Taming a Wild Scot: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (7 page)

Another man—the wheelwright or the blacksmith, judging by his large arms—nudged him aside and took over the crank. “Fine job,” he said gruffly. “Away with you now.”

Niall stepped back.

Finally able to think beyond how quickly he could draw the next bucket, he glanced at the kitchen. The smoke rising into the sky had thinned to a thin, pale ribbon.

“Let me see those hands.”

He spun around. Ana stood next to him, a dark streak of soot smudged across her cheek and a faint gray tint to her normally white brèid. She was paler than he’d ever seen her. He frowned. “Are you ill?”

“Nay.”

“Where were you when the fire broke out?”

She opened her leather satchel and dug inside for a small earthenware pot stopped with melted wax. “Inside.”

“Where inside?”

“Does it matter?”

He grabbed her chin and angled her face toward the sun, checking for any hint of injury. Beyond the soot, thankfully, he saw nothing. He released her. “Aye, it matters. Answer me.”

“I was consulting with the cook.”

“In the
kitchen
?”

“Of course, in the kitchen.” Using her knife, she pried the wax from the pot. Then she took one of his hands in her much smaller palm, unfolded his fist, and slathered unguent on his red, raw blisters. Her hands trembled as she worked. “Where else does one meet with the cook?”

The image of her running blindly through a smoke-filled corridor, chased by fire and choking on hot fumes, flayed his thoughts. He’d imagined her safe in the upper chambers with the baroness all this time, not fleeing for her life. “You are a healer, not a scullion. What in God’s eternal glory possessed you to enter the kitchen?”

She shrugged. “I am tasked with ensuring the baroness eats well.”

“The cook should attend you, not the other way around. Do not go into the kitchen again.”

“The cook owes me no service,” she responded with a frown. “He’s a busy man and, frankly, all credit for my safety rightfully belongs to him. He hustled me out the instant he realized there was a problem.”

At least there was one person with proper sense. “What happened?”

“One of the kitchen hands dropped a pot of oil near the ovens and it caught flame. Don’t worry. The lad is fine,” she said, applying the same thick paste to his other hand. “He was wearing shoes. Only his ankles were burned and not too severely. The half-wit who threw water on the flaming oil is a mite worse off.”

A very prosaic description of events. Were it not for the quaver in her voice, he might have believed her completely unaffected. But she’d been frightened. And he didn’t like that. “Are you certain you’re well?”

“Aye. Just a wee disquieted.” She massaged the unguent into his flesh. “Fires can have dire consequences.”

“That they can.”

Niall tugged his hands free. His pulse ought to have slowed by now—instead, every touch of her fingers set it aleap again. “How far did the fire reach?”

“’Twas contained to the lower level, but the smoke is everywhere. The baron’s men are in the cellars now, assessing the damage.”

A rivulet of sweat trickled down Niall’s brow, and he wiped it with his sleeve.
Damn.
Even if the scorching were minimal, repairs would take some time. It might be days before he could safely make an attempt to open the lock. Days he could ill afford to lose.

“I must see the steward. I’ll volunteer to help.”

“You’ve done enough
helping
for today,” she said. “Those hands need care.”

Niall glanced at his palms. They hurt, but no more than if he’d fought a lengthy battle with his sword and targe in hand. “Save your charity for those who need it. The wounds are trifling.”

Heaving a sigh, Ana thrust the pot of unguent at his midriff. “Apply it frequently. You’ll thank me in the morn when you spread your hands.” Then she turned to walk away.

Niall reached for her arm, but stopped himself just short of touching her sleeve. The unguent would sully her linens. “Where do you go?”

Pausing, she pointed to the leafless rowan tree behind the chapel. On the stone bench beneath its gnarled branches sat four soot-covered kitchen workers, each favoring an injured limb. “There are other, more grateful, souls in distress.”

Niall’s gaze slid to the open kirk door, where Brother Colban stood welcoming the faithful for midmorning prayers. The friar would have a full house today. A near disaster was a powerful reminder to get one’s affairs in order. Had he convinced the holy man to leave Ana alone? It was impossible to know for certain, with their discussion cut short.

