Debbie Mazzuca Bundle (4 page)

“Quit yer blatherin’, lad. Can you no’ see the lass is havin’ a hard time of it?” Fergus said, watching her with concern.

“Drink this, lass. Come on, there’s a good girl.” Mrs. Mac pressed a cup to her mouth.

Ali took a deep swallow. The liquid burned a path to her stomach, and her eyes watered. She swiped a hand across her mouth. “What the hell is that?”

“Uisge na beatha.” Fergus grinned. “Not many a lass can stomach it.”

“Why doona’ you take a wee nap?” Mrs. Mac suggested, patting her shoulder.

Ali shook her head. “No, I’ll go and sit with Rory.” She’d see to her patient, and after she reassured herself he would be all right, she’d work on a plan to get out of this nightmare.

“Lass, you canna’ tell my brother about the fairy flag.”

“Why not? Maybe he’ll agree to use the flag to send me home.”

“Nay, I swear to you, he wouldna’ do it. My brother puts the well-being of the clan above all else. ’Tis why he canna’ find out. He’d kill me if he kent what I did.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t, Iain.” But the look on the faces of Mrs. Mac and Fergus reminded her she didn’t know Rory MacLeod. The man was a warrior, very different from the men she knew. She’d been thrust into a time where brutality was an everyday occurrence. One more reason she had to find a way home. The fairy flag was the key, and if they weren’t going to help her, she’d find it on her own.

“Aye, lass, if he didna’ kill me, for truth he’d never forgive me, and I canna’ live with that.”

Ali sighed. How could she fault him when his only crime was that he loved his brother? She knew she wouldn’t be able to make him suffer because of it. “I won’t tell him, Iain, I promise. I know you were only trying to save him. It’s not your fault those damn fairies picked me to do the honors.”

A look of relief lightened Iain’s handsome features. “You’ll forgive me then?” he asked, taking ahold of her hand.

Ali nodded. “You, but not your fairies.”

He pressed her hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.

Mrs. Mac cuffed the back of his head. “There’ll be none of that, Iain MacLeod.”

“Can I no’ kiss the lass’s hand?”

The older woman folded her arms across her ample chest. “Nay, she’d no’ be fer you, lad.”

Iain frowned. “And who would you be thinkin’ she’s fer?”

Ali opened her mouth to protest, but before she could get a word out, the woman said, “The fairies sent her fer yer brother.”

“Now just a—” Ali began.

Iain shook his head. “Mrs. Mac, you ken as well as anyone my brother will never take another. He loved only Brianna.”

Mrs. Macpherson shrugged.

“Hello, I’m right here.” Ali waved her hands at the two of them, annoyed to be treated like a prize up for grabs. “Just so we’re all straight on this, I have no interest in Rory MacLeod, or any other man for that matter.”

Fergus raised a bushy auburn brow. “You doona’ like men, lass?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she grumbled in frustration. “Yes, I like men, but I’ll choose one on my own, thank you very much.”
Because you did such a good job the last time,
the little voice in her head said. “Now, if we’re finished here, I’d like to look in on Rory.” She walked toward the door.

“A moment, lass,” Fergus called out to her.

Ali groaned. “I have a name, if any of you are interested. It’s Ali.”

A frown furrowed Mrs. Mac’s brow. “’Tis an odd name, lass.”

Ali rolled her eyes. “You can call me Aileanna if you’d prefer.”

“Aileanna. ’Tis better.”

She pressed her face into her hands, shaking her head before looking at Fergus. “What were you going to say?”

“We need a story, la…Ali, to explain where you’ve come from.”

“Right. We wouldn’t want to tell people the fairies sent me, now would we?”

“Aileanna, ’tis no’ somethin’ to make light of. Folks might think yer a witch, and that would be a verra dangerous thing,” Mrs. Mac said, her expression serious.

“A witch?”

“Aye, and there’s a priest in these parts who has stirred up some trouble of late. ’Tis why our healer left,” the woman explained.

Ali rubbed her temples.
This just gets better and better.
“So, where am I supposed to have come from?”

“You said yer last name is Graham and I’m thinkin’ the laird will have some memory of that. Do you ken any Graham that could slip us up, lad?” Fergus asked Iain.

