Highland Warrior (5 page)

Ewan breathed a silent sigh of relief when his father nodded, his attention distracted by Bonnie, a plump maid who was the current object of his father’s lust. Fingal had abandoned his role of cold-hearted warrior to become the warm-blooded lecher all too well known to the people of Scarglas. It was his father’s constantly changing moods, his inability to keep his attention and energy set on any single path for long, as well as his inability to control his emotions, that had allowed Ewan to take the man’s place as laird. The fact that Fingal had not cared about the change in leadership made it all too clear that he did not really want the burden of leading and caring for his clan.

It was such erratic behavior which had made the people of Scarglas accept Ewan’s place as laird. It was also such behavior which made Ewan, and far too many others, uncertain about the health of Fingal’s mind. Ewan would watch his father act with no restraint or shift from one mood or thought to another within a heartbeat and fear that madness lurked there. It was that fear which made Ewan strive for control and restraint in all things. At times he could feel fierce emotions and desires stir to life within him and would fight hard to banish them, chilled by the fear that he might be just like his father. Fiona stirred such emotions within him, which was why he intended to do his best to ignore and avoid her.

There was a beast within him, a creature of strong emotion and fierce desires. That beast was nudged awake every time he looked at Fiona. He had thought he had tamed it, but he now knew he had only caged it. For the sake of his own sanity and the welfare of the people of Scarglas, he had to keep it caged. That meant that he had to keep his distance from Fiona even as he rooted out the truth of who she was. The days ahead looked to be long and troublesome, he thought, and then tried to turn his father’s attention back to matters of importance and away from the sway of Bonnie’s ample hips.

“Do ye truly believe such cleanliness is necessary?” asked Mab as she frowned down at a sleeping Simon.

“Aye,” replied Fiona, slouching in a chair on the other side of Simon’s bed. “I cannae say why it is, but wounds kept clean heal faster and better. They dinnae go putrid, risking the life of the wounded one. There is less chance of a dangerous fever as weel. Since infection and fever can cause e’en the smallest injury to become mortal, I am willing to do anything to fend them off, e’en if I dinnae ken the why of it.”

Mab nodded. “I confess that I have but a meager skill. When I came here, there wasnae anyone who truly wished to be a healer, so I took that place for myself. Twill be verra helpful to learn from ye as I can see that ye have a true skill and much knowledge.” She smiled at Fiona. “I am verra good at making potions and salves, however. I am certain I shall soon hit upon a grand cure for something.”

Before Mab could yet again suggest Fiona try her cure for scars, Fiona asked, “Ye say ye came here? Ye arenae from Scarglas? Ye arenae a MacFingal?”

“Nay. I came here, oh, ten years ago, I think it was. I am a Drummond. Weel, I was a Drummond. They made it verra clear they didnae want me anymore.” Mab sighed. “I still dinnae understand where I went wrong. My salve should have worked. And I am verra certain I mixed that potion right. They must have all had verra delicate stomachs for it to work so swifty and fiercely. And I did offer to clean up the mess, foul though it was. I tried to explain to the laird that the potion wasnae a poison, that ’tis good to purge the body now and then. But he wouldnae listen. Wouldnae listen to my assurances that my salve would grow his hair back on that odd bald spot and that the strange green shade to his hair would assuredly grow out in time. He wouldnae heed a word, just tossed me and my belongings out.”

Fiona tried to picture the results of Mab’s potion and salve, then quickly ceased. It was not a pleasant picture. “So ye came here? Ye had heard of the MacFingals?”

“Och, nay. I had ne’er heard of them. The old laird found me hurrying away from a village.” Mab grimaced. “I was just trying to be helpful and I did rid that vile woman’s hair of lice. And it was a rather nice color in her hair, much akin to bluebells. But I must nay brood o’er such things. As I left, I met the old laird, and, weel”—Mab blushed—“he was so charming, so ardent. I was quite swept away. Twas a wee bit disconcerting to arrive here and discover that he had a wife, but I needed a home, didnae I? So, I stayed and took my place as the healer. My laddie is nine now and is seeking his place within the clan. This week he works with the armorer to see if he would like to learn that skill.”