“Fetch me when you’re done,” he said to Ana. “I’ll be in the cellars.”

“I can make my own way home,” she responded.

Unwilling to address her back, he stalked around to look her in the eye. “Did I not make myself clear? My wife does not walk alone while I am able to escort her.”

“Why bother with such niceties? Once you are gone—”

Niall bristled. His mind refused to contemplate life after he acquired the necklace. “I decide the rules of the game, not you. Fetch me, or you’ll face my wrath.”

“You, goodman, are a tyrant.”

He feathered his thumb over the flushed crest of her cheek. “And you, goodwife, are a wayward lass in want of a firm hand.”

A storm gathered in her blue eyes. “You would dare to strike me?”

“Nay,” he said softly. “I mean this sort of firm hand.”

And then he kissed her.

•   •   •

Ana wasn’t prepared for a kiss. This morning, aye. Now? In the middle of the manor courtyard, with both of them smelling thickly of smoke? Nay.

Especially as it wasn’t an ordinary kiss.

Ordinary kisses were meaningless—she knew them as a man’s paltry offering to a woman he was determined to bed. Pleasurable, but lamentably short-lived. All too swiftly, an eager swain lost interest in a woman’s lips and migrated his attention to another part of her body. Niall’s kiss was different. It was a full-on siege of her senses that focused completely on her mouth. He kissed her as if nothing else in the world mattered beyond this one moment, this one heartbeat, this one connection of their lips.

It began softly, like a brush of velvet over her skin, and every inch of her body instantly came alive. He touched nothing but her lips, but the ripples went everywhere, in a thousand different directions, each one a promise of untold physical delight. Seeking more of the same, she tilted her head up. And just like that, nothing about the kiss was gentle. His claim became fierce and his tongue boldly swept across her lips in an undeniable demand for surrender.

But even as her lips bruised under the relentless pressure, desire—hot and aching—flooded her veins. Restless need and tingling urges besieged her womanly parts. Her breasts grew full and achy. Knees weak, she sagged against his steadfast chest, her hands clutching the front of his damp lèine. She opened her mouth and welcomed him in.

He responded with a low, barely audible groan and a slight stiffening of his body—almost as if he were fighting a primitive urge to toss her over his shoulder and abscond with her. But if that was his desire, he did not act on it.

With surprising tenderness, he broke off the kiss.

They leaned, forehead to forehead, for a moment. Neither of them was breathing easy.

Lips throbbing, face scalding, Ana took a step back and glanced around to see if anyone in the courtyard had made note of their highly inappropriate embrace. She met several amused faces, but none of them belonged to the friar, thank heaven. The holy man had disappeared inside the kirk.

Her gaze returned to Niall, whose face was now a study in inscrutability. How could he look so cool and calm, when she was shattered into pieces?

“Fetch me when you’re done,” he said.

Then he walked away.

Ana watched him duck under the blackened lintel of the kitchen entrance and disappear. Her lips were eagerly anticipating the moment when her tasks were complete and she could seek him out again. But deep in her belly, a tight knot of anxiety fought with her desire.

Playacting as wife was one thing; succumbing to the ruse, quite another.

Wedded bliss was not for her. Her parents’ lives had been destroyed by the healing gift. Her mother had met a cruel end, that was certain. But her father’s suffering hadn’t ended there—haunted by his memories and fearful that his daughter would meet a similar fate, he had never stopped running, never found peace. He had died a broken man. A devout Christian from a proud family, he should be interred on holy ground. Instead, he was buried along the side of a mountain road in an unmarked grave. Ana’s eyes stung, and she rubbed them.

There could be no future with Niall, other than heartbreak. She had to remember that.

Such was the curse of the healing gift.
Nothing came for free.

A
piece of parchment was nailed to the pillory post in the center of the town square.

