Lois Greiman (4 page)

“Perhaps this ought to be stitched,” she suggested.

The world felt right and good. “Do what ye must, lass.”

“Me?” She shook her head. “I fear I’m not up to the task. But Frankie has been known to right the worst—”

“Frankie!”

Her eyes widened at his reaction. “He be in Lord Chetfield’s employ.”

Dark memories swarmed in. “I’m certain I’ll mend without his help. Just do what ye can, lass. All will be well.”

Her scowl deepened as she skimmed her hand down his midline, washing gently. The muscles tingled beneath her touch. Her brow wrinkled
into a thoughtful frown. “This be the strangest wound yet,” she said, cleansing gently.

Mother Mary, she was a bonny bit of fluff. Just past the silky crest of her head, he could see the lovely soft mounds of her bosoms, making him light-headed again.

“However did you get burned?” she asked, and blinked up at him.

Yanked back to reality, he snagged his gaze from her cleavage. “Burned? Nay, lass, I’m certain ye’re wrong. ’Twas the beasties.”

She shook her head. “I’ve not seen the likes of these wounds.” Her fingers trilled gently about the edges of the circular lesion. “Not in all me days.” She gasped, looking up. “Do you suppose the beasts were bewitched? Do you think your wounds were caused by…Lucifer?”

Aye, in a manner of speaking they were. He remained absolutely still as ancient memories stormed through him. Betrayal. Pain. Shame so deep it seared him to the core of his very soul. He was a coward. But because of that cowardice, he yet lived. And because of her courage, she had died. ’Twas what bravery gave you. What love had to offer. “Nay, lass,” he said. “They were but ordinary beasties. I’m certain of it.”

She shook her head, staring at his wounds. “The devil is tricky,” she said, and raised her
gaze to his. “But you bested him.” Her eyes were soft with adoration.

“Lass…” he murmured, dubious conscience scorching him. “Mayhap I be na what ye think I be.”

She flitted her gaze to the lambkin. “You are bravery.” Her voice trembled a little. “And kindness.”

Oh, aye, he was all of that. So brave and kind that he had come to lie and steal, then creep into the night and leave her to fend for herself.

“’Twould be best, lass,” he said softly, “if ye did na venture out alone at night.”

She nodded, lips parted. “I shall stay close to Mr. Roland if ever I—”

He cursed under his breath.

She raised her brows, eyes wide and wondering. “What’s that?”

Keelan cursed again, but silently now. He was, if nothing else, the master of his emotions. Indeed, he had abolished feelings many long years past. But the thought of the bastard with such a sweet maid curdled his entrails. “I’m certain Roland be a fine, upstanding chap,” he said, barely able to force the lie past his battered lips, “yet ye must surely ken the effect ye have on a man, lass.”

She stared at him for a moment, then dropped
her gaze and blushed. The color seeped from her cheeks over the tiny swirl of her ears. And suddenly he wanted quite desperately to reach out and caress her cheek, to kiss the smooth loveliness of her neck. To lay her down in the straw beneath them and feel her heart beat through the luscious skin of her bonny bosom. But he would not; he must keep his head. Literally and figuratively.

“Tell me,” he said, admiring the way her lashes swept dark and full against the tender skin of her lively cheeks. “How did a comely lass like yerself end up so far afield?”

She cleared her throat and turned to wring out the rag again. When she smoothed it against his wrist, it felt warm and soothing, though he longed for her touch elsewhere. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She had lifted his hand in hers and turned it to lave the palm. The sensation was shockingly erotic, and even more so when she curled the cloth around his digits to wash each finger. Beneath his tattered tartan, his manhood reared to attention. Good thing he’d been dragged on his back instead of the reverse. He’d have to remember to thank the bastards for that, after he stole their master blind and made them all look like fools.

She glanced up, cleavage perfectly centered beneath the pointed peak of her adorable little chin. His erection bucked beneath the rucked wool.

“I would venture to guess ye were raised in London,” he explained.

“Oh, me cockney,” she said, retrieving more salve and easing it carefully into his scraped knuckles. Keelan was quite certain such simple ministrations couldn’t be the least bit arousing. “Aye. I was born just off Soho Square. Me father be a hatter, but he keeps a Jersey cow and a couple a laying hens. Mum leads ol’ Myrtle down to Drury Lane each afternoon. The fashionable folk pay extra for a spritz of fresh milk in their syllabubs, you know.”

Keelan had no idea what a syllabub was, but a man’s appreciation for a pretty woman would not change in a thousand years. And her mother was surely a beauty.

“It seems as if that would have been a fine job for ye, then, lass,” he said, but she shrugged.

