Highland Promise (5 page)

“It wouldnae hurt me and James to take a wee rest either,” Bethia said, “and I dinnae say that just to soothe your poor wee pride.”

“A mon’s pride isnae a poor wee thing, lass.”

She ignored that. “James and I may have made the crossing safely, but we were both soaked to the skin. Aye, and I am feeling a wee bit battered myself. And our clothes and a few other things could do with being dried out. So we will stop and rest as soon as I see a suitable place to do so.”

“Try to find something that isnae too easy to see, yet will provide some shelter.”

“Ye wish to be hidden.”

“As hidden as possible, aye. A roof of some sort may be needed as weel, for I scent rain on the air.”

Bethia nodded. “I can feel a storm moving o’er us too.”

It was a good two hours later before Bethia found something. Set against a rocky hillside, nearly obscured by trees and the hill itself, was a surprisingly well-built shieling. The little shepherd’s hut had walls of rock seamed with hard clay and what appeared to be an intact thatched roof. Either it was newly built or the builder was skilled at a lot more than herding his animals. Next to it was a shallow well in the hillside that would serve perfectly to stable the horse, even sheltering it from the storm now blackening the sky overhead.

Such a sturdy house was sorely needed, Bethia thought, as she fought the urge to nudge Connor into a gallop and race toward the shieling. In the last hour, Eric had begun to rest more heavily against her, obviously losing the battle to stay concious. What troubled her more, however, was how warm he felt against her, too warm if she was any judge. If she could get him bedded down by a fire so that he could rest easily, she might yet stave off the fever she feared was seeping through his body.

“Bethia?” Eric muttered when he felt the horse stop. He had to fight to overcome the grogginess that clouded his mind.

“I found us a place to rest,” she said as she dismounted. “Just stay there until I can make sure ’tis empty and that the inside looks as good as the outside.”

As he clung to the pommel of the saddle, Eric stared at the little hut. Bethia was right. It did look good, promising them a sturdy, dry shelter. In truth, it was finer than
some of the crofter huts he had seen. Whoever had built it evidently did not want to suffer any discomfort while watching over his animals, might even have thought to make this a permanent home someday.

Still marveling that the tiny hut had a proper, heavy wooden door and not simply a heavily oiled drape of animal hide, Bethia stepped inside and murmured with delight and satisfaction. Greased leather tightly covered the two small windows and, along with the door, had insured that no animal had gotten inside to make a home. A sturdy, somewhat large wooden bed was set against one wall. Dirt had been scraped away to reveal the rock beneath giving the hut an uneven but surprisingly clean stone floor. What truly amazed her, however, was that, instead of a hearth set in the middle of the floor, there was a roughly built fireplace in the wall opposite the bed. A table and two stools were set to the side of it. The place was more of a home than a temporary shepherd’s shelter.

After a quick but thorough check of the thick straw mattress on the bed to ensure that it was clean and free of vermin, Bethia set James down on the bed and hurried back to get Eric. “’Tis a wondrous little place, Eric,” she said as she helped him dismount.

“Do ye think someone still lives here?” he asked, silently cursing his weakness as he slumped against her.

Staggering a little beneath his weight, Bethia pulled him into the hut and urged him down to lie on the bed next to James. “Nay, but I am nay sure ’tis only a drover’s hut.”

“Mayhap a hunting lodge for whate’er laird rules o’er these lands?”

“Aye, or mayhap the drover who built it plans to live here once he is too old to be a drover.”

“Or it could be some laird’s wee love nest.”

“It seems a lot of work to go to just to enjoy a tussle now and then.”

Eric grinned briefly. “Some men like to do their tussling in comfort, lass. Or the lass he is tussling with is too weel kenned and an illicit tryst too dangerous.”

“Weel, no matter. I dinnae expect anyone will come along, so we should be safe.” She frowned at Sir Eric, who still looked dangerously pale. “Can ye keep an eye on James for just a wee while so that I might tend to a few chores?”

“Aye.” Eric laughed softly when he looked at the child lying beside him gnawing on his plump little toes. “That much I can do.”

