she held on to the relic. Heat released in bursts through her body, the intensity of it seizing control of every limb. Alexander disappeared and other images danced before her eyes. Her mother’s face. Others whom she didn’t know. Women and men with black and brown faces. Old and young. They spoke to her all at once, but the words came at her in unknown tongues. They flowed around her like a melody to decipher. The music became louder. Kenna’s struggle became desperate. She needed to understand what she had to do.

  Kenna reached out and her fingers brushed against Alexander’s skin. All at once, like the cessation of a summer storm, the voices and the words became orderly. She closed her eyes and a sense of calm filled her. Fear gathered in a diminishing space and then suddenly was gone. The music of the words became clear, understandable. She knew what to do.

  The stone slipped from her fingers onto her lap, and Kenna laid both hands on Alexander’s chest. The skin was cold, his heartbeat faint.

  She flattened one palm on the skin below the bleeding wound at his side. Slowly, she moved her hands around the gash, circling it. Two shafts of light, one coursing up from her feet and another down from the top of her head, combined into one. It swirled around her heart and flowed out through her arms and hands. Her fingers vibrated on his skin, conducting the force from her body into his.

  As the power flowed, she saw in her mind’s eye where the sword had cut through and ripped the flesh within. Kenna felt where the pain was sharpest and the damage worst. She followed the path of the blade through the sinew and muscle. She saw things in her mind that were beyond reason.

  With a feathery touch, she placed her hand over the wound. She closed her eyes and willed her mind and heart to pass on the restoring light.

  The voices became one: Heal this man. Heal this man.

  Her hand warmed, then it iced, and then it grew warm again. She didn’t know how long she sat still, allowing the power she’d unleashed to run through both of them, to heal him.

  The voices became encouraging whispers.

  Finally, when Kenna opened her eyes, the bleeding had stopped.

  The wound was closed.

  This was no traditional treatment, nothing she’d been taught by the nuns. Everything she’d known before changed at this moment. No longer would she be limited by the experiences of those healers around her. And whatever this power was—be it magic, dark arts, or witchcraft—Kenna welcomed it. It was a gift from her mother. And it was saving the life of her husband.

  She pressed her palm against Alexander’s heart. The beat was stronger, his breathing regular.

  The sword wound wasn’t the only injury to his body. Kenna’s fingers traveled over his chest, up his shoulders, down his left arm. She found exactly where each blow had fallen. Using the same touch, circling the injury, feeling the rush of light through her, focusing the heat and cold and heat, she used the power in her.

  She unclasped his brooch and belt, removed the sword, and laid it at his side. She pulled off his boots. His kilt, still wrapped around his waist, was wet from the river and soaked with blood. Leaving the tartan draped across his midsection, she continued to search for points of pain. Her hand traveled down one leg and up the other, past the worst wound and to his chest and down the arms and to the fingertips.

  Even as she searched, she could hardly ignore the powerfully defined muscles, the skin so soft that she wanted to press her lips to it. His chest was broad and magnificent, and a slant of soft hair that thinned as it moved down to his navel disappeared beneath the fold of the kilt. His legs were long and muscled.

  Kenna couldn’t stop touching him, memorizing every dip and valley, every scar. The fluttering deep in her belly made her pull back her hands. She sat back on her heels, studying the body of her husband, realizing that this was no longer a journey of healing but one of passion.

  She slipped the tablet back into the pouch.

  “Kenna.”

  She jumped. His eyes were open. He was watching her. Her face burned with embarrassment. She didn’t know how long he’d been awake.

  “The bleeding . . . the wound at your side . . . it’s better.”

  “Pain,” he whispered.

  “Where? Tell me.”

  “Come closer.”

  He hadn’t moved. She inched closer. “You need to rest. Your body needs time to recover.”

  “It’s too much. I’m suffering.”

  “Where?” she asked, her knees brushed against his bare skin. He closed his eyes, his fingers moving weakly across the bedding. Kenna took his hand. “Show me.”

  Alexander took her ha
nd and brought it ever so slowly to his chest. She flattened her palm, his hand covering hers. He guided her hand down to his stomach, moving it lower.

  By the time Kenna realized his intention, it was too late. Her hand was under the kilt. His arousal was silky and hard. She jerked her hand away.

