Authors: Patricia Potter
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Historical, #Scottish
Beloved Stranger (3 page)
A man lay still, his body mostly covered by a thicket of dense brush. He had clearly escaped the notice of earlier reivers, since he was still dressed in a finely woven plaid, his upper body covered by chain mail. His legs were bare except for leather boots, and she saw the jagged, open wound on his leg. She set down her bag and stooped next to him. His breath was ragged, but he was alive.
And a lord. She knew that by his clothing.
He had multiple wounds. The side of his head bore a wide purple bruise. His arm was sliced, and his leg had been ripped open by some weapon.
Yet he apparently had dragged himself over here, away from the soldiers and scavengers going from man to man to deliver final blows.
His eyes opened, and she noticed they were blue. Bloodshot. Clouded with pain and suffering. “Water,” he whispered. “Please.”
She gave him the flagon. He greedily swallowed several gulps.
She heard her name called from a distance. She looked at the eyes staring up at her with gratitude.
A Scot.
A Scot.
A Scot was an enemy of her country.
She knew her duty. She knew she should call Cedric or one of the others. Her duty was to end this man’s life.
She could not do it. Nor could she call for someone else to kill him.
He would probably die in any event, she told herself.
“Thank . . . you,” he mumbled. Then closed his eyes.
What to do?
She looked at the man’s leg, which had been torn by a sword. It had stopped bleeding but would probably start again if he was moved.
Suddenly making up her mind, she struggled to remove his helmet from his head, then the mail. Both would have attracted attention. Under the mail she found a jeweled crest, and she slipped it into the bodice of her dress. Then she set her flagon next to him. He should find it when he regained his senses.
She covered him with leaves and underbrush. Perhaps he would survive the next day. Then she could return on Magnus and take him back to her cottage. Perhaps he was a great lord and would be grateful. Perhaps he would be her way out of the Charlton hold.
If he lived.
“Kimbra!”
She started at the sound of her name.
Cedric.
And not far away.
And not far away.
Her heart pounded. He couldn’t find the Scot.
She finished covering him, knowing that only God could save him over the next day. She couldn’t return until night, and then not until late.
She leaned down. “Stay still. I will return,” she whispered. “Tonight. Sometime tonight.”
Then she covered the last of his face with leaves and stood.
“Kimbra!”
The voice was nearer. She grabbed her sack and the mail and helmet, then moved swiftly to her right, past several trees, before answering him. Cedric would be pleased with the mail. Even she could see that it was of the finest metal.
“I’m here.”
“Where have ye been?”
She held up her chain mail. “See what I found.”
He looked at her through narrowed eyes, then reached out for the chain mail.
She drew it close to her body. “It is mine.”
“Nay, me lady,” he said mockingly. “’Tis Charlton property.”
“You should remember that as well. It will not be yourn.”
His lips turned into a smirk and turned. “Be careful, Kimbra. I have asked to the Charlton for yer hand, and he looks kindly on my suit.”
“I do not believe you.”
“He wants ye wed.” His eyes bore into her. “The cart is leaving. Unless ye wish to ride wi’ me.”
Kimbra didn’t. She clung to the chain mail even as she twisted the top of the sack around her hand and lifted it to her shoulder, then made her way between the bodies. She knew she would never forget the stench.
She also knew she would be back this eve.
She wondered if the Scot would still be alive then.
She also wondered why she cared enough to risk her life.
She only knew she must. This man had tried desperately to live. And if she could save one life in this sea of death, mayhap God would forgive her the other sins.
Chapter 2
W
HEN the cart arrived back at the Charlton tower, Kimbra added her sack—and the chain mail—to the jewelry and armor and clothing in the center of the courtyard. Well aware that every day she had to prove worthy, she made sure the Charlton noted that she brought more than many of the others. But she kept the jeweled crest hidden in the bosom of her gown, even though it seemed to burn a hole in her chest.
HEN the cart arrived back at the Charlton tower, Kimbra added her sack—and the chain mail—to the jewelry and armor and clothing in the center of the courtyard. Well aware that every day she had to prove worthy, she made sure the Charlton noted that she brought more than many of the others. But she kept the jeweled crest hidden in the bosom of her gown, even though it seemed to burn a hole in her chest.