“Myrtle had her favorites and I wasn’t amongst them. Was wont to give me a swift kick to the shins when I took to the stool. ’Sides, I always hoped to become a lady’s maid,” she said, and grinned. “I know it’s unlikely, but I thought maybe if I got me a position at a fine house, I
might find a way. ’Twas naught but luck that brought me here. Me cousin Edgar was traveling through and just happened to learn the master was in need of help.”

“So ye ventured all this way on yer own?”

She blushed again. The color fascinated him no end. “I wasn’t particular happy with me current master.”

He watched her. It was no hard chore. Well, it was hard…but not difficult. “He was pressing ye,” he said.

She lifted her gaze. “What’s that?”

“He made…ungentlemanly advances,” he guessed.

She blinked, blushed, glanced down, hiding her lovely bosom. “How did you know?”

Because he still had one good eye. “’Twas naught but a guess. So ye’ve felt safe here?”

She cleared her throat, avoiding his gaze. “Master Chetfield don’t let no one bother me much.”

And why was that? The baron was an animal. No better than his horrid antecedent. Indeed, perhaps he was just as bloodthirsty as Kirksted had been more than a hundred years before. So why would he protect the girl unless…The truth struck Keelan with a fresh rush of pain. The devious bastard was saving her for himself,
keeping the others at bay so she was his alone. Chetfield had sustained an injury that would make that impossible, however. An informant had told him as much, but the truth was somehow different. An image struck his mind like a blow, confusing, horrifying. He thrust it aside.

“So ye and the master are…” He waited for her to finish the sentence. She didn’t. “Ye are…betrothed?” he guessed.

Her laughter bubbled forth like loosed champagne, spilling the festering images from his mind, setting him free. “Betrothed! You jest, sure.”

He allowed himself a careful breath. “In truth, lass, I am usually quite amusing, but with these broken ribs and whatnot—”

“He’s like a father to me.”

And like a brutal bastard with murderous ancestors and dark secrets barely hidden, to Keelan. “And Roland be yer brother,” he said, voice level.

She washed a bit of blood from his side. “Like a brother, aye.”

He nodded. It hurt. “How long have ye been residing here at Crevan House, lass?”

She winced at the sight of his wounds. “Going on half a year.”

Six months with these bastards? “And they
haven’t…” He calmed himself. Took a breath. “And still ye feel safe in their midst?”

“Oh aye, I know some of them look terrible dangerous.” Reaching to the side, she greased up her fingers and eased them carefully over the burn above his tartan. “But in truth, they’re as peaceful as your Lambkin there.”

His back felt as if it had been peeled raw from his trip through the field to the stable. He glanced at the lamb. It slept like a rocked bairn. “Truly?”

“Oh aye, Master Chetfield seems gruff, I won’t be lying to you, but in his own way, he looks after me.”

All the while wishing to hell he could do more than look.

“He’s good-hearted and sweet as honeyed yams but…”

“But?”

“He ain’t been entirely healthy ever since he was mauled by that bull, I’m told.”

“The bull?” he asked, scalp tingling.

“Oh sure, I suspect you haven’t heard the story. ’Tis said they had a terrible mean beast here at Crevan House. Sometimes the gardener, Mr. Mead, would feed it turnips and whatnot that was left over. Only one day he ventured into the pen for some reason that’ll never be knowed, and the bull charged him. Master Chetfield, he
tried to save him. Climbed into the pen himself, he did.”

Images screamed through Keelan’s soul. Terror and pain, yes. But no charging bull. Nothing so innocent.

“He tried to save him, and got mauled hisself. But it was too late. Mead was already gone. Cook says the master was covered in blood when he finally reached the house.”

Blood, but not his own. So how had he become injured? An untamed image struck Keelan, jolting him to the core.

Charity leaned in close. “Is something amiss, Mr. Angel? Are you quite well? You’re pale as a ghost.”

“Yes, Mr. MacLeod, are you quite well?” asked another.

Keelan jerked his gaze upward just as Charity turned with a gasp.

Chetfield stood before them, eyes gleaming like a wolf’s, the staff that killed Mead held tight in his hand.

“M
aster,” said Charity, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Chetfield smiled at her, soft mouth quirking while his eyes gleamed in his peculiar face. From his vantage point, he could probably see straight down her gown to her shoe ribbons. But the girl remained blissfully unaware.

Keelan forced himself to relax. He was, after all, no one’s protector. None but his own.

“So you are patching up our poor battered visitor, I see,” Chetfield said, and leaned both hands on the head of his knobby staff.

“I am doing me best, me lord, but he be sore wounded.” Charity gave Keelan a quick, worried glance from limpid eyes. “Something did terrible damage.”

“That I can see.”

“What do you think it might have been?”

“I believe our guest would be the one to answer that,” Chetfield said, and smiled again. Evil shone in his eyes.