  “You are the devil, Alexander Macpherson.”

  His eyes were closed, but a smile tugged at his lips.

  “That’s where you need to be healing me next.”

  Chapter 10

  May I be so converted and see with these eyes?

  I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn,

  but Love may transform me to an oyster;

  but I’ll take my oath on it,

  till he have made an oyster of me.

  Emily was no hunter or tracker, but she knew many men had come through the place they’d camped. When they arrived at the riverside clearing at dusk, she felt the claws of panic scratching at her normally calm façade.

  The rawhide that bound Kenna was still attached to the tree. Scraps of the food she and James left for the two were scattered on the ground by the cold ashes of the fire. Everything else was gone. For the first time the full danger Kenna might be in hit her hard.

  The Macpherson and MacDougall warriors spread out into the woods and along the river, searching.

  The harmless hoax had turned sour. But angry as Emily was with James before for keeping her ignorant of the affairs, she couldn’t be angry with him now. She could see he felt a hundred times worse. His plan had put them all in this predicament. She knew the last thing he wanted was to put his brother and Kenna in danger. Emily saw him stride out of the trees and speak with Kester for a moment before heading toward the river. He was all concentration and didn’t even seem to notice her as he brushed past.

  She stayed out of the men’s way as they used what daylight remained to check footprints and whatever else might help them decide what happened to Alexander and Kenna.

  There were no bodies, dead or wounded, and no blood that she could see. Emily told herself that had to be good news. Her hope was confirmed sometime later when Kester joined her.

  “The raiding party, if that’s who came through here, went down both sides. But there’s no sign of any woman’s footprint below this point. No one went upriver,” the MacDougall leader told her. “They went in the river.”

  “Kenna is a good swimmer, but the current is strong. Do you think they got away unharmed?”

  “That’s my hope. James says Alexander could swim from here to Oban, if need be. But as you say, m’lady, the current is strong. Still, I don’t see anyone else jumping in after them.”

  Emily watched as James Macpherson came back into the circle of his men. He was impressive even in times of distress. On the way here, she’d ridden recklessly to keep up after he and Kester caught up to them and James galloped ahead. Chasing after him had been exhilarating. Still, she felt a twinge of guilt, knowing the excitement wasn’t about the ride but the rider she was pursuing.

  “And you knew about all of this, too, about Kenna and Alexander. About trying to trick them to get back together.”

  Kester looked away. “Aye. That I did.”

  The old warrior was as close to her father as any brother. He was also a man that Emily could always talk openly with. She could seek his opinion on things she could never say to her father. From childhood, she’d known she could trust him to keep her secrets. She wasn’t about to be angry with him now.

  Snippets of discussion reached them from the Macpherson men. They’d follow the river to the loch west of here that led to the sea. They’d try to catch up to the raiding party or Alexander and Kenna. James told one of the MacDougalls that she needed to go back to Craignock Castle. She heard the word wedding mentioned several times.

  Her cousin’s objections about Sir Quentin came back to her.

  “You were there when they negotiated my marriage,” she said to Kester.

  “Aye.”

  “Why him?”

  “You know why, lass. The MacDougall believes it’s a good match. You’re an only child. Many of the elders of our clan have been after your father to marry again, to produce a son. But he’s not interested.” Kester paused. “The world’s getting smaller all the time. As you can see, the English feel free to roam about here, taking what they please. Raiders from the sea are a threat like never before. Your father thinks the safety of our people lies with you and your future husband.”

  Two summers ago, Emily’s mother died. While she was sick, Emily had heard many a heartfelt lecture on duty and responsibility.

  “But why him?” she repeated. “Why Sir Quentin? Why not . . . why not someone I know, at least?” And someone with a dozen more qualities that Sir Quentin seemed to be lacking.

  “You’ve never shown any interest or made it known that you wanted to choose. I, for one, never saw you show any fondness for any particular lad. So your father took the first good offer.”

  “I had a choice?” she asked, stunned. “I had a choice in whom I was to wed?”

  “Of course. You had a choice of ‘aye’ or ‘nay.’ You’re Graeme MacDougall’s only child, lass.”

