Captured Heart (6 page)

“Meg,” a faint whisper of a voice called to her, urgent, full of fury and something more, desperation perhaps. “Meg!”

Caden. She sighed inside the tiny wisp of conscious thought still aflame. Caden had returned. With the sound of his voice, she gave into the blackness.

…

Rachel Munro sat before the fire in the great hall stitching a shirt for her husband. The flames crackled and she warmed with contentment. She barely remembered her life in England, growing up as a merchant’s daughter with her sister, Isabelle, and brother, Harold. She’d married Alec Munro, the new chief of the Munros, soon after Alec’s father died. The old Munro had been business partners with Rachel’s father, and she had convinced her father to bring her along on one of his trips to the fabled Highlands. She’d never left since, except once when her sister had given birth down in England.

Rachel loved the Highlands, the rugged beauty, the solid, simple life. She’d fit in easily with these passionate people. And of all the passionate people that she fit with, Alec Munro was definitely the one who kept her on her toes, even today after all these years.

She watched him play a game of chess with his old friend, Phillip, at the long table across the hall.

Alec slammed his hand down on the oak planks, making the wooden pieces jump and Phillip curse. Her husband was full of bluster, pride, and passion. A true Highlander. She loved him fiercely. Thank the good Lord she hadn’t returned to England like her father had wanted, like he’d made Isabelle do. She doubted that Alec would have let her go, but if she had, she’d probably ended up wed to an English dandy or worse, a monster like the man her sister wed.

Rowland Boswell was elegant with a courtier’s handsome façade, but he was also demanding, cruel, and suspicious. If only their father had known what an atrocious match he’d forced on Isabelle. That his choice in suitors would ultimately lead to his gentle daughter’s death. And if Rachel couldn’t get Isabelle’s daughter out of England, the same could very well befall the child.

Rachel frowned and stared down at her finger where a tiny bead of blood swelled up from a pinprick. Even thinking of the dreadful man was dangerous. She closed her eyes and formed a pea-sized blue glowing orb between her other thumb and forefinger. She passed the lighted sphere over the minute hole and sealed the skin.

“Devil of a man,” she cursed, and snuffed the light.

“Talking to yourself, wife?” Alec asked, and peered down over her head.

Rachel tilted back. “Just pondering how I can get you to brave English soil to rescue my niece.”

Alec huffed and pulled on his wiry beard. He scraped the second chair along the stone floor to face the fire and flopped into it. “We’ve been through this, Rachel.”

They had, many times. Around and around, Rachel knew all the arguments against it.

“I’ve been forbidden to set foot on English soil, Rachel. That weasel of a man got a bloody royal decree.”

She poked the needle through the linen. “Bloody royal decree. I know.”

“I don’t fear for
my
life,” he defended.

She didn’t look up, but reached out and patted his arm. “Of course I don’t want you to die, husband, but no Englishman could best you.”

“I’d forfeit my lands. You and Searc would be landless, homeless.” He stared into the crackling fire. “Is one girl worth the lives of the whole clan?”

Rachel watched her minute stitches. “You risk our clan every time you refuse a truce with the Macbains.” Her words were feather soft, floating on a whisper, because they didn’t need to be any louder.

Alec’s fist slammed onto the wooden arm of the chair. She had held her needle still with her words so as not to jab herself again. She rarely jumped anymore, but it was good to be prudent, nonetheless.

“Why do I bother to come sit with you, woman, when you plague me so?”

Rachel watched him from the corner of her eyes. “Because you love me, you stubborn old mountain of a man.”

He turned his head from the fire. His eyes sought hers and she swallowed against the increased pace of her heart. The silent promise reminded her of long ago days when he would chase her through the wildflowers across the moors. Alec stood and leaned in front of her, his hands braced on each of the wooden arms. She tilted back, no longer able to see her work, and returned his stare.

“Aye, that I do,” he said low and leaned forward, kissing her lips gently. The gesture was so sweet that Rachel yelped when he shoved his arm under her legs and lifted her. His unfinished shirt slid from her lap to the rushes.

“Alec! What are you about?” she called as he strode with her across the main hall. He leered at her and she couldn’t stop a giggle from erupting.

“I think I’m about to remind you, lass, just what a randy old mountain man you’re strapped to.”

