Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (5 page)

Leod.

“So?” the other man asked, a broad grin splitting his thin face. “Were you successful? Did ya sweet-talk the lass into lifting her skirts?”

Niall scowled. “Aiden talks too much.”

“That would be a no, then.”

Niall slowed as Leod came abreast of him. Gouged in the calf by a wild boar tusk a sennight ago, the warrior could not yet keep apace. “My goal was to get inside the manor, you cur, not inside the lass.”

Leod laughed. “Lord, she must be ugly.”

An image of Ana rose to mind, the same one he’d held in his thoughts for months—the sight of her perfect oval face, large blue eyes, and glorious dark red hair cascading down her back as she clung to a sapling in the pale light of a waning moon. She’d been far too thin then, but still incredibly beautiful. The desire to see that hair unbound again—to weave his fingers through it—scorched a molten path through his veins. “Nay.”

“We spend months in the woods, far from the pretty young milkmaids in Dunstoras, and all you deign to share is
nay
? Surely you can do better than that?”

Sharing had never been Niall’s wont. “Nay.”

“Wretch.” Leod hobbled quietly alongside for few moments, then pointed to Niall’s face. “You might want to visit the burn afore entering the camp.”

“Why?”

“That blood’s not likely to please young Jamie.”

Niall halted abruptly. “Aiden left Jamie behind?”

Leod snorted. “Aye. He wasn’t about to take the lad to Lochurkie now, was he?”

Gods be damned
. It had been Aiden who’d insisted on bringing Jamie to Duthes. The lad had always been the timid sort, but since the deaths of his mother and younger brother, he’d become fearful of his own shadow. The disappearance of his da had not helped matters. Wulf had stormed out of the castle the night of the murders, grief-stricken and howling for vengeance, never to be seen again. They’d combed the woods for days afterward and found no trace.

“Leaving him with me was not the better option,” Niall said.

“But you be his kin.”

“Only in blood,” Niall said, marching toward the stately elm that marked his camp. “He knows me not. A bastard cousin is rarely invited to sup with the family. The lad’s knees shake when I but look at him.”

“Mayhap, but the laird has named him your page.”

“I don’t need a page.”

They ducked under a low sweep of pine bough and entered the clearing where the Black Warriors had set up camp.

Ivarr was seated on a fallen log, sharpening his sword, and Cormac was stirring a pot over the fire. Niall spotted his young cousin right off—over by the horses, a curry brush in hand. Golden-haired like his mum, a sturdy form like his da. The lad was watching him, but the moment he realized Niall’s gaze had found him, he shrank behind Niall’s massive black destrier.

“Jamie,” Niall called.

The lad peered from under the horse’s neck, half-hidden by the long mane.

He waved the boy over.

Jamie tossed the brush into a bucket and slowly crossed the clearing to stand before Niall. His eyes held bleak shadows—far bleaker than a lad of ten and two ought to know—and they widened as he spied the smears of blood on Niall’s face and clothing.

“Fear not,” Niall said. “None of it is mine.”

“D-did you kill a man?”

Niall nodded. “A thief who tried to skewer me.”

The lad turned green and his bottom lip began to quiver. Not a moment later, he emptied his spleen all over Niall’s boots—an odorous brown coating of what appeared to be soup. His gaze flew up to meet Niall’s. Tears filled his eyes.

Niall searched for the appropriate response and came up dry. Good thing he hadn’t mentioned he’d actually slain three men, not one.

With a low keen of despair, the lad wrapped his arms around his belly and ran off.

Leod did a rather poor job of stifling a laugh. “That went well.”

Niall used a piece of kindling to tap the muck off his boots. Communicating with Hugh had been effortless. He’d been a babbling brook of tales, willing to share even the smallest of adventures. Every encounter with Jamie, on the other hand, was a disaster. He never knew what to say to the boy.

Ivarr and Cormac joined him, both smirking.

“I think it’s an improvement on your usual scent,” Cormac said, sniffing the air. Attired entirely in green and brown, his pale ashwood bow slung over his back, he looked every bit the woodsman.

“And those boots were in sad want of a good polish,” Ivarr added. As usual, the big warrior had pinned his multihued woolen brat across his chest and under his right arm to allow freer movement of his sword arm.

“Do not make sport at the lad’s expense,” Niall chided quietly. “Best we ignore what happened and allow him to recoup his pride.”

The smiles faded, and they nodded agreeably. Ivarr pointed to the blood spatters on Niall’s clothing. “So? Care to share the tale?”