  Emily’s gaze drifted to James Macpherson. He was issuing orders to his men. “Do I still have a choice? Is it too late?”

  “Your father wants you safe. He wants the clan safe. He may not be thrilled for you to speak up now. But so long as you keep those things in mind—if you’re asking me—it’s never too late.”

  He was dreaming. Alexander knew it, but he still could not shake off the blurred chaos of events disturbing his sleep. The force of the river. The panic at losing sight of Kenna in the wild rush of the current. The fight with the soldiers. The short sword jabbing into him. The clawing dread at the thought that the Lowlander might take Kenna away. Jock wielding the oars that weighed nearly as much as the lad himself. The fog rolling in around the boat as they moved across the loch’s black waters. The look of fear in his wife’s face.

  Alexander blinked back the mist from his mind and opened his eyes. A thin band of moonlight streaked in through the window and lit the stone wall of the cottage. He remembered where he was. He took a deep breath and tested his shoulder. It moved. He fisted his hands and held them up before his eyes. They were whole. He remembered the wound in his side. It wouldn’t stop bleeding. He touched it. There was no fresh blood, and the hole made by the raider’s sword was closed. It felt more like an injury weeks old. He shifted his weight. Soreness, but more of a nuisance than anything. Nothing like the sensation of a hot poker boring into his side.

  He wondered how long he’d been unconscious.

  The last clear memory he had was Kenna fussing over him as he tried not to pass out. Everything after that was a jumble, a hazy hodgepodge of visions from his past, of touches both healing and sensual. There were moments when he didn’t know if he was dead or alive.

  The life Alexander led up to now was full and adventurous. He could think of very few moments that he would do over. His wedding night was one. And he regretted not going after Kenna the next day. Or the day after. He should never have allowed so much time to go by with the two of them apart. They’d been strangers at the kirk steps, but they were well suited for each other. She was fearless and independent. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met.

  He recalled something else. Pain. He’d been here in this same hut and he’d felt the worst pain. He was dying. And wanting Kenna had been his final wish.

  Alexander turned his head. Kenna was sleeping an arm’s length away. She hadn’t deserted him.

  His sword lay between them, close enough for either to reach. He wondered for a moment whether it was there for defense against the danger lurking outside or a message to him.

  He was alive, and he wasn’t about to be deterred.

  He rolled toward her, admiring how beautiful she looked in spite of everything she’d been through. She was fast asleep, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Her lips were
parted, her breathing uneven. She was fighting demons in her dreams, as well. The laces of her dress had loosened, and the curve of one breast showed above the linen shirt she was wearing beneath it. He immediately went hard. It was good to know everything was in working order.

  He reached for the sword to move it. Her eyes flew open. She grasped the weapon just as he did.

  “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Good morning, wife,” he replied instead. “Or is it night? It’s still dark, it seems. How long have we been here?”

  She pushed up onto one elbow. A blanket of curls swept over one shoulder. The neckline of the dress pulled further apart, giving him a better view of the tops of her breasts. He wanted to taste them. She seemed to be struggling to wake up.

  “May I?” he asked, moving the sword behind him.

  She slowly sat up and got onto her knees. The dress slipped off one shoulder. He was relieved he still had his kilt covering him. He didn’t want to frighten her.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, peering at his stab wound.

  “Better than you know.”

  Kenna didn’t appear to trust his words. She pushed his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. As she leaned over to inspect his side, her hair trailed across his stomach, caressing him with its silky softness. Her touch was as arousing as any dream.

  Alexander took a deep breath. Control, he told himself.

  “How long have we been here?”

  “Since yesterday. It hasn’t been a full day.” She sat back on her heels again. “I want to wash the wound. I’ll be right back.”

  Alexander couldn’t tear his gaze from her as she picked up a bowl and went out into the darkness.

  “Wait,” he called out, but she was gone.

  He struggled to get up. He had to go after her. Danger could be right outside the door. He felt weak. By the time he managed to sit up on the bedding, she was back.

  “You shouldn’t go out unprotected,” he snapped. At least she wasn’t limping, he noticed. “Where’s that dirk you’re always waving about?”

  “Right here, to use against you when I need it.” She crouched down beside him, holding the bowl to his lips. “Drink this. We have no food, but this should quench your thirst.”