In the Highlander's Bed (10 page)

Constance saw the camp with the unvarnished clarity of an outsider, forcing him to do the same.

It was a stunning moment.

He’d wanted to believe that onlyhe had noticed the shortcomings of his followers. He’d told himself that he was too hard on them. His expectations were too high. He had to give them time to learn to fight.

He’d wanted to believe he could teach them how to succeed.

Constance had just confirmed his deepest fear—that no matter how hard he tried, these people, the skeletal remains of what had once been a powerful rebellion, would never measure up to their deadly task.

At one time, at Nathraichean, he’d helped Laird MacKenna put together an army that would have fought well. However, when MacKenna stole the clan’s money and ran to Italy, a good portion of that army lost heart. Many had left, scattered to parts unknown. Those who remained were the ones either
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afraid to leave or, like Thomas, who hoped for opportunity.

It was vital to Gordon that he keep the dream alive. They must fight the English and win. If they didn’t, if they failed, not only would the Scotland of his youth be lost, but his father’s death would have been for naught.

His clan’s welcoming faces changed before his eyes. Constance’s reaction made him notice what he’d attempted to ignore. His people depended entirely too much on him for guidance. Every day they pressed him, needing him to make decisions about even the most rudimentary matters.

They were also lazy, and it showed in the lack of orderliness in the camp. He knew without being told that while he was gone, they had taken the time off. They’d sat with their wives, played with their children, and waited for him.

That’s why he needed the Sword of the MacKenna. With it, he was certain he could rekindle the fighting spirit of the Scottish. And what Constance Cameron thought didn’t matter…or shouldn’t.

But it did.

It had been a long time since a lass had caught his interest. Constance Cameron’s sharp tongue and sharper wit had accomplished the task almost overnight, and he knew he needed to keep his distance from her. She raised doubts, challenged him, expected to be his equal—all while not seeming to notice how hard he’d been riding with her bum against his crotch.

Well, he was no bloody eunuch.

Nor did she have a say here. These were his clansmen.

Gordon slid her off his horse so swiftly, she almost fell to the ground. He jumped down and steadied her.

She flashed him a surprised look. Clearly, she realized he was angry. He ignored her. She was a hostage.

He owed her no apologies or explanations.

“Robbie,” he said, wanting the man’s attention.

His young lieutenant didn’t hear him. He was busy smooching his Sylvie. Thomas and Brian were boasting of how Gordon had walked into the school, which according to their stories was surrounded by a brigade of English and the fighting had been fierce.

They talked like they always did. Shoring themselves up. He knew it’s what men did. Theylied . He thought it harmless, except now they had a witness to those lies. Constance stood tall and slender, as regal as a princess—and with a mind as lethal as a barrister’s.

“Robbie!”Gordon snapped.

No one ignored him when he spoke in that tone. Everyone went silent.

Robbie straightened to attention, practically in mid-kiss. “Yes, Gordon?”

Now that he had the lad’s attention, he tempered his voice, “Take our Miss Constance Cameron to—”

He hesitated, searching the crowd for the right people to keep watch over a young woman of independent sensibilities and who would be immune to her charms.

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His gaze fell on Old Rae Reivers and his wife, Emma. Rae had been a sergeant in the king’s army until he broke his back. But even hunched over as he was, he was tough as shoe leather and one of the most unrelenting men Gordon had ever met. His wife was just as callous. They’d be perfect wardens for Constance.

“Rae, you have charge of our captive until this matter is through,” Gordon ordered. “I want her treated humanely. Let her have no complaint against us when she is returned to her kinsman. However, don’t trust her for one moment.”

Rae stepped forward, proud to be singled out for the task. Because of his back, Gordon had not found much use for him in the daily activities of the camp. However, this task was perfect. “You can count on me and mine, Gordon.”

“I thought I could,” Gordon answered. “Robbie, escort our hostage to Rae’s. And bind her hands first,”

he threw out, as if it meant nothing to him.

Constance’s back stiffened. As Robbie bound her hands, she glared at Gordon as if she’d been betrayed. Perhaps shehad known her impact on him, he thought. Perhaps she’d been ready for him to play Samson to her Delilah.

