Highlander Most Wanted (17 page)

“When will it end?” Taliesan asked softly. “Our clan is bathed in blood, betrayal, and treachery. All because of Ian McHugh.”

“Nay,” Genevieve said fiercely. “He carries not the full blame. Patrick McHugh allowed his son free rein. Patrick was laird, not Ian. He was too weak and dishonorable to stand up to his son and correct the wrongs that have brought this clan low. ’Tis on him
and
Ian that the clan should turn their ire. Not me. Not the Montgomerys or the Armstrongs. They set in motion all that has occurred when they made the choices they made.”

“You are right, of course,” Taliesan murmured. “But ’tis still sad that brother is pitted against brother. Father against son. Wife against husband. ’Tis no position for any clansman to be in. We are family. If we don’t stand together, how can we stand for anything else?”

Genevieve grasped Taliesan’s hand. “Aye, ’tis sad indeed, but there is naught you and I can do to change it. ’Tis their decisions. Their choices. They must live with the consequences.”

Taliesan sighed. “I know you are right, but I still have no love of the entire sordid mess. It makes me fear for the future of our clan—our bloodline. Already we have a Montgomery laird. How long will it be before there are none of us left and we are but spoils of war, scattered
to the winds, our name naught but a black memory carried to generations after us.”

“You take far too much on your shoulders, Taliesan,” Genevieve said gently. “You are wise for one so young, and you think deeper on matters than your kinsmen. You can only take responsibility for your own actions and act with honor in every encounter.”

“I know you are right. ’Tis not me who is wise, Genevieve, but you.”

“If I was wise, I would have found a way to kill Ian McHugh long ago and save us all the misery of his actions,” Genevieve said, her voice so cold it sent a shiver down her own spine.

And ’twas true enough. Killing Ian would surely have meant her own death sentence, and yet that would have been preferable to the life she’d endured. But she’d stubbornly clung to her existence, refusing to be beaten down. Her damnable pride would not allow her to concede defeat to Ian or any other McHugh, most especially not Patrick McHugh. She would not have given him the satisfaction of ordering her death. And that was supposing that she would have even been killed. Just as easily she could have been consigned a fate as bad as the one Ian had heaped upon her. Given to the McHugh men to play the unwilling whore. Passed from one to the other and perhaps given as bounty to another clan.

Nay, as long as she had hope of one day regaining control over her destiny, she had silently endured, knowing that one day … one day she would be in a position to seek justice. That time had come the day before, when Patrick had been in her sights and she’d let the arrow fly.

“How is the clan taking the news of Patrick’s death? Is it known who did the killing?”

Genevieve held her breath, feeling guilty over deceiving Taliesan. But if it was known that she had killed Patrick, the clan would only harbor more animosity
toward her. She cared not if anyone ever discovered the truth.

“The clan is divided. There are those who are angry about Patrick’s betrayal, and they believe the Montgomerys and Armstrongs acted accordingly. He was buried this morn, but the Montgomery and Armstrong men bore his body beyond our borders, not affording him the honor of being laid to rest on McHugh land. There are others who, while confused and bitter about Patrick’s defection, still believe he should have been given the honor of being buried on his lands.”

That Taliesan hadn’t given voice to the fact that Genevieve had been the one who’d felled Patrick bolstered Genevieve’s spirits. It was one less thing the clan would blame her for—not that they needed other reasons.

Genevieve reached over to squeeze Taliesan’s hand. “I go to see how the laird fares. His injuries required stitching, and ’twas I who set needle to his flesh. ’Tis God’s truth my hand has never shaken as much as it did last night. I must now watch for signs of fever and pray that he recovers quickly.”

“If you have need of anything, summon me at once,” Taliesan said, her voice sincere. “I will be happy to give you aid.”

“Thank you, Taliesan. I never imagined finding a true friend among so many hostile faces, but ’tis glad I am to have you.”

Taliesan smiled, her entire face lighting up so sweetly that it made Genevieve instantly warm all the way through. She stood, pushing herself up awkwardly from the bed, and smoothed her skirts.

“You must be starved. I will send up food for you to the laird’s chamber so that you may eat while you watch over his recovery.”

Genevieve’s stomach cramped, and she realized that it
had been a long while since she’d partaken of any food. She smiled gratefully up at Taliesan.

“My thanks. If you would, have water warmed and brought up in a basin so that I may wash the laird’s wounds and see to the dressings.”

“I’ll do it at once.”

Taliesan started toward the door, but then she hesitated and turned, her fingers gripping the edge.

“Things will be better now, Genevieve. You’ll see. No longer will you be forced to suffer such injustice. Bowen Montgomery seems a good and just man. He’ll do what is right.”

Genevieve nodded faintly, her stomach knotting not from hunger but from the knowledge that when the laird awakened he would demand an accounting from her. And what she told him could well mean that the Montgomerys and Armstrongs would be no safe refuge for her.

Genevieve knocked at Bowen’s door, and while she waited for the summons to enter she very nearly turned and fled back to her chamber. Only the thought that if Geoffrey and Deaglan had given the laird another potion he would be insensible awhile longer gave her the courage to stand her ground.

The door opened and Deaglan stood there, large and imposing. He took a step back and motioned for Genevieve to enter.

“He drank nearly all of the dram we gave him,” Deaglan reported. “He is resting more comfortably now. I see no sign of fever. ’Tis to your credit and speed in stitching him up that he seems to be faring so well.”

Warmth suffused Genevieve’s cheeks at the unexpected praise. Kind words were foreign to her of late.

“ ’Tis good he is resting,” she said as she made her way to the chair still positioned next to Bowen’s bed.

She glanced at the sleeping laird and, indeed, he looked at peace. His brow wasn’t creased in pain, and he seemed utterly relaxed.