“Nay, but I canna’ say for certain Rory doesna’.”

“We’ll hope as no’.” Fergus gave Ali an odd look. “I hate to say it, but I’m thinkin’ we’ll have to say she’s English. It may goes a way to explainin’ her strange way of speakin’.”

“’Tis a shame, Fergus, but you have the way of it,” Mrs. Mac agreed.

Ali frowned. “There’s nothing strange about the way I speak, but what’s the problem with saying I’m English?”

“We canna’ abide the English, lass.”

“We could say she’s from the borders. Not so bad, aye?” Iain piped up.

Fergus nodded, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Aye, and because of her healin’ abilities, those bloody Fife adventurers kidnapped her to take her on to Lewis. But she escaped and we gave her shelter.”

Mrs. Mac’s eyes widened. “’Tis quite a tall tale to swallow.”

“Can you think of somethin’ better?” Fergus grumbled.

“Nay.”

“’Tis settled, and now I’ll be off to get somethin’ to eat,” Iain said, heading for the door.

“I’ll join you, lad. Doona’ fret, Ali, we’ll take good care of you,” the older man promised.

“Thank you.” Despite everything, Ali was touched by his offer.

“’Tis the truth, Ali. The clan is in yer debt fer savin’ my brother. No one will say a word against you.”

“That’s good to hear.”

After the men left, Mrs. Mac turned to her. “Go to the laird, Aileanna, and I’ll bring you somethin’ to eat.”

“Thank you, but I’m not very hungry.”

“A wee bit of broth, then. And, lass, though I’m sorry fer yer troubles I’m glad ’twas you the fairies brought to us.”

Moisture gathered in Ali’s eyes at the woman’s kind words. Afraid she might cry, Ali nodded and opened the door to Rory’s chambers.

When she entered the room, a young girl popped out of the chair beside the bed. Her mouth dropped open as Ali came closer. “My lady,” she stammered, bobbing a curtsy.

Ali waved off the formality. “Please don’t do that. I’m not a lady. I mean, I am a lady, just not the kind of lady you mean.” She blew out an exasperated breath. It was obvious the girl didn’t know what she was talking about. “Has Lord MacLeod awakened yet?”

“Nay,” the young girl said, her eyes downcast.

“Well, thank you for watching over him. I’ll sit with him now if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

The girl bobbed another curtsy and scurried from the room with one last look at Ali.

Taking a seat on the hard wooden chair the girl had vacated, Ali looked at Rory. She smiled at the unruly wave of thick black hair that fell across his forehead, smoothing it from his face, pleased the skin beneath her hand was neither hot nor clammy. Without thinking, she allowed her fingers to trail along his cheekbones, to his strong jaw. He stirred. Guiltily she looked up, but his eyes remained closed. Long lashes rested against sun-bronzed skin, with no sign of his previous pallor. When her fingers grazed his full lips they twitched, curving into a smile. Butterflies quickened in her stomach.

Ali pulled her hand away, shaking her head at her foolishness. This was no time to be weaving fantasies about the man, no matter how beautiful he was. She needed to come up with a plan to get home. The sixteenth century was no place for her. Wearily she stood and eased back the bedding to get a better look at her handiwork. She winced. The wound was fiery red and swollen.

Her gaze wandered over his broad chest, the hard muscles beneath the taut skin of his belly. The man was in amazing condition. Muscles stiff, she lowered herself in the chair only to find Rory MacLeod looking at her. Or at least she thought he was, until she heard him say, “Brianna.”

He reached out to stroke his long, calloused fingers along her cheek in a gentle caress. He smiled, then closed his eyes. His arm dropped back to the bed.

Ali groaned. She had to find that damn flag.

“What are you doin’ tiptoein’ aboot, lad?” Rory grumbled. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself upright in bed.

The young lad ducked his head. “Sorry, my laird, I didna’ mean to disturb you.”

“Disturb me?” Rory jerked his chin toward the light filtering into the room. “From the looks of it you’ve awakened me none too soon. Where are my brother and Fergus? Breakin’ their fast, are they?”

“Nay,” the lad said, shuffling from one foot to the other.

