The Border Hostage (19 page)

Heath left her with Ada, while he ran to the kitchens, where Mr. Burque and his staff were boiling water and making poultices that could be applied to the burns of either men or horses. “Burque, I need that pot of alkanet ointment I made you for kitchen burns.”

Burque knew exactly which cupboard held the alkanet.

“Do you have any syrup of poppy?” Heath asked hopefully.

Burque shook his head. He had given the last of it to the midwife when Valentina was suffering through twelve hours of labor.

Heath filled a bowl with cold water and carried it back to the hall with the jar of alkanet. He lifted Raven into his lap and very gently lowered her hands into the cold water. She regained consciousness immediately and tried to snatch her hands from the water. “Hush, Raven, the cold water will take the fire from your burns.” Though she struggled frantically and cried out from the pain, Heath gripped her legs with his powerful thighs, holding her immobile, while he held her hands beneath the water.

“Feel the burn leave your hands, Raven, feel it!” His
voice was so compelling that she wanted to believe it. After he held them beneath the water for a full five minutes, some of the heat dissipated into the cold water, and she imagined they were cooler. However, when Heath lifted them from the water and the air touched them, the pain was once again excruciating.

Heath knew that if he dried her hands with a towel, it would peel off her blistered skin. He let the air dry them, then coated them with the ointment Mr. Burque had given him. “This is alkanet, Raven. I know of nothing that works better on a new burn.”

Though she was sobbing in agony, she nodded her understanding. Ointment made from alkanet was the best treatment for burns. He took up a roll of linen bandage and gently wrapped each finger and then the palm of each hand, and tied the ends securely about her wrists. Then he lifted her high against his heart and carried her upstairs to their tower.

He sat her down in a chair away from the hearth. “The heat of the fire will increase the pain of your burns. I have no syrup of poppy for you, Raven, but I do have whisky.” He poured a half-cup of the amber liquor and, kneeling at her feet, held the cup to her lips. “You may sip it slowly, but you must drink it all. It won't take the pain away, but it will help you endure it and perhaps make you sleep.” He crouched before her with infinite patience until she drained the cup.

He threw off his once-cream linen shirt, now blackened and ruined from the fire, and Raven saw that against his naked chest he was wearing the god stone. He looked for all the world like an ancient pagan Celt. He knelt before her once again and looked deeply into her eyes. “Raven, I can take away your pain. I have the power to take it; you have the power to give it. You must merge with me; you did it before when you treated my wound, and you must do it again.”

She looked at him with frightened eyes filled with pain,
and Heath saw that her aura was no longer a vibrant lavender color but had faded to an unhealthy gray. “Let's get this blackened dress off.” His fingers were so gentle, he was able to remove the gown without touching her bandaged hands. Then he brought soap and water and washed the black streaks from her face and neck. He lifted the hem of her shift to remove her shoes, then explained before he did it that he was going to remove her hose. When he examined her feet and ankles and found no burns, he quickly washed them and dried them with the towel.

“Now, are you ready to give me your pain?”

Raven nodded, but her voice caught on a sob. Heath lifted her and carried her across the chamber to a rocking chair, then sat down holding her in his lap. He enfolded his arms around her waist and bade her rest her arms upon his.

With his lips against her ear, Heath began to murmur, “Don't focus on your pain, Raven, focus on me. Listen to my words and do as they bid you. Open your mind and let me come inside. Trust me, Raven. Yield your will to me, just for tonight.”

Her pain was so acute, it filled her body and her mind. How could she not focus upon it? Desperately she tried to focus on Heath. He was so darkly beautiful, with his black hair curling about his ears, and his sabre-sharp cheekbones so prominent beneath his darkly tanned skin. His eyes were a warm brown, his eyelashes long for a male, and the cleft in the center of his chin held her attention for long minutes. Raven suddenly wanted to dip her finger into the cleft and trace the dark shadow of his beard that was still visible even though he had recently shaved.

“Good, Raven. You have focused on me. Listen to my voice and obey my commands. Open your mind to me; merge with me, Raven.”

She did listen to his voice, she heard its gentleness and its kindness, but underneath she heard its determination and its power. She did allow her mind to merge with his, but she was too afraid to yield her will to his and allow him
to take complete control of her. Gradually she began to hear his thoughts inside her head.
I love you, Raven, I vow I will never harm you.

