Child of the Mist (5 page)

His mouth tightened. A hard look glittered in his eyes, but Niall managed to control his temper. It wasn't her fault she'd been led astray as to the true cause of the feud. "We don't want your land, lass." He sighed wearily. " 'Tis a matter o' clan honor. If the MacGregors would stop, then so would we. And I think you've been misled as to who truly caused the feud."

Anne arched a skeptical brow. "Really now? And how would you know?"

"I was there. 'Twas my wedding day. While all were feasting after the ceremonyMacGregor as well as several other neighboring clansone o' our villages was raided, the people murdered to a man, woman, and child, and the livestock stolen."

"Aye, I know the tale," Anne finished impatiently. "And the only clue to the raiders' identities was a scrap o' MacGregor plaid. More than sufficient evidence that we'd been the reivers, despite my father's protests to the contrary. Thank the Holy Saints my people were safely back on MacGregor lands before you discovered the village. No doubt you would have murdered them all, right there at your wedding feast."

"What would you have done, if the crime had been against your clan?" Niall asked softly. "Wagged your finger and asked them not to do it again?"

"I'd have waited a bit, investigated more thoroughly, before beginning a blood feud! Such a crime as raiding can easily be laid at some innocent clan's feet, if the reasons are right. A scrap o'plaid is hardly a fair piece o' evidence!"

"And how thoroughly did the MacGregors investigate their own?" Niall countered. "Have you no renegades who might have done such a thing? But, nay, we never heard o' any MacGregors brought to trial, nor ever received one word o' apology."

"Apology for what? For a crime we didn't commit? Highland honor wouldn't permit such a thing!"

Niall shrugged. "Aye, 'tis true enough. But, one way or another, the feud is set and there seems little either. o' us can do about it. For my part, I had yet to be named clan tanist and wasn't privy to the rest o'the evidence, or part o'the final decision. I accepted the council's decision, though, as any good Highlander would.

"As far as your other accusation that I like raiding and the shedding o'blood, well, I do admit to enjoying the thrill o' occasionally lifting a few cattlewhat Highlander doesn't?but I don't like bloodshed. Feud or no, neither I nor my men have killed any o' yours save in retribution for the death of one o' ours, or in justifiable self-defense."

"And I say you lie!"

The words slipped out before Anne could stop them. Niall struggled to his feet, then sank back to the stone bench, his face pale with the sudden exertion.

"Don't say that!" he growled, his sweat-damp features tight with anger. "Don't ever,
ever
call me a liar! I've never lied and I'll certainly not begin now just to please you. Think o' me what you will, but don't justify your clan's shortcomings with false accusations!"

Eyes wide, she stared down at the man before her. She'd been a fool to taunt him. Grudgingly, Anne had to admit Niall Campbell seemed to place great store on his word. His reaction had been too immediate, too violent, not to have sprung from the heart. And if he hadn't been privy to the decisions surrounding the beginning of the feud, he might truly feel justified in accepting the Campbell view of things. Yet how could she believe him, for to do so could perhaps place blame, at least some of it, upon her own people?

Confused emotions whirled in her head. Blessed Mother, what was she about, that a hated enemy could stand here and make her doubt her own kind? He was clever, that was all.

Tread lightly with him, Annie,
she told herself.
Tisn't important what he says. Humor him and then be gone
.

"II beg pardon," she forced herself to say. "My tongue is too sharp at times and forges ahead o' my good sense. My purpose here isn't to upset you, or to relive the feud, but to see to your needs."

She motioned toward his battered face. "Let me finish tending your wounds. You must be sore weary. I'll bring you some food before you take your rest."

The anger left Niall with a rush. In its place flowed heavy exhaustion. He leaned back against the stone wall with a deep sigh. "Aye, that I am, lass." He grinned up at her. " 'Tis mayhap why my anger boils so close to the surface."

Anne picked up a clean cloth and wet it in a bowl of water. She studied him for a moment, then began to wash the gash over his left eyebrow.

"This cut is deep and won't cease its oozing. I'll apply witch hazel to stop the bleeding, then some o' my marigold ointment. 'Tis excellent in the healing of wounds."

Niall grunted his assent, well aware she didn't wish to discuss the subject of their families further. Instead, he occupied himself in watching her. For the first time, he took his leisure in closely studying the woman before him.

Her hair, now pulled into a long, thick braid down her back, was a rich, glowing color. Its dark red hue set off the ivory radiance of her flawless skin to perfection. Her nose was straight, short and charming, her lips full and delightfully pink as she bit into them in her intense concentration.

His glance slid from her arresting face, moving down her small, slender body. The plain woolen dress wasn't meant to entice, but its simplicity flattered her curving figure better than the stiff, exaggerated outlines of courtly gowns ever could. Her breasts were small but most pleasingly rounded, her waist narrow, her hips provocatively full.

