Highland Surrender (17 page)
Read Highland Surrender Online
Authors: Dawn Halliday
Ceana nearly collided with Lady Elizabeth on her way downstairs. The lady had been avoiding Ceana for the past few days, though when her uncle wasn’t looking she’d cast a few smiles in her direction. Ceana wasn’t surprised. The puffed-up man had probably told Elizabeth that Ceana was unworthy of their attention.
The lady studied the party, taking in the harried expression on their faces. “What has happened?”
“A woman has been hurt, and I must tend to her,” Ceana said.
Elizabeth glanced up and down the passageway, then lowered her voice. “Lord Camdonn and the duke have just left to go fishing on the loch. May I go with you?”
Ceana raised her eyebrows in surprise, but could think of no reason to deny her. Perhaps the lass could learn something by going to the mountain—and Ceana knew no one else would have the ballocks to take her there. She gave a brusque nod.
Elizabeth drew up alongside Ceana as they strode out of the living quarters and through the courtyard. Sometime later, they reached the row of scattered cottages near the top of the mountain. The whores of the Glen clustered into a small community here on MacDonald land. Men from the clan and from Camdonn Castle visited the mountain to make use of the services offered by the women, and the whores raised their children and lived in communal peace, for the most part. Ceana had traveled up here occasionally to address some mild women’s complaints, and once to deliver a baby when Moira Stewart and the midwife had been unable to attend the birth. Never for this reason, for the MacDonalds weren’t the sort to use their females ill, whether they be whores or wives.
Elizabeth studied the row of thatched cottages. “What is this place?”
There were about ten cottages, all told. Primitive one-roomed structures, each occupied by a whore and, if she had any, her children.
Ceana glanced at Elizabeth. “We call it the mountain. It’s where the whores live.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, but she didn’t comment further. In fact, a small, twisted smile appeared on her face as they strode toward the closest structure—the cottage belonging to Gràinne.
Ceana knocked brusquely and pushed open the door before anyone could answer. This cottage was appointed far more richly than the others. Though the floor was simple hard-packed dirt, there was a glass pane in the window. A rough-hewn table and two spindly wicker-backed chairs occupied the center of the room, but pushed against the wall stood an opulently carved bed, and next to it a fancy chair, with a cushion of red velvet and legs carved to resemble a lion’s paws.
It looked like furniture one might find at Camdonn Castle.
Several women crowded the cottage, concern creasing their faces as they looked up at the sound of the door opening. Gràinne lay on her side with her back facing the door. Red hair cascaded around her, and though she burrowed beneath the coverlet, a spray of dark spots covered the red silk.
Blood
.
Blood
.
Ceana squeezed between the women standing at the bedside. “Gràinne.”
The whore smiled up at her, but her face was puffy and her brown eyes dim with pain. “Ceana MacNab,” she said by way of greeting.
“Where are you injured?”
“Aye, well, my hand is the worst of it.”
“Will you show me?” Ceana asked through tight lips. She didn’t know this woman well, but that didn’t matter. She wanted to kill the bastard who had done this. Any man who treated a woman with such cruelty deserved to be shot.
“Aye.”
Ceana pulled down the cover and studied the woman’s hand and arm, which were swollen from fingertips to elbow. Gently, she prodded the bones in the fingers, stopping when she came to the wrist. Broken.
Ceana glanced at the women surrounding them, their eyes rounded with curiosity. “Begone, all of you,” she commanded. She nodded at Elizabeth, who’d pushed through to stand beside her. “Even you, my lady.”
Elizabeth nodded, but Gràinne reached out her uninjured arm. “Nay. You must stay, lass.” Her voice was thready, full of pain.
Elizabeth glanced to the right and left, unsure whether the woman had addressed her. “Me?”
“Aye.” Gràinne spoke in heavily accented English. “You be the lass our earl brought home from England, is that not so?”
“Yes.”
“You must stay. Ceana will require your help, and I wish to know you better. Might be my only chance.”
“Certainly I will stay, if you wish it.” Elizabeth lowered herself to the edge of the bed and stroked a clump of fiery red hair off Gràinne’s cheek. “I will do what I can to help.”
Everyone else, meanwhile, had gone, leaving Elizabeth and Ceana alone with Gràinne. Gràinne was one of the most mature of the women on the mountain but, at forty-one years of age, still beautiful and, to her clients, desirable. She kept a brisk business, and while competition sometimes was a destructive force on the mountain, the other women seemed to admire Gràinne.
Ceana continued to assess her injuries and found a broken collar-bone, two probable broken ribs, and scrapes and bruises in a dozen other places. Elizabeth was silent throughout the examination, and finally Ceana glanced at her. Whatever feelings Elizabeth had about the beaten woman lying on the bed, she kept them well hidden. Her tight, pale lips were her only evidence of emotion as she gently tugged away strands of Gràinne’s red hair from blood dried on her skin.
Well, who would have thought the wee Englishwoman would have such a pleasant bedside demeanor? If she were a villager, Ceana might have considered apprenticing her.
Ceana turned her attention to an open wound on Gràinne’s arm. It looked like someone had sliced at it with a dirk. She prodded the angry, swollen flesh around it. “Have you any water?”
“Aye,” the woman breathed. “On the fire. Should be well warmed by now.”
Ceana glanced at Elizabeth, who turned to fetch it. Ceana withdrew a clean cloth from her satchel. “First we’re going to clean the wounds; then I’ll set and bind your wrist. The cut isn’t deep enough to require stitches.”
“Aye.”
Ceana met Elizabeth’s gaze across the bed. “Will you help me clean off the blood?”
Elizabeth nodded, her expression grave yet free of fear or revulsion.
Ceana took a small bottle from her pouch and poured the contents into the pot of water Elizabeth had placed on the floor beside her. “This will disinfect the water,” Ceana murmured. “It possesses a charm to remove the evil spirits.”