Bethia hurried out to get their things. She then unsaddled Connor and secured the horse in the small stable. Once back inside the hut, she strung Eric’s rope across the room and draped their wet clothes over it. She got a small fire going, fetched water to boil, and then hurried away again to search out as much dry wood as possible before the rains began. Seeing that both James and Eric were asleep, she took the small bow and arrows she always carried with her and slipped away to try to do some hunting.

The smell of roasting meat brought Eric out of his deep sleep. Then he recalled that he was supposed to be watching James and, slightly panicked, looked around. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the child sleeping peacefully in a rough blanket-lined box upon the floor by the bed. His gaze then rested on Bethia, who slowly turned the spit upon which the meat roasted.

“Rabbit?” he asked, wondering why his throat was so sore.

A soft gasp of surprise escaped Bethia and she turned to look at Eric. He had been sleeping soundly for the whole afternoon and most of the evening, but he still did not
look that well. His voice was very hoarse. She prayed he was only suffering a mild chill from his near drowning, but did not say so.

“Aye, this wee valley fair teems with game,” she said as she quickly moved to plump the pillow she had made from moss and soft grasses wrapped in one of her shifts so that he could lean against the crude headboard of the bed with a little comfort. “Whilst ye were merrily snoring away the day, I collected my wee hunting bow and arrows and went to fetch us some meat.”

Eric touched the strange yet comfortable pillow set behind him. “Ye have some odd skills for a weelborn lass.”

“As I have said, I spent a lot of time forcing my company upon Bowen, Peter, and Wallace.”

“I doubt it troubled them verra much.” He took a sip of the water she served him, savoring the way it soothed his sore throat.

“Nay, I think not, although they found much pleasure in complaining about it. Are ye hungry?” she asked, taking the cup back after he had finished the drink.

“Oh, aye. ’Twas the smell of food that roused me.” He cautiously sat up on the edge of the bed, still a little groggy, but confident that he could do at least one thing without her aid. “Has the rain come?”

“Come, gone, and, I believe, thinking of pouring down on us again verra soon. Where are ye going?” Bethia asked when he slowly stood up.

“I may be as weak as a bairn, but I must insist on doing at least this one thing without your help.” He smiled faintly when, after scowling in thought for a moment, she gasped softly and blushed. “Exactly.”

“I will get ye some food whilst ye are out,” she mumbled, hurrying back to the fireplace.

Eric was sweating and shaking slightly when he returned, but fought to hide it. He did not understand why he was so weak. When he crawled back into bed and sagged back against the pillow, he began to fear that one day of rest was not going to be enough to cure what ailed him. A frowning Bethia set a small dish of rabbit and porridge in front of him and he realized that he was no longer very hungry.

“Eat as much as ye can,” Bethia urged. “Ye cannae regain your strength on an empty belly.”

“Nay. I just dinnae ken what ails me,” he muttered and slowly began to eat.

“Ye were cracked o’er the head by a branch and nearly drowned in some verra cold water. ’Tisnae something ye can just walk away from. Ye may have also taken a chill.”

“Ye havenae.”

“I didnae get my head split open or nearly drown.”

“True.”

He finished the meal but Bethia could see that it had been a struggle as she took the bowl and handed him another cup of water. “Dinnae worry o’er it. There is plenty of food, water, and wood for the fire. We can set here until ye are hale again.”

“Your enemies are searching for you.”

“I ken it, but this place is weel hidden. There is also a wee path to the top of the hill this place crouches next to. I went up there and one can see all about for what looks to be miles. And when ye decided we needed to rest, I moved off the trail we followed by a wee bit.”

“Ye got lost.”

“A wee bit,” she reluctantly admitted. “Rest, Eric. That is what will heal you.”

When he just closed his eyes rather than argue further, Bethia felt uneasy. The man was certainly unwell and she was not terribly skilled as a healer. After securing the hut and banking the fire, Bethia slipped into bed beside him. It was scandalous to share the bed, and it held more temptation than she might be able to deal with, but there was no other choice. Between James and Eric all the blankets were taken. Bethia lightly touched Eric’s face, felt the warmth there, and softly cursed. He was feverish, although he did not appear to have a very high fever. She prayed he would recover quickly and not just because she needed his protection. To her dismay, Bethia realized it would tear her heart out if he died.

