The Return of Black Douglas (28 page)

“I will need you to boil water and bring it to me along with another container of boiled water to which soap has been added. Bring some clean cloths and soap to wash my hands. If you have brandy, bring that. I also want a bowl of mashed garlic, enough that I can pack the entire wound with it.”

Mistress MacMorran disappeared through the door.

“You are using garlic,” Isobella said. “I know people in this time period sometimes used garlic and honey. I wasn’t certain which you would choose.”

“Honey certainly has antibacterial and wound-healing properties because it produces hydrogen peroxide on dilution of the honey with wound exudate. However, this wound has progressed too far for honey to control. I’m sure the tusks were covered with all kinds of nasty bacteria that have spread quickly in that bound wound.”

Isobella’s jaw dropped, for she had never heard her sister speak like… well, like a doctor. It struck her suddenly that her sister really was a doctor, and that meant more than just being able to write “MD” after her name.

Colin entered with Gavin and Grim, joined a moment later by Drust and their three sisters. They stood quietly to one side, and Isobella glanced around the room.

“Where is Alysandir?”

“He stayed behind,” Drust said.

“Behind where?”

“Angus wouldn’t let me leave unless a Mackinnon stayed to take my place, so Alysandir stayed,” Elisabeth said.

“But Alysandir is the chief. Why didn’t one of you stay?” she asked, looking at Drust.

“Because he
is
the chief, lord, and protector,” Barbara said. “He would never ask his brothers or his men to do something he would not do. If ye are worrit aboot the Macleans harming him, they willna. Angus will release Alysandir when Elisabeth returns. That was the agreement, and Angus will abide by it.”

Elisabeth turned back to further examine the wound. “It is abscessed, and it is surrounded with cellulitis. I need to clean it thoroughly.” She placed her hand on Bradan’s arm and smiled down at him. “You needn’t be afraid, Bradan. Once I have it all cleaned up, I will fill it with mashed garlic. That will kill all the bacteria.”

“Will ye sew it?”

She patted his cheek. “No, laddie. It must be left open so it can drain in the fresh air and then it will close on its own.” She took his hand in hers. “Do you have any questions?”

“Can I see the bac-tera after ye kill it?”

“No, you cannot see it and neither can I, because it is so very, very tiny. No one can see it unless they have a very thick piece of glass to look through that makes the bacteria very large.”

“How do ye ken that the bac-tera is there if ye canna see it?”

“I can tell by the symptoms—that is, by the way the wound looks and your high fever.”

“How will I know it is deid, then?”

She ruffled his hair. “Because you will get well. The garlic should kill all of the bacteria, right down to the last little devil.”

They plied Bradan with brandewijn, and Elisabeth set to work. When she pulled the wound open to clean it, what she called purulent matter began to run from the wound.

Mrs. MacMorran arrived with two maids carrying basins of water, mashed garlic, and cloths. Elisabeth scrubbed her hands and set to work, cleaning the wound, first with warm water and then with warm, soapy water.

“How many people did you have helping you to peel garlic?” Isobella asked.

Mrs. MacMorran replied, “Aboot half o’ the castle, I think. Màrrach and everyone in it smell o’ garlic.”

As soon as Elisabeth finished cleaning the wound with the soapy water, the redness began to recede markedly. “I am going to put the garlic in the wound now. You won’t notice anything right away, but it will start to improve some by tomorrow. Then it will get better day by day.”

Once the wound was packed full of garlic, she said, “There! We are all finished.” She patted Bradan’s arm. “And you, my brave laddie, were by far the best patient I have ever treated. I heard you haven’t eaten anything, and it is very important that you do. Will you try a little soup?”

Bradan nodded, but by the time it arrived, he was asleep.

“Why did you leave the wound open?” Isobella asked.

“If you suture it, an air-free environment is created for anaerobic bacteria to proliferate. That is the bad stuff that causes botulism and gangrene and lots of other baddies you don’t want to have.”

A melancholy cloud settled over Isobella. “I wish you didn’t have to go back. We seem to be like two stars in separate constellations.

