Susana and the Scot (33 page)

“Wake up,” Isobel commanded. “Wake up!” She was used to being obeyed. She was used to being able to demand what she wanted, but in this she was denied. Andrew didn't stir. He was deathly pale.

The confusion on Isobel's face, the tears on her chubby cheeks, the grief in her eyes when she looked up, devastated Susana. Or perhaps it was something more that scored her soul. “Mama, he willna wake up.”

Numbly, Susana fell to her knees at her daughter's side. The hard, handsome face she loved was ashen, lifeless.

Her pulse seized. Her breath stalled. Prickles of sweat blossomed on her brow.

Panic, agony, and pain screamed through her, body and soul.

He could not. He could not be dead.

She couldn't bear to live without him.

A shout to her side broke through the curtain of misery, reminding her that they were all still in danger. In fact, Scrabster's men—Keir among them—were advancing on their position with swords drawn.

That Andrew's men hurried to surround the three of them did not signify.

Ferocity slashed through her. She could grieve later. Now she needed to assure her daughter's safety. More than that, she wanted to make them pay, each and every one. In the most painful way possible. She stood in a cold rage and faced the advancing men. Fury seethed in her veins as she whipped an arrow from her quiver and lifted her bow. She searched for a target. Found one.

He had betrayed her. Her family and her home.

He had kidnapped her daughter and perhaps caused the death of the only man she'd ever loved. The man she did love, and would love until the day she died.

There would be no mercy for him.

Keir's eyes flared as he realized her arrow was trained on him. He was close enough to see the determination on her face. And he knew her. He knew her well.

Her gaze narrowed as she pulled back the string.

“Oh,
shite
,” he yelped, and then he turned tail and ran for cover. He could not escape her wrath so easily. She would mark him but good. It was with great satisfaction that she watched her arrow find its home in the fleshy globes of his arse. He stumbled and, with a howl, fell to his knees.

The advancing men faltered, realizing they'd lost their laird and their leader, but then they continued to advance. Susana grabbed another arrow.

A movement at her right caught her attention and pride swelled her chest as she saw her daughter, with a bow that was far too large for her person, nocking her arrow as well. Together, mother and daughter, took aim and let fly.

Susana tried not to be disappointed when Isobel's arrow went wide and flew into the trees behind the men blocking them in. The bow was very large for her and …

But oh.

Perhaps she hadn't been aiming for the men.

Isobel's arrow flew into the trees and with unerring accuracy severed a large beehive nestled in the branches. The hive plummeted to the ground.

The bees were not pleased.

They swarmed over Scrabster's men. With howls and bellows, they scattered, running back down the road, swatting at the angry insects, dragging Scrabster's body behind them. The bees, attracted by their frenetic movements, followed.

“Excellent shot,” Susana said, trying very hard not to crow.

Isobel grinned. “Thank you.”

Though the men were in retreat, Susana didn't let up on her barrage. She let fly, arrow after arrow, taking out one arse after another.

She would have kept shooting, but Hamish set his warm hand on hers. “They're retreating,” he said softly. “Let's see to Andrew. And then we will need to leave this place with all haste.”

It took a moment for Susana to slough off the passion of the battle; her blood was high and her ire still prickled, but she knew Hamish was right. Isobel's safety was everything now. Now that Andrew was gone.

Her chest ached at the thought.

She turned back to the spot where Andrew lay. The red tide on his chest had spread. Isobel threw herself over him, weeping with an anguish that broke her heart … even more.

Hamish barked some orders to his men and they all whipped into motion—Susana had no idea what he'd said. The fog had returned, carrying with it a fresh tide of grief.

What she wouldn't do to have him back.

In a daze, she fell to her knees beside her daughter, and stroked her hair. Hair so like his.

It was a crime he had died not knowing Isobel was his. And the crime was on her shoulders. It was a heavy weight.

She should have told him. She should have told him everything when she had the chance. She'd robbed him of a daughter, and Isobel of a father.

She was a terrible, selfish, petulant person.

