DevilsHeart (17 page)

Pain reverberated through her bones with every landing of
Bran’s hooves upon the ground. Her vision blurred and refocused over and over,
sending her stomach into a sickening swim. Something warm and wet trickled onto
her upper lip and she reached up to wipe it away. Blood smeared along the back
of her hand.

Sleepiness set upon her out of the blue. She struggled to
maintain focus, searching ahead for any sign of fields or houses. Her head and
cheek throbbed faster and hotter and all she wanted was to lie down
somewhere—anywhere.

The land flattened and they entered a forest. Panic shot
through her. Where were the fields? Rathe said there would be fields. And they
were on someone’s land. What was that name again?

Damn it!

Two men on horseback stepped out onto the trail in front of
her. She gasped and pulled back on the reins, bringing her horse to a stop. She
patted her dress. Her dagger. Where was the dagger?

Shit.
She’d left it in that guy’s neck. What the hell
was she supposed to do now?

The tall, dark-haired man moved forward, tilting his head in
seeming curiosity as he peered at her. He said something in Gaelic, his gentle
tone helping to calm her already frayed nerves.

“MacAirth,” she blurted out, the name suddenly coming to her
from out of nowhere. “I’m supposed to find the MacAirths.”

Both of the men’s brows rose in obvious surprise as she
spoke. They exchanged glances and the second man with red hair came forward as
well to join his friend.

The dark-haired man cleared his throat. “Well, you have
found us, lass.”

Her shoulders crumpled, her chest heaving as a sob
threatened to overtake her. Tears of relief flooded her eyes, spilling onto her
cheeks.

“Who are you, lass? To whom do you belong?”

She lifted her gaze to the man’s warm, brown eyes. Such a
strange question under normal circumstances would have left her tongue-tied.
But now her answer spilled forth without a second thought.

“The Sinclair.”

Rathe’s nostrils flared as his fingers wrapped around the
handle of his blood-covered dagger. His eyes narrowed into murderous slits as
they traveled up from the dead man’s feet to the bloodied gash in his neck and
swollen face.

Blinding rage coiled within his belly as he stood. He was
tempted to beat the body into a bloody pulp just so he could have something on
which to take out his fury. His hand shook as he looked down at the dagger. The
one he had given to
her
.

But where was she?

“Clean this,” he muttered to a young warrior standing at his
side.

Brodie approached him, giving the dead body a sideways
glance. “There are horse tracks leading into the valley. It looks like it was
one with a rider, not a lone animal.”

Rathe’s eyes snapped from his friend to the valley. “Are you
certain there are no other tracks around? Other riders?”

“There were some smaller footprints leading up to that
outcrop to the east, but then they lead right back here. Other larger prints
lead from valley where we fought to here. There is nothing else.”

Rathe turned, his eyes darting back and forth between the
outcrop along the mountain to the disturbed ground not far from the dead body
where an obvious scuffle had taken place. Matted plants, clumps of grass torn
out of the ground as though someone was grasping at the earth to get away. He
stooped down again, running his hand along the grass to a small rock that had
recently had moss torn away. A dark, rust-colored stain covered the light-gray
surface. He rubbed it with his finger, the tacky coloring smearing red across
his flesh.

His stomach churned in a mixture of anguish and fear as he
stood again. It was his fault. He shouldn’t have sent her away like that, all
by herself in the wilds of the Highlands. They had been so close to MacAirth
land though. He had thought for sure she could make it safely.

He was wrong.

The growing frantic terror snaked upward, wrapping around
his heart. Urgency pulsed through his limbs. “Are you certain? There are no
other footprints? No other trails?”

Brodie sighed. “You are not the only one with tracking skills.
Your father taught us too, you know.”

“My father taught me nothing,” Rathe snapped.

Brodie nodded. “Fine. It comes to you naturally, but, damn
it, Rathe, since when did you ever mistrust our skills? I am telling you, there
is no other way your wife got out of here except through the valley.”

Rathe’s lips thinned as his eyes trailed the horizon. “I
just do not want to miss her. She could be lying somewhere hurt or—”

“Or with the MacAirths as we speak,” Brodie insisted. “Which
is where you should be so Lady MacAirth can get that sewn up.”

