Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) (6 page)

The silence in the hall was lengthy. She felt a soft tug on her arm. “Come, child, ye’ll ha’e a warm bath and something to eat,” Maida said. “And we’ll find some clean clothes for ye to wear.”

Reluctantly, Isobel let Maida lead her slowly toward the circular stone stairs that led to the second floor. The stairs looked steep and dark, and the torch Maida carried ensured she would not stumble over a sleeping dog or a Maclean who’d had too much whisky. She walked past the men and women who sat at the great table slaking their hunger and thirst.

“Glad I am of the roast deer and sausage pudding,” Dugald said. “I’m sick of eating fowl. I’ve had so much fowl I’ve grown feathers in the pits of my arms.”

“Feathers suit ye, as yer certainly a chicken, Dugald. Ha! Dugald the fat-bellied chicken. The witch-child has more bravery in her little toe than ye have in yer whole fat arse of a body.”

“Och, Ranulph! Can ye ne’er serve up a nice dish of peace and quiet? Be a good lad and eat all yer bashed neeps and mayhap one day ye’ll grow into a fine, strong man like me.”

Ranulph snorted at the insult, pushing the runny bashed neeps around his platter.

Isobel began to climb the stairs. She’d always been able to make herself small, to flit into the shadows and hide. She would not be able to hide here, and certainly not from the scrutiny of the Maclean, who would seek her out at every turn, demanding to know of future times for his clan. She felt like prey trapped into a corner by a hungry wolf.
By the Black Wolf himself.

“How long before she changes Maida into a horned toad?” Ranulph said.

5

Dazed, Isobel watched servants come and go with pots of warm water, which they poured into a large wooden tub lined with cloth that had been brought into the bedchamber where she now stood.

A frowning, young girl sprinkled rose petals on the water and refused to meet Isobel’s eyes. It was clear that no one knew what to make of Isobel’s presence here.

Isobel studied the room in awe while Maida quietly ordered the servants about and tended to the peat fire in the hearth. Maida tried to blow life into the smoldering mound of ashes, and the air became littered with her colorful words when the peat did not obey her first commands.

Isobel had lived in a tiny, unassuming croft until fire destroyed it, a drafty croft where puddles of water often collected and froze in the ruts worn in the doorway and where wind gusted through cracks in the walls. After the fire, she’d shared a small, windowless room in the MacKinnon keep with bundles of yarn, piles of linen, and folds of dust. The mattress she’d slept on was stuffed with straw and the blankets were threadbare. The surly maid she shared the bed with often pulled the blankets off of her in the middle of the night.

“Whose bedchamber was this?” Isobel asked. Had Leith really given her Logan’s room?

Maida straightened her bent, plump form, wiping sweat from her brow, and turned to look at her. “Why, lassie, ‘tis yer bedchamber now.”

Isobel clenched her fists at her sides. The room was more luxurious than any she’d ever seen, lit brightly by the fire in the hearth and the silver candlesticks on the bedside table. Flames in the pillared iron candelabras flanking the tall fireplace flickered as servants swirled past Isobel, into and out of the room.

Besides the impressive fireplace, there was a window with stone window seats, and a large bed with dark green canopied curtains and lush, green coverlets atop it. A chair and a desk sat facing the window, and the desk contained a wooden writing box with vellum and a goose-wing quill. There was a cupboard in the wall, above which a stag’s head was mounted.

The room was masculine and appointed with every comfort the Maclean could provide: exotic tapestries on the walls, extra silk coverings for the bed, an ornately carved linen chest in the corner.

“This was Logan’s room,” Isobel said.

“Yea, lassie, it was. I imagine Leith chose it for ye because his room is next to it.”

“’Tis much too grand for the likes of me. I am used to servants’ quarters.” She stared at the stag’s eyes, dark and unmoving, and felt sorry for the beast. Maida watched her with curiosity.

