Captured Heart (11 page)

Meg laughed. “I have yet to succumb to vapors over blood and gore. I’ve tended a few fresh injuries.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kenneth said. He propped his hands on his knees. “Very well, then. I was but ten and twenty, young, brash, full of strength.”

Bruce snorted and Angus chuckled. She turned her gaze to Kenneth, though out of the periphery she watched Caden relax against the hearth. Her heart picked up a pounding beat, but she feigned complete attention to Kenneth’s description of the battlefield.

“We rode along Loch Tuinn one winter morn after riding the Macbain perimeter.” He paused. “Something we do—” he moved his fingers in a circle “—ride the perimeter of The Macbain’s holdings to watch for interlopers.”

The fire cast a warm glow to Caden’s sun-bronzed skin. Meg pushed her focus back to Kenneth.

“And then out of nowhere above us, the bloody Mun…the bloody enemy—” Kenneth swooped his hand down in the air “—charged down upon us.” His eye grew round and his arms more animated until Meg found herself caught up in the old warrior’s vivid tale of good versus ultimate evil. Details of slashing and swinging brought additional insight and corrections from Bruce and Angus.

“How many limbs were lost?” she asked.

Bruce screwed up his face to think. “At least six by my count.”

She shook her head, sad and in awe.

“And a mace caught my eye.” Kenneth flipped up the eye patch, showing a badly scarred, stitched-shut eye socket.

Meg stood to peer closer. “I’d have done a better job stitching.”

Angus coughed into his fist and Bruce laughed. “Angus didn’t have the steadiest fingers even then.”

“I’m sorry, Angus,” she said and touched his arm. Instantly, Meg assessed the man’s lungs. They were stuffed with taint, thick as pond mud. St. John’s wort brewed in hot wine or water could help some. She’d ask Aunt Rachel for help. She patted his arm. “You did just fine.”

“I was torn apart myself.” Angus slid up his tunic to reveal a long, white scar that spanned his chest. “I got this at the same battle.”

“And I this,” Bruce said and showed a jagged line along his inner thigh.

“Bruce, ye old bull, keep yer kilt down.” Kenneth snorted and yanked Bruce’s kilt back down. Bruce turned red while Kenneth, Angus, and even Caden chuckled.

“Quite impressive wounds, sirs. And to think you all survived to tell the tale.” She shook her head, causing another curl to come down to tickle her neck. Good thing she didn’t plan to attend court with hair so desperate for freedom.

Caden had quieted behind her yet his gaze warmed her. She tucked the strand but kept her attention on the three elders.

“That can’t be your only tale of bravery,” she said. And indeed it wasn’t. Kenneth, Angus, and Bruce continued with story after story of battles of yore. They tried to one up each other continuously until she fell into a fit of merriment. The three attracted a small crowd with their flying hands and wide flung arms as they began to reenact the contests of strength and stealth.

She laughed again and leaned back in her chair. Caden still stood slightly behind against the hearth. Meg glanced in his direction and caught his eye. He was so handsome, like a gallant knight. She almost sighed. What was wrong with her? She certainly hadn’t drunk enough ale to elicit such thoughts. She smoothed a hand over her fluttery stomach and wet her suddenly dry lips. His grin faded.

“Meg will choose!” Bruce hollered over the boasting and raucous laughter of the younger warriors.

All eyes turned to her. “Choose?” What was it that she should be choosing? “How could I ever choose?” she asked playfully, surmising from the way Angus winked and Kenneth pointed to his own chest that she was to choose amongst the three old warriors. “What are the criteria?” she asked, mirth tearing her eyes.

“The most brave,” Kenneth said.

“The most cunning,” Bruce answered with a belch.

“The most knightly,” Angus said.

“The most humble,” Caden added from his spot, causing the room to erupt in a pounding roar of deep chuckles and whoops.

She joined the laughter. What a wonderful group. She’d never felt so included. As the room quieted, Meg tapped one finger against her lip. “Hmmm…how to choose? You all have terrible scars.” The three elderly warriors nodded. Kenneth even flipped up his eye patch. “You are all the bravest warriors I’ve ever heard of.” To that snorts and murmurs came from the younger men.