“Ye bore the laird a son?”

“Aye, my wee Ned. A lovely laddie and the joy of my life. I was afeared that I would be sent away by the laird’s wife, but she was dead ere anyone noticed I was carrying. Killed by lightning whilst trysting with a Gray.”

“Oh, and that is what began the feud, is it?”

“Nay. The old laird had already made enemies of near everyone by then.” Mab idly smoothed the blanket over Simon. “The Grays have been our enemies from the verra beginning. They wanted Scar-glas and werenae happy when Fingal got his hands on it. They claim it was promised to them, but the mon who held it gave it to the old laird, who was his cousin. Fingal was blood after all. Twas only right.”

Before Fiona could ask anything else, a plump, dark-haired woman entered the room, set a large tray of food and wine on a table near the fireplace, and left. She said not one word. The only notice she gave of the other occupants of the room was a brief, fierce glare aimed at Mab. Fiona moved to sit in a chair near the table and waved Mab into the
other seat. For a moment, she sipped her wine and nibbled on a thick piece of bread.

“Who was that woman?” asked Fiona as she cut herself a piece of mutton.

“Clare,” replied Mab. “She doesnae like anyone. Used to be a MacKenzie, but fled her clan. She is thrice a widow, and when her third husband died, many thought she was killing them. She doesnae care for the women who bed the old laird, especially the ones who did so when he had a wife. I suspicion she lowered herself to bring this food to us because she was curious about ye. She has been here, oh, near to a dozen years. She married Angus the stablemaster near ten years past and he still lives, so I think her other husbands were just an ill-favored lot.”

“So, she is now a MacFingal, too. Just who
are
the MacFingals? I have ne’er heard of them yet they must have held this land for many years as it was a kinsmon who gave it to the old laird.”

“He wasnae a MacFingal. The MacFingals are a new clan.” Mab chuckled. “Verra new. Tis the truth, the old laird started it. He had a falling-out with his kinsmen and turned his back on them. Decided to start his own clan, named it after himself. Fingal came here a few months before his cousin died, a verra distant cousin, and obviously wooed the mon into naming him his heir. Fingal married the mon’s daughter to secure it all, e’en though she was promised to another. She gave Fingal one son ere she died.”

“Then what is the name of his kinsmen’s clan?” Fiona was astonished when Mab suddenly looked fearful, even going a little pale.

“We cannae say the name. Tis forbidden.”

“I dinnae think anyone will hear ye, Mab.”

Mab shook her head. “Tis forbidden. If the old laird kens anyone has said it, he goes into a rage which can last for hours. Nay, ’tis best if ye just see us all as MacFingals.”

Fiona began to think she had landed in a keep full of lunatics, the old laird being the worst. Lunatics, broken men, and castoffs. The banished and the bedeviled. Her curiosity was roused, however. Before she left Scarglas, she was determined to find out exactly who Fingal MacFingal was and why he had turned his back on his kinsmen. A small inner voice sneered that her interest was stirred more because of a tall, dark warrior named Ewan than by some angry old man, but she ignored it.

The sound of the door being unbarred brought Fiona to her feet. She had been both annoyed and relieved when she had been secured inside the room with Simon. A soft pallet had been made for her by the fire and even her demand for a bath had been fulfilled, a painted wooden screen set up in the corner of the room to give her privacy. Fresh clothing had been brought to her and Fiona thought she looked rather nice in the soft woolen gown, the deep blue complementing her eyes. Mab had left to be with her son, Simon had passed a peaceful night, and she had slept well, too. There was no reason for her to feel irritated, for her treatment as a hostage had, thus far, been exemplary. She knew, to her disgust, that the lack of any word or sight of her captor was the cause of her annoyance. That implied that she had missed him and she cursed her own weakness.

Gregor entered the room, followed by Mab, and he smiled at Fiona. “Ye clean up weel, lass.”

Fiona inwardly cursed the blush she felt sting her cheeks. “Thank ye.”

“How fares the lad?” he asked as he moved to the side of the bed to look at Simon.