“The laird has decreed that this will be yer bedchamber,” Maida said as she finished with the fire. “I see you looking at the stag on the wall. That was Logan’s first stag. He brought it down on a hunt when he was just twelve summers. Logan and Leith argued for years over whose arrow pierced its heart first, for both fired their bows at the same time and hit the mark. But in the end, Leith gave way and let Logan have its head for the wall.” She smiled sadly at the memory and then frowned. “Arrows are evil things. Instruments of the devil. ‘Twas an arrow that also took Logan’s life, an arrow fired by a coward into his back, a coward who disappeared into a mist-filled glen and was ne’er caught.”

“I’ve walked many a mist-filled glen when a battle was done,” Isobel said quietly. “I’ve seen arrows pierce leather tunics and kill men and boys. I’ve seen them kill brave war horses. My mother taught me how to treat the raw wounds. Some of the men and boys lived, and some didna. T
he way to remove an arrow cleanly is to tie a piece of cloth soaked in water to the end of it and push it through the wound, out the other side. But it’s very painful for the sufferer.”

The small girl who’d brought rose petals for the bath now stared openly at Isobel with rounded eyes, her fists clutching scented oils.

“Why does the witch-child get a perfumed bath?” one of the other servants asked. She had chestnut hair and startling blue eyes and appeared to be no older than twelve summers herself, the same age as Logan and Leith when they’d killed the stag. Her voice was high-pitched and nervous. “Only the laird and noble ladies are allowed baths, no’ stinking, dirty MacKinnon witches.”

“Beatris, ye will shut yer mouth for once,” Maida quipped. “This child has suffered enough without the thoughtless lashing of yer ignorant tongue.”

Beatris pouted.

“Leave the oils and spices, and shoo,” Maida said. She waved her plump arms in the air. “Out with ye all, now! Ye too Beatris! Will ye ne’er learn to be humble?”

The other servants left the room and Maida poured the oils into the water. She set additional oils and spices down so they would be within Isobel’s reach. “These—cinnamon, licorice, and cumin—are for washing yer hair.”

“If the arrow is stuck in the bone, ye canna push it through unless ye have a pair of smooth tongs,” Isobel continued, trembling now. The raised torch and then Bothen’s bloodied, still form flashed before her eyes. “Ye widen the hole made by the arrow shaft by inserting larger dowels of elder pith wrapped in linen down the entry wound. The dowels are soaked in honey
. Then ye
dress the wounds with a poultice of barley and honey mixed in turpentine. My mother taught me.” She paused. “I tried to help them. I tried. But they didna always live. Some died in my arms. They were just boys. Just
boys who died in my arms….
”

Maida touched the sleeve of Isobel’s filthy tunic. “Come, child, ye’ve suffered much. A warm bath will do ye good.”

Isobel backed away, crossing her arms over her chest. “I dunna require assistance undressing or bathing.”

Maida smiled and shook her head. “A proud one ye are then. I’ll go and see about yer meal, while ye slip into the bath. A word of a caution.
Dunna
eat the bashed neeps. Cook is an excellent cook, but he canna cook bashed neeps to save his soul. And dunna concern yerself with yer privacy. No one will bother ye.”

Maida left. As she closed the heavy door behind her, Isobel caught a glance of Dugald sitting on a bench outside the door, his elbow resting on his large, bony knee, his chin resting on his hand. He looked distinctly unhappy about having to guard her room.

6

Isobel was chilled to the bone and dipped her hand into the warm, steaming water.

It felt heavenly. The scent of the rose petals and oils wafted up and calmed her. She removed her filthy tunic, hose, and patched boots, and, naked except for her stone pendant, stepped into the tub, which was large enough for two people.

She sat down until the water covered her up to her neck. She scrubbed away dirt and the stench of tar, smoke, and rotten rushes from her skin. Then she held her breath and briefly dunked her head beneath the water, wetting her hair and also rubbing the filth from it with the oils and spices Maida had left. When she was finished, she leaned her head back against the rim of the large tub and closed her eyes. Sometime later Maida returned with a tray of food and ale and set it on the bedside table, leaving her alone once more.

Isobel wondered about Logan, the man who had once inhabited this room. The window was shuttered against the cold now, but had he sat at the desk in warmer days, looking out at the writhing and lonely sea, and written love letters to the beguiling Lady Katherine? She opened her eyes and studied the dizzying spirals of steam rising from the water. Leith’s bedchamber was next door. Was he there now, or still below stairs in the hall?

