The Highwayman (8 page)

“Why? Because they might decide to kill me when they learn I can’t be used to get Aidan back?”

“I make the decisions here,” he said gruffly.

“And how long before you get tired of feeding a worthless wench, the daughter of your enemies? How long can you keep your men away from me once they know, or guess, the truth? Oh, why don’t you just let me go? I’m of no use to you, nothing but a burden.”

“Quiet,” he said, a warning tone in his voice.

“Nothing could be worse than this waiting, or what would happen to me if I fell into the hands of ruffians like that man Scanlon.”

“Forget him, he’ll not bother you again.”

“Oh, it’s hopeless, don’t you see? Let me go, please. I won’t tell a soul where I’ve been.” She lunged for his dagger and he caught her in his arms.

“Be still,” he said, shaking her.

Alex kicked him and twisted her head to bite the hand clamped on her shoulder.

“Tuatha da dann!”
Burke exclaimed, reverting to his native language and releasing her with an oath, lifting his injured thumb to his mouth.

“You’re no better than Scanlon!” Alex cried. “Do you think I don’t know what’s going to happen to me? I’m being driven mad, tied up all day, with nothing to think about but when and how I’m going to die. But I will thwart you! If you don’t let me go, I’ll kill myself first and take away your triumph! I’ll find a way, make no mistake. My mother didn’t birth a weakling to sit and wait for execution like a criminal!”

Burke should have been angry, but instead he calmly allowed her ravings. He knew only too well how near she had come to being raped by Scanlon.

He took her by the shoulders again, holding her steady. “Alexandra, listen to me. No harm will come to you here, on my word. Haven’t I shown that to you this night?”

“Maybe ... you just wanted to save me for yourself,” she gasped.

If she had been in control, she would have seen his face change. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

“To keep me for a drudge, or for a last resort in case my uncle does decide to answer you. How am I to know? You always have a plan for everything you do.”

She could not guess it, but when Burke had been roused from sleep by Scanlon’s raid, his only thought had been to save her. Not because she was a hostage, but because he wished to keep her from harm.

“You’re dithering and making no sense at all,” he said. “Calm yourself, now.”

Her legs gave way suddenly and she would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her. He pulled her into his arms and took her weight, holding her up and waiting for the storm of her tears to pass again.

Alex sobbed helplessly, too witless from her earlier terror to make sense, and too drained to care if she did. She clung to Burke as if he were the only stable object in a spinning world. She had nothing, no home, no family. Her uncle’s silence was proof that he didn’t care about her, and she was miles across the sea from her native land. Her only connection to safety and sanity was this looming barbarian who held her so tightly in his embrace. Since her capture, whether or not she wished it, he had become the center of her universe.

Burke laid his cheek against her head, his lips in her hair. With his breath warm in her ear, he shushed her and then began to caress her delicate shoulders through the thin garment. It was a while before he became conscious of what he was doing, and then he released Alex so abruptly that she reeled backward.

“Why did you tell me about your uncle?” he demanded, partly to cover his own confused emotions. “You might have hung on for some time to come, pretending to think that he would redeem you.”

“I did think, that is, I hoped . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I wasn’t sure. Somehow, today, I just knew. He will do nothing. He’s probably told Lord Essex that he sent me away somewhere, to explain my absence.”

“Where?”

She smiled faintly, wiping her streaming cheeks.

“He seems to favor convents. There are many such places in Ireland, I think.”

Burke was pacing about the tent, absorbed.

“What do you plan to do?” Alex asked, sniffling.

Burke held up his hand. “You’ll not wind up in a convent or any such place shut away from the world. You leave the rest to me.”

He strode through the flap in the tent, and seconds later she heard him shouting orders in Gaelic.

* * * *

Burke got no sleep for the rest of that night. He sat up next to the campfire, his thoughts in turmoil, until dawn streaked the sky.

Much good he had accomplished by leaving her tent. He had thought to remove himself from temptation, to stop thinking of her as a woman instead of a mere prisoner. If he hadn’t seen her attacked as a woman, he might have been able to do it.

It would not be long before his men realized that the English weren’t interested in exchanging Alex for Aidan or anyone else. Then he would have to keep her safe, as he had promised.

He could see no way around it. He had to take action. Now.

Burke sighed heavily and stood up just as the sun topped the trees.

When Alex awoke the next morning there was an eerie stillness about the camp. It did not take her long to realize that everyone was gone.

But not quite everyone. Rory appeared with her breakfast as usual shortly after she stirred.

“Where is everybody?” she asked him.

He shot her an inscrutable glance but said nothing as he set the food before her and left her alone.

Alex’s mind was racing. She couldn’t help but think that the men were off on an excursion, perhaps as a result of what she had told Burke the previous night. Had he decided to raid the castle to get his brother, once he realized that there would be no trade?

She didn’t have long to wait for an answer. That night, the sound of horses’ hooves drummed through the camp, and a few minutes later Burke himself strode into her tent, followed closely by Rory. Burke wore a rough woolen cloak of heavy tweed draped over his tunic, fastened at the shoulder by a brooch of hammered metal. Both articles of clothing were stained with dirt and grass, and the left shoulder was soaked with blood. Without looking at her he tore off the cloak and the tunic, exposing the wound, which was raw and purple, and oozing freshly from the motion. He dropped himself on the upturned crate and set the candle on the dirt floor.

Alex gasped and stared at his haggard face.

“Get me some water,” Burke said to Rory in English.

“Boiled water,” Alex called after him. To Burke, she said, “Cut me loose and I’ll help.”