“Ah, I am still alive.”

That deep, slightly hoarse voice right next to her ear startled Bethia awake so abruptly she had to scramble not to fall off the bed. Slowly she turned to face Eric and lightly placed her palm on his forehead. Cool. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“’Twould appear so,” she drawled, fighting to hide her elation over his recovery.

“How long have I forced us to linger here?”

“Four days. Ye developed a verra bad fever, Eric.”

“Four days,” he muttered, ran a hand through his hair, and grimaced in mild disgust over how dirty and tangled it was. “Have ye seen anything of your enemies?”

“Nay. In truth, I have seen no one. The rain would have washed away our trail and it has been raining for most of the time ye were ill. William would have had no trail to follow. And he likes his comforts far too much to be out riding o’er the countryside in this poor weather.”

“Good. We should leave here.” Eric tried to sit up, but found even that meager action almost more than he could accomplish. Bethia needed to put only one hand on his chest to hold him in place.

“Nay. Ye couldnae get your strength back that first day we rested here because the fever had already gotten a grip on you. Now ye will rest and eat. A day, mayhap two, and then we shall be on our way.”

“’Tis dangerous to stay so long in one place.”

“’Tis even more dangerous to try to ride out when ye are so weak ye will fall off your horse ere we have left the valley.”

“Ye do ken how to wound a mon’s vanity.”

She just smiled and slipped out of the bed. Keeping her attitude cool and aloof, she helped him see to his needs, ignoring his muttering. Once he was back in bed, she began to make him some porridge. At his insistence, she left him struggling to eat without help and saw to a now awake James.

It was late in the afternoon, after Eric had slept and remained clear of the fever, that Bethia conceded to his demands to have a wash. She left him with two buckets of heated water and, taking James with her, went to climb to the top of the hill. Setting the boy down and letting him play on the grass, she stared out at the surrounding countryside. To her relief, there was still no sign of any riders. For now they were still safe.

With a sigh, she sat down, idly accepting James’s gifts of bugs, rocks, and most anything else he found on the ground. Now that she was out of Eric’s sight, she allowed the deep relief she felt over his recovery to show. For four long days she had lived in fear that he would succumb to the fever. Now that the weight of that fear was lifted from her shoulders, she felt exhausted.

The time she had spent nursing him and praying for his life had forced her to face a hard truth. She loved the man, deeply and probably incurably. It frightened her. A man like Sir Eric Murray was not for her. She was facing only heartbreak, but she knew there was no turning back now.

Time and time again, as she had sat by his bedside, bathing his brow, she had thought about his wish to have her share his passion. He gave her no words of love, no hint that there would ever be anything more than passion. Bethia had scolded herself
again and again, repeated all the dire warnings given to young maids of good birth, but none of it made any difference. As she had sat there, terrified that he would die, she had cursed herself for not succumbing to his seduction.

“Fool,” she muttered.

Now that he was alive, now that she knew how much she loved him, temptation was back in force. What she needed to do before he recovered fully was decide if she would give in to that temptation. It would ruin her for marriage, but then none had been offered or arranged for her. Shortly after Sorcha’s marriage, Bethia had begun to think that her parents had no intention of seeing her wed, had never even given the matter a thought. She did almost all of the work around the demesne and they obviously did not want to give that up. It was a lonely life with little joy and no thanks. It was the life waiting for her when she returned to Dunnbea. Did she really want to go back to it without tasting the passion she and Eric could share at least once?

The answer that rang in her head was a very loud no, but she told herself not to be hasty. As she picked up James and headed back to the hut, she warned herself to be cautious. Eric Murray had actually told her little about himself. Each time she had begun to ask him questions, he had adeptly turned the conversation back to her or the trouble dogging her heels. It was time the man told her a few truths about himself and about why he was riding over the countryside all alone. Only when she had them could she make any sort of decision about what she may or may not take from him.

