A Promise in Midwinter (2 page)

..oo  Chapter Three  oo..

The smell of horse
shit filled Lachlan’s nostrils.  His eyes flickered open and struggled to focus
upon the billowy white clouds that filled the mid-day sky.  The air was brisk
and filled with the scent of falling leaves.  Lachlan was cold.  His muscles
trembled from the chill in the late autumn air.

He tried to bring
his hand up to rub his face, but quickly discovered that both of his hands were
tethered to the pallet on which he lay.  Being restrained in such a manner sent
a sudden wave of panic through his body and his muscles tensed, rebelling
against their leather restraints.

Discovering that
such a struggle was futile, Lachlan relaxed reluctantly.  His gray eyes
strained to focus and his mind spun wildly in an effort to decipher his
surroundings. 

He had been
taken prisoner.

Lachlan remembered
now.

Had he not
leapt in front of the boy, John Campbell would have killed young Archie MacFarland.

Archie was only
twelve.

Lachlan remembered
coming to the boy’s rescue.  He had been overtaken by a swarm of Campbell warriors.

He had fought
them off valiantly.  But the Campbells had refused to give him an honorable
death on the battle field.

John Campbell
had wanted him alive.

He tilted his head
back and looked up.  His eyes met the round, muscular rump of a dapple mare,
ambling back and forth with the rhythm of her lazy gait.  Hence the smell of
horse shit, he thought to himself. 

At least he was
not going crazy.

Leaning forward
slightly, Lachlan clenched his teeth as a ripple of pain washed over him.  His
gray eyes glanced around quickly, taking in the scene about him.  A long line
of Campbell warriors, some on horse and some on foot stretched out behind
him.   The sickening feeling in his gut coupled with the thick leather
restraints binding his wrists led him to know that he was a prisoner of war.

He cursed himself
for being weak.  How could he have allowed the Campbell bastards to capture him
alive?

The intense
throbbing in his skull made it difficult to think.  Lachlan knew that he was
badly injured.  His body shook painfully with the rhythm of the horse that pulled
his pallet, sending pain surging down his right arm.  Lachlan mustered the strength
to raise his head from the pallet again, a small motion which sapped what
little strength he had.  A length of cloth obscured his view of the wound that
he knew must span across his chest.  He let out his breath and allowed his body
to slump back against the pallet, grimacing as the clumsy movement sent further
pain coursing through his body. 

Some of his ribs
were broken.

He closed his
eyes. 

The rudimentary linen
bandage was a tell-tale indicator that the Campbells wanted him alive.  Someone
had taken great care to tend his wounds.  Dread settled in Lachlan’s stomach
and he fought the urge to vomit.  If the Campbells wanted him alive, they had a
reason.  A clean, honorable death would have been so much better.  Lachlan would never betray his father or his clan, and if the Campbells meant to torture
him, his road to death would be a long and excruciatingly painful one.

Lachlan would
never give the Campbells what they wanted.

..ooOOoo..

“Touch me again
and I’ll cut off your ballocks,” Elizabeth warned as she tucked an errant
auburn curl behind her ear and leaned over the MacFarland warrior.  Upon
arrival at the keep, Campbell’s guards had seen to bringing the wounded man up
the stairs and had deposited him in a bed in a vacant chamber at the end of the
corridor.

  Elizabeth could tell that the captive was now conscious and only pretending to be asleep.

One steely gray
eye flew open and the merest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Lachlan’s lip.

“Forgive me, milady,”
Lachlan said as he felt color flush his face. 

Elizabeth glowered
down at him, her eyebrows scrunched together with distrust.

The MacFarland
chuckled, catching Elizabeth off guard and she jerked back, distancing herself
from him.

“I have a vague
memory of waking up and realizing that I was dead,” he laughed softly at the preposterous
nature of his errant memory.  “I thought that you were an angel,” he admitted
as his eyes locked momentarily with hers.  The Campbell girl was breathtakingly
beautiful. “And then I realized the error of my judgment when you opened your
mouth and such nasty, unladylike words fell from your lips.  I knew then that
you were no angel!”

Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to flush crimson.

“But you touched
me and…” she stammered.