“How about us, lass?” Kieven called from the back.

Caden’s perusal wafted over her like the touch of silk on skin. “Tonight I judge the wisdom and experience acquired through a lifetime of strategy and battles.” With her words Angus, Bruce, and Kenneth puffed up even more if that were possible.

Meg huffed in frustrated resignation. “Alas, I cannot rule for one against the other two. You three are cunning, brave, and strong.” She stood and sunk into a deep curtsey. “I choose each of you.” She rose and they bowed. “I know under the protection of the three of you, I would always be safe.”

Kenneth grinned. Bruce shuffled his foot in the rushes. Angus just turned red. Meg’s contentment took in the whole audience. “I’m afraid these exciting stories have thrilled me to exhaustion.”

The room grumbled.

“I will see ye to yer room, lass,” Donald called. He stepped forward and then hastily stepped back when another hand firmly grasped her elbow. Meg’s breath hitched and her stomach flipped at the contact. From the strength, self-assurance, and fresh pine smell emanating from the man, she knew it was Caden.

They walked up the long, dark flight of stone steps in silence. They were alone. Would he kiss her again? He held a taper to throw back the shadows. When they stopped at her door, she turned to him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

The flame cast shadows over his face.

“For the first time in my life I’m not checking constantly over my shoulder. For the first time I am free.”

Cold, restrained anger pulled at his features. He didn’t look at all like someone who had just been thanked. Forget him kissing her.

“Caden?”

He reached around and pushed open the door to her chamber. He grabbed her elbow and steered her into the room and yanked the barrier shut between them. Meg stared at the solid oak as she listened to his boots fade down the corridor.

…

Caden stormed down the steps to the great hall, which had nearly emptied after Meg’s exit. He headed for the doors, somewhere away from the sweet smell and thank-yous of his bloody beautiful captive.

“Lovely lass,” Bruce called. “And quite bonny.”

“That one’s got spirit,” Angus agreed. “Not afraid of a little blood.”

Bruce belched. “She’s a healer.”

“She’d make a good Highland bride,” Angus said.

“Hard to believe she’s a Munro.” Kenneth lifted his mug to his lips.

Caden’s words started low. “Yet she
is
a Munro, favored niece of Alec Munro, your sworn enemy.”

Kenneth’s mug stopped in midair, his eyebrow quirking up over his good eye.

Bloody hell! They’d been so easily won over, all of them. “Yet the three of you and the rest treat her like Stewart royalty.”

Angus hushed him. Caden turned toward the glowing embers in the hearth and kicked them, sending sparks and ash snapping in the pit.

“I believe,” Kenneth said, “’twas your order to treat her like a guest.”

Caden certainly remembered that order. As a guest, Meg wouldn’t try to escape, making life easier on everyone—everyone except him. Now he had Meg thanking him for rescuing her, smiling and lowering her long lashes at him as she talked about never being free until now.

Free? Ha! What was freedom anyway? He had surely never witnessed it. There was no freedom being raised as a future chief. There was no freedom from the quest to feed his clan, from the faces of starving children that haunted his dreams. Freedom was a false sensation. Meg would learn it soon enough. She’d learn it and her smile would die.

“I know what I said,” Caden ground out, trying to hold onto his fury. He had to get outdoors into the night air, where he could breathe again. “Rachel will leave on the morrow, she’ll negotiate with Alec, and Meg will be gone within a week. Don’t get attached.”

“Don’t be getting yourself in a temper,” Bruce said.

“Aye,” Kenneth added as Caden turned and strode toward escape. “Or else someone will start to think
you’re
the one getting attached.”

Chapter Seven

26 November 1517—Melancholy Thistle: drooping pink thistle head, flowers in summer. Decoction of the flowers or root in wine to dispel all melancholy diseases.

Find the Scottish variety as it is the most potent for dispelling doom. I must find an honorable Highlander to show me the best locations.

“My Lizzie hasn’t been the same since the bairn came,” Hugh Loman whispered.

Meg stood in the shade of the small house and wrapped clean linen over his stump. “Does the babe wake her during the night?”