Aiden squinted at the fluttering edges, trying to make out the words inked on the weathered notice, but at this distance his eyesight failed him. Did the notice concern him and his escape? Offer a reward for his capture? Three months after the deed, it hardly seemed likely, but he wasn’t willing to venture any closer to find out. The pillory was currently empty, and he intended to see it remained that way.

“There she is,” whispered Duncan.

Aiden glanced left. Sure enough, a small entourage had passed through the castle gate and turned in their direction—a pair of women accompanied by a gilt-spurred knight and two armed guards. The younger of the two women wore a dark blue cloak. A deep, sable-trimmed hood hid her silvery-blond hair, but Aiden knew her just the same: Isabail Grant, the former earl’s sister.

Playing the role of lady of the manor to the hilt, she nodded graciously to the villagers as she passed, even addressing a few by name. Pale skinned and delicate as a snowflake, she resembled her brother in only the smallest of ways—the ease with which she wore the mantle of nobility and the natural elegance she displayed in every step.

He frowned.

Had he another option, he’d never ensnare a woman in his intrigues. Unfortunately, Isabail was his only connection to the man in black. She would have personally greeted every guest who slept under her brother’s roof and ensured their comfort was well met. She
had
to know who her brother had kept company with those days.

“Engaging her will not be easy,” Graeme said.

Aiden nodded. “For now, we simply follow. Wait for the right opportunity.”

“How long can we afford to bide our time?”

“Two days, three at the most,” Aiden responded. “Naming the thief will not be enough to convince the king of my innocence. I’ll need proof that the man in the wolf cloak stole the necklace.”

“What proof can we present?”

Aiden’s gaze fell to the hoof-chipped cobbles under his feet. The mere mention of that night soured his belly. The horror of finding Elen and wee Hugh lying on the floor in a pool of vomitus never left him.
His
family,
his
kin, and he’d been powerless to save them. The poison had been in the eel soup, the fourth of sixteen courses the cook had prepared for their honored guest, Henry de Coleville. He knew that, because the soup was the only course he had not sampled, and it wasn’t long after the soup was served that bodies began to fall. The very young and the very old were the first to stagger and convulse.

Aiden straightened his shoulders against the weight of his shame. He’d let down his clan that night, most severely. He’d passed the miserable cur in the corridor leading to the kitchens and failed to confront him. True, it had been before his kin fell ill, but still . . .

“I cannot say,” he admitted.

“Then how will we prove his complicity?”

His hands formed heavy fists. “When we find the wretch, we’ll force him to confess.”

The other two men were silent. Like Niall, they had doubts that the man in the black cloak existed. Understandable, perhaps, given the severe beating he’d taken, but shortsighted. The theft of the necklace could not have been the act of a solitary thief in the night—it had been planned and executed to devastating effect.

“They’re headed for the orchard,” Duncan said. “Should we follow?”

Aiden shook his head. “Three strangers trailing in her shadow will surely alert the guards. We’ll split up. You two see what information you can gather at the Crimson Kettle.”

The expressions on Duncan and Graeme lightened. An evening at the alehouse with a pint in hand would be an easy one to pass.

“Rent us a room,” Aiden said. “I’ll meet you there when all is done.”

The two warriors nodded and crossed the lane.

Aiden followed Isabail Grant, keeping enough distance to appear uninterested, but not so far that he couldn’t see what she was about. When it was clear her destination was indeed the orchard, he circled around and threaded through the barren apple trees from the other side. Pretending to examine the trees, he was able to get within two rows of Lady Isabail and her party without drawing their gaze. His view was at an angle, partly obscured by tree trunks. Conveniently, a strong westerly wind carried their conversation to his ears.

“So, the rumors are true then?” Isabail asked her companion knight. The breeze whipped her cloak away from her body, and she tucked it closer. “Queen Yolande is quick with child?”

The sandy-haired soldier shrugged. “That is certainly the talk. She has withdrawn to Kinghorn with an entourage that includes a midwife, and the king has spared no expense to ensure her comfort.”

“I’ll pray that it is so,” Isabail said. “We’re in sore need of a royal prince. Such a shame that all three of Alexander’s heirs passed so young. And what news of my petition?”