“No hint of fever,” said Mab who, after setting a tray holding a bowl of broth and some water on the small table by the bed, felt Simon’s forehead and cheeks.

“He passed a quiet night.” Fiona stood at the foot of the bed and smiled at Simon, who blushed when Mab yanked down the covers to look at his bandaged wounds. “The wounds looked clean when I changed the bandages this morning and put a wee bit of salve on them. Do they look clean to ye, Mab?”

Gently easing aside the bandages enough to peek at the wounds, Mab nodded. “Verra clean. Ye must tell what your salve is, for ’tis clear that it works wonders.” She tugged the blankets back up and, with Gregor’s assistance, eased Simon into a partially seated position against the pillows. “I have broth, water, and some cider for ye, laddie. And dinnae make that face. Ye ken ye must nay eat too heartily for a wee while.” She looked at Fiona. “A day or two, aye?”

“Aye. Broth today, I think, and if there is still no sign of fever or infection, something a wee bit heartier on the morrow. They werenae verra deep wounds.”

“Mere scratches,” said Simon. “I will be out of this bed soon.”

“Nay until Mab and I say ye can or we will be lashing ye to that bed. The wound upon your belly could be set to bleeding verra easily. Ye will be in bed until it closes and then ye will be verra, verra careful for a while after that. It wasnae deep enough to gut ye, but ’tis more than a scratch. I will see it closed tight ere I let ye prance about.”

“I ne’er prance,” grumbled Simon, and sighed when everyone just grinned at him.

“I brought a potion to give him to ease the pain,” Mab said, glancing nervously at Fiona.

Fiona almost laughed at the looks of alarm that swiftly passed over Simon and Gregor’s faces. “Weel, he slept easily all night without a potion, Mab. True, that could have been because he was too exhausted to be troubled by any pain. Best we leave it to Simon to decide.” She had to grin at the identical looks of relief the brothers quickly hid from Mab.

“Do ye need something for the pain, lad?” Mab asked Simon.

“Nay, Mab,” Simon replied. “I willnae say it doesnae hurt, but ’tis nay bad enough to drink a potion. Those things make my head ache and my stomach churn when I wake up again.”

“Come then, Fiona-of-the-ten-knives,” Gregor said, grinning as he took her by the arm and led her toward the door. “Time to break your fast.”

“Why did he call her that verra odd name?” Mab asked Simon.

Fiona sighed as she and Gregor stepped into the hall and he shut the door on Simon’s reply. She supposed it had been too much to hope for that all the details of her capture would not be told. There had been twelve heartily amused men there, after all. The people of Scarglas were going to think she was very odd, she mused, then almost laughed. Recalling all Mab had told her, odd was almost a rite of passage at Scarglas.

“Simon
will
heal, will he not?” asked Gregor as they entered the great hall. “He looked weel enough. Better than I had expected.”

“I believe he will be just fine,” replied Fiona. “Another day or two without a sign of fever or infection and then all one needs to worry about is keeping him still enough to let his wounds close tight.” She hid her surprise when Gregor led her to the laird’s table.

“Would ye really lash him to the bed?”

“In a heartbeat,” she replied, ignoring his soft laughter. “If ’twas just the wound upon his arm, he wouldnae have to be too confined, but the wound upon his belly requires that he be verra still if it is to close weel. Every time he moves his body, he tugs at those stitches. In truth, ’twill be a week or more ere I will e’en allow him to don the loosest of clothing. So, if he tries to get up, he will have to do so naked.”

Gregor laughed again as he urged her into a seat next to Ewan. “I believe he will stay abed.”

Fiona simply nodded, too unsettled by being near Ewan to think of a coherent reply. A part of her found the way she reacted to Ewan fascinating, even encouraging, for she had begun to think she would never feel such interest in any man. She never had before Menzies had begun tormenting her, and she had feared that Menzies’s actions had killed all chance that she ever would. What irritated and alarmed her was that her body, perhaps even her heart, would choose to be drawn to a man who had every intention of selling her back to her family.

“How is Simon?” asked Ewan after glaring at Gregor, who sat down on his right.