“Aye. Though sometimes I’ll wake to find her just staring at little Geilis sleeping in his cradle.” He nervously glanced toward the doorway and rubbed his hand down his face. “She won’t eat and she cries at everything. Won’t let me even out of her sight.”

“Sounds like the same affliction that lay heavy in my neighbor’s mind after her babe was born.” Meg dug around in her leather pouch for what was left of her melancholy thistle root, just a bit now tied with string. Most of her healing supplies were in need of renewal.

“Ye frown,” he said. “Do ye not have enough?”

“Just enough. Let’s brew some for her.”

“Thank ye,” he said with obvious relief.

When they entered, Elizabeth turned from the cradle, her eyes wide.

“Is his arm worse?” she asked and whisked over to him.

“No, healing quite well,” Meg assured her.

Elizabeth grasped Meg’s hand to squeeze hard. “Thanks to ye.” She curtseyed. “I owe ye my life, too, for without my Hugh I would perish and leave little Geilis with no one.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears, and one large drop broke free to trace down her thin cheek.

Meg continued to hold the woman’s hand. In a heartbeat, she could sense the imbalance in Elizabeth’s brain, like a shadow penetrating the folds. The small organ in Elizabeth’s throat was also stagnant, just as if it had been in the new mother back home.

“May I see your babe?” Meg asked as she peeked over the cradle.

“He’s not here. I just…needed a break and…” Elizabeth’s words caught in her throat and she rubbed her face. “Bess has him down the road. Just for a spell so I could rest.”

“Of course.” Meg patted Elizabeth’s hand. “That is wise.”

Simple words, but they had the effect of a boulder falling into Elizabeth’s arms. She crumpled downward, shaking her head and sobbing. “Nay, I’m no good mother.”

Hugh pulled her up and sat her on the bed.

“Heat some wine with this root in it,” Meg told Hugh, and handed him the taproot of a melancholy thistle. He nodded and left them, though his concerned eyes glanced back to Elizabeth. Meg inhaled slowly through her nose and walked over to Elizabeth. She sat next to her and rubbed the distraught woman’s back as she cried.

“Elizabeth,” Meg whispered to catch her attention. “You just had a baby and you’re tired. I’ve met several new mothers and at least half of them swore they were terrible at it.”

Elizabeth just cried into her hands, inconsolable. Meg watched Hugh crouch before the low fire to stir the embers.

Meg stilled her hand on Elizabeth’s back and shut her eyes. She imagined the place in Elizabeth’s brain, the place that was shadowed. Then she imagined that place lighter, just a smidge at first, then lighter and lighter until the shadow was gone. Meg’s thoughts moved to the darkness she sensed in the front of Elizabeth’s throat and imagined it lightening until it also receded.

Thump!
Meg opened her eyes. Hugh stared from across the room, the leather flask at his feet, pouring across the rushes.

“What are ye doing?” Hugh demanded and moved across the room.

Meg’s gaze snapped to her hands on Elizabeth’s back, expecting to see blue light emanating from them. There was nothing…just hands and back. Elizabeth sat up straighter on the bed and dried her eyes on the corner of a shawl.

“I believe she was comforting me, Hugh,” Elizabeth said and offered Meg a smile before turning on him. “And what are ye doing, dropping the wine? That is what I’m supposed to drink. Right?”

“Yes,” Meg said, still taking in Hugh’s startled face. What had he seen?
Good Lord, did I glow?
Would the man call her a witch? The fire leapt in the hearth and fear cinched her stomach.

Elizabeth stood. “I’ll be sure to drink this brew,” she said. “Though just the thought of it and your kind words have brightened me already.” She turned with a small loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth. “I made this to thank ye for tending Hugh.”

“The aroma is wonderful. Thank you.” Meg cleared her throat. She didn’t miss that Hugh watched her. “Well, I best go. Donald is most likely outside.” She passed Hugh on her way out. “I’ll check on your arm again in a couple of days.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth called.

Hugh said nothing.

As Meg turned she caught the quick movement of Hugh’s good hand across his chest. The man had just made the sign of the cross! Her face flamed.