“And I do apologize
for that, milady.  It will most certainly not happen again,” Lachlan said as he
smiled apologetically.  “That is unless ye were to ask me to do so,” Lachlan insinuated as he arched an eyebrow.

Elizabeth gasped. 
She was taken aback by the bold insinuation of the MacFarland warrior.  Surely
he had not noticed that she had admired his features earlier!

“And what makes
you believe that I would ever
ask
you to touch me?” she asked
incredulously.

Lachlan chuckled. 
“I was just badgering ye, lass.  Thank you for bandaging my wound,” he said,
glancing down at the linen bandage.

“Twas not my
choice.  Campbell wants you alive,” Elizabeth said coolly.  She was still
shaken by Lachlan’s remark implying that she might ask him to touch her.

“I suppose that he
does,” Lachlan sighed miserably.  “I’ll not talk to him, you know.  He might as
well kill me now, for I’ll never give him what he desires.”

“John Campbell has
a way of getting what he wants,” Elizabeth sighed softly, regretting her
revelation as soon as the words fell from her lips.

Lachlan studied
the beautiful lass.

John Campbell had
hurt her.

He hated the Campbell bastard even more.  The lass standing at his bedside was a rare beauty. Her spine
was rigid and she wore the tatters of her pride as badges of honor.  Yes, John
Campbell had hurt her, but he had not broken her.  Lachlan could see a glimmer
of hatred for the Campbell burning in the young woman’s eyes.

“May I know your
name, lass?” Lachlan asked.  His gray eyes locked with hers.

Elizabeth
hesitated before speaking, unsure if she should disclose any personal
information to the MacFarland.  She did not know if he could be trusted.

“Elizabeth,” she
whispered.  “Elizabeth Campbell.”

Lachlan smiled
again.

Perhaps Lady
Elizabeth Campbell was his angel after all.

..ooOOoo..

Lachlan’s eyes
opened warily.

He blinked
repeatedly, opening and closing his eyes as he struggled to focus.

The room was dark,
quiet.

She was humming
again, a light and beautiful sound.

Her humming
stopped abruptly.

“Elizabeth?” Lachlan croaked.  His throat was dry and his body ached everywhere.

“Aye?” she
answered.  She stood from the chair next to his bed and leaned over him.

Lachlan blinked
again.  He squeezed his eyes shut and then reopened them.  There was an
incessant pounding in his skull.

“Tis good to see
you awake.  You’ve been out for most of the day, nighttime is almost upon us,” Elizabeth said as she felt Lachlan’s forehead.

Her hand was
gentle, soft against his head.

“You must drink,”
she said as she lifted an earthenware cup to his mouth.

Lachlan took a
small sip, the effort of which exhausted him.  The water was cool and
refreshing as it ran down his parched throat.  He took another sip, enjoying
the restorative power of the drink.

“Thank you, lass,”
Lachlan rasped as he held Elizabeth’s concerned gaze.

“Tis but water,”
she said coolly as she removed the cup.

“Nay.  Thank you
for tending me,” he said quietly.  “I’ve a debt to repay you.”

“Twas not my
choice, as I’ve told you.  My father…John Campbell has charged me with your
care.”

“I ken that you were
charged with my care, but ye doona have to be as nice as ye are,” he said as he
closed his eyes.  He brushed the tip of his finger against Elizabeth’s hand,
which rested on the side of the bed that he was tethered to.

She gasped and
retracted her hand as if his touch had burned her.

The corner of Lachlan’s mouth turned up into the hint of a smile.

“I’ll not bite ye,
lass,” he chuckled softly, regretting his laughter as it jostled his broken
ribs.

Elizabeth
swallowed hard.

The MacFarland’s
lightest touch had affected her greatly.  Never in her life had she been
touched by a man, save for John Campbell.  And John Campbell’s touch had only
brought pain.

Lachlan’s touch
was innocent and yet it lit her nerve endings afire.

Lachlan regretted
touching Elizabeth at once.  In a moment of weakness, he had brushed his
fingertip lightly across her skin.  More than anything he had wished to assure
himself that she was real, a flesh and bone woman and not an apparition of his
clouded mind.

Elizabeth was most
certainly real.