As Fiona replied, he studied her. Dressed as a lad, she had been beautiful, too beautiful for his peace of mind. Dressed as a woman, she took his breath away. She was temptation on two pretty feet. Just the sound of her slightly husky voice had him taut with need. A glance at his father revealed that the man found Fiona attractive, and Ewan scowled. The man could not possibly be thinking of trying his charms on a lass over thirty years younger than him, could he? Ewan not only found that distasteful, but realized a small part of him was afraid that his father might succeed. That tasted of jealousy and Ewan inwardly grimaced. He was in a lot more danger than he had realized.

“Why are ye still tending the lad?” demanded Sir Fingal.

“I was there when he was wounded,” replied Fiona. “I believe in finishing whate’er I have begun.”

“Mab can do it.”

“Ah, but if we both tend the lad, we can both have time to rest, aye?”

“Where did ye get those scars?”

“Da,” Ewan protested, but his father ignored him.

Fiona calmly finished the piece of honey-coated bread she had been eating and met Sir Fingal’s gaze directly. “A mon felt my face needed some improvement.”

“What do ye mean by that, ye daft wench?”

“I wouldnae call her a wench if I was ye, Da,” murmured Gregor.

Ewan grabbed Fiona’s hand when she reached for the knife used to cut the cheese. The feel of her small hand in his sent the heat of desire straight to his loins, but Ewan struggled to ignore the feeling. He was interested in her answer to his father’s question.

“Explain,” Ewan said and almost smiled at the way her violet eyes nearly sparked with annoyance.

“A mon sought my hand in marriage,” she replied, fighting to ignore how strangely bereft she felt when he released her hand. “I refused him. Although I did so most kindly, he took offense. He hunts me, and each time he has caught me, he marks me. These were the first.” She lightly touched the scar on her right cheek. “He has caught me three other times. He says he intends to make me unmarriagable, to force me to accept him if only because none other will have me.”

“Who?”

“That can be of no interest to ye.”

Ewan decided not to argue that just yet. “Then why were ye out riding alone?”

“Constant confinement, e’en if ’tis for one’s own safety, can make a person act foolishly.”

He nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. The fact that he could never go anywhere alone because they were surrounded by enemies often made him feel the same. One did not need high walls to feel confined. Ewan also wondered if one reason she was being such a complacent hostage was because she had come to her senses and realized the danger she had put herself in. She was now safely behind high walls again and well guarded.

“I think ye must tell me who this enemy is,” he said, watching her closely. “He could follow ye here.”

“Since I dinnae ken where
here
is, I dinnae think he will be able to find me.”

“He trails ye, hunts ye. It isnae impossible for him to trail ye to our gates.”

Fiona calmly finished her porridge as she thought over the matter. Only her family knew about her troubles with Menzies. Even if Ewan could find a kinsman of Menzies to speak to, she doubted many of Ranald’s clan would know what he was doing to her or would admit it if they did. Since Menzies had caught her at times when she had thought herself safe, it was indeed possible that he could find her at Scarglas. The MacFingals did not need another trouble kicking at their gates. It would also be to her advantage to tell Ewan, for he would guard her against that threat. She just wished he would not be doing so only to protect her value as a hostage, but hastily shook aside the odd pang that knowledge caused her.

“His name is Sir Ranald Menzies,” she finally said. “He rides with six men.” She almost smiled when Ewan grunted in reply, for he reminded her very strongly of her brothers for a moment.

“So, this fool thinks to make ye worthless as a bride for any other,” said Fingal, then scowled at her. “Has he bedded ye then?”

“Da!” Ewan and Gregor protested together.

“What!? Tis a reasonable question. Tis a sure way to make her unweddable to another. Mon wants his wife untouched. Ye should have a virgin for a bride, Ewan.”

“She isnae my bride,” Ewan nearly shouted, “but a hostage for ransom.”

It was foolish to be hurt by his adamant refusal of her as a bride, Fiona thought. He was simply telling the truth. She had not come to Scarglas as a bride, but as a hostage. Even so, she mused, he did not have to be so angered, even appalled, by the suggestion.