Elisabeth seemed amused. “Remember the saying, Izzy… ‘Distance endears friendship and absence sweetens it.’”

Isobella’s brows raised and she gave Elisabeth a questioning look, while inwardly she was wondering just whose absence was being sweetened by all of this.

“Has some handsome Maclean caught your attention?”

“No, but there’s a Mackinnon who has.”

“Drust?”

Elisabeth smiled a cat-like smile. Suddenly, Isobella knew who it was. Oh my, Elisabeth has gone over to the dark side. The image of Ronan, the Greek god of the Mackinnon family, popped into her mind’s eye. Ronan the Rogue, as she called him, with the strong, arrogant face, hawkish nose, sensual mouth, killer smile, and mane of glossy black hair that hung past his shoulders. Ronan could have his pick of any woman alive.

“You’re after Ronan.”

Elisabeth ignored that and said, “You have a fine man in Alysandir, and I hope you work out your differences. They don’t come any better, and you know that.” Then she asked, “Have you told him about the baby?”

“No.”

“You must tell him.”

“I will when I am ready.”

“It better be soon because you can’t hide it indefinitely.”

Chapter 30

The heart of a woman falls back with the night,

And enters some alien cage in its plight,

And tries to forget it has dreamed of the stars

While it breaks, breaks, breaks on the sheltering bars.

—“The Heart of a Woman,” 1918
Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880?–1966)
U.S. poet, playwright, and musician

A wild wind moaned over Duart Castle as a hurrying shape made his way slowly down the winding passageways. Silently, he kept close to the damp, stone walls until he reached the stairs and went down them soundlessly to the ground floor. The night was pitch dark and moonless, and most of those in the castle had been asleep for hours by the time he reached the door and stepped out into the night.

Alysandir crossed the bailey, staying close to the wall and out of the rectangular shaft of light coming from the guardroom. He could hear the guards talking, interspersed with some good-natured cursing as he slipped into the stable. He found and saddled Gallagher quickly.

The night sentries would be returning soon, and he waited quietly in the dark shadows near the portcullis for their arrival. When they rode into the bailey, he spurred Gallagher into a full gallop and thundered past the sentries and out of the castle before anyone was aware of what had happened.

Soon they vanished into the arms of the night, accompanied by the commotion coming from the castle—shouts and the sounds of horses being mounted. By the time the guards gave chase, Alysandir and Gallagher had already vanished into the cloak of darkness.

After a lively meal in the Great Hall with much laughter and dancing, Isobella decided to call it a night. She didn’t worry about keeping Elisabeth company, for Ronan kept dragging her out to dance. In good spirits and happy for her sister, she walked from the room, smiling.

She was almost to the stairs when a hand closed around her upper arm. Alysandir pulled her down the hallway with him, stopping long enough to unlock a door before he pulled her inside. He locked the door before he turned back to her.

“I have missed ye.”

“How did you talk Angus into letting you go?”

“I escaped.”

“Oh dear, does that mean war?”

“Nae, but he will want to even the score. Ye dinna seem glad to see me, lass. It makes me question my long, wet ride from Duart Castle.”

She smiled at him and put her arms around his neck. “Of course I missed you, and I’m happy you are back.”

She rose up on her toes to give him a light kiss and found herself swept into his arms. He moved his hand to the back of her head, drawing her lips against his. The feel of his mouth, warm against her trembling mouth, was painfully tender, and she wanted him, wholly, completely, almost desperately, but she also wanted him properly—and that put them on two different planets.

She pulled back, glanced around the room, and gave a start when she realized she had never been here before. Curiosity got the best of her. The room was designed for a woman, and judging by its size, the number of windows, and the beautiful furnishings, it belonged to a woman of great importance. Surely he had not brought her to a room occupied by his long string of mistresses?

“Just who does this room belong to?” she asked, tiny shards of bitterness creeping into her voice and penetrating her bones. That he would think so little of her…

“’Tisn’t the abode of a woman I have bedded, if that is yer concern,” he said, almost affably. “I might have expected such a reply from ye, for ye do have more than just a hint of red in that hair of yours. However, to answer yer question, ’twas my mother’s room. I wanted to show it to ye. ’Twould please me to have ye move here.”