She walked down the lane with Donald, but her mind was frozen. Hugh had seen something that scared him, something she had done. Word would spread. People would cross themselves when they saw her, and they may even call her a witch. Yet helping Elizabeth was the right thing to do. Doing so gave her purpose and made her
curse
a gift like Aunt Rachel said.

“Are ye well, lass?” Donald asked. “Ye seem flushed.”

Meg concentrated on breathing smoothly. She swallowed the worry. Like dry bread, it hurt going down and lumped in her stomach. Did it really matter what they called her if she could help people like Elizabeth? Yes, if she could be burned like her mother.

She inhaled deeply. Fiona could get her to her aunt if needed. “I am well, Donald.”

Ann and Jonet waved. They came across the road winding among the thatched cottages. Jonet glanced beyond Meg’s shoulder. “Good day, Gwyneth.”

Meg turned to see Gwyneth, fresh and graceful.

Gwyneth stopped. “Anyone seen Caden? I have something important to discuss with him.”

“Are you trying to get into his bed again?” Jonet asked in Gaelic and rolled her eyes.

Again?

“I’ll just walk on a ways and let you lasses talk,” Donald said. He gave his sister a warning glance and shuffled down the road.

Ann ignored Donald. “You caught him fair and square last harvest festival,” she quipped, and Gwyneth let out a little chuckle. “The man’s too wrapped up now in trying to find us food to fall into anyone’s arms.”

“The food shortage is that critical?” Meg asked, breathing past the sudden nausea at the thought of Caden with the raven-haired beauty. All three sets of eyes turned. They seemed surprised that she’d understood them.

Although they nodded in unison, the message each gave was different. Ann seemed to have let slip a deep secret. Jonet raised her eyebrows, like it was not really all that bad. And Gwyneth’s eyes popped wide and overly innocent.

“Many could die this winter,” Gwyneth said, switching to English. “Unless we are saved.”

“Which is why I think we should still have the harvest festival,” Ann said. “We should be thankful to the Good Lord for what we do have and ask Him for help.”

Jonet held her skirt and turned in a circle. “We could still have the dancing. The men could hunt.”

“I have found us some grain, too,” Gwyneth said excitedly. “That’s what I want to talk to—”

“The chief,” Ann finished and pointed.

Meg turned around and her stomach flipped. Caden walked toward them, a small bundle of cloth over his left shoulder. As he neared, the bundle moved and whimpered. His big hand all but covered it as he gave it two little pats. A baby—he carried a little baby on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Caden walked with strength in each step, shoulders wide. Yet holding a small baby so naturally against his chest made him look so much more…well,
everything
. Stronger, bigger…it took Meg’s breath away.

“Good day,” he said. He frowned at Meg. “Where is Donald? He is yer escort.”

Meg blinked. “You have a baby.”

Caden patted the babe’s back once more.

Meg peeked around. “And it’s drooling down your shoulder.”

“Bairns drool when they’re sleeping,” he said and a crack of a grin softened his frown. “Some lasses do, too.”

Meg’s face flamed instantly. Had she drooled when he slept next to her on the journey?

“The bairn belongs to Hugh Loman. I offered to bring him home from Bess Tammin. Where is Donald?” he asked again.

Meg glanced down the road and pointed to where Donald stood against another house. When he saw Caden he jumped away from the wall and came toward them.

“He didn’t seem interested in women talk,” Meg said. She stepped up to the baby. “May I touch him?”

Caden shifted the baby off his shoulder and lowered him into Meg’s arms. She held the sleeping cherub with one arm and touched his softly curled hand. Air rushed through his fresh lungs, blood moved along his vessels in rhythm with his heartbeats. His body hummed with life, thriving, growing.

“He’s healthy,” Meg said and played with the baby’s toes.

Ann and Gwyneth stood over the baby, cooing as his eyes blinked open. Jonet pushed her little finger in the baby’s palm and he clasped it.

“Caden, I’d like to talk with ye,” Gwyneth said.

“Aye,” Caden said, though his eyes remained on Meg and the baby. “Talk.”

“Ann and Jonet would like to still have the harvest festival,” she said right away.

“There’s no harvest,” he said with flat finality.