Rathe glanced down at his left arm. The slashed sleeve was
crusty with his blood, but he barely felt the pain any longer. None of it
mattered when he spotted his dagger lying next to the dead man after they
crossed the stream.

He gave his friend a dismissive wave and headed toward his
horse. “Bring him along,” he commanded to no one in particular as he passed the
body.

He gained the saddle and watched as several men gathered
around the body to lift it onto the back of another horse.

Someone let out a low, long whistle. “Damn, what did our
lady do to him? It looks like she tried to bash his head in.”

Another man chuckled. “And here I thought she was a quiet
little mouse. Remind me not to cross her any time soon.”

The corner of Rathe’s mouth quivered into a smirk of pride.
His skittish little wife had done just as he had told her to do—she fought like
hell. Now he prayed he’d find her alive.

The horses had had a long, arduous day, but they seemed to
sense the urgency of their riders and galloped through the valley to the woods
edging the MacAirth’s southern fields. There they slowed their gait, sending
Rathe near the edge of his sanity as time dragged by in painful, crawling
moments. He had scanned the landscape as they rode through the valley and now
the woods, both hoping and not hoping to find Leah huddled in pain somewhere
along the way. But they broke through the forest and into the fields without a
single sign of her and goaded the horses back into one last gallop toward the
MacAirth keep.

The gate was open and they rode straight into the courtyard.
Men stood around the perimeter, their swords at their sides almost as if they’d
been expecting the Sinclairs. Rathe reined in his horse in front of the tall,
dark-haired man standing at the foot of the steps of the keep with his arms
crossed and his feet braced shoulder-width apart.

“Please tell me you have her,” Rathe stated in restrained
desperation, scrutinizing the almost always unreadable expression of his
longtime friend, Galen MacAirth. “Because if you do not —”

“I have her,” Galen replied with a calm nod. “But you had
better get yourself inside before Annie catches you bleeding all over her
courtyard.”

Rathe paused as his friend’s words sank in, his hands aloft
with the reins, ready to take off to search for Leah. And then a wave of relief
swept over him, followed by an urgent need to see her face. To see for himself
she had made it here alive. He swung his leg back and dismounted, tossing the
reins to a stable boy who had run up to him through the crowd. “Where is she?”

Galen stepped in front of Rathe, blocking his path into the
keep. “She is asleep.”

Rathe stumbled back a bit as his knees buckled. She was
alive. God in heaven, Leah had fought off a man twice her size and dragged
herself here. And now she was asleep somewhere inside. He’d never heard such
sweet words in his life.

Galen reached out to steady Rathe by the elbow, but Rathe
shook off his hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but he struggled to force out
the words. “She is alive?”

“And asleep,” Galen reminded him. “You will have Annie to
answer to if you go charging in there and wake her up.”

Rathe exhaled and closed his eyes, tilting his face up to
the sky. He’d never been a religious man, but in that moment he almost dropped
to his knees in thanksgiving for his wife’s safety.

His
wife
. Why did the word seem so weighty to him
now? So imbued with responsibility and protectiveness?

“You are married?”

Rathe’s eyes flew open and landed upon Galen’s raised
eyebrows. The disbelief in Galen’s voice wasn’t lost on him. Rathe grinned and
shrugged. “You know how it is. See a pretty girl, come home married.”

“Get drawn into a battle, bring the dead body of your wife’s
attacker to bleed all over your friend’s courtyard. I assume that is him.”

Rathe followed his stare to the dead body draped over the
horse, which had just been guided into the courtyard. He gave his friend a
clipped nod. “Do you recognize him?”

Galen shook his head. “No, but I will put the question to
others in the clan. If he has been hiding out so close to our land, it is
possible someone has seen him.” He turned toward the keep. “Come inside,
Sinclair. And tell me what the hell happened out there.”

Rathe followed him into the great hall and was ushered to a
bench at one of the long tables in the middle of the room. As he related the
tale of his quick marriage and the attack earlier, a flash of curly red hair
off to the side caught his attention.

“Annie,” he greeted with a smile as he stood. His gaze
dropped to her belly, which jutted out in front of her. “Again?”

She laughed and set a basket upon the table next to him.
“You make it sound like I’m popping them out right and left. It’s only the
third, you know.”