Well, it was time she recognized that she was nothing more than a prisoner, a means to an end. Her opinion didn’t matter. She was beneath his notice.

And he would keep his distance from her until Colster exchanged her for the sword.

Robbie took Constance by the arm to escort her to Rae’s tent, but she shook him off. “I can walk,” she said. “Lead the way.”

Robbie glanced at Gordon, who nodded for him to do as she bade. Constance didn’t wait. She turned to Rae and ordered, “Go on. I’m your charge. Take me where you will.”

To Gordon’s frustration, Rae dutifully did as commanded. His wife, Emma, and Robbie fell in behind Constance as the rest of the clan backed away, allowing them to pass.

There was no small amount of curiosity about her. Necks craned and there was a good deal of whispering. In return, Constance stared them down with just the right hint of disdain on her face.

Any concerns Gordon had about the impact of kidnapping her were laid to rest. She was a survivor, like himself. She’d never let anyone get the best of her.

But then Mad Maggie jumped into her path. Maggie’s wild, unkempt hair was the color of the winter moors and her eyes burned with the fire of anger. She carried a rag doll under her arm wherever she went. ’Twas her “baby,” and she spent her days cooing and rocking it.

At Nathraichean, Laird MacKenna had forced Maggie to live in the woods, always keeping her away from his followers. Many here had wanted Gordon to continue the exile. They said she scared their children, but it was usually the adults Gordon caught crossing themselves whenever Maggie came near.

Gordon took a step forward, not trusting the look in Maggie’s eye. However, before he could intervene, he was stopped in his tracks by the bounding energy of a huge Irish wolfhound. Tad had obviously been
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out hunting. His huge paws were wet as he came up on his hind legs and placed them on Gordon’s shoulder. “Down—” Gordon started to say, but was stopped by a big slobbering dog kiss.

The crowd roared their amusement while Tempest, his horse, pawed the ground and snorted disapproval. There was no love lost between Gordon’s pets.

Gordon pushed Tad to the ground with a scratch behind his ears and ordered Tempest to behave with a low, “Here now.” The horse stopped pawing but kept his ears pinned back.

However, Gordon’s humor vanished when he heard Maggie’s keening voice as cold as the wind over all the good-natured advice his clansmen were giving on dog training. They heard the sound, too, and stopped laughing.

Maggie stood in front of Constance, shaking her “baby” at her. “Send her away,” she said. “Dispel her.

Send her away.” Maggie raised a fist as if to strike Constance.

Rae and Robbie stepped back in fear, but Gordon moved just in time to place himself between Maggie and Constance. He fended off the blow with his forearm, surprised by Maggie’s strength.

Tad growled, ready to lunge, but Gordon ordered him back with a sharp, “Down.” The wolfhound went to the ground.

“Have done, Maggie, what are you doing?” Gordon said.

At his sharp words, Maggie crouched in front of him, raising her arms in fear. The doll fell to the ground.

“Don’t hit me, Gordon. Don’t hit me.”

“I’ve never touched you, Maggie,” Gordon said, defending himself.

“It’sher, ” Maggie told him, pointing a finger at Constance. “She has a devil’s heart.” She spoke rapidly, the words tumbling out of her mouth. “I saw her coming in my dreams. There was water there.

Everywhere. We were all afraid and yet she stood there without fear. She will use dark arts to destroy thee. She’ll end it all, Gordon.End it all. ”

Eyes widened at these words, and Gordon could have cursed. His clansmen were superstitious—after all, wasn’t that why he wanted the sword?—and Maggie’s fit did not bode well. Perhaps he should have tossed her out.

Constance stood still, as if carved from stone. Gordon didn’t know what she thought. He spoke calmly.

“You are full of malarkey, Maggie. Your mind is playing tricks.”

Maggie jutted her chin forward, ready to refute him, but Gordon cut her off. “Enough. I’ll not have you scaring the children.”

At the mention of the last word, Maggie’s anger fled. She physically changed before his eyes. Her body seemed to lose all energy as she shrunk down. What was left was a puzzled old woman who looked around as if just now realizing they had an audience. “Where’s my Patty?” she asked in her rattling voice.