She could not hide her amazement. The bed was large and covered with handwoven coverings of fine embroidery. The tapestry on the wall represented the coronation of Robert the Bruce, with an angel placing the royal crown of Scotland upon his head. But most impressive was the oriel window, corbelled out from the wall that extended outward, much like a modern-day bay window, but in this case, a much more ornate and beautifully designed piece of architecture.

An abundance of cushions was scattered over a covered seat beneath the windows. Along one wall was a small but very fine library with a French writing desk in front of it. She ran her hand over the writing box sitting to one side. “It looks like it must have looked when she lived in it.”

“It is just as she left it.”

“And none of the other occupants wanted to leave their mark upon it?”

“No one has been in this room. I locked it the day our mother was buried. I opened it fer ye. I want you to have this room and everything in it.”

Too much, her mind cried out. It was too much. She shook her head, and holding her hand up in supplication toward him, she began backing away. “No, I cannot. It is truly beautiful, and I am touched that you would offer it to me, but I couldn’t accept it. I don’t belong here.”

“It is mine to do with as I please. I am giving it and everything in it to you.” He went to the bookcase and pulled on one of the shelves. It sprang open. Behind it was a small casket full of jewelry. “I want you to have these.”

“Oh, Alysandir, I cannot. You should give them to your sisters.”

He slammed the casket down upon the desk and put his hands on her shoulders to prevent her from leaving. “Dinna be such a little fool. Dinna ye see what I am offering ye?” His eyes were dark, stormy, and blazing down at her. She made a move to turn away, but he tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Nae, no running away. Not this time,” he said, looking angry enough to shake her.

He yanked her hard against him. She tried to move, but he held her head firmly against his chest. Her heart was pounding wildly, and she could not seem to catch her breath. Everything about him was overpowering. His breath was warm upon her skin, his eyes penetrating her defenses, his arms too strong, his mouth deliciously close and then coming down hard upon hers, hard.

She pushed against him with clenched fists and tried to turn away, but his hands cupped her face and held her in place. She fought against it, but as always, she ceased to struggle after a few minutes. She had no willpower strong enough to withstand her feelings for him or to resist the unrelenting demand of his lips. Nor could she ignore the hard strength of his body, the throb of the rhythmic beating of his heart piercing her defenses, and the ungovernable desire for him that swept through her like a runaway fire.

Then everything changed. Now he kissed her with surprising gentleness, and she felt herself responding in earnest. She wanted him to keep on kissing her until she melted. She relaxed against him and followed his lead. She savored the strength in his arms and the hardness of his body. Even his scent was arousing, and when his mouth closed over hers again, a long-held moan vibrated from low in her throat.

This time, his kiss was hard and seeking, almost brutally erotic, his lips moving over hers again and again. He kissed her cheeks, her throat, and her ear, tugging on the lobe. Her heart pounded painfully, and the blood pulsed into her starved lungs.

He lifted her into his arms and backed her against the bookcase. His hand searched for the hem of her skirt and then traveled warmly up her leg to the juncture of her thighs. She made one weak attempt to push him away, but his hand found the place that it sought and he pressed himself closer, touching her over and over again until she gasped. She no longer had the will to resist him. A moment later, she began to pant and her hips began to move in rhythm.

She could not control her body. Mindless with desire, she was barely cognizant that his other hand had begun to work the buttons down the front of her gown until it opened. He left her long enough to push the garment apart, slipping it over her arms and down to the floor. Her undergarments followed until she was completely bare. He held her arms immobile as he kissed his way downward, torturing her with his mouth until she cried out, digging her fingers into his hair.

She was so weak. She could not stand, and she thought surely they would move to the bed, but he turned her to lie across the desk. He entered her, moving with sure strokes until she shuddered and cried out and called his name, begging him to stop. Instead, he continued until she was mindlessly consumed by desire once more.

Alysandir began to kiss her, with kisses as soft and gentle as they had been hard and passionate before, and she writhed against him, wanting him to be more forceful. She wanted him, needed him to stop the agony, but he tortured her, bringing her close and then pulling back until she was crying for him to give her release. When he began again, she cried out.