She would give anything to go back in time and change things. She would do anything for a second chance.

It was agonizing that, through her tears, Isobel was still talking to him, imploring him, commanding him to wake up. As though her fierceness could bring him back from the dead.

Though, if anyone could command such a thing, it would be Isobel.

She patted him on the cheek, tugged his hair, fit her finger into his nostril.

Susana flinched. It was not respectful to probe the nostril of a dead man. She was about to tell Isobel to come away when his nose twitched.

Susana's pulse stuttered. She leaned closer and narrowed her eyes, staring at his chest. A rise. A small one, but movement.

An unimaginable joy rose within her. He wasn't dead! He wasn't dead!

Isobel propped her elbow on his chest and he groaned.

Aye, he wasn't dead … yet.

“Isobel, darling, come away,” she said.

“I doona want to. I want him to wake up.” She smacked him dead center and he groaned again.

“Darling. Doona hurt him.” She eased her daughter back and wrapped her arms around her and held her. They both watched Andrew's face with bated breath. Was his color returning? Was his breath stronger? Was there hope?

She glanced up at Hamish as he approached. “He's not dead,” she whispered. “He's not dead.”

Unaccountably, Hamish grinned. “Of course he's not dead,” he said. “He's far too stubborn for that. Besides”—he winked—“he's a Lochlannach.”

*   *   *

They stole Scrabster's carriage, although technically it wasn't theft. Or at least, that was Isobel's suggestion. Merely payment for their inconvenience. They laid boards across the seat and Hamish and his men lifted Andrew in. He still had not woken, but Susana knew they needed to get him some medical help at once.

Susana and Isobel sat by his side as the carriage headed toward Brims, the nearest town along the coast. Susana winced with every jostle and jerk.

“Will he be all right, Mama?” Isobel asked. Her voice was small, afraid. Susana did not like this diminishment in the slightest.

She stiffened her spine. “Of course he will. Did you not hear Hamish? He's far too stubborn to die.”

Isobel put out a lip. “I like him, Mama.”

“I know, darling,” she said, pulling her daughter into her embrace. “I like him, too.” She stared down at him over her daughter's head.

Like
was not the word for it.

Love
was not the word for it.

Somehow there was no word for it, this feeling of adoration, devotion, and, aye, need. She needed him more than breath in her body. Not his touch, though that was very fine indeed. But his presence. His smile. His laugh. His regard. Something far beyond desire—an
ache
for him—flooded her veins, sang in her soul, whispered in her heart.

She wanted him, required him in her life.

She had no idea if he loved her—though he'd intimated he once had. Perhaps he could love her again.

Isobel was his daughter.

They belonged together. The three of them.

When he woke up—if he woke up—she would find the courage to bare her soul. To tell him everything. And to hope he felt the same.

It was the most frightening thing she'd ever contemplated. As fearless as she was, this was terrifying indeed.

*   *   *

They settled in the inn in Brims, although there wasn't enough room for all their men and some had to stay in the loft above the stables. Susana suggested sending them back to Dounreay, but they didn't want to leave. Hamish mentioned it would be wise to keep the company for protection. He did, however, send two men back with word of what had happened and another messenger to Dunnet, to let Alexander know his brother had been wounded, and the depth of Scrabster's perfidy.

When the doctor came to see Andrew, he tried to shoo Susana from the room, but she wouldn't leave. In turn, Susana tried to shoo Isobel, with the same result. They both watched—Isobel with a grisly fascination—as the doctor removed the ball from Andrew's shoulder and bound the wound. The amount of blood the surgery produced was concerning. He assured Susana that Andrew would survive, but she wasn't so sure. Worry for him raked her.

Though Hamish tried to convince her to take Isobel to their room and rest—it felt as though it had been days since she'd slept—she couldn't leave. If only he would wake up. If only she could see his eyes, that rakish smile once more …

She fell asleep, deep in prayer that she had not lost the best thing that had ever happened to her. Without him, her life would be a dreary prison, with her shambling pointlessly from day to day.