Rory let out an exasperated breath. “Connor, I canna’ read minds, so you’d best tell me what’s on yers.”

“’Tis just that we’ve no’ eaten, Laird MacLeod. No’ since yester eve.”

Rory frowned. “And why would that be?”

“Cook quit.”

“Nay, lad, you must be mistaken. Cook wouldna’ do that.”

“’Tis the truth, my laird. He did.”

Rory cursed. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his muscles rebelled at the action. He stifled a groan at the wrenching pain in his side as he rose to his feet. Gingerly, he touched the site of his wound—the red, puckered flesh—and he thought of the woman who’d put it there. With the memory of her soft hands and their gentle touch on his heated skin, he felt himself harden. Sky blue eyes filled with concern, in a face as bonny as his wife’s. He shook the image of her from his head. No matter that the lass had the look of Brianna; no one could take his wife’s place. He was loyal to her memory. Swiving was one thing—a man had his needs—but love—nay, never again.

“Aye, Laird MacLeod.” The lad bobbed his head, eyeing Rory’s wound. “’Tis her that did it.”

“Aye, lad, the lass made a fair job of it, she did.”

“Nay…I mean aye, she did, but ’tis no’ what I meant. ’Tis on account of Lady Aileanna that Cook quit.”

“Nay, lad, she could no’ have managed that. She was seein’ to my needs yester eve.”

Connor’s mouth fell open; the tips of his ears pinked.

“Fer the love of God, ’tis no’ those needs I was talkin’ aboot. ’Twas my wound she saw to.” Rory began to think the boy meant to drive him daft.

“But…but, my lord, ’tis been seven days since we carried ye home.”

“Yer tellin’ me I’ve been lyin’ abed for seven days!” he bellowed, holding his side.

“Aye,” the lad squeaked.

“Get the woman and bring her to me, Connor.” Rory clenched his teeth as he reached for his plaid at the foot of the bed.

“She’s seein’ to the men that were injured. Mayhap ye should wait until—”

“Connor, you ken me well. I’ve given you an order, lad, and I expect it to be carried out. Bring the lady to me
now
.”

The boy rushed headlong from the room, almost bowling over Iain and Fergus as they entered his chambers.

“What’s got you riled, brother? We heard you bellow from down below,” Iain asked after he’d righted the lad.

Rory folded his arms over his chest, eyeing the two men. “Which one of you would care to explain how ’tis I’ve been abed fer seven days?”

The two men looked at each other, then shrugged.

“Why doona’ I take a guess—would it be Lady Aileanna’s doin’?”

“Aye, but ’twas fer yer own good, brother. You were restless, and she didna’ want you to rip open yer wound.”

“So you let her drug me? ’Tis too bad she didna’ have the means to render me unconscious when she closed my wound.” Anger reverberated in his voice and it had nothing to do with being awake when she had laid the blade to his side. Times were difficult, what with the MacDonald renewing the feud and King James sending the lowlanders to Lewis. It was no time for the clan’s laird to be laid out flat, and by a lass he didna’ ken.

Iain flushed under his scrutiny. “I brought the physician’s notes to her, the one you had see to Brianna. ’Twas there she found the herbs listed.”

“Now, lad—” Fergus began, then turned to the young maid who’d entered Rory’s chambers. Her fiery red hair was tucked neatly beneath a cap. “Leave it on the table. That’s a good lass.” Fergus laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder as she was about to leave. “Mari, this would be yer laird.”

The girl bobbed a curtsy and gave Rory a shy smile.

He nodded, masking his shock when the lass looked at him, one eye blue, the other green. “Welcome to Dunvegan, Mari.”

“Thank ye, my lord.” She bobbed again, then looked to Fergus for direction.

He nodded, waiting until the girl left the room before he explained. “Her mother brought her to us on account of that bloody priest. He’s been up to his tricks again, rantin’ aboot the lass on account of her mismatched eyes and red hair. Claiming she’s a witch, he is. He wanted to put her to the stake.”

Rory sighed, lowering himself into the chair by the fire. “The last thing I’d be needin’ right now is trouble with the Kirk, but if I hear he’s put anyone to the stake on MacLeod land I’ll send him to hell myself.”