An image arose unbidden of Leith in the tub, his muscular body and his midnight-dark hair dripping with water. Despite what he believed, that he was not handsome like Logan, Isobel thought the opposite. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, one of the most
male
certainly. But he was guarded. Wounded. Clearly besotted with a beautiful woman who did not want to marry him, who still pined for his twin brother, Logan.

Leith clearly did not believe in marrying for love. He’d been brutally honest and practical in addressing Lady Katherine in the great hall. Yet Leith’s eyes flashed with feeling and a determination she’d rarely seen in any man. She could imagine that Leith always got what he wanted, which was now Lady Katherine at his side, in his bed, and bearing his sons, their union uniting powerful clans and perhaps keeping the peace for many years to come.

Another vision rose, of Leith’s hardened, muscled body in the bed, rising above Lady Katherine, driving into her with the passion of a man besotted, a practical man in love with his brother’s fiancée, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. Had he always loved her? It made her sad to think that had Logan lived, and Logan and Lady Katherine married, that Leith would have gone on silently loving her from afar, with no relief for his passions and fantasies.

Isobel had never been with a man, but she’d seen a man and a woman making love once. She hadn’t meant to. It was spring, and the villagers were celebrating the Beltane festival. Lovers celebrated the night through, trysting on hilltops and in the woods. She’d come across a pair of lovers in a wooded glen by the side of a loch. She’d been gathering berries, a special kind that needed to be gathered in the moonlight, and had heard their moans of pleasure. There were sounds of bodies and souls opening to each other, vulnerable, violent, sounds. She’d watched, but only briefly before she quietly disappeared back into the shadows of the woods.

She’d only been kissed once, by Rory O’Neill, behind a tavern. It hadn’t been unpleasant, but it had been sloppy. He’d wanted more from her, but she remembered the man and the woman by the loch, and she’d been frightened by their passion. Her encounter with Rory had ended with the kiss, much to Rory’s disappointment. At least he hadn’t pressed her for more.

Leith, the fierce laird of the Macleans, wanted her help in winning Lady Katherine’s hand. And Isobel had never even had a lover! How could she possibly help him to win her heart?

She thought of how Leith had snatched her from certain death by fire, how the moonlight had caught his dark hair, lighting it and the smoky topaz jewel attached to his plaid, making both shine. 

He’d saved her life. So she would give him aid. But how could she stay on here, when so many clearly despised her for being a MacKinnon and for being a healer? People had always feared her gift. Perhaps she could help Leith somehow attain Lady Katherine’s hand and then when the moment was right, slip away and find a place to live in the mountains, among the trees and rocks. She knew how to live off the land.

She wondered, though, would the Maclean ever let her go? Was he daft, unhinged by his brother’s unexpected death? Was that why he’d brought her here? If they never discovered Logan’s killer, and if Leith didn’t win Lady Katherine’s hand, would she be doomed to stay here forever? Would his treatment of her change then?

She was just a woman who’d escaped fire twice. She remembered the ribs and bones of her burnt village croft, the ugliness of the crowd on Hogmanay, Leith stepping from the mist to stop them from charring her bones to ash. She did not know what any of it meant.

She stroked the blue stone pendant around her neck. She did not belong here, and she no longer belonged to the MacKinnon clan. Mayhap her half-sister with the Sight, Maighdlin, and her husband Kade, would take her in. Maighdlin and Isobel had had different mothers but the same father. It was something to consider. The MacKinnons and MacAlisters were also enemies, but her sister might take pity on her.

Isobel wasn’t sure how long she sat in the tub. The water grew cold and the skin on her fingers grew puckered from moisture. She eyed the food on the bedside table as her stomach grumbled loudly. Though it too was now cold, she looked forward to eating it. Except for the bashed neeps, of course.

With a sigh, she stood.

In the passageway, there was a sudden, heavy footfall of steps and the door opened. But it was not Maida who stood there. It was someone tall, dark, and powerfully built.
Leith
.