She was given leave to take one item for her own, and she chose a gold ring. If she was going to participate in thievery, she was going to make sure that at least some small part of it protected her daughter.
Once all had been collected, she walked to her cottage. Bear ran gleefully toward her. The huge dog, named because he’d looked like nothing so much as a bear cub when he was a pup, stopped at her gown, sniffed the dried blood, and looked up anxiously.
Engulfed with the enormity of what she’d just done this night, she hesitated for a moment, then leaned down to pet him. “It is all right, Bear.” But he took several steps back and looked around.
“She will be home soon,” Kimbra assured him. Audra was Bear’s charge as well as playmate.
She fed the dog some leftover stew, then changed her gown, quickly washing the bloody mourning gown she had worn to the battlefield. She wanted to throw it away—to never look at it again—but every possession was valuable now. She did not have the luxury of destroying a garment. Instead she hung it outside over the branch of a tree.
Then she fed the chickens and milked the cow. Bess bellowed with disapproval at the lateness of what was usually a morning ritual. Kimbra pacified her with soft words and fresh hay. She then saddled Magnus, leading him from the small stable that housed the two animals.
It was far into the day now. There was no way she could reach the wounded man until dark. She would need Magnus to bring him back, and a hobbler as fine as Magnus would attract notice.
Would the Scot even live that long?
She didn’t know. She did know that the longer he went without attention, the more risk there was of infection. His face haunted her as she walked swiftly down the path. It had been wracked with pain, but his eyes had been as pure a blue as she’d ever seen.
The image did not leave her as she rode over to Jane Carey’s small hut.
Jane, a widow who often looked after children, was adored by them all. She was a Charlton by blood and had been permitted to keep her small abode.
Audra came out the door, and Kimbra slid off the horse and leaned over to hug her. Her daughter had but seven years, and she wriggled with delight.
“Mater,” she said, holding up her arms for a hug.
Kimbra gave her one. “My pretty love,” she said. “Did you have a good day? Did Jane make you a sweet?”
Audra made a face. “Porridge.”
“Oh dear,” Kimbra said. “I will tell her to make you one tomorrow.”
“Are you going away again?”
“Just for a while tonight.”
Audra looked at her with disappointment in huge blue eyes.
“When we get back, you can help feed Magnus and Bess.”
Audra’s face brightened. She loved animals and always wanted to feel useful. Magnus had always been gentle with both Kimbra and Audra. Kimbra had seen Cedric with horses and knew he had a cruel hand—another reason to despise such a match.
Kimbra would never let him have control of the horse, nor of their elderly cow, which was giving less and less milk. Bess was more like a pet now. Cedric would not hold such sentimentality.
After telling Jane she would be bringing Audra back this night, she lifted her daughter onto the horse, then mounted herself. Her daughter’s warm body cuddling against hers comforted her.
She would give her life for Audra. This past night’s work was little enough if it would help keep her daughter safe and fed.
They reached the stone and wood cottage Will had built for them. Unlike most, it had two rooms as well as a loft. She loved the cottage—the large room with a huge fireplace and the furniture he had built with his hands. It had a second room, which she and Will once shared. Now she shared it with Audra. The loft was for visitors.
It was not a large dwelling, but it was well built. She’d sewn curtains for the window, and during the spring and summer, she always kept flowers from her garden in several bowls.
It was
hers.
hers.
Audra helped her unsaddle Magnus, or at least Kimbra let her daughter think she helped, handing her the bridle and bit to put away. Together they fed and watered both Magnus and Bess. Then, holding hands, they went into the cottage.
The day went quickly, though her thoughts continued to wander back to the battlefield, to the Scot so badly wounded. She didn’t know why he preyed so heavily on her mind, except he had been a breath of life on a field of death. Perhaps help would be a modest redemption for what she had done.