Bethia woke to the sharp demand of passion. She curled her arms around Eric’s neck as he kissed her. He gently nipped her bottom lip, and although still unsure about such deep kisses, she opened her mouth to the invasion of his tongue. She shivered in his arms as he stroked the inside of her mouth with his tongue. His beautiful hands moved over her body in a caress just short of intimacy yet still creating a heady warmth.

For a few moments, Bethia simply took what he had to give, enjoying the heat flowing through her veins, the taste of him in her mouth, and the feel of his long, strong body pressed to hers. Beneath her growing passion lay a flicker of fear, but that only added to the excitement. Then he slid his hand up her rib cage and covered her breast. The sharp want that tore through her when he brushed his thumb over her already hardening nipple brought her to her senses concerning the danger she was courting. With a soft cry of alarm, she flung herself from his grasp and scrambled out of the bed.

The man’s health was certainly improved, she thought dazedly as she stood by the bed and stared at him. In the two days since the fever had broken, his recovery had been little less than amazing. Bethia realized it had been a mistake to keep sharing the bed, then soothed her guilt by reminding herself that there had been no other place to sleep. She took a deep breath to try to steady herself, fighting to still the faint tremor of want that still rippled through her body, and grabbed for her gown.

“’Tis warmer in the bed,” Eric murmured as he stretched out on his back and crossed his arms behind his head.

Too warm
, Bethia thought as she felt an irritating tension replace the warmth his touch had left her with. As she laced up her gown, she looked at him. He was not as calm and relaxed as he wanted to appear. There was a tautness in his fine body, a heat glittering in his eyes. He wanted her. It was a heady knowledge—so heady that she was tempted to crawl back into bed with him. The fact that a man like Sir Eric would feel
passion for her, a skinny little wench with mismatched eyes, made the temptation he presented almost more than she could resist.

She grasped frantically at some sensibility and strength as she hurried to light the fire. She had not had any of her questions about him answered yet. Bethia knew she had allowed concern for his health let her be diverted from her determination to find out more about him. But, she thought as she heard him dress and slip outside, his health was restored. They would leave tomorrow and she did not know much more about him than she had when he had first ridden into view.

Once they had broken their fast and she had tended to James’s needs, she carried a stool over to the bed and sat down. Eric, sprawled on his back on the bed and looking far too fine for her peace of mind, turned his head and eyed her warily. He would talk to her now or she would do her best to see that he did not get any more chances to steal even the smallest of kisses.

Eric studied Bethia’s small face and inwardly grimaced. Several times since he had roused from his fever, she had gently tried to get him to talk about himself. It was clear that she would no longer be gentle. He felt the sharp bite of frustrated need in his body and sighed. It was something he supposed he ought to get used to, for after he answered her questions, she would probably be even harder to seduce than she was now.

“I think ye ken more about me than anyone outside of Dunnbea,” Bethia said, “yet I ken verra little about you, Sir Eric. Dinnae ye think that should change?”

“Mayhap I havenae said much because I am certain ye willnae like what ye hear,” he replied.

“Probably not, but I think I need to hear it. Why is it that ye dinnae seem to ken anything about your mother’s kin?”

“A good start,” Eric muttered. “My father thought I was a bastard got upon my mother by the Murray laird. I was still warm from my mother’s womb when he had me taken to a hillside and left to die.” He smiled grimly when Bethia gasped and paled. “Aye, the laird of Dubhlinn was a hard bastard. He was also a fool. If he had but taken a good look at me he would have seen that I was indeed his spawn. The mark on my back?”

“That wee heart?”

“Aye, ’tis something only the Beaton laird could have given me. ’Tis how my brother’s wife Maldie and I kenned we were brother and sister, equally cursed in our father. She was but one of many girl children he had sired, walking away from them when he saw that the woman he had seeded hadnae given him the son he sought.”

“The son he had tossed away,” she whispered, unable to truly understand how anyone could do such a thing to a tiny baby. “How did ye survive?”