“It was dark,” Keelan said.

Charity scowled. “I think his ribs may well be broke. He be clawed and scraped everywhere, and I fear I can do little out here in the stable.”

The old man raised a brow. “Then what would you suggest?”

“I been wondering if we might bring him into the manor house so that I could better tend his injuries?”

“Nay,” said Keelan, sudden panic spurring up inside him.

They turned to him in surprised unison.

“That is to say,” Keelan continued, “I’ve na wish to be a burden.”

“A burden. You’d be no such thing,” crooned the girl. “We’d be more than happy to see to you until you mend. Wouldn’t we, me lord?”

Chetfield stared at her for several seconds, then smiled dotingly. “Take a look at her, Mr. MacLeod,” he said, “for you may never again see the face of kindness itself.”

She gave Keelan’s hand a squeeze in silent hope. “Surely it is not safe out here,” she said. “We don’t even know what did this to him at the outset.”

The old man’s eyes burned Keelan’s soul. “It is indeed a troublesome mystery,” he said, his voice so strangely familiar.

He had heard that voice before, but the pages of his memory were fogged by time beyond end.

“And what if I should agree, little Charity?”

“Oh, me lord.” Her voice was barely audible. “You would be the best master ever to live, and I would be eternally in your debt.”

Keelan’s mind shunted back to the present. He hardly needed another black mark on his soul. Did not want her indebted on his behalf. “I am certain I will be perfectly safe out here in the—” he began, but Chetfield stopped him with the graceful wave of an elegant hand.

“But our little Charity wants you inside,” Chetfield said, “and nothing makes an old man’s heart so light as seeing a smile upon the face of a pretty maid.”

Charity sprang to her feet. Grasping the old man’s hand, she kissed his cheek.

Keelan actually recoiled at the sight.

“Thank you ever so much, me lord,” she murmured. “Your reward shall surely be in heaven.”

“But not too soon I hope,” he said, and patted her cheek. “Go now, little miss, and make a room ready for your patient.”

“As you wish, me lord,” she said, and sparing Keelan one quick, happy glance, she hurried past the hounds and from the stable. Her footfalls rushed away. The barn dropped into silence.

“So you have met my Charity,” Chetfield intoned, yellow eyes half hidden behind heavy lids.

“I didn’t touch her,” Keelan said, and Chetfield laughed.

“No, I don’t suppose you did. Shattered bones do make the act more difficult, though not impossible. I can tell you this from experience,” he said, and smiled as he paced.

Keelan watched, breath held. “I’m not interested in her, if that be what worries ye,” he lied.

“Tell me, my young friend…” Chetfield paced closer, full lips smirked into a smile. “Do I look worried to you?”

Nay. He looked smug and misshapen and deadly. Keelan’s muscles ached with the tension and torture.

“What I am is eager,” Chetfield said. “Eager for you to fulfill your promise, Mr. MacLeod.” He circled slowly, eyes alight with something Keelan could neither define nor understand. “So that I may return to the pleasures of my youth. You
can
heal me, can you not?”

Fear curled tight around Keelan’s heart. The
lamb cowered against his side. He put a battered hand on the woolly little back. “There be powers I canna explain,” he said.

“Indeed there are, Mr. MacLeod. But do you possess such powers?”

“Na until I am healed meself.”

The eerie eyes stared. Tension built like a gathering storm, then Chetfield smiled. “And so I allow you into my home, Mr. MacLeod. Under my roof, with my most cherished servant.”

Keelan tried to remain silent, for time and pain had taught him the penalties of acting the fool, but the words ventured out on their own. “What be yer plans for her?”

One thin eyebrow rose. “Would you be her protector?” The old man’s tone was mild, but there was something in the eyes. Something beyond deadly that very closely matched the untamed gleam of the bristly hounds behind him.

“I but wonder,” Keelan said. The conversation was nearly as wearing as the torture had been.

“Wondering can be a very dangerous thing.”

“As I was told earlier, ’tis a dangerous world.”

Chetfield laughed. “It is indeed, young man, but I tell you this…” He stepped closer, casually lifted his stick, and thrust it into the burn on Keelan’s abdomen.

White-hot pain scoured Keelan, searing his senses. He would have scrambled away, but agony, or something akin to it, kept him writhing beneath the old man’s surprising strength.

“It will become far more dangerous if you try to take her from me. I can kill you in ways you cannot yet imagine,” Chetfield hissed. “If you put a hand to her, you may well hope for any one of them.”

“Merciful God—” he rasped.

The staff was removed. The old man canted his head as if in curiosity. “Prayer will not help you, boy. Nothing will help you.” He sounded matter-of-fact now, as if he were not evil personified, as if they but shared an everyday conversation. “Should you betray me, you will die with a plea on your tongue,” he added pleasantly. “And you will die forever.”