“Ambushed by thieves,” Niall said, shrugging. He studied the faces of his men as he spoke. Cormac, lean and blue-eyed. Ivarr, square-jawed and quick to smile. Leod, thin and a tad pale. It was a bitter struggle to imagine any of them betraying him. They’d been brothers-in-arms for more than ten years. Defended one another in battle. Bound one another’s wounds. Shared food and whisky and a private thought or two. “Five scurrilous rats intent on stealing my purse.”

Ivarr’s brows soared. “And you killed only one?”

“Three.”

A wry smile rose to Cormac’s lips. “Wretch. Here we are, playing nursemaid to the lad, and you’re off having a grand old time.”

“Shall we take to the woods and rout out the vermin?” asked Leod. “Cormac and Ivarr found evidence of a camp to the northwest.”

Niall nodded. “Approach them, but do not slay them. Watching the trails as closely as they do, they’re sure to have marked the comings and goings of all. I would learn what strangers have passed through the village in recent months. One of them surely brought the necklace.”

A deep frown furrowed Cormac’s brow. “You want us to
spare
them?”

“Information is more valuable than a dead body.”

“And we accept the word of thieves and murderers now, do we?”

Niall’s gaze collided with the archer’s. “I’ll bend an ear to any who can deliver me vengeance. Thieves, murderers, traitors—it matters not. I care nothing but for the information they supply.”

“And if they lie? We’ll be chasing our bloody tails.”

“Thieves are loyal only to coin. Offer them a purse.”

A growl rose in Cormac’s chest, and his hands fisted at his sides. “Give them the very thing they sought to gain by attacking you? Nay, I’ll not do it.”

The archer had always been fierce and full of anger. But was his insistence on slaying these thieves motivated by more than a need to defend a fellow warrior? A desire to cover his tracks, perhaps? “You’ll do as I say.”

The words were delivered quietly, but with the bite of steel. Niall did not stomach revolt, even from longtime friends.

Cormac dropped his gaze to his boots, his long dark hair swinging forward to hide his face. “Aye.” His humble mien lasted no more than a heartbeat, though. He lifted his gaze to Niall’s, a wry grin on his face. “But I’ll not enjoy it.”

“Fair enough.”

“We’ve a pot of bawd bree on the fire,” Ivarr said into the silence that followed. “If you care to sup.”

Niall shook his head. “I’ll be laying my pallet in the village for a time.”

“With the lass?” Leod asked.

“Aye.”

“Bloody hell,” Cormac grumbled. “Our lot is becoming sorrier by the moment. You get the battles
and
the lasses.”

“’Tis not so merry a tune as you would sing,” Niall said. Now would be the time to share what he’d learned of Ana’s crime, to tell them about the poison. But he did not. “She has red hair.”

“And a fiery disposition to go along with it?” Ivarr asked, grinning.

“Aye.”

“Freckles?”

Niall shook his head. “Nary a one.”

“At least, none that you’ve yet seen,” Cormac added slyly.

The others laughed. Niall got lost in the vision of Ana lying naked in his arms. He’d happily spend a few hours exploring her skin for evidence of a freckle. Not that she was likely to let him look. He’d be lucky to see her hair unbound. “I’ve located the baron’s coffers, but the lock on the door will not be easy to breach.”

Ivarr grimaced. “Only a miserly man has need of a lock.”

“Would a hammer and chisel do the deed?” Leod asked.

“Only if I had a mind to rouse half the manor with my efforts,” Niall responded. “The chamber is in an oft-used passageway. I’d prefer a saddler’s needle and a hoof pick.”

“Why those?”

“Properly inserted into the keyhole, they can release the lock catch.”

Leod blinked. “Truly?”

“Truly.” It had been many years since he’d picked a lock, but with a little luck and bit of time, he could open it.

“Dare I ask how you acquired such a nefarious skill?”

The years before his father claimed him were not ones he cared to talk about. Most other warriors came from well-to-do families. They knew nothing of the desperation inspired by going days without food. “Not all of us were raised on milk and honey.”

Niall crossed the camp to the lean-to where their gear was stored. Digging through his horse tack, he located the tools he needed. A square of soft leather wrapped around them prevented rattling.

“Is it a simple task?” Ivarr asked. “Releasing the latch?”

Niall shrugged. “It requires patience and a deft hand.”

“Pardon me for saying such, but if speed is of the essence, should we not consider robbing the steward?”

His query met with silence.

“He carries the key to every lock at his belt,” Ivarr reminded them.

“He’s also a prominent figure whose absence would be swiftly noticed,” Cormac pointed out. “We’d not have much time before the alarm was raised. . . .”

