The Outcast Highlander (13 page)

“No, Broc.” Alec grunted and walked to the dressing cabinet. “It’s time for you to be home and stay home. As the eldest, you carry the responsibility.” From the cabinet, he pulled the long, plaided cloak that Magnus Sinclair used to wear when entertaining or hosting a formality.

It was the symbol of everything Broc hated about this castle and this life. It trapped him here and put the laird’s yoke around his neck. He shifted in his bed.

“I’ve said what I need to say for now.” Duncan turned to leave. “We’ll speak more after you’ve rested.” When he exited the room, the rest of the men followed him. Alec left the
brat
hanging over the door of the cabinet, mocking him.

Malcolm turned, just as he was about to walk out the door and took one last look at Broc. “Don’t leave again.” Malcolm sounded almost emotional, as he stared at his brother. “It’s time you stayed with us for good.”

Broc nodded reluctantly and Malcolm finally left, seemingly content for the moment, and shut the door behind him. Yet after all the anger he’d endured from his brothers, the anger he couldn’t face was now trapped in the room with him.

Chapter Eleven

As Malcolm left, Kensey recognized the unnamed emotion she had seen when they first came across Broccin. It was the kind of respectful anger that she sometimes saw in Robert’s eyes when she had done something that he did not approve of. It was the kind of hurt only a younger brother could feel.

And of course, now she knew why Broccin’s face had seemed so familiar when she’d really seen it for the first time. Because it bore a very striking resemblance to Malcolm’s and Duncan’s. The similar clan had thrown her. She hadn’t seen the boy Broccin that she’d known in the face of the outcast Sinclair that she knew today.

Only now, she saw it. The same aloof disappointment. The same frustrated deference. He was always above, her always present.

After a moment of him staying in the bed with closed eyes, Kensey stood and took Robert by the arm, heading for the door as well. Broccin caught her gaze with tears in his eyes and she melted. Suddenly, he pulled the covers off his body and made a move to stand.

“Do not leave me, lass,” he said, quietly pleading. Kensey stopped, leaving Robert by the door, and rushed back to Broccin’s side. The plaintive note in his voice tore at her heart.

“You mustn’t get out of bed yet,” she chided, pushing him gently back into the giant bed and pulling the bedclothes up to cover his chest again.

“May I please stay, Kensey?” Robert begged from the door.

“I need you to run down to the kitchen and tell Lydia to send up a bowl of hot soup for Broc… for the Laird, and another pan of hot water with some more clean-boiled strips of cloth.” Kensey smiled at the young boy. “Now that he’s awake, we need to change the dressing of his wound. I’ll need you to find Peter, and when it’s all ready, bring it back up. Then you can stay.”

Robert ran out the door with a smile on his face and Kensey smiled to herself, turning back to Broccin. She knew, before even turning her head that he was staring at her.

“How long have I been asleep?” He averted his eyes when she tried to meet them with hers.

“Almost three days.” She sat on the chair next to the bed and straightened the folds of her dress, carefully watching her hands.

“And you stayed with me all that time?”

“Not all of it. Malcolm sat with you for a few hours, as did Brigid. And Duncan sat with Robert and I this morning. We are teaching Duncan to play shatranj.”

“Robert?”

“My brother.” She pointed to the door he’d just left through. “He came here with me.”

“Why are you here, Kensey?”

“So you remember me?” She raised her eyes to his. The connection heated her, even from a distance. She stepped backward and fell into the chair they left near the bed to allow the visitors some rest as they sat with him.

“Aye, how could I forget you?” he said, thickly.

With the heat she felt, she could look into his eyes no longer. “My mother has taken ill. And my father…” she stopped, the vivid thoughts of her father suffering in jail overcoming her ability to speak.