“Suspend your own thoughts, suspend your will, my love, and yield your inner self to me.”
Sully trusts me completely, and you can too, Raven.
“Pool your will and your healing energy with mine, Raven, and our combined power will be invincible.”

Suddenly, Raven felt her will and her control floating away from her, but miraculously, the agonizing pain in her hands also was floating away to another place, just beyond her reach. “It's working,” she whispered.

Heath began to rock her, and the soothing words of a lullaby surrounded and protected her. “When your eyelids become heavy, don't fight sleep; slip down into it like a warm pool. Sleep heals. I won't leave you; our spirits will be enjoined all night.”

Raven sighed deeply and gave herself up to his keeping. He rocked her for a long time, but when the chamber became chilled, he carried her to the big bed and, with her still enfolded in his powerful arms, lay down beside her. Heath curved his long body around hers, spoon fashion, making sure that her bandaged hands were safely cushioned upon a goose-feather bed pillow.

Finally, Raven did sleep, but it was a fitful rest, and occasionally her body was taken by a great spasm that jerked her awake. Heath's arms closed about her when this happened, and the heat of his big body seeped into hers as his whispered words calmed, soothed, and lured her back to the painless haven of sleep.

Heath had never felt so protective of a woman in his life. He knew this was the woman he wanted for the rest of his days. He believed that with patient wooing he could seduce her into sharing her body with him, but it wasn't enough; he wanted more. Heath wanted Raven to share her heart, her soul, and her spirit with him. He closed his eyes in quiet desperation, knowing he wanted the impossible.

D
uncan Kennedy piloted the
Galloway
up the River Eden at dusk, just as the torchlights along the docks of Carlisle were being lit. His father, Rob Kennedy, stood on deck, scrutinizing the other vessels that lay moored at anchor. He was on the lookout for the
Revenge
or one of the other Douglas vessels that might be able to give him news of Valentina's baby or news of Heath's whereabouts.

Rob saw none of the vessels he was looking for, and walked back to inform Duncan, who was at the ship's wheel. “Dock her over there, where there's plenty of light,” he ordered. “I dinna trust the thievin' English around our superior Scottish wool. Tell the first mate tae post a double watch tonight.”

Duncan ground his teeth. His father still treated him like a boy who was wet behind the ears. “Go and get us a carriage; I'll see that everything's shipshape and give them their orders.”

A short time later, both men climbed into the carriage and gave the driver their destination. “The Rickergate,”
Duncan directed. At the same moment, Rob Kennedy said, “The Fighting Cocks.” Rob looked at his son angrily. “What the hellfire are ye aboot? I ha' no desire tae spend the nicht wi' a disobedient, disloyal wife!”

“Well, I'll be damned! Ye couldn't get to Carlisle fast enough the other night. I thought you were going to confront Mother and lay the law down to her about deserting you!”

“Aye, and maybe I shall, when I've attended tae ma other affairs. But I ha' no stomach fer any discourse wi' the Englishwoman tonicht!” He tapped the driver with his walking stick. “Take us tae The Fighting Cocks.”

When they arrived, Duncan soon rid himself of his father and went off to visit the amenable widow of a captain who used to sail a Kennedy merchant vessel. If he was in luck she would offer him dinner, and he would satisfy two appetites for the price of one.

At the inn, Rob Kennedy made inquiries and learned that Heath had been there with two of the Douglas brothers during the week of Carlisle Fair, but they were now long gone. Rob reasoned that they would all be at Castle Douglas, the Border fortress that stood guard over the River Dee on Solway Firth. He cursed his luck, which was all bad, for they had sailed past the mouth of the River Dee earlier in the day.

It made sense that Ramsay Douglas would want Valentina to bear his son and heir at the impregnable Douglas seat of power, and odds were that Heath would be there too. Castle Douglas was in Kirkcudbright, less than ten miles from the tower castle of Rob's eldest son, Donal Kennedy. The Douglas and Kennedy landholdings ran together and were so vast that their acres of curly-horned sheep were too numerous to count. Rob was filled with foreboding, not only for Valentina, but for his son Donal as well. If the evil old Gypsy witch
had
put a curse on him, his heir would not be spared.