The faces of all were grim. No one was eager to attack an innocent man, but stealing the key was an option that must be considered.

Niall stuffed the lock-picking tools, his two spare lèines, and a black brat into a burlap bag. 

“We cannot be certain the necklace is in the baron’s coffers,” he said. “If we rob the steward, we’ll lose our chance to search the rest of the keep. For now, we stay the course.”

He added a few more items to his bag, then heaved it over his shoulder and turned to face his men. “If I fail to return in two days’ time, consider me lost.”

“And the necklace?” Leod asked.

There was no need to exhort them not to give up. They’d each sworn a lifelong vow to protect Dunstoras and its laird. “Do what you must.”

The warriors nodded.

Niall studied each of their faces again. He could not see a traitor in any of them, but the knot in his gut said he wasn’t wrong. He’d need to be especially wary until he sorted the faithful from the wrathful. Leaving Jamie in the camp was risky, but he had to believe the real threat was to the necklace, not the lad. There was no place for the boy in the village.

“Leod, take a water pouch and go in search of young Jamie.” To the two other men, he said, “Question the thieves. I’ll return anon.”

Then he headed home to his wife.

A
s Ana passed through the torchlit courtyard, she glanced at the kirk.

The arched oak door was open, and the flickering light of numerous votive candles brightened the gloomy interior. A man stood before the stone altar, his head bowed respectfully. She could not see his tonsure, but the flowing black cappa and crisp white undertunic identified him just the same: Brother Colban.

She halted.

Here might be a chance to recoup the day’s losses. If she spent an hour on her knees in the kirk, visibly proving her sanctity to the friar, would he not be more likely to discount any rumors of her heathen affiliations? Surely, he would.

Of course, an evening prayer would delay her return to the bothy.

Ana’s cheeks warmed. After her encounter with Niall in the cellars and the teasing comments about the bed, that was probably a good thing. His attempt to defend her had softened her opinion of him most alarmingly. If she weren’t more careful, she might come to think of him as her valiant savior again. That would never do. Not while they shared an abode.

She covered her hair with her brat and stepped over the raised threshold of the narrow kirk.

The leather soles of her shoes tapped lightly on the slabs of granite that formed the floor. Ana drew the sign of the cross on her body as she approached the altar. She waited for the friar to note her presence, but after a long moment her impatience got the best of her.

“Brother Colban?”

He genuflected, then turned. Long of face, with pale blue eyes and a chin sharp as a pike, the friar could quell the blithest of souls with a simple look. Three lines creased the fleshy ridge above his prominent nose, so deep they appeared to be carved there. No similar creases flanked his mouth, though. Ana could not ever recall seeing the man smile. “Aye?”

“I’ve a desire to pray this eve. Will you take my confession?”

He wore his piety like stiff armor, his nod spare. “Of course.”

Although Ana still gave ritual thanks to the heathen gods for her gift, she had accepted the Christian God as the one true god. The Church demanded she forsake all other gods in favor of the Lord Almighty, but there was no room in the Christian world for her healing magic, and she could not—nay,
would
not—forsake that. So, she begged the Lord’s forgiveness for her actions. Silently. In private.

She slipped to her knees before the friar. The granite floor bit into her flesh through the wool of her skirts, but she paid it no heed. This was the easy part. Her knees would be throbbing by the time she was done.

Brother Colban placed his hand atop her head, and she bowed.

“Have you despaired of His mercy since your last confession?”

“Nay.”

“Have you used the Lord’s name in vain?”

“Twice,” she replied.

“Have you committed adultery?”

“Nay.”

“Have you kept holy the Sabbath Day?”

“I have.”

“Have you coveted thy neighbor’s goods?”

“Aye. Just today, I coveted the food on the baroness’s table.”

“Have you lied?”

“Six times.”

“Have you been lazy or idle?”

“Nay.”

“Had impure thoughts?”

Ana hesitated. Not until today. And only for a man the rest of the village saw as her husband. Did that count? She glanced up. “Is it impure to have lascivious thoughts about one’s husband?”

The friar stared at her. His pale blue eyes seemed to bore right into her soul. “Not if you were bound before God.”

Ana swallowed.
Mercy.
Why hadn’t she simply admitted her sin? Instead, by asking a foolish question, she’d cornered herself into a lie.
Please forgive me, Father.
“Then nay.”

He continued to stare at her for a lengthy moment, then said, “Have you any other sins you wish to confess?”

Ana bowed her head again. “Nay.”