Another knock sounded, and Deaglan frowned as he hurried to answer. A moment later, he came back in carrying food. Taliesan appeared behind him, her eyes large in her face. She seemed intimidated by the presence of the two guards.

Genevieve rose, offering a smile of welcome to Taliesan. Then she turned to Geoffrey and Deaglan. “Taliesan has brought food. Have either of you eaten since the laird was attacked?”

Geoffrey frowned, his brow knitted in concentration. “Nay, mistress. ’Tis the truth we have not.”

“Then partake of what is offered,” Genevieve said, waving her hand toward the food.

“Nay,” Deaglan objected. “ ’Tis your meal we take, mistress. You were at the laird’s side since yesterday and have more need of sustenance than we do.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes and stared at the mound of food carried by both Deaglan and Taliesan. “There is more than enough for all to share. You’ll concentrate harder on your task of protecting the laird if your belly is full. Now eat. It would be a shame for it to go to waste. I’ll not eat all of it, to be sure.”

“Our thanks, mistress,” Deaglan said gravely. “ ’Tis most appreciated. We would not leave the laird’s chamber door even to go below and break our fast.”

“I’ll see that food is brought to you at all meals,” Taliesan said in a soft, shy voice.

Both men smiled at Taliesan, but then who wouldn’t? The lass was sweet and good-hearted to her bones. She had a positive effect on everyone who came into contact with her.

“Thank you,” Deaglan offered solemnly. “I appreciate your generosity.”

Taliesan blushed pink, dipped a curtsy, and then limped from the room, closing the door behind her.

Genevieve plated a small portion of the food that Taliesan had brought to the chamber. Even though she was hungry, she knew she wouldn’t eat much. Her stomach was too unsettled. She was too worried—and terrified—of what was to come.

The two men set upon the remainder of the food, and
it was evident they were indeed quite hungry as they dug into their offerings.

She returned to the chair at Bowen’s bedside and picked nervously at the food. It was tasteless—probably a blessing—but she forced herself to swallow each bite, washing it down with water.

She was nearly done with her portion when the door opened. She swung around to see who had entered without so much as a by-your-leave, only to see Brodie looming in the doorway.

He nodded at Geoffrey and Deaglan, exchanging a few low words that she couldn’t hear—although Brodie kept gifting her with the strangest looks.

When he was done with his brief conversation, he walked toward the bed. There was a peculiar light in his eyes, one she wanted to question him about, but she stifled the urge. There were some things she’d rather not know.

“How does he fare?” Brodie asked in a low voice.

Genevieve set her plate aside on the small table by Bowen’s bed.

“He has settled. Geoffrey and Deaglan gave him another potion after he became agitated. ’Twas obvious he was in pain.”

“And fever?”

She shook her head. “Nay, he is still cool to the touch. My hope is that the next time he awakens the pain will have subsided enough that he doesn’t require further sedation. If God is willing, he’ll pull through and be back on his feet in a short time.”

Brodie nodded, his features easing. He looked tired. As though he’d not slept the night before, and ’twas likely he hadn’t, given all she’d heard from Taliesan. She bit her lip to prevent the inevitable questions from bursting out. She wanted to ask him about the McHugh traitors. What the mood of the McHugh clan was, and if he
feared another attack. And, most important, would he and the remaining warriors from the Montgomery and Armstrong clans be capable of fending off yet another attempt to reclaim the keep?

“You did a fine job, Genevieve. Bowen will owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Nay,” she refuted softly. She knew better.

“I have matters to attend, and ’tis important we keep careful watch on the borders,” Brodie said. “Summon me when he awakens and alert me if his condition worsens.”

“Aye, I will.”

He touched her shoulder briefly with his hand, and then he was gone before she could react to his gesture.

She sagged when Brodie departed the chamber. What a fraud she was, playing savior, making herself important.

Though none would likely believe it, she had no ulterior motive for helping Bowen Montgomery. She knew that she would answer for her actions, regardless of her role in keeping Bowen alive.

Despite all the wrong that had been done to her, she still had a burning sense of right and wrong. Perhaps her view was not shared by others, but it was what she thought that mattered to her. She could only control her own actions, and, if she could help it, she would not act with dishonor, for to do so would make her no better than Ian or Patrick, or the countless others who’d made the choice to sell their loyalty.

Deaglan and Geoffrey rose from their places by the fire. Deaglan stood by Bowen’s bed long enough to offer his and Geoffrey’s services should they be needed, and the two quit the room to resume their posts outside the door.

The chamber was once again blanketed in silence, and Genevieve sat staring at Bowen as he rested with ease.

Tentatively, she slid her fingers over Bowen’s warm hand that was palm down on the mattress.

“I know you sleep, Laird,” she whispered. “But ’tis my wish for you to recover even though I must answer for my actions when you awaken. You are the only hope for this clan. For me. I would have you live so that you may see this clan through the coming days. I do not want Ian and Patrick to win, though they are both dead and lie in cold graves.”

She left her hand covering his, enjoying something so simple as an innocent touch. Completely harmless. His warmth bled into her cold hand, warming all the way into her arm.

He moved her in a way that was unfamiliar to her. She felt none of the loathing, fear, or disgust that she felt with Ian or the others with whom he tortured her.

He left her hungry, for what she couldn’t be certain, but he instilled an ache deep within her soul, for no matter what he decided her fate to be, she knew him to be an honorable man.

Aye, she would be at peace whatever his edict. She deserved his anger and censure. She had done the terrible thing he’d accused her of, and yet he hadn’t come to her in rage, making threats, and neither had he abused her.

He simply asked her if what he’d learned was true. And when had anyone questioned her before rendering judgment?

For that he had her respect. She only hated that she couldn’t deny his claims.