“The king has been in Ross these past weeks. He has not yet made his decision.”

“But he’ll make it soon?”

“At next decree, I’m told.”

The young woman frowned. “Why would it be a weighty call? Who has a better claim than I?”

The knight offered his hand as they navigated a muddy patch of ground. “The Comyns insist the land rightfully belongs to them.”

Isabail snatched back her hand, anger evident in the red stains upon her cheeks. “Based on what? We border the land to the northeast, while the Comyns would need to cross the Red Mountains to reach it. There is—”

She said something further, but only the angry tone reached Aiden’s ears—the words were lost to the wind. He edged closer. Using his hunting knife, he pried a small piece of bark from the tree in front of him and peered at it, frowning.

“My claim is far superior,” insisted Isabail. “It’s only right that Dunstoras be granted to me in recompense. The miserable wretch murdered my brother.”

Aiden jerked, slicing his thumb on the blade.
He
murdered her brother?

“If I could see him into hell myself, I would,” she added. “MacCurran deserves to burn. His men freed the murderess along with their leader that night. No coincidence, I say. It’s clear they were working in concert. Only the lowest of lowborn curs would murder a good man—a respected peer of the realm—to acquire a blood jewel.”

“The king also mourns the loss of Henry de Coleville,” the knight reminded her. He bowed and extended an arm to suggest she lead the procession forward through the grove once more. “And he must cultivate the alliances that best serve Scotland.”

“That’s the value of my petition,” Isabail said, her eyes lighting with excitement. “If he sides with me, he can kill two pigeons with a single arrow. I can—” As they advanced down the row, the wind lifted her words away.

Eager to hear her intentions, Aiden wove between the trees, catching up the distance. But as he rounded a third gray trunk, he came face-to-face with the shiny tip of a guard’s spear. A burly fellow draped in the Lochurkie colors of green and black—who moved with more grace than Aiden would have credited him—stood between him and Isabail’s party.

“Name your business,” the guard growled hollowly through his steel helm.

The man’s hold on his weapon was careless, and it would have been easy to yank it from his hands. But as tempting as it was to teach the young pup a lesson, Aiden resisted. If he had indeed been charged with the earl’s murder, getting caught in the man’s domain would mean the noose for sure. No pleasant stay in the dungeon this time. Lochurkie’s warden would be justified in seeing him hang.

“I meant no offense,” he said, injecting a hint of nervous tremor into his voice. “I’m but a simple laborer, tasked with identifying trees tainted with black rot.” He held up the piece of bark in his hand. “Like this.”

The guard was wily. He made no attempt to inspect the bark—his gaze remained locked on Aiden’s face. “And if you find it?”

Aiden had taken several turns about the Dunstoras orchards with Master Tam. He knew the basics of good tree management, thank heaven. “I’m to remove all infected wood, as well as any dead prunings and withered apples, to limit the spread.”

The guard stared at Aiden through his helm for a long moment. Finally, he waved his spear. “Go on with you, then. Away from here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Aiden spun on his heel and headed deeper into the grove. A rueful sigh escaped his lips. Hopefully, Duncan and Graeme had achieved greater success. He was no closer to finding his mysterious man in black and time was running out.

•   •   •

Niall toiled for hours in the cellar. Despite every effort, he was unable to rid himself of the sweet taste of Ana’s lips or the searing burn in his blood. His desire for her had reached a near unbearable level.

He reminded himself repeatedly that she might be a murderess, but his gut refused to believe it, no matter how often he revisited the facts. Perhaps it was the obvious flush that rose to her cheeks whenever she lied, or the genuine concern that furrowed her brow as she tended to the injured. It might even be his memories of that night in Lochurkie, when a thin slip of a woman, her entire body atremble, had offered him a look of gut-wrenching gratitude that he did not deserve. The exact reason mattered not—he simply could not see Ana Bisset as the killer of children.

Which probably made him a fool.