“Aye, I thought that’s how you’d feel. I’ve sent a couple of men into the villages to keep an eye on him,” Fergus informed him.

“Eat yer parritch, brother.” Iain gestured to the bowl the lass had left, and pulled up a stool alongside him.

“And how is it I have parritch? I was under the impression Cook quit.”

“Aye, he did, but I managed to smooth his ruffled feathers.”

“And who would it be that ruffled his feathers in the first place—Lady Aileanna?” Rory asked, raising a brow.

“Aye, but—”

He interrupted his brother with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just tell me what she did.”

“’Twas more what she said.” Iain glanced at him, then sighed. “She told Cook his kitchens were no better than a pigsty, and she was surprised he hadna’ killed anyone as yet.”

Rory snorted. It was something he himself had meant to do, and he wasn’t at all certain that no one
had
died. But before he could admit as much, Connor returned.

“I thought I told you to bring Lady Aileanna to me.”

“I tried, but the lady says she’s busy and will come when she gets the chance.” The lad, head bowed, twisted his hands in front of him.

“She will, will she?” Rory muttered, rising to his feet.

“And…and she said I was to tell you you’d better damn well be in bed when she does,” Connor stammered, obviously quoting the lady verbatim.

Fergus covered a snort of laughter with a cough, shrugging when Rory shot him a quelling look.

“That’ll be all, Connor.”

“Rory, she’s lookin’ to the men who were wounded in the battle with the MacDonald. There are a fair number of them.”

“Yer quick to her defense, brother.” Rory narrowed his gaze on Iain. The lad had a reputation with the ladies, and he wondered if he’d charmed his way into Lady Aileanna’s affections—a thought that didn’t sit well with Rory, not with the memory of her naked in his arms and her passionate response to his touch. Fists clenched at his sides, he reined in the spurt of jealousy. An emotion he had no right or reason to feel, he reminded himself.

“Nay.” His brother gave an adamant shake of his head. “’Tis no’ like that.”

He ignored Iain. Lowering himself into the chair, he leaned back. “I appreciate the lass seein’ to the men’s care, but what I’d be needin’ to ken is where she’s from. Is there a chance she could be a spy sent by the MacDonald?”

Iain guffawed. “Brother, you’d think yer own mother a spy if she was alive.”

Rory shrugged. “You canna’ be too careful.”

Fergus cleared his throat. “She’s no spy, lad. She’d been kidnapped by those bloody lowlanders on the account of her healin’ abilities, but she escaped. I found her when I went back to the battlegrounds lookin’ fer our wounded.”

Rory scrubbed his hands over his face, thinking on what Fergus told him.

“I thought I told you to stay in your bed.”

He looked up. Aileanna Graham stood only a few feet from him, hands on her hips, more bonny than he remembered. The tops of her milky white breasts filled the square neckline of a gown the color of heather. Reluctantly, he pulled his gaze to her face. His hands twitched at the memory of how she’d felt in his arms.

Bloody hell, if he didna’ get his heated thoughts under control they would all have a verra good idea what he was thinkin’.

His plaid would soon resemble a tent.

He cleared his throat. “Lass, in case you hadna’ noticed, I am the laird. I listen to no one.”

She arched a brow. “I know exactly who you are, Lord MacLeod. But you are also my patient, and until I decide you are no longer under my care, you
will
do as I say. Now get back into bed.”

He folded his arms across his chest and glowered at her. “I’ll no’ get into bed. I’ve been in there long enough.”

“I think I hear Mrs. Mac callin’ fer me.” Iain rose from the stool and headed for the door with Fergus fast on his heels.

“Fergus, Iain, I expect a full update on the army’s condition before evenin’ meal,” he yelled, cursing when they shut the door firmly behind them without a word.

“That hurt, didn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, she leaned over and placed cool fingertips to his forehead.

Rory shook his head, not certain he’d get the words out. His mouth had gone dry. He licked his lips. She was so close he felt the heat of her body; the scent of lavender enveloped him.

“Let’s get you into bed,” she said, slipping her soft hand into his. “I want to make sure you haven’t done any damage.”

“I told you, lass, I’m no’ gettin’ back in that bed.”

She sighed. “You’re a stubborn man. Has anyone ever told you that?” Shaking her head, she knelt before him.