Every inch of Keelan screamed in agony, but perhaps it was that agony that brought the devil to life in him. “Forever?” he rasped, fighting the pain. “How can—”

Chetfield speared him again. Pain clawed through Keelan like a wild beast.

“I’ll na touch her,” he gasped.

“Good. That is good,” Chetfield murmured, and drew the staff away. “Rest now, Mr. MacLeod. And heal. I want you in full strength as
soon as possible.” He canted his head at a noise from outside.

The door opened. The hounds rose threateningly, but Charity blew merrily inside, seemingly unconcerned by any of the beasts. Bear and Frankie trundled in after her, steps slow, faces troubled as their gazes skipped to Lambkin.

“You must be gentle,” she said, addressing the giants. “Do you understand?”

Frankie, apparently the genius of the two, nodded. Bear remained silent and unmoving, gaze shifting nervously from the lamb to his master.

“Mr. Angel…” She hurried to Keelan’s side. “These two gents have come to help you to the house.”

Reality dawned with pain-induced slowness. Terror came on its dragging heels. “Truly, I will be fine here in this lovely stable.”

“Nonsense,” Charity said, and squatting again, curled her fingers around his. He was tempted to pull his away lest her master get the wrong impression and kill him with a glare. “They shall carry you by your arms and legs…to save your ribs.”

He felt the blood leave his face in a clammy rush. “Fie me, lass, could ye na just stab me in the heart and be done with it?”

“It may hurt a bit.”

“A bit! The beating hurt a bit.”

She scowled as if bemused…or aggravated, but her tone remained breathy. “Beating?”

“Mauling,” he corrected, not daring to dart his gaze from one giant to the next. “The mauling…by the unknown beasties.”

“Perhaps Bear could carry you on his back.”

“Mother Mary full of grace,” he murmured, and actually thought he might faint. In fact, he rather hoped he would.

“Or on a blanket?”

And of all those present, she was the only one who had
not
intended to kill him.

She scrunched her freckled face. “Frankie,” she said, rising quickly. “Run up to the house and ask Mrs. Graves to fetch a good, strong blanket.”

The giant shambled gratefully away. Charity turned to Keelan with doe-bright eyes. “You’ll feel much improved once you are placed upon a proper pallet.”

He very much doubted it. He would be under the unearthly eye of the master. Far better to be left to his devices in the stable where he could move about at will…well, once he could move around a’tall, at any rate.

“I’m grateful to ye, sure,” Keelan said, “but I have na desire to cause any problems with—”

“Problems? Naw,” corrected Charity. “’Tis an honor to tend such a brave shepherd, is it not, me lord?”

Chetfield’s tone was dry as death. “An honor.”

“But…what of Lambkin?” The question flew out on the wings of a brainstorm. “She will need tending.”

Charity smiled. “I shall see to her myself.”

“But…” He curled his fingers into the lamb’s wool, feeling frantic.

“Never fear, young Scot,” said Chetfield, smiling ghoulishly. “We shall send the lamb with you if it makes my Charity happy.”

The door opened and Frankie reappeared, carrying a gray blanket in his plowshare hands.

“You are too kind, me lord,” Charity breathed, taking the woolen and spreading it on the ground next to Keelan, who eyed it as one might a serpent. “Very well then,” she said. “Now we must shift him carefully onto the blanket.”

“Holy God,” Keelan breathed.

“Come along,” she said, waving them over. They came reluctantly. She sent Bear to the far side. Lambkin clambered unceremoniously onto Keelan’s chest. The sharp little hooves hurt like hell as they dug into his bare skin, but he held her close.

“I think it best if I stay in the barn,” he tried again, but the giants were already bending over him. “Truly, I dunna—”

But at that moment they grasped his arms and legs in meaty claws, and suddenly he was being torn in two. He felt himself leave the painful comfort of the dirt floor, felt each laceration scream as it was ripped open afresh. Perhaps they set him gently as a babe onto the blanket, but it felt as if he were drop-kicked against the wall. He jerked against the agony.

“Gently. Gently,” someone said, but the words were mingled with wolfish growls as they shuffled him through the door and into the shattering light of day.

The journey to the house was a nightmarish trek through hell. Every muscle shrieked, lungs screaming for air beneath throbbing ribs. His foot struck something immobile, sending shards of shivery agony through his body like slivers of steel. But it was the stairs that were nearly his undoing. Every jolting step tore him in twain. They turned a corner. He felt himself tilt off balance before the blanket was jerked upright, and his head, having slipped off the edge, rapped the wall with resounding finality. The room swam by in vivid hues. And then he was dropped, falling, thrashing, until he landed in blackness.