“There are plenty more where that came from,” Galen remarked
with a grin.

She smacked Galen’s arm. “Think again.” She turned back to
Rathe and pushed down on his shoulders. “Now, you sit.”

Rathe sank back down onto the bench and Anna tore the sleeve
away from his shirt just as servants brought forth candles, bowls of hot water
and a stack of cloths. As Anna prodded at his arm and cleaned the wound, his
impatience got the better of him and he tapped his foot on the floor.

She squeezed his knee. “Hold still, damn it. You want me to
tear into your flesh?”

“I need to see her.”

“She is asleep and you’ll not be disturbing her.” Anna wrung
out a washcloth into one of the water bowls.

He leaned back against the table edge. Then he shifted
forward until his elbows rested on his knees. And then he straightened his
spine. “How is she?”

Galen handed him a cup. He lifted it to his lips and the
scent of the whisky assaulted his nostrils. Alarmed, he shifted his gaze
between the two of them. Was there a reason they were trying to calm him?

Anna patted him on the leg. “It’s for the stitches.”

Rathe nodded and downed the liquid in one gulp, welcoming
the burn down his throat. He handed the cup back to Galen and wiped the back of
his mouth with his hand. “Tell me the truth of it, Annie. I can take it.”

He winced as the needle slid into his flesh.

Anna paused, tilting her head as she pushed his open flesh
together and chose her next entry point. “She is bruised and scraped. A bit
banged up. But she will recover.”

“That is it?” Rathe asked looking back at Galen. “She truly
is all right?”

“She only needed a couple of stitches on her scalp where she
hit a rock, but other than that she will be fine,” his friend answered.

“Stitches?” Now Rathe was agitated again. “You did give her
plenty of whisky, right?”

Anna sighed with obvious annoyance. “Hold still, damn it,
and settle down. I gave it to you, didn’t I? And you’re a lot more trouble than
she ever was.” She pulled the thread taut, sending a sharp pain through Rathe’s
flesh.

“Give me another dram,” Rathe grumbled. “Your wife is getting
mean over here.”

Anna rolled her eyes and continued with her task.

Rathe’s imagination whirled out of control in the silence.
What had happened to Leah? Was there something the MacAirths weren’t telling
him? Did that man lying dead out in the courtyard do more than…

He couldn’t finish the thought. Heaviness settled into his
chest as he studied Anna’s face while she worked on him.

“Was that all, just bruises and a cut?”

Anna’s blue eyes flipped up to his. “Yes.”

“She was not…he did not…”

She paused and sat back, understanding dawning upon her
features. “I don’t think so. Leah never said.”

Rathe shifted his eyes back and forth between his friends.
“No?”

Galen remained silent, his arms crossed as he looked toward
his wife.

Anna’s brow crinkled and she shrugged. “I mean, we bathed
her and helped her into clean clothes. I saw no evidence that would make me
think…”

“No?”

She pursed her lips. “No.”

Rathe closed his eyes and leaned his back against the table.
He concentrated on an image of Leah’s face he conjured up in his head in order
to distract himself from the needle sinking over and over again through his
flesh.

“She is a lovely woman. Very quiet,” Anna murmured. “Do you
know where she came from?”

Rathe opened his eyes to find Anna staring at him as she
held the thread aloft above his shoulder. With one snip of the scissors, she
set her needle and the remaining thread upon the table before moistening a
fresh cloth.

Galen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Annie thinks they share a similar background. A place called the United
States.”

Rathe shook his head and sighed. “And an amber pendant
created by that old Graham witch.”

Anna’s cheeks paled. “There is another stone?”

He nodded. “She lost it and wants me to take her back to
Graham land to find it.”

“Like hell you will,” Galen grumbled, sitting back.

Rathe nodded. “Exactly.”

Anna remained silent. She touched the wet cloth to his skin,
dabbing at the excess blood and fluids that had seeped from the wound.

Rathe closed his eyes again and shook his head, allowing
Anna to finish her work in peace. He was no stranger to mistakes. But the one
time where it mattered—keeping his wife safe—he had still messed up and almost
lost her. She was already about as jumpy as a hunted doe. How was he going to
convince her to forget about the damn pendant and stay with him now?

“Rathe?”

His eyes flew open.