Broccin reached one of his large hands across the span of distance between them, and placed it atop her two small hands, clenched together in her lap. She jumped when their skin touched, but did not evade the heavy warmth. It comforted her to be touched by him.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said quietly. They sat very still for a few moments, his hand covering hers. She felt tears coming to her eyes, and took a deep breath to keep them at bay. Something about his touch made her want to tell him everything. The plans she and her mother had made. Her father stuck in custody of the English. Her brother’s pending responsibilities. Something in her heart told her that if anyone could fix all these things for her, it would be him. But could she trust him?

“We came to Duncan… er… to Castle St. Claire only a few days previous.”

“And brought me, with you,” Broccin said, almost chuckling. “Ah, lass, only you would have thought to bring me here.”

“Why?” The abrupt question turned down the heat between them, and he retreated. His hand moved from atop hers and slid back onto the bed.

“Why what?”

“Why did you ask me not to bring you here?” Kensey straightened the fall of her dress, pretending she didn’t notice the absence of his touch.

“I did not believe I would be welcome.”

“Nor did you think you would survive.” She smiled at him and folded a corner of the bedclothes into a more symmetrical covering.

“But it was your touch and your medicines, and here I am.”

The door opened, suddenly, and Robert staggered in, carrying a tray full of food.

“Lydia said you should not think only of Broccin, and sent food for all of us.” Rob wriggled under the weight. “Peter will be up with the other things later.”

Kensey jumped to her feet and went to help him with the loaded tray before he spilled anything. She took it from him and stilled as she thought of how to arrange things.

“Rob, pull that table over here from the door and we’ll eat by the bed.” She nodded toward the table with her head. She felt a body near her shoulder before she realized that he’d somehow hoisted himself out of the bed. The naked flesh of his chest was inches from her face, peeking over the nicely tightened bandage.

“I cannot let the lad lift that heavy thing by himself,” Broccin said before she could tell him otherwise. Kensey stepped in front of him, looking up into his face, sternly.

“I refuse to let you lift anything,” she said. “You might tear your stitching and then where would we be?” Looking around, she finally handed him the tray for holding. “You should at least sit on the bed. Robert and I will carry the table.”

Once the table was in place, Kensey began to set out the food. There was far too much abundance for merely the three of them and Kensey chuckled at Lydia’s preparation of the meal. But, thankfully, there was a bowl of steaming soup for Broccin and a pitcher of sheep’s milk, which she told Lydia he would need if he were to heal properly.

This is probably the first full meal he’s had in who knows how long
, Kensey thought. And though he was probably ravenous, he ate with at least a little care.

“Well, lad.” Broccin rested his arm gingerly on the table and tried to straighten his back. “We’ve not been introduced.”

“I’m Robert MacLeod.” Robert sat up and smiled. “She’s my sister.” He jerked his thumb in Kensey’s direction. “We came here to escape the English.”

“So I’ve heard,” Broccin said quietly. “And what do you do, Rob MacLeod?”

“I am teaching Duncan to play shatranj,” he boasted. “I can beat Kensey now.”

“When you pay attention,” she qualified. The boy acted himself at last. It was good to see him like this again. “He is quite good at strategy, when he’s paying attention.”

“Do you play?” Robert asked, turning to Broccin.

“I have never heard of this game, shatranj.”

“It is a game that my grandfather received from a far away land. I could teach you to play after we finish eating,” Robert said.

“I don’t know about that.” Kensey looked from Broccin to Robert. “Malcolm said he would take you and Peter riding this afternoon and I need to change those bandages. Besides, the Laird needs his sleep.”

Broccin’s face creased into a silent wince. Kensey wasn’t sure if he was in pain or if it was the title that bothered him so. Surely he wasn’t in that big of a hurry to be back on the mountainside, homeless and loveless.

She pressed the bowl of steaming herbs toward him. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”

“Then after I go riding?” Robert begged, pulling on Kensey’s sleeve. When she nodded finally, Rob beamed a happy smile.

“Aye, lad, I would be happy to beat you at any game.”

Kensey could see how much they both needed this. Broccin needed someone who could look at him with admiration, and Robert needed someone who could pay him the attention he so missed from his father. She allowed herself the thought that this might work out better than she expected, after all.