She laughed and clung to his neck.

The towering double doors to the keep banged open with a gust of autumn-chilled wind. Alec planted his feet and turned.

“Geoffrey,” Alec said, and let Rachel slide to the floor. “What are you doing here?”

Geoffrey was a Munro who had been living with the Macbains, covertly keeping an eye on the Munro’s most dangerous enemy.

“Caden Macbain,” he breathed in large gulps of air, as if he’d run the whole way from Druim Keep.

Rachel placed her hands on him. His heart rate was too high, but he was young and could handle the exertion.

“Caden Macbain asks for you to come,” he said and handed Rachel a rolled parchment with a bit of grime-splattered plaid tied to it before resting his hands on his knees.

“I’m not bloody likely to walk into that death trap.” Alec swore and tried to grab the letter, but Rachel was too quick.

Geoffrey straightened. “Not you,” he said, finding his breath. “Lady Munro.”

“
Mac an donais!
” Alec swore. “And neither is my wife. Has the Macbain hit that thick head of his?”

Rachel scanned the parchment. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes narrowed, and she turned to Alec. She held out the bloodied rag.

“Did you send men to attack the Macbains at Loch Tuinn this noon time?” she asked.

Alec grabbed the scrap of material. “Lies,” he grumbled. “As if I can tell this is Munro blood. Phillip!” he yelled, though the man was right there. “Did you send out men to Loch Tuinn?”

“Nay,” his second in command answered. “We trained in hand to hand all morn and worked the rest of the day to fortify the north wall.”

The knot in Rachel’s stomach loosened, but she frowned all the more. She handed her husband the parchment. “Margaret,” she called.

A young woman came running in from the back storage rooms.

“Come with me, girl. I need to pack my things.” She turned to Geoffrey. “Wait for me.”

He nodded while Alec shook his head.

“You are not going, Rachel,” Alec said firmly. Her husband was the most stubborn man she’d ever met, but she was his match.

Rachel turned back to him slowly. She indicated the letter. “The Macbain has brought Isabelle’s daughter here and she’s been shot at the loch, by who we don’t know. Meg may die without me.” She shook her head, never breaking contact with his eyes so that he could read her unmoving sincerity. “I won’t allow Isabelle’s daughter to also be murdered. I’m going.”

Alec took a step toward her. “He thinks we attacked them. He’ll keep you as hostage, woman.”

“He pledges that he will not keep me if I help Meg. You read it.”

Alec dropped the parchment to the floor. “A Macbain won’t keep his word.”

“His father may not have, but we’ve heard that Caden is different.”

“Nay!” Alec yelled, his face turning bright red. “He’s still a bloody Macbain, without honor. I will not let my wife just walk into his trap. This is all a lie!”

“Geoffrey,” she said calmly, though she held her husband’s burning gaze. “Did you see an injured woman brought into Druim Keep this day?”

“Aye, milady. All the men said it was Meg Boswell.”

Rachel’s stomach clenched with a mix of frantic worry and excitement that her niece was finally away from England.

“And just how did the Macbains end up with your niece?” Alec jumped on the question. “Steal her away from England? Using her against us! Nay! You aren’t going, wife!”

Rachel shut her eyes for a long moment, then walked to her husband. She touched his blotchy face. His heart raced as if in battle, every muscle in his body tightened, his stomach clenched. Worry. The corners of Rachel’s lips turned up.

“I love you, too, Alec.” She stared into his blue eyes and stroked her hand down to sit on his upper arm where she squeezed. “I have to go to Meg. She’s all I have left of Isabelle. You know I can save her.”

Alec breathed out low. “Nay, woman. Do not go.”

“I will be safe. And I know you have half a dozen faithful Munros over there that could secret me out if need be.” Rachel sensed Alec’s blood slowing in his veins. His chest relaxed. “You, husband, get to fight on the battlefield to save your family. Let me save mine.”

He stared at her a long moment and Rachel knew she’d already won, but she would wait until he gave his approval. Husbands must appear to be in control even when they weren’t.

Alec continued to stare while he spoke out to the room. “Phillip, prepare a group of twenty men to escort Lady Munro to her niece. Let Macbain know that we were not at Loch Tuinn today and that if anything unpleasant should befall my wife, I will have his head for Christmas supper. I expect her returned within the week.”