“Do you have true sorrow for your sins?”

“Aye.” No doubt about that—she was writhing with shame inside. Offending God upset her greatly, especially here in His house. What an unworthy wretch she was.

“May Our Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Almighty God, through His most gracious mercy absolve you. By His authority, I hereby absolve you of your sins so that you might stand pure of heart before the tribunal of Our Lord, and so that you might have eternal life. In the name of the Father . . .” She saw the dim shadow of his blessing on the granite floor. “And of the Son . . .” A second blessing. “And of the Holy Spirit . . .” And a third. “Amen.”

“Amen.”

“You may now do penance—recite two dozen Lord’s Prayers.”

He stepped away, leaving her on her knees before the linen-draped altar and its jeweled golden rood. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head. There she remained, praying to the Lord God, until her knees ached with more ferocity than her guilt. An hour. Perhaps longer.

Then she rose to her feet with a wince.

“Be aware, Goodhealer . . .”

Ana turned to face the friar, who now sat at a small pine table with a quill in hand, inscribing records on a thick sheaf of parchment.

“. . . that absolution is only granted for sins that are confessed.”

“Of course, Brother Colban.” What else was she to say?

He laid the quill on his desk and stood. The heavy white silk of his vestments rippled in the candlelight. “I sense great turmoil within you, Goodhealer. I am not convinced that said turmoil has been stirred by evil, but it does concern me. Dark thoughts are an invitation to the devil.”

Ana suddenly found it difficult to draw air. Her throat was tight and dry. “I—”

“Daily prayer is a necessity.”

“I pray each and every morn, Brother Colban,” she assured him hoarsely.

His hard blue eyes bored into her. “You think the devil is so easily dissuaded? Nay. Once he has claimed a corner of your soul, he’ll move heaven and earth to claim it all. You must pray here in the kirk, where I can direct your words to God. And you must bend the knee for Vespers as well as Lauds. Sext, too, if necessary. Banish the dark taint before it consumes you.”

Pray
three
times a day? “My time is not my own, I fear. The baron has asked me to tend his wife at every meal.”

“If you will not pray, then the end is already written.” He raised the wooden crucifix dangling from his belt to his lips. “May God have mercy on your soul.”

“I will most assuredly pray,” Ana said quietly. The blackfriar could either be her downfall or her most powerful ally. It was up to her to determine which he would be. “But forgive me, Brother Colban, I cannot always supplicate when the kirk bell tolls.”

“Your everlasting life is at risk, Goodhealer. Prove your worthiness.”

There was no leniency in the man’s expression. None at all. Did he not understand the demands on her time? “People fall ill when they do, and bairns meet the world at the hours of the Lord’s choosing, not my own.”

Her response earned her a narrowed stare. “God will forgive the delay.”

But a dying villager or a breech babe would not. “I’ll do what I can.”

“That is insufficient,” he said sharply. “Pray or be damned.”

Ana felt the promise of his blessing slipping away. Yet, to have a hope of making Duthes her home—of growing the garden she’d vowed to plant—she needed it. “Then I will pray.”

He smiled coldly. “Excellent. May God go with you, Goodhealer.”

“And with you, Brother Colban.”

Ana genuflected, then scurried from the kirk. What was she to do now? How could she live up to her promise to pray three times a day? If she missed even one prayer, Brother Colban would pounce upon her failing with self-righteous glee. He would accuse her of heathen leanings, of opening her heart and soul to Satan, and from there it was a short leap to allegations of witchcraft.

Although leaving Duthes was the last thing she wanted, it might be wise to prepare.

•   •   •

The hearth in the bothy was stone cold when Niall returned from the forest. He peered into the iron cauldron and wrinkled his nose at the congealed contents. Refusing the bawd bree had been an error. There was nary a scrap of meat to be seen in Ana’s pottage—’twas naught but barley and beans. A man could not live on such meager fare. Apparently, the tales Wulf had told him of the fine eating a man enjoyed in the care of a wife were just that—tales. Crouching, he crumbled some dried peat into the pit beneath the cauldron, stacked some kindling, and lit the fire once more.

The peat was just beginning to catch flame when a thump came from the woodpile at the rear of the hut. Niall surged to his feet. Had the Norman sergeant returned to cause Ana more grief? If so, the cur would regret his decision. He slipped quietly out the door and rounded the corner in a flash, his dirk at the ready. A dark shape was shoving something between the split logs.

Swift as a northern wildcat, Niall attacked. He rammed the intruder up against the woodpile using the full weight of his body and laid the sharp edge of his blade at the wretch’s throat. “Explain yourself or die.”