* * *

Peter arrived with the materials Kensey had requested from Lydia and took Robert riding, after the boys managed a promise from Broccin that he would learn to play shatranj when they returned. This seemed to be a theme with Broccin, promising that he would be here when someone returned. She wondered if he truly might just slip out and be gone, and she would be the only one surprised.

Something deep in his eyes told her he wanted to stay. She knew each time she saw it, she wasn’t imagining. He might be deeply hurt, but he longed for this.

“You have a charming lad, there, Kensey MacLeod.”

She laughed and fished around on Lydia’s tray for all the things she needed. “He can be charming. Or he can be a little rascal.”

“But you love him anyway, do you not?”

“Of course I do,” she said, her voice softening. “He’s all I have right now, except for...” she stopped, unsure of what she was about to say.
Except for my dying mother, except for my imprisoned and dethroned father… except for you
? But that could not have been it.

“You do well by him, I think,” he said, staying seated on the bed while she pulled the freshly boiled cloth strips from the tray Peter had delivered. When she stood in front of him, she pulled at his good arm.

“You’ll have to stand up.” She leaned on the table and covered a yawn. “Do you have the strength to stand?”

“Aye.” He held the bedpost as he stood. “Do you?”

“What?” She untied the tiny knot under his arm and let the bandages loosen.

“You look tired, lass. You mustn’t have slept for days.” Broc sucked in a breath and peered down at his side. “Does it look any better?”

“I’ll be fine.” She took a step nearer, flustered by his constant attention. “You are healing as I expected, and my sleeping habits are none of your concern. Just lift your arms.”

He cringed as he lifted his arms to shoulder height and had to brace his left arm against the bed again. The remains of his tunic rode dangerously low on his lean hips and Kensey hoped she didn’t disturb it at all in this process, lest it fall right to the ground and then she’d be in a terrible predicament. She wasn’t sure she could concentrate on the task at hand if she was faced with all his nakedness.

She untucked the bandage, grazing his abdominal muscles with her fingers in the process. He flinched and she looked up into his eyes.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

“Aye.” His jaw tightened. “I’ll tell you.”

“Because I can give you something for your pain.
      

He repeated that to himself.
She belongs to Duncan
.
I should not take liberties with this lass. She belongs to my brother
. Feeling suddenly conscious of his desire, he looked away from her.

“It is called verbena,” she said, softly, ignoring his insinuation, and looking down at his wound. “If you apply it to the area of the wound, it will bring down the swelling, which should help with the pain.”

She continued to touch his skin while unwrapping the bandages and each time she touched him, he drew back as if she’d burned him. Once the bandages were completely off, he stood, almost completely bare, in front of her. The remains of his plaid tunic hung on gingerly, and still rode much too low on his hips, although he didn’t seem aware of it
.

So instead of worrying about his nakedness, she attended to the wound. From what she could tell, it seemed to be healing. She took the verbena salve Ete made her carry and applied a bit to the stitching with a careful hand. He flinched under her fingers, but did not say a word. She picked up the clean bandages and began to wrap his midsection once again.

“You have the touch, lass,” he whispered as she reached behind him to grab the bandages out of her other hand. Her face was almost pressed against his heart, as her arms barely fit around his broad chest and she daren’t go any lower than that as she was forced into closeness with his rigid body.

“What?” A brief second of electricity passed between them, their heads mere inches from one another and her cheeks flamed.

“The healing touch.”

“Oh, I see.” She lowered her head, but felt no more comfortable in this position. Now she was staring directly into his chest, her nose could have fit into the groove between the muscles of his chest. She wished she had waited for Duncan or Malcolm to help her, because she was growing entirely too fond of the way she felt when she was close to him.

Quickly, she finished wrapping his midsection and knotted the ends of the bandage. He lowered his arms to his sides, slowly.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. Before either of them could answer, Duncan stepped inside the room. His eyes widened and went immediately to her hands resting on Broccin’s chest. She stepped back, averting her gaze and wishing to be turned into something tiny and scurrying before anything more ludicrous passed between them.

***