“You’ve done enough.” He looked back at her, his dark gaze piercing. “The swords and axes will find their way to Valhalla or God’s heaven along with thon fallen champion and the other slain men. But” – he tightened his grip on her wrists, then released her, swiftly – “I will place the weapons in any remaining hands.”
“I don’t want your help.” Catriona narrowed her eyes, struggling to accept the futility of arguing with a towering pillar of pure and stubborn Highland male.
She wasn’t sure she could resist.
So she kept her chin angled, defiant. “Clan Donald women always do such honors. Your own sister is doing the same for your Cameron dead.
“She is there, see!” Catriona glanced across the field where, although Isobel held no weapons, she still moved among her clan’s fallen. Watery sun shone on her raven-black hair, making the dark tresses shimmer. And she wore a cloak that looked much too fine and delicate for the cold. But the mantle must’ve been more substantial than it appeared, for its folds didn’t catch in the wind.
James followed her gaze. “I see Beathag, our Cook’s wife.”
“You don’t see-” Catriona blinked. A stout, older woman was picking her way among the rocks and heather, a clutch of swords pressed against her ample hip.
Isobel was gone.
“I saw your sister kneeling beside a man.” Frowning, Catriona turned back to James. “She was-”
“Isobel is tending the wounded.” James looked at her strangely. “She’s with the other women beyond yon cluster of whin and broom.” He indicated a long thicket of the yellow-blooming bushes. “They’re seeing to the men most grievously injured. Your own Blackshore laundress, Maili, is there with them.
“You should go to them.” His eyes darkened, every hard, intensely masculine inch of him crowding her even though he hadn’t moved. “I saw you press your hand to your hip when you straightened from thon Berserker. You winced and-”
“I did no such thing.” Catriona wouldn’t show him weakness. Not after all that had happened between them. “I’m as able to carry a few swords and axes as any woman. And” – she didn’t bother to tamp down the fury welling inside her – “there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.”
“I ne’er said there was.” James set down