“I think you’ve done enough,” Rory retorted as he left the tent.

“Is it very bad?”

“I’ve had worse,” Burke replied, glancing down at the wound in annoyance.

His appearance belied his casual words. His skin was ashen, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He had obviously lost a good deal of blood.

“Please cut me loose. I am trained in the healing arts. I can help you.”

“Alex, leave off that babbling,” he said in a tired voice. “Your domestic skills are of no use here.”

“Truly, I did charity work in a hospice near my uncle’s estate and was taught by the nuns. I can be of service.”

“How shall we know you won’t dirty the wound and make him worse?” Rory asked as he returned with a cauldron of steaming water. He set it on the floor.

Alex looked at Burke. “Do
you
think I would do such a thing?” she asked him.

The look that passed between them disturbed Rory. He had been around Burke too long not to know what it meant. He was about to protest when Burke said, “Turn her loose.”

Rory’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

“Do it,” Burke said, closing his eyes, his tone brooking no argument.

Rory’s glance shot sparks as he looked at Alex, but he obeyed grudgingly.

Alex sprang up from the floor, rubbing her wrists, her eyes intent on Burke’s pale and haggard face. “Is the arrowhead still in the wound?”

“It is,” Burke replied. “I tried to gouge it loose in the field, but I hadn’t the leverage.” He sighed deeply and bowed his head, on the verge of losing consciousness.

“Rory, you’ll have to help me.”

Burke’s cousin stood at her elbow and whispered into her ear, “Have a care for his health if you care for your own.”

Alex stiffened.

“I think you can guess what will happen to you if he’s not alive to stand between you and his men,” Rory added. He nodded toward the shadows playing on the surface of the tent, backlit by the campfires. The men were gathered outside, anxious about their leader.

“Do you want him to die of a poisoned wound, like the man you brought to my tent?” Alex countered.

“What’s that you say?” Burke asked, lifting his head, his eyes flying open and fixing on them.

“Nothing at all,” Alex said. “Rory, get his pallet from the tent where he’s been sleeping. It will be better if we lie him down flat for this.”

“For what?” Burke said as Rory left.

“You know that the arrowhead, if still in, must now come out.”

“Rory can do it.”

“I know more about this than Rory does. I saw several such wounds in London during the late rebellion against the queen’s majesty. I learned then a procedure that saved many lives.”

Burke examined her. Was this calm, confident nurse the same wild woman who’d been hysterical in his arms less than twenty-four hours earlier?

“You have often asked me to trust you, have you not?” Alex said quietly.

He inclined his head in agreement.

“Then trust me. I know very well what I am doing.”

When Rory returned Burke said to him, “Go out and speak to the men. Tell them I am well and disperse them. Then come back in here and do as she says.”

Rory stood stock still.

“Did you not hear me?” Burke said in a stronger voice.

Rory turned on his heel and left. Seconds later they heard him speaking in Gaelic to the men assembled outside the tent. This was followed by a shuffling of feet.

“How were you hurt?” Alex asked, using the edge of his discarded tunic to wipe the gathering perspiration from his forehead. “What happened?”

“They were waiting for us,” Burke murmured as if speaking to himself. “They knew. When I saw it was a trap I sent the men back, but not before they got me and a few others.”

“How could Carberry have known that you were coming? Who could have told him?”
 

Burke raised his weary eyes to hers.
 

“Rory thinks you did.”

Chapter 4

It becomes not a female to speak in public on so desolate a subject as her own marriage.

—Mary Tudor to the Spanish ambassador, 1554

Alex gaped at him.
“He thinks
I
did? I’ve been trussed up in a tent right here under your nose for the last four weeks! How could I have done anything?”

“Rory thinks that you’re a spy . .. that you were planted here . . . that you talk to confederates in the woods when you take your exercise.” He was gasping, the words obviously costing him tremendous effort.

“I’m always supervised when I’m turned loose. And how could I be a spy when I was kidnapped? Had I consulted an astrolabe to determine the future?

The idea is preposterous! You know it’s not true.”

Burke looked past her shoulder, and did not answer.

“I see,” Alex said quietly. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true, or even possible. He’s spreading rumors, laying the groundwork to eliminate me if anything happens to you.”

“I can curb Rory’s tongue.”

“You’re not with him every minute! The others hate my countrymen so much they’ll use any pretext to fall on me just like that man Scanlon. That’s the way of it, isn’t it?” Alex suddenly noticed that she was even beginning to talk like these people.

“Nothing will happen to me,” Burke said, looking as if he might faint momentarily. “So nothing will happen to you.”

“Don’t talk any more,” Alex said, kneeling next to him. “You must conserve your strength.”

“Stay close by me,” he said in a low tone as Rory rejoined them. He would have said more, but that was enough to make his message clear.

So, he was afraid for her. As strong as his hold was on his men, he knew he was injured now, not capable of walking among them and exerting control over them. Without his influence, the subversive forces among them would have a chance to do their worst. It had to be more than Rory making disgruntled remarks or Burke would not be so concerned.

“Set the pallet on the floor over there,” Alex said, indicating the corner by the light. She had to dismiss such disturbing thoughts, with the more pressing problem of Burke’s health at hand. “And I’ll need to gather some herbs, so you must take me out to the woods.”

“Herbs?” Rory said doubtfully.

“I must make a clay poultice to draw the wound. And I’ll need St. John’s wort and marjoram to reduce the swelling, lady’s mantle to help to close the wound, purple foxglove for the pain, and marigold to aid the scab in forming.”