When it grew dark, she and Audra rode Magnus back to Jane Carey’s. Audra went to sleep in her arms, and Kimbra was consumed by overwhelming love for her daughter. Audra should come first in all things.
So why was she risking so much for a man who was an enemy?
She had promised him. It was as simple as that.
After she returned to her cottage, she changed into the men’s clothes she’d once worn on raids. She pulled on leather breeches, then a doublet followed by a jack, a quilted coat of stout leather sewn with plates of horn for protection. Finally she tied her hair in a knot and placed a steel bonnet over it. Except for those few who had once ridden with her husband, no one would realize she was a woman.
A woman on a horse would be questioned. A borderer, a raider, would not, especially one with a sword at his side and a wicked-looking dagger on his belt. She started to leave, then returned to bundle several of Will’s garments together.
It was well past midnight when she mounted Magnus and rode toward the battlefield. She felt the horse’s unease as the odor of death enveloped them. As yesterday, figures moved among the dead, looking for anything of use or value. By now, the pickings would be slim. The weapons, the jewelry, the clothes and boots would be gone. It did not take the border reivers long to find whatever was valuable.
To the poor, anything was of value.
The moon was visible this night, though sometimes shaded by clouds drifting across the sky. The smoke had disappeared, but the acrid scent remained.
Magnus picked his way through the dead, prancing nervously at the smell. He was well trained, but horses didn’t like the smell of blood, nor did they want to step on the dead.
Kimbra had memorized landmarks. The place where the cart had stopped. Her own journey through the dead. Several of the bodies near the spot where she’d found the Scot were gone. They must have been of importance or they, too, would have remained here like so many others.
Had her Scotsman been found? Or if he hadn’t, was he still alive?
She dismounted and led the horse to the silent clump of trees. Below it was a stream she had not noticed the night before.
She saw the outline of bodies down there as well.
In the light of the moon, she found the place where she’d left the Scotsman. Kimbra knelt and brushed off the leaves and dirt.
He moved and opened his eyes. He looked startled, then apprehensive as his gaze focused on her, on her clothes. He tried to sit up but fell back with a moan.
A streak of emotion ran through Kimbra.
He was alive!
He was alive!
“’Tis only me,” she said. “The one who found you last eve. I left the water.”
His face relaxed slightly. “You . . . came back.”
“Aye. I said I would.”
“Thirsty.”
She glanced around him and found the flagon. It was empty. He would have to wait.
“Later,” she said and put an arm under his shoulder. “Can you sit?”
He didn’t answer, merely tried with her help to raise himself. A groan escaped his lips, yet she felt the determination in him. He fell back, then tried again.
“I have a horse and a litter. But you have to help me,” she said to him. “I cannot get you on it myself.”
With a grunt, he managed to heave himself to a sitting position, though she knew by his harsh breathing that every slight movement was agonizing. She handed him Will’s clothes. They would be too large for him, but they were certainly safer than the plaid and shirt he wore.
She used her dagger to cut the plaid from his body.
He held out his hand, stopping her.
“I am English,” she said, careful of her speech. “My husband’s family is English. You must also be English. The plaid says otherwise.”
He stared at her for a moment, then nodded.
“Why?” he asked suddenly. “Why . . . are you doing this?”
She couldn’t answer, because she wasn’t altogether sure herself. “Does it matter?”
“Nay,” he said. “I am . . . grateful.”
She continued to cut the cloth, even as she saw him struggle to stay in a sitting position. Each time he moved to try to assist her, pain flicked across his face. A low involuntary moan came from deep in his throat.
“Who are you?” she asked as she continued to work.
There was no answer.
“Your name?” she said again, this time more sharply.
She saw a bewildered look settle in his face. “I do not know, mistress. I canna remember. You said I was a Scot. I donna remember that, either.”
Her heart sank. He was addled. How could she get a ransom or reward if she knew not who he was?
He spoke well. His clothes, speech, and manner all bespoke of rank and nobility. But she would need his name.
She remembered the jeweled crest that had fastened the plaid. Should she mention it? No, he would want it back. She surely deserved something for her trouble, and he was a noble. He probably had many such baubles in Scotland.
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