She spoke in terms Gràinne would understand, not mentioning the antiputrefaction qualities of the herbal ingredients, which she knew to be as effective as any charm.
In silence, they cleaned Gràinne’s wounds. The woman’s forehead glistened with sweat, and she clenched the wool blanket in her hand but kept her lips pressed together as if she were determined not to cry.
Elizabeth was the one to break the extended quiet. “Who did this to you?”
Gràinne opened her lips, and a gasp leaked through before she responded. “ ’ Twas a man I knew long ago in Inverness. I haven’t any idea why he came.”
“Alan will punish him,” Ceana promised. Alan MacDonald possessed a gentle nature and an abiding respect for women. He wouldn’t tolerate this.
Gràinne closed her eyes. “I think he’s gone. Or hiding. He . . . he was an acquaintance of my husband’s. Long ago, when I was married.”
Elizabeth’s slender throat moved as she swallowed. “Tell us what happened. How did he do this to you?”
“He came up here in innocence, I suppose. He always had violent tendencies . . .” Grainne shuddered. “But I think he desired a fast tup before moving on. I didn’t recognize him at first, and I served him a bit of claret in exchange for his silver.” A tear seeped from the corner of her eye. “I recognized him then. I demanded he leave. I shouldn’t have done that. When he remembered who I was, he . . . tried to tie me to the bedposts. I . . . fought him. Perhaps not the wisest idea for a woman in my position, but I wanted nothing of that man.”
Ceana ground her teeth. Her cheeks were hot with anger. “Did he rape you?”
Gràinne blinked. “Aye.”
“Is there pain? Did he hurt you?”
“Nay,” Gràinne said quietly. “That part of me, at least, is well enough. He had the forethought to ease the way with goose grease.”
Blowing out a breath through her pursed lips, Ceana dumped the soiled cloth into the hot water. She pushed up her sleeves. “I’m going to manipulate your wrist now, Gràinne. I’ll do it as gently as I can, but it’s going to hurt. Do you want me to call in some of the others to hold you down?”
“Nay.” Gràinne’s eyes shifted to Elizabeth. “Tell me what you think of our earl, lass. It’ll help take my mind from the pain.”
Ceana concentrated on Gràinne’s wrist, searching for the location of the break. Gràinne gasped.
“I . . . Well, he’s very kind,” Elizabeth said quickly.
This elicited a tight smile from Gràinne as Ceana began to press harder on the bone. “Aye? I believe so too, but many others would disagree. He’s . . .” She paused, wincing. “He has the reputation of a self-serving kind of man.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Be that as it may—of course, there’s some consideration one must pay to one’s status in life—I daresay he’s kind in his heart.”
“Do you—” Again, Gràinne gasped. “Do you love him deeply?”
“Oh, yes.”
Elizabeth’s response was automatic, and Ceana read the disingenuousness immediately. As did Gràinne, who chuckled humorlessly.
Ceana pushed the bone back in place, and all was silent in the cottage save Gràinne’s rasping breaths as she valiantly attempted to prevent herself from screaming. Water leaked from the corners of her clenched eyes. With her good hand, she clasped Elizabeth’s fingers in a death grip. Elizabeth kept her lips tight and squeezed Gràinne’s hand, her face awash with sympathy.
Finally, long minutes after Ceana had finished manipulating her wrist, Gràinne opened her eyes. “You needn’t spout falsehoods, milady. Most of us understand that love often comes far into a marriage and oftentimes not at all.”
“I love him,” Elizabeth said mulishly. “It is no lie.”
“Well, then.” Gràinne’s eyelids slipped closed again as Ceana began to bind her wrist.
“Why do you ask me these questions?” Elizabeth murmured. “Do you know my betrothed?”
“Oh, aye. I do.”
“You know him well, I think,” Elizabeth accused. “Better than most. Most of the people of the Glen do not understand him, but you do.”
Ceana’s heartbeat ratcheted upward. Elizabeth had observed more about Cam’s nature than she’d let on.
Ceana glanced from Gràinne’s wrist to her pale face to the carved bedpost. Had the whore been Cam’s lover? The thought did not elicit tender feelings within her.
Taking a deep breath, she gently released her tightening grip on Gràinne’s arm and finished tying off the bandage. She’d need to fashion a sling, for she didn’t want Gràinne to be using her wrist at all for some time.
“I do know him well,” Gràinne said in a low voice. “He is a friend to me, and he has been for many a year.”
“Do you share his bed?” Elizabeth asked bluntly.
Ceana snapped her head up in surprise. She didn’t speak, for Elizabeth’s words had yanked all air from her body. Like all the MacNab women, Ceana was known for her directness. But it seemed this young Englishwoman had her beaten.
Gràinne chuckled again. “No simpleton, are you, lass?”
“No,” Elizabeth said tightly. “At times I choose to feign it, but I am not.” Her embroidered bodice rose as she took a deep breath. “The earl’s past liaisons shall not affect me. It would really be rather silly of me to react at all.”
Ceana’s surprise dwindled, leaving a lingering respect. Elizabeth was not going to be a sniveling, jealous wife prone to crying jags and fits of vapors. She was as strong as any Highland woman.
“Our earl has chosen well,” Gràinne murmured.
Elizabeth suddenly leaned forward, her eyes bright. “Tell me everything about him, Gràinne. I haven’t the faintest idea how to please him, and I do hope you will teach me.”
Ceana took a measured breath, certain the gods had placed her with these women solely to torture her. What had she done to deserve this torment?
She ground her teeth and locked her jaw. She was not one to shelter her thoughts, but it was imperative she do so in the company of Cam’s mistress and his future wife.
It would be a miracle if she survived the afternoon.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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