“I’ve lost my Patty.”

Gordon picked up the rag doll. “Here she is, Maggie, and she’s been crying for you.”

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“Och, my Patty crying?” Maggie took the doll into her arms. She started rocking back and forth, sniveling and saying, “I scared you, didn’t I, lovely one. I scared you.” She began to weep, her body shaking with soft sobs.

Gordon straightened and looked around the crowd until he caught sight of his sister. Fiona stood back, away from everyone. She was dressed in her habitual black, the Lachlan tartan around her shoulders.

She had not come forward to greet him. She never did.

She’d joined their number two months ago. Gordon had hoped that being here with the clan would help Fiona. Instead, she stayed well away from everyone, her features tight and pinched…accusing.

Well, the time had come for him to give her something to do.

“Fiona, take Maggie to her hut. See that she has a cup of cider. You’ll find the jug in my quarters.”

“Cider?” Maggie said, her round face now a wreath of smiles. “What a lovely gift. Why, a nice cup of cider is exactly what I need. Patty would like one, too. May we have two cups?”

“Two cups would be good,” Gordon answered. He looked to his sister, who had not moved. “Fiona?”

She pulled her shawl tighter around her body. She was thin. Too thin. At nine and twenty, he was six years older than Fiona. Her mother had been his stepmother, his father’s second wife. That explained the rich mahogany of Fiona’s hair and her wide brown eyes. He and she had lived very separate lives. They continued to do so in camp.

Just when Gordon thought she would publicly refuse him, she came forward. Offering her hand, she said,

“Come, Maggie, we shall see you comfortable.”

“And let me have cider,” Maggie agreed with childlike anticipation.

“Yes, as much cider as you wish.” There was little emotion in Fiona’s voice.

Gordon watched them leave.

It was Emma who spoke. “She’s not growing any better.”

Did she speak of Maggie…or of his silent, stone-faced sister?

He decided to pretend it was Maggie because Fiona wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss.

“She has nowhere to go, Emma,” Gordon said. “And sheis one of us.” He raised his voice as he spoke so that all could hear. “We are a clan, and that means we take care of our own. We stand together and then no one can stand against us.”

Silence met his words. He could see from the expression in their eyes that they wanted to believe…and yet feared he might ask more than they were willing to give.

It was Thomas who answered. “Aye,” he agreed, his robust voice giving the others courage.

“You are right, Gordon,” one said.

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“Clansmen,” echoed another.

“We take care of our own,” Gordon reiterated. This time his words were seconded. This time they showed spirit.

Gordon turned to Emma Reivers. “I know Maggie isn’t right in the head, but would you leave her behind?”

Wisely, Emma didn’t answer that question.

Turning to Constance, Gordon said, “No harm will come to you from her, or anyone else, while you are undermy protection.”

“What of her prophecy?” Constance asked.

“Her prophecy?” he repeated, and then realizing what she meant, he laughed. “She speaks like that all the time. We’re always going to be flooded, according to her. There’s water in all of our futures.”

Others laughed with him. Someone said, “Except for Brian. His well was dry.”

The younger man waved off the jibe, laughing.

Only Constance frowned, her expression thoughtful. “You don’t believe she has the gift of sight?”

“No,” Gordon assured her. “What she has is the madness of a woman who lost all her children to a fever. ’Tis said she was not too sensible before, and losing those wee ones did not help her. Her husband left her long ago. We are all she has left. The remains of her family.”

“The Shawnee believe that the mad ones should be respected,” Constance said. “Indians believe those prophecies come true.”

Gordon shrugged. “We respect Maggie,” he assured her. “We just don’tlisten to her when she’s speaking gibberish, and that is all it is. Now go with the Reivers.”

He nodded for Robbie to carry on before turning to Thomas and Brian. Thomas stood with one arm draped around Grace McEachin. Over to the side, Hannah Chisholm stood frowning. Thomas adored being fought over, and in a camp where women outnumbered men, he often had his wish—although he’d developed a strong fondness for Grace.