And she was the
sweetest, most alluring female that he had ever encountered.  Her auburn hair
was unbound and cascaded down her shoulders.  It caught the glow of the
firelight, glistening as the lighter strands were highlighted by the dancing
flames.  Her skin was like spilt cream, so light and perfect against the olive
silk of her gown.

Elizabeth Campbell
was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen.

Lachlan regretted
meeting her under present circumstances.

“Lass, I um…I need
to relieve…” he began, unsure of how to communicate his need for a chamber pot
without offending the lass’s sense of propriety.

Elizabeth sprung
from her chair.

“I’ll get the
guards!  They can unlace your wrists and help you with…” she trailed off as he
face flushed pink.

Lachlan laughed
softly, again jostling his painful broken ribs. 

He watched as Elizabeth nearly ran from the chamber, admiring the round curve of her perfect bottom as
she hurried away.  He dropped his head back against the pillow, cursing the
undeniable response of his body.  Here he lay beaten and broken on what would
most likely be his deathbed and his body had mustered the strength to respond
with an arousal to Lady Elizabeth Campbell.

“Saints!” he
cursed under his breath as he gritted his teeth.  He berated himself for his
weakness.  “A man can dream,” he muttered and did his best to push lustful
thoughts from his mind.

Two guards stalked
into the small chamber.  They did not speak to Lachlan, but scowled down at him
with true hatred shining in their eyes.  It was the exact same hatred that Lachlan harbored for them.  A hatred as old as time itself, born and bred into the very
fiber of his being.

Lachlan glared
back, setting his jaw in a firm line.

He regretted being
helpless.  Relying on the mercy of Campbell guards to untie his leather
shackles so that he could take a piss enraged him.

 
Would that he
could have died on the battle field.

 Would that he
was not injured and could dispatch these Campbell bastards.

One guard unlaced
the leather binding on Lachlan’s right wrist.  It took all of Lachlan’s waning
strength to sit up in the bed.  The second guard kicked a chamber pot towards Lachlan.  The men had the decency to turn so that Lachlan could empty his bladder.

Lachlan settled
gingerly back against the bed, noting that even the slightest movement brought
pain.  He was injured badly.  He closed his eyes and retreated to the solace of
his mind while the Campbell guard rebound his wrist to the bed.

Lachlan was a
brave warrior, proud and strong.  He had borne his duty to his clan well and
yearned for the glory that had been stolen from him.  Death on the battle field
would have brought pride to his clan.  He had killed many Campbells that day
and had he died on the battle field as he had meant to, his name would have
been sung by minstrels for generations.

But it had not
gone the way that he had planned.  He had been reduced to a weakened prisoner
of war, asking permission of the Campbells to take a piss.

A glancing blow
struck his jaw, catching Lachlan off guard and snapping his head abruptly to
the right. 

He saw stars.

When his eyes opened,
the room was spinning.  Blackness crept into his field of view.

“Bloody MacFarland
bastard,” the guard growled.

His companion
laughed openly.

Lachlan tried to
reach up and feel his face, but he could not.  His muscles rebelled, straining
at the leather shackles.  He growled and then let his arms go slack in defeat.

He wanted to kill
the Campbell sons-of-whores.

The men left the
room and Elizabeth returned.

“What have they
done?” she asked worriedly as she looked down at Lachlan.  Blood ran freely
from his lower lip, which was now split open.  “What did they do to you, Lachlan?” she asked, her voice riddled with concern.

Lachlan rolled his
head to the other side.  He was ashamed. 

Elizabeth took a
cloth and blotted away the blood on Lachlan’s lip.  She used her thumb and
forefinger to tilt his head towards her.

“Twas not right
what they did to you!  MacFarland or no, it was not right.”

Lachlan was
silent.  He looked away from Elizabeth, turning his head towards the wall.  The
Campbells could beat him, they could torture him and kill him, but they would
never break him.

Elizabeth felt
great sorrow for the wounded warrior.  It was unfair how he was being treated
by her clan.  She pulled the cloth away from Lachlan’s lip, noting that the new
injury was beginning to swell.  Ever so lightly, she brushed her fingertip over
the curve of Lachlan’s jaw, not understanding what on Earth possessed her to do
so.  The stubble of his new beard prickled her fingers and a thrilling
sensation raced down her spine.