She was a beautiful woman. When engaged in something she loved, as Niall sensed she loved her healing, she radiated a serenity and strength that made her seem almost ethereal. The lass was different, and no mistake. In his younger days, before he'd wed, Niall knew he'd have found her attractive. Aye, most attractive, but not now, and perhaps never. . . .

He quickly shook aside that painful memory. There was nothing wrong with him. Perhaps all he needed was a lovely witch's potion.

She'd certainly been bewitching that eve of the raid. Standing there before his men, her hair wild and tousled, defiantly taunting them, Niall couldn't help but admire her spirit and courage. He'd guessed her ruse, her intention of using the prevailing witch panic to turn them away and protect the village. And it would've worked on a sane man. But Hugh wasn't quite sane, not all the time. She'd nearly lost her life because of it.

''That night we raided the village." He took her hand to stop her ministrations. "Why did my cousin think you a witch?"

Surprise flickered in her silver eyes. Why would he ask such a question, or even care for that matter?

"He thought I'd used witchcraft to bring a wee babe back to life."

"And why would he have thought that?"

Anne hesitated.
If I tell him, he may think the same o' me
.

For some inexplicable reason, she didn't want him to, though she knew his opinion of her shouldn't matter. In the past she'd never let the whisperings, the clacking tongues, give her pause. Yet gazing down at him, into the measureless depths of his rich brown eyes, she felt herself falter.

"A misunderstanding, as are most claims o'witchcraft," Anne finally replied with a small shrug of her shoulders, averting her eyes to dig into her bag for her ointment.

"Aye." Niall chuckled. "Misunderstandings, rumors. I can well understand how they grow until the tales faint resemble the person."

A sudden realization assailed him. "I know you now. You're the one they call the Witch o' Glenstrae."

Anne nodded, intent on applying the healing salve to his brow. "I've been called that. Does it disturb you?"

"Nay. I told you before. I don't believe in witch-craft. Besides, I've been called a wolf, yet I feel no-more one than I imagine you feel a witch."

In spite of herself, a smile sprang to Anne's lips. She put aside her ointment and looked at him. "Rumors, I fear, move faster, last longer, than truth ever can. And with far more damage."

"Yet you persist in your healings, knowing full well the danger o' the tales spread about you."

"And would you have me stop my work? Cower in a dark comer because o' idle gossip and the mouthings o' ignorant minds?" Anne vehemently shook her head. "Nay, I've a life to lead. I'll not hang back in fear because my talents lie in other paths than most women."

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest.

"And what's so amusing?" Anne demanded.

"Och, 'tis naught, lass." Niall grinned. "I was but wondering how your future husband will look upon all this."

She tossed her head. " 'Tis o' no import. I'll never wed, for I'll not be constrained by the rules o' some blustering, narrow-minded fool. And besides, I've no worry. None will have me because o' my reputation. My poor father, though he hated to shame me in such a manner, was finally forced to marry off my two younger sisters before me."

Anne laughed. "But I didn't care. What was one more broken custom among so many I'd already tossed by the way?"

Admiration mingled with bemusement in Niall's eyes. "Och, you'll run a man a good race before he's tamed you, and no mistake. Never fear, though, lassie. There are men aplenty who'll not turn from the task. A spirited filly, if gentled well, is o' greater value than a plodding nag."

"So, now I'm compared to a horse! Your opinion o' women is sorry indeed, Niall Campbell!"

He threw back his head and shouted with laughter, then stopped, clutching his side. A grimace of pain twisted his handsome features. "Och, I forgot my bruises. Have a heart, lass, and don't make me laugh again." He cocked his head. "Tell me your name. We've never been properly introduced, you know."

An unaccustomed warmth surged through Anne, followed quickly by a flash of irritation. She shouldn't feel so . . . so friendly, so flattered by his interest. He was still her enemy, no matter how pleasant he could be. Her lips tightened and she forced down her natural affability.

"I can't fathom the import, your knowing my name. It changes naught. All that matters is you are Campbell and I, MacGregor. But since you asked, I am called Anne."

The color drained from Niall's face. His expression hardened. Anne thought she saw a flash of pain in his eyes, but it passed so swiftly she could have been mistaken. There was no mistaking, however, the physical distance he meant to put between them as he leaned away.

"You're right, o' course," he growled. "I was wrong to ask. It changes naught. Naught at all."

Anne hurried up the dungeon steps, thankful her task of caring for Niall Campbell was over. His wounds had been tended, a light meal served, and he was now resting, a thick fur provided him against the room's chill. Later, after he'd had time to sleep, she'd return with some wash water and a fresh shirt to replace his dirty, tattered one.

But later was hours away, from the haggard look of exhaustion on his face. For the time being, she was free of him, free of the disconcerting emotions he so easily stirred. And she meant to spend it outside, breathing the fresh Highland air.

The day was nearly spent. Savory smells of roasting meats and yeasty breads filled the air. Anne sighed contentedly. How she loved this time of day, when the dying sun cast its mellow glow upon the land, when the day's struggle and strife were over, and the only labor left was the satisfying contemplation of one's accomplishments. It was so peaceful, so. . . .