Rob hadn't made up his mind what to do about Lizzie,
but one way or another he decided he would deal with her while he was in Carlisle. Then he would get Duncan to sail back through the Solway to the River Dee so he could visit both Donal and Valentina and ease his worried mind.

His decision made, Rob took himself off to the taproom, where a buxom lass served him with a tempting dish of tripe and trotters. He enjoyed it so much, he even broke open the knuckles of the pigs' feet to suck out the jellied marrow. Feeling adventurous, he decided to have some haggis. That fancy, prancing French chef of Tina's had always refused to make haggis. Rolling his eyes, he had condemned it as “all ears and arseholes”! Well, it took a proper man to tackle haggis, and he told the buxom lass to bring it on.

Rob washed it down with malt whisky and bade the serving woman bring a jug. Feeling frisky, he tickled her between the rolls of flesh that encircled her waist, spun two guineas across the table, and invited her up to his room.

She pocketed the money, squeezed his thigh, and picked up the jug. “Lead the way, me old cock!”

By the time they climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, Rob's face was already beet red and his breathing labored. He sat down on the bed and began struggling with his clothes.

“Here, let me help you, I can see ye're in a great hurry.” She removed his coat and folded it neatly, but left on his linen shirt. Most older men didn't appreciate getting completely naked; it made them too vulnerable. She knelt down before him to remove his boots and laughed up at him when he reached into her bodice to fondle her overripe breasts. “Do ye want me to undress?” she asked matter-of-factly. Some men did and some didn't.

“Aye, ye're a fine figure of a woman, let's 'ave a look at ye,” Rob said as he struggled out of his breeches.

She sat naked on his knee while he fondled her, and certainly did her part to stimulate him, but no matter what
she did, Rob Kennedy remained flaccid and limp. She reached down to cup his huge sac, and playfully rolled his balls, one against the other. Though Rob groaned with pleasure, his cock remained small and soft.

“Lie down an' let me on top,” he directed. The desire for sex was certainly present, if the ability was not. He mounted her and tried a dozen times to penetrate the generously endowed female, but in his unresponsive state it was physically impossible. His breathing became labored from his exertions, and his face turned from red to purple. He rolled off her onto the bed in defeat. “ 'Tis the curse,” he muttered, “ 'tis the bloody Gypsy curse!”

The serving woman slipped back into her smock. “Let me get ye some whisky, luv. This happens all the time.”

“Not to me it doesn't,” Rob said hopelessly, massaging the pain that was suddenly squeezing his heart. He lay all night with the premonition of death shadowing his doorway, and knew that he must get the curse lifted.

In the morning, there was another calamity for the Kennedys to face. The first mate of the
Galloway
pounded on the bedchamber door at The Fighting Cocks, not knowing which Kennedy he dreaded to face most. Duncan was likely to dismiss him on the spot, but Rob Kennedy, the irascible Lord of Galloway, had an explosive temper, a cutting tongue that could clip tin, and fists like wooden clubs. When Duncan opened the door, the seaman's knees knocked together with relief. “There was a terrible fire, sir. Started in the hold amongst the wool. We fought it fer hours, but tae no avail.”

“The winter wool's all gone? The whole cargo?” Duncan demanded.

“Aye, sir, the wool's all gone … an' the rest.”

Duncan ran his hand through his red hair until it stood on end. “The rest? What do ye mean, man? Is the ship damaged?”

“The
Galloway
is no more, sir. Every plank an' spar burned like tinder wood. 'Twas a conflagration!”

“Christ almighty! Who the hell will tell Father? Ye'd better wait while I get dressed. Did we lose any of the crew?”

“Not sure, sir … there were two lads sleepin' in the hold.”

Duncan pulled on his boots. “Come on, we'll face him together.”

Between Duncan and the first mate, they conveyed to Rob Kennedy the disaster that had befallen the
Galloway
in the night. He grabbed his chest and sat down heavily in a chair. Then he shot out of it and lumbered about the room like a loose cannon rolling about the deck of a ship, inflicting damage upon all in its path. He booted a stool across the room and bellowed in agony at the pain it brought to his big toe. In turn, the stool tipped over the chamber pot, sloshing its contents over his leather boots, lying on the floor where the lass had dropped them last night.