She only half listened as Ewan and his father argued. As she finished her porridge and reached for an apple, she looked around the great hall. Many of the men in it bore a strong resemblance to Sir Fingal, and those who did were Ewan’s age or younger. The old fool was clearly trying to breed his own army. Fiona suspected the older men were all ones who had found their way to Scarglas and stayed, or remained after the previous laird died.

It was an impressive great hall with a massive fireplace at each end. Tapestries and weapons decorated the walls. The laird’s table had carved oak chairs, while the other men sat on sturdy benches. The hall was also surprisingly clean, she realized. Whoever ran the household did so with an iron hand. Women and boys moved quietly amongst the tables, refilling jugs and taking away empty plates. Either Sir Fingal had money or the previous laird had. Deilcladach had only recently begun to enjoy some of the refinements she saw here. It would not be a bad place to live if it was not so besieged by enemies, she decided, and then her thoughts were abruptly pulled back to the argument between the MacFingals.

“Weel, if ye dinnae want the lass,” snapped Sir Fingal, “Gregor can wed her. Time he wed and started a family.”

“I have two sons,” said Gregor, “and I will choose my own wife.”

“And I will choose my own husband,” said Fiona, glaring at Sir Fingal.

“Dinnae be daft,” said Sir Fingal. “Tis a mon’s place to choose a mate for the lasses in his family.”

“Nay in mine, it isnae. And
ye
arenae my kinsmon so ’tisnae your concern.”

“Ye are under my rule now, lass.”

Fiona snorted. “I dinnae think so. Now”—she stood up—“if ye will excuse me, I believe I will return to see how Simon is faring.”

Ewan signaled to his brother Nathan, who quickly fell into step beside Fiona as she left the hall. He glanced at Gregor and was pleased to see that his brother was as amused as he was. Their father looked stunned. Ewan suspected it was the first time any woman had faced him squarely and denied him. Even his last wife had been cowed and submissive right up until the night she had run off. Despite all the trouble it was going to cause him to have Fiona around, Ewan knew he would enjoy watching a female stand up to his father. He would just make sure she did not pay too dearly for that.

“That lass was raised with too light a hand on the reins,” Sir Fingal said.

It made Ewan wince to hear his father say something he himself had said. He was dismayed to think he had unknowingly accepted some of his father’s attititudes into his heart and mind. Although he found some consolation in the fact that he did not fault Fiona for her strengths, Ewan swore to himself that he would try much harder to turn aside the lessons his father tried to teach him.

“She is right,” Ewan said. “Ye arenae her kinsmon and have no right to pick a husband for her. She isnae here for that. She is here to be ransomed and fill our empty coffers.”

“She might have a fine dower. That could do as weel as a ransom.”

“Nay. She is to be ransomed.”

“Dinnae ken why ye are being so obstinate. Ye need a wife and show no sign of getting one. With your face, it willnae be easy to woo a lass, either. Why not take one who fell into your grasp?”

“Da, leave it be,” said Gregor. “Marrying her off to one of us could anger her clan and we dinnae need any more enemies.”

Sir Fingal snorted. “And ye dinnae think holding the lass for ransom will irritate her clan?”

“Tis an accepted practice. I suspicion they now ken that she rode off alone and willnae blame us for taking advantage of how she fell into our grasp.”

“Humph. Tis a sad waste of a young lass. She is bonnie enough despite the scars, and I think ye are right to say she is weelborn. Dinnae get many of that sort about this place.”

“Leave it be, Da,” Ewan said wearily, echoing Gregor’s words. “Leave her be. Tis clear she isnae going to willingly fall in with your plans. None of us wants an unwilling bride.”

His father glared and muttered, but said no more. Ewan had the strong feeling the man had not changed his mind, however. Now, along with everything else he had to watch out for, he was going to have to guard against his father’s plots to marry him off to Fiona. Or worse, marry her off to one of his brothers. Watching Fiona given to another, knowing that man shared her bed, would surely rouse the beast within him. It stirred to life at the mere thought of such a circumstance.