“Aye, often.” He bit back a groan when she tugged at his belt.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” Eyes the color of sapphires, awash with concern, met his.

“Nay,” he muttered. Brushing her hands aside he undid his belt, dropping it to the floor.

She inched his plaid lower, exposing the wound, exploring with a firm yet gentle touch. Meeting his eyes, she lowered hers quickly, and he wondered if she could see the desire in his. He didna’ doubt it was there. He wanted her with a need that surprised him. Closing his eyes, he imagined his wife, tiny and fragile, so slight and delicate. The memory of Brianna served to dampen his desire for the woman on her knees between his thighs.

“Are you all right?” she asked, the timbre of her voice low and husky. She cleared her throat. “Lord MacLeod?”

“I’m fine, lass,” he said. “Are you finished with yer pokin’?”

“Yes.” She patted his knee and rose to her feet. “I’m surprised at how well you’ve healed. It’s quite amazing actually. You’ll be as good as new in no time. Now, if you don’t mind, I had better get back to your men.” She retrieved his belt and handed it to him.

Rory adjusted his plaid. “I’d like a word with you first.” He studied her, watching for a reaction.

“Oh.” She smoothed her hands over her gown. Biting the inside of her cheek, she looked at him.

“Fergus tells me you were abducted by the lowlanders.”

“Umhmm,” she murmured, twisting the long length of her braided hair between her fingers.

“Does it trouble you to speak of it?”

“No.”

“They didna’ hurt you, did they?”

She shook her head, perfect white teeth worrying her full bottom lip.

“Lass, look at me.” He stood up and tilted her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “You can tell me.”

“No one hurt me.”

He dropped his hand to his side. “How did you escape?”

“I…I don’t remember.” She dipped her head. “I think I must have hit my head.”

Rory framed her face with his hands, searching her eyes. She sucked in a startled gasp when he ran his fingers through her hair, probing her scalp. Her braid came undone, and silken tresses slid between his fingers. “I canna’ feel anythin’. Are you certain you hit yer head?”

She nodded, steadying herself with a palm pressed to his chest. He could stop; he had explored every inch of her head, but he didn’t want to, not when she felt so good leaning against him. He inhaled her soft, sweet fragrance, barely resisting the urge to bury his face in the delicate column of her neck. With a concerted effort, he brought his hands to rest on her shoulders.

“Aileanna, you ken as laird to the MacLeod clan ’tis my duty to see to their protection.”

She took a steadying breath, her breasts rising within the confines of her gown.

Pulling his gaze back to her face, he sighed. “Look at me, Aileanna.”

She stiffened. Raising her chin, she took a step away from him. “I’m not a danger to you or your clan, Lord MacLeod, if that’s what you’re implying. In fact, quite the opposite. I think I’ve cared very well for all of you.” A flash of temper flared in her eyes as she held his gaze.

“Aye, you have, and I thank you for that. I was remiss not to thank you earlier, but it seems someone decided to knock me out.” He tilted his head, looking down at her.

She rolled her eyes. “So, Iain was right. He said you wouldn’t be happy about that.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I had no choice. You were thrashing about and other than tying you to the bedposts, which probably wouldn’t have worked anyhow, it was my only option.” Her gaze traveled the length of his body, a delicate flush of pink tinting her cheeks.

“No man likes to be drugged, lass, especially a man responsible for others.”

She gave an unladylike snort. “And what do you think you could have done in the condition you were in?”

“More than most,” he answered truthfully.

“Right—king of the castle and all that.”

He narrowed his gaze on her. “Yer speech is verra strange, lass.”

“So is yours,” she grumbled, a stubborn set to her chin. “Are you finished with me now?”

“You said you were a Graham?”

“I did. What of it?”

“There’s no need to get prickly, lass.”

“I’m not prickly,” she snapped. “I’m just tired of being treated as though I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t.”

“Which Graham?” He fought back a smile, finding her temper amusing.

“I’m from the borders,” she said through clenched teeth, stabbing her finger into his chest.

He wrapped his fingers around hers. “Now—” he began, frowning when he saw the raised welt on the palm of her hand. “What’s this?”

She tried to pull her hand from his. “Nothing.”