Even as the challenge left his tongue, however, he was rethinking his strategy—a soft gasp had escaped his captive’s lips and a series of gentle, feminine curves met his press, not the vigorously taut muscles of a soldier.
Ana.

He eased the dirk away from the tender flesh of her neck, but did not give anything else. The delicate scent of lavender filled his nostrils, sending a sweet rush of need to his loins—much as it had when he kissed her in the market. But as he considered her actions, his pleasure was swiftly dashed. She was hiding something.
From him
.

“What are you doing?” he demanded hoarsely.

“I—”

“No lies. I want the truth.”

To which she said nothing.

He reached around her and yanked the item she’d been stuffing in the woodpile from her hands. A twill bag. Keeping her pinned against the wood with one knee between her legs, he tugged on the drawstring to open the sack and rummaged inside. Clothes. A comb. Several jars of unguent. A small iron box containing personal effects, which included a man’s ring, carefully wrapped in a square of velvet. The vixen had lied to him. She was leaving.

“Dearest wife,” he drawled, replacing the lid on the box with a metallic snap. “Surely you weren’t planning to run. You gave me your word.”

“I am not running,” she replied tightly. “I am simply preparing.”

“A woolly word cannot disguise the truth of your actions.”

She squirmed against him, and Niall suffered a fierce jolt of desire. Dear God, why
this
woman? Aye, she was beautiful, but she was also deceitful. Plotting behind his back. Ruining his well-laid plans. Worse, the wench might well have had a hand in the deaths of his clansmen—in the death of wee Hugh.

“I’ll not explain myself,” she said hotly. “I do what I must.”

“As do I.” He released her, and when she spun to face him, he tossed her the bag. Her linen brèid had slipped down, pooling around her neck and revealing a shimmering swathe of hair. Although the color he so admired was not discernible in the moonlight, Niall’s fingers itched to touch the silken strands. But he held on to his sanity. “And you’ll not enjoy the outcome.”

She frowned. “What might that be?”

He didn’t answer. Gripping her elbow, he tugged her back toward the door. She resisted, digging her heels into the dirt, but it was a futile rebellion. His strength easily exceeded hers. When the battle of wills grew tiresome, he threw an arm about her waist, lifted her feet off the ground, and carried her into the bothy.

“You have no right to abuse me so,” she snarled, as he put her down and shut the door. “You are
not
my husband.”

He smiled coolly. “Feel free to make a complaint to the constable.”

Her lips thinned.

Sadly, the pinch of her lips only made him want to kiss them into submission. But that would prove him a fool. The first kiss had nearly brought him to his knees in the market. His head had spun with the sheer intensity of his desire and he’d come dangerously close to spoiling his mission by tumbling her right there and then. But nothing could stand in the way of retrieving the necklace.

Nothing.

Scooping up the burlap pouch he’d brought with him from the camp, Niall dug inside for a length of hemp rope. “Hold out your hands.”

“Your pardon?” She stared at the rope with dawning horror. “You can’t mean to—”

“I surely do.” He snatched the twill bag and tossed it on the bed. Then he gathered both her hands in one of his. “Your word is shite. Only a madman would trust you now.”

“You will
not
tie me.” She jerked to one side, trying to break free.

He held her easily. He looped the rope around her wrists and cinched it tight with one quick movement. But not too tight. No need to bruise her delicate skin. Then he drew her to the bed and tied the loose end to the post.

“Sit.”

She glared at him, refusing to obey.

Shaking his head at her obstinance, he gave her a light shove.

She toppled onto the heather-filled mattress with a gurgle of purple-faced rage. “You filthy, wretched whoreson.”

Surprisingly, those words still had the power to cut him. The wound was not deep, but it stung just the same. “Insult my mother if it eases you, but ’twill not change your fate.”

“Only a sorry excuse for a man would tie a woman down.”

He arched a brow. “Only a sorry excuse for a woman would renounce her word.”

Shame accomplished what force could not. Her gaze fell and her furious color abated. With her bottom lip nipped between her teeth and conviction furrowing her brow, she wriggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The awkward movements gave him an excellent, if temporary, view of her ankles. Slim and pale, much like her wrists. He found himself disappointed when the layers of her skirts hid them once more.

“How will I prepare supper if I’m bound to the bed?”

He shrugged. “The soup heats as we speak.”

“I cannot hold a bowl.”

“Then I’ll hold it for you.”

Color returned to her cheeks. “You mean to feed me like a wee bairn?”