Rachel leaned in and kissed her husband hard on his lips. She turned and ran with Margaret up the stairway.

…

“She is growing hot.” Caden’s voice rushed about the room. His hand lay along Meg’s cheek.

“Shock turns to fever fairly quickly in a wee lass,” Caden’s housekeeper, Evelyn, said and tucked a blanket around Meg.

Caden took up the damp rag from a clay bowl and washed Meg’s forehead. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Meg Boswell was to be used to force a peace, but she wasn’t to be harmed in the process. The mission: to quickly take her from her home in England, to bring her safely up to the Highlands, and then give her to The Munro in exchange for a promise of peace and the return of their livestock. Simple.

Bloody hell! He should have anticipated the attack, should have shielded her, had her constantly surrounded by his men.

Evelyn shook her graying head, her hands on her ample hips as she peered at Meg, studying her. “A bonny lass. Hard to believe she’s niece to a witch.”

She touched the heavy cross that hung from her neck. “She’s but a wee thing.” Evelyn’s gaze turned to the hearth. “Smart of her to keep that beast around, I suppose.” She eyed Nickum lying unconscious on his side before the fire.

Caden stood on the opposite side of the bed. Meg did seem small in it. He had broken the shaft of the arrow that still lay in her torn shoulder. She lay flat under the light blanket. She was pale, like the dead, her dark lashes stark against ashen cheeks. Her shallow breaths barely moved the blanket. He watched them closely for several seconds to make sure they continued a regular rhythm.

Nickum whimpered but did not rise. Ewan and Donald had pulled the arrows from his body and wrapped him tight, but more was needed to bring the animal back.

His gaze returned to Meg and he ran a palm against her cheek. “Where is her aunt?”

“I sent Geoffrey with your letter as soon as you gave it to me.”

“Send for Fiona from the village,” he ordered. “She knows the ways of healing.”

“You need more than herbs to fix that,” Evelyn said, pointing to Meg’s covered shoulder.

His chest numbed, hollow, empty. “Send for Fiona. If Rachel Munro doesn’t come by midnight, I will bring her.”

Evelyn opened the door to the chamber. “What’s this?”

Caden turned to see corridor filled with warriors.

Ewan peered over Evelyn’s head, and into the room. “We’re here to see if there is anything we can do.”

“Anything you can do?” Evelyn asked.

“Aye, for Meg,” Donald said. “The wee lass helped most of us on the mission.”

Ewan spoke loud. “Aye, even saved The Macbain’s hard head, she did.”

Evelyn’s gaze moved between the men and Caden. She shook her head. “The chief will have need of you if the Witch Munro doesn’t come. And perhaps two of you to help hold the lass when Fiona pulls out the point of the arrow.”

“I will help,” Hamish called from the back.

“So will I,” Kieven stated, and tried to shove through. “She saved my leg from turning black.”

“
Stad!
” Evelyn called and yanked Ewan and Donald into the room. “Kieven, be a help and find Fiona. Tell her to bring her cures.”

Kieven’s footfalls sounded through the stone corridor.

“Hamish, we’ll call you if you’re needed. Now all of you go back down and find something to put in your bellies. Did you bring any game back from England?”

“Aye,” another man called. “Meg even helped with that.”

Evelyn snorted. “For a Munro, you all think rather highly of the miss.”

“She isn’t a Munro, she’s a Boswell,” another insisted.

“Well you think rather highly then of an English lass with Munro blood in her veins,” Evelyn countered and shooed the rest of them away from the door.

Donald stood near Nickum at the hearth. “You think he will die, too?”

“No one is dying,” Caden said with determined patience, barely concealing the threat in his voice.

Evelyn moved back to the other side of the bed. “I’d say that your men are not the only ones thinking highly of the English Munro.”

Evelyn had been his nursemaid, his housekeeper, his friend, especially when his mother had died. And she’d always been able to see the truth in him even when he wasn’t sure of it himself.

He stared down at Meg’s pale forehead. “If she dies, we have nothing to bargain with, Evelyn. There’ll be no chance for peace.”

There. That was a plausible explanation for the twisting in his gut. He met Evelyn’s steely blue eyes. “The Munros may even blame us for her death.”

“Even though it is one of their bloody arrows in her?” Donald asked.