“A Murray mon found me and took me back to Donncoill. It was accepted that I was the Murray laird’s bastard, for he and my mother had feared that the child she carried was his. I was thirteen, convinced I was a Murray, happy in that knowledge, when I had to face the truth. Maldie had come to kill her father. Her dying mother had made her swear to do it to avenge her and I think Maldie needed to avenge the fact that he had deserted her too, not just her mother. She had had a hard life with a bitter mother—a woman who became a whore and tried to get Maldie to be one too.”

“She must have been so angry,” Bethia said quietly as she pulled her stool closer to the bed and rested her arms on the mattress. “Please dinnae tell me she did it, for no one
should have such a black sin upon her soul. So sad that her own mother would ask something of her that would so taint her.”

“Nay, she didnae.” Eric smiled faintly when she sighed with relief and he smoothed his hand over her thick braid. “My mother was dead, killed along with her midwife because my father couldnae bear that she had betrayed him. That is why I ne’er kenned my mother. I have learned what I can about her kinsmen o’er the years and sent them word, but they have continued to believe the Beatons. They think I am naught but a bastard.”

“But e’en if ye were, ye are the bastard of their kinswoman. Ye would think they would at least wish to see you.”

Knowing what he was about to say could push Bethia so far away he would never be able to pull her back, Eric softly cursed. “I seek what is mine by the rights of my birth.” He sighed when she tensed beneath his hand and pulled back. “I am the true heir to Dubhlinn, but another Beaton slipped into the place and now denies me. The king doesnae wish to be troubled with all of this, so we cannae get aid from him. Also, there is whatever my mother had. I ken why Beaton wishes to keep me marked a bastard, for I would take everything he clutches, but I am nay sure why it matters to the MacMillans. All I can think is that they dinnae wish to anger the Beatons. And, mayhap, they are shamed by what they see as their kinswoman’s misdeeds.”

“And ye are willing to fight for this?”

“’Tis mine. For thirteen years, I have tried to settle this with no more than words, petitions, months at court discussing it with the king, and many another calm, peaceful way. They willnae heed me. Now I mean to confront them.” Eric watched Bethia steadily as she slowly got to her feet. “I am no William trying to kill and steal my way to land and coin.”

“Of course ye arenae,” she snapped, but was too distracted to pay much heed to her swift and sharp defense of Eric. “I must think about this.”

“Aye, I understand.”

At least he tried to, he mused as he watched her leave. It seemed all very clear to him. He was the rightful heir. For years he had struggled peacefully to gain what was his, and no one would relinquish it. It was the Beatons and the MacMillans who pushed for a confrontation.

James’s soft gurgle brought Eric’s gaze to the child. The baby lay in his rough little bed sucking on his fingers and slowly going to sleep. His parents were dead and someone wanted him dead as well. Bethia was probably still too locked in her grief and fear to be completely reasonable. She was viewing the matter through pure emotion. He tried to take comfort in the swift, sharp way she had refuted his fear that she thought he was like William.

Eric got up and started to pack their things. They would have to leave in the morning. He had felt that they could leave this morning, but Bethia had convinced him that one more day of rest would ensure the fever would not return. He had to admit that he had not looked forward to riding for a whole day. Eric grimaced and glanced toward the door. He had hoped to spend the day furthering his attempt to pull Bethia into his bed. Instead, she had pushed for the truth and he had given it to her, saying the one thing that could keep her out of his arms. Although he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, he was a little surprised at how much that thought distressed him. Perhaps, he
mused, while Bethia was struggling to sort out her thoughts, he ought to take a longer, harder look at what he was thinking and feeling, besides the need to bury himself in her warmth.

Bethia sighed with weariness when she reached the top of the hill. It was a hard climb to make twice in such a short span of time. She sat on the grass, staring out at the surrounding land, but seeing little. Eric’s words had shocked her deeply. The only way to give them the thought and consideration they required was to get away from him, away from his bonny face and seductive voice.

Emotion was disordering her thinking and she knew it. For a moment, all she had been able to think of was that the man she had turned to for help was yet another seeking land and coin at the expense of others. The fact that she had refused to allow him to compare himself to William, or think that she did, revealed that at least some common sense was still at work within her disordered thoughts. Bethia took several deep breaths of the crisp air. She needed to calm herself and think, needed to grasp reason and push all emotion aside.