She was intoxicated with feeling, as if her blood had turned to brandy, flowing hot, raw, and burning in her veins. It touched every part of her, searing one moment, freezing the next. She was smoldering and then shuddering over and over and over until he groaned with his own release. She did not know what happened after that, for everything went blank and she could not speak nor think, for all was feeling… exquisite, beautiful, unbelievable feeling. Nothing existed but him.

He was the only man for her. He knew how to touch her in a way that called forth her wildness, her untamed spirit that so perfectly matched his. She had opened beneath him and cried out his name, wild with wanting him as much as he wanted her and feeling no shame. She lay completely spent beneath him, as spent as he, her hands moving absently in his sweat-dampened hair. His scent floated over her, a fresh, wind-whipped smell of the outdoors, of grasses and moors, of wild things and the harshness of the sea—the very the essence of life.

She knew the magic of his hands and mouth. It did not matter that others had shown him or had lain beneath him as she had done, burning with need, opening beneath the quest of his mouth and his hands, feeling the size and strength of him when he ended the torture and gave her peace.

No matter what he said, he was hers. She belonged with him. She understood now why the Black Douglas had brought them together. That dear, beloved, unflappable ghost knew she belonged with Alysandir and had done the impossible to right a wrong that had placed them eons apart in different centuries.

Douglas knew she was destined to be in Alysandir’s arms since before she was born, not by forfeit, or capture, accident, or betrothal, but because it was meant to be. She yearned to tell Alysandir of her discovery, of the newborn love that grew inside her. She would hold the secret for a little longer, tucked away in the center of her heart until he spoke, at last, the words she yearned to hear.

I love you
.

When sanity returned, he silently helped her dress. Then he kissed her again, not with passion this time, but softly, gently. As he turned to lead her from the room, he picked up the casket of his mother’s jewels.

“These were meant to be yours.”

A gentle wind swept into the room, warm and fragrant, and she knew the ghost of the Black Douglas was nearby. She was almost giddy, believing somehow that his presence blessed this moment, this oneness she shared with Alysandir. But then the wind changed suddenly, bitter cold replacing the warmth, and she shivered. It was as if she was standing alone on a great summit covered with snow, while the world basked in warmth and sunlight below. She did not understand what was going on. But before she could react, Alysandir spoke again, distracting her.

“Take them. They are yours,” he said. He thrust the casket into her hands.

Confused, she stared down at the box. Was this his way of telling her he cared enough for her to make her his wife? Just as his mother had been wife to his father? As his wife, the jewels would belong to her. Her heart swelled with delight for it was his way of saying that he loved her. She was about to pour her heart out to him, but something held her back.

His gaze traveled over her, slow and deliberate, as he said, “There is no dishonor in being my woman. All will know when ye move into this room that ye are, in my affections, far above any mistress whose bed I have shared.”

Mistress… back to Square One, after all they’d just shared. Couldn’t he see that they were meant for each other? Was he truly incapable of loving her? If he had taken his dirk and stabbed her in the heart, it would have wounded her less. She felt her legs weaken. Her head began to spin, and she knew she was going to faint.

Please, she whispered in her mind. I don’t want him to know how much I care. Not now. Not like this.

A crack of thunder rent the skies. A fierce wind blew down the chimney and swirled around them. Isobella felt the weakness, hurt, and shame flow out of her. She was a Douglas; her baby would be a Douglas. Good blood flowed in her veins… the blood of warriors who didn’t cower or bow, no matter what they endured. She raised her chin and looked up at Alysandir, his proud, dark head hovering like a bird of prey over her. He regarded her silently, searching her face, waiting for an answer that was not forthcoming.

***

Her body rested, but her mind did not, and when she awoke, the memory of the previous night was there waiting for her. She lay abed for some time before she dressed and went downstairs to breakfast. Thankfully, she had slept later than usual and she was the only one in the hall, other than the servants. She ate enough to rid herself of hunger, but she had no real appetite. She was worried.