She didn't think she could bear it.

*   *   *

Andrew woke with a weight on his chest and a searing pain in his shoulder. He grimaced and shifted, but the weight didn't lessen and it only made his shoulder throb more. He cracked open an eye. He wasn't surprised to see a familiar shock of silver-blond hair spread out over his person. More than once, since he'd arrived in Reay, he'd woken to find Isobel draped over him. It was a surprise, however, to see that adorable, wee moue puckered in sleep.

A delicate snore to his left caught his attention and he turned his head—though slowly, as it sent pings shooting through his neck. Susana was slumped in the chair by the window, also asleep.

While he didn't mind waking to either face—he truly loved them both—it confused him. Then he remembered the scene in Scrabster's woods. The shot that had downed him.

He glanced at his shoulder to find it bare and bandaged and he winced. Bluidy hell. The bastard had
shot
him.

And worse … he'd been aiming for Isobel.

A blinding rage, unlike any he'd ever known, scalded him. His muscles bunched as his mind whirled. He would kill the bastard. Eviscerate him with a spoon.

How dare he point a pistol at a child? This child?
His
child?

He stilled. Shock stole his breath as the realization, certainty, flooded him. His gaze whipped back to Isobel and he studied her features.

In this light—and in light of the revelations about Mairi—it was undeniable.

Aye, he knew. Somehow, he'd always known.

From the hair that was too much like his for it to be a coincidence, to the fierce glower that so often reminded him of his brother, to the eyes that were far too familiar. She was his.

But it went far beyond the physical likeness they shared.

It was an affinity of spirit. The day he'd met her, he'd
known
her. Felt some tenuous connection. He'd adored her nearly from the start.

With a trembling hand he stroked her hair. Some emotion welled within him; it filled his heart until it hurt. It was probably love, but there was some fear twined within it.

He recalled that day on the tower when she'd nearly plunged to her death, and the incident where she'd teetered on the railing in the library, and this last debacle where someone had crept into her room and stolen her in her sleep.

Within moments of knowing the joy that he was a parent, he was poleaxed and paralyzed by the sheer clawing terror of it.

She could have been killed or injured any one of those times.

He could have lost her.

Dear God. He didn't know if he had the fortitude for parenthood. He didn't know if he had the strength. It was horrifying. Petrifying.

And then she opened her eyes. Their gazes met and melded; she smiled. Dimples sprouted on her cheeks, dimples so like his. And he knew. It didn't matter. It didn't matter how frightened this made him, how vulnerable he felt. It didn't matter if he was strong enough to face the challenge. He would.

Because he loved her.

“Good morning,” he tried to say, but it came out as a croak.

“Good morning,” she whispered, patting his cheek.

“I'm verra glad you are safe.” It was all he could manage and to his mortification, it was almost a wail.

Her smile broadened. “I'm verra glad you're not dead.”

He chuckled, though it hurt. “Me too.”

“Mama shot him, in case you were wondering.”

“Shot him? Who?”

“Scrabster.” And then, as an afterthought, “Oh, and Keir, too. In the arse.”

He chuckled, then winced. “Ah. I'm verra glad to hear it.”

“They willna be bothering us again.”

“I'm verra glad to hear that, too.” He glanced around the strange room. “Where are we?”

“Brims.” She wrinkled her nose. “It's boring here, but Mama wanted to stay until you were better. She hasna left your side for days.”

“Has it been days?”

She rolled her eyes. “Forever, practically. Did I mention it's boring here? But now that you're better, we'll be going home.”

Home. The word made prickles rise on his skin. He'd thought of Dunnet as his home for the entirety of his life. He'd planned to live out his days within the walls of Lochlannach Castle. Now he wasn't so sure that was where he wanted to be. It seemed empty and hollow. Without her.

Susana was lovely in the soft light of dawn, with her mouth slightly agape in her sleep. Though it seemed there was no room in his chest whatsoever, his heart swelled more. How he loved her. How he always had. He loved them both. Beyond bearing.