As he raked scorched debris into a pile, clouds of fine black dust swirled into the air. Niall adjusted the linen scrap tied over his nose and mouth, but it was already soiled, and he coughed just the same. A thick layer of oily soot coated every inch of wall and ceiling, making it near impossible to avoid the grime.

It would take at least a sennight of solid work to set the cellars right. All around him, laborers hammered at blackened beams, carted out burnt refuse, and inventoried the remaining goods. But that was only the beginning. Once the destruction was cleared away, the repairs would start. Opportunities to pick the lock would be very rare indeed. Gaining entry to the coffers was going to require a spot of luck.

“No, no, no. I said take the undamaged goods up to the great hall.” The perpetually frowning steward, Eadgar, stood on the bottom step, calling out orders and breathing into a now heavily soiled handkerchief. “Do not stack them on the floor.”

The laborer obediently tossed his sack of apples over his shoulder and mounted the stairs.

Niall shoveled his pile of charred bits and chips into a pail. A very organized fellow, the steward. Aware of everything under his nose. Such a man would surely keep meticulous records, not unlike the friar. Notes on what goods were added into storage, what goods were lost, what goods were consumed. If such a notation existed for the necklace, he might be able to discover who had delivered the jewel to Duthes and prove Aiden innocent. Clearing his brother’s name would be a huge victory. Well worth any additional risk.

But he did not have free run of the manor. An unfamiliar face, he would be swiftly exposed if he started wandering the upper levels in search of the steward’s books.

“You, there!”

Niall glanced up.

Eadgar waved a hand at him. “Help those men remove the door.”

Two workers were unhinging the heavy oak door to the armory, which had sustained serious damage. Propping his shovel against the stone wall, Niall leapt to help. Together, he and one of the other men maneuvered the inch-thick, iron-banded panel down the corridor and out through the kitchen into the courtyard. They dropped the door on a growing pile of burnt wood.

“Are you near done?”

Niall turned. Ana stood behind him, her leather pouch slung over one shoulder, a wary look in her eyes. Almost as if she feared he would snatch her to him and kiss her again. Niall almost smiled. The idea was very tempting, save for the wealth of soot that covered his body. He was in dire need of a bath.

“Aye,” he said, pulling his linen mask down to take a deep breath of fresh air. The midday sun had made a valiant effort to warm the day. “The heavy work is complete. The maids and their brooms will finish the rest. Repairs will commence anon.”

She nodded. “Let’s away then.”

“After I drink from the well.”

“Can you not wait until we reach the bothy? I’ve water there.”

Niall allowed his feet to answer her question. He crossed to the well and drew a bucket of fresh water. Although it was difficult to ignore the tapping of her foot on the packed dirt and her repeated heavy sighs, he drank his fill before turning back.

“You, lass, are too impatient by half.”

“And
you
have no respect for the time of others.”

He frowned. “Can a man not reward his labors with a cup of water?”

“Not the now.”

Suddenly, the notion of kissing her wasn’t nearly as appealing as paddling her arse. The woman was a nag. “I’ll drink when I have the need.”

“Och, by all means, drink until you are sated. Drink until the moon rises. Drink until the summer winds arrive. Because
your
needs far outweigh those of others.”

He skewed her a hard stare. Her anger seemed excessive for such a small slight. “Who has stirred your ire so?”

“
You
have.”

“Surely not. I’ve been occupied in the cellars these past few hours.”

“Exactly.”

His frowned deepened. “You speak in riddles.”

“Not a quick-witted fellow, are you?” she said testily. “Did you forget that I’m promised to tend the village poor today?”

He had indeed forgotten, but her anger was still unwarranted. Taking her elbow, he guided her toward the manor gate. “You should have fetched me earlier.”

“And how, pray tell, was I to do that? The guards would not let me inside the kitchen, and you chose not to come out.”

“A message, perhaps?”

She snorted. “To do that, you need a willing body. I was told the work in the cellar was more important than any woman’s concerns and to go about my business.”

He glanced down at her. “And yet you waited for me.”

A flush stole up her throat and into her cheeks. “More the fool, I.”