“I found grain,” she said with a tip of her chin. “My cousin lives with the Davidsons and talked with their chief about giving us five sacks of grain for our festival.”

“We should thank God for what we
do
have,” Ann added. She clasped Jonet’s arm as if the scowl Caden gave her might knock her down.

“Folks will miss the festival,” Jonet said softly. “The dancing.” She shrunk under Caden’s glower.

Meg should try to help them. Wasn’t that what friends did? “I like dancing. T’would be fun to dance.”

Caden didn’t turn back to Gwyneth. “Thank yer cousin. I will send thanks to Gilbert Davidson for the grain. Make yer plans, ladies.”

The women beamed. Meg handed back the baby to Caden. “Thank you.”

“Donald, stay with Meg, even if ye don’t like woman talk.” Caden turned toward Hugh’s house, the little baby snuggled into his neck. His kilt hung around his narrow hips, and his large calf muscles flexed as he walked up the hill. The patch of baby drool dried on his shoulder.

“My, my,” Gwyneth said.

“Gwyneth!” Ann and Jonet yelled at the same time. Donald choked on an inhale.

Meg ignored the comment. “I would like to help with the festival,” she said and trudged past Gwyneth toward the keep.

“Why ye will be the main attraction,” Gwyneth said, grinning. “The niece to the great Munro.”

Meg’s shoulders tensed with the innuendo in Gwyneth’s comments. The silent worry that passed between Jonet and Ann couldn’t be missed. Just what it all meant, Meg wasn’t sure. It definitely meant something.

…

The last meal of the day had been painfully long. Caden sat before the fire and rubbed an oiled cloth over the razor edge of his sword. Ewan had played the courtier, but even his mood was forced. Caden’s headache intensified with each of Meg’s questions about the harvest and each of her pleasant expressions, because her bloody smiles encouraged lingering warriors to boast more chivalrous tales.

Now all was quiet, everyone to bed. Only the wind in the chimney and the occasional creak and skitter broke the silence. Now he could think.

Caden stood and hefted the huge sword straight up, pointing to the ceiling. Balanced in his grasp, the weapon became a deadly extension of his arm. With a toss of weight, the hilt floated in his grip. He turned the weapon and sliced through the air. The blade sang. He rotated and sliced across and then upward as if fending off attack from a mounted enemy. His muscles warmed, the tension sliding from his body as he performed the familiar movements. He paused to take off his shirt, leaving him only in the kilt draped low around his hips.

He took up the sword and worked through several movements, letting the fire and the dance melt his tension completely away. In the blessed peace of the motion, his thoughts sifted through pieces of information. Boswell’s letter, Fiona’s information, Alec’s silence thus far.

Meg.

And here his thoughts solidified. Meg was at the center of it all. She showed amazing courage yet seemed afraid to face the possibilities of what she was. She was intelligent but had no idea of her worth. Her face was that of an angel and her innate happiness could turn the meanest warriors to babbling fools. What was he going to do with her?

Caden sliced against the silent air, spun on instinct, and froze, his blade out before him parallel to the stone floor. The tip pointed toward the dim staircase, directly at Meg. She stood with a tallow candle before her, more apparition than woman in a flowing white robe. Her eyes were wide, hair free flowing around gently sloped shoulders.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Caden straightened, lowering his sword. “’Tis not safe to walk alone at night.”

She glanced around. “I don’t see anything frightening or dangerous. Just a waning fire and lovely tapestries.” She trod lightly to the hearth, set the candle on the mantel, and splayed her hands toward the heat. The edge of white cotton stuck out from under the robe to fall just on the tops of her leather slippers.

Under the chemise, she would be soft, supple, and completely nude.

Caden drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Control, he’d mastered it early in life. He could certainly control his reaction to the lass. She turned and gave him the most sincere bloody, damned smile he’d ever seen. Her gaze flicked to his bare chest before flying back up to his face, but just the quick caress sent heat through his body, melting his resolve to stay distant.

“A lovely lass alone is always in danger.” He took a step toward her and stopped.

She pursed her luscious pink lips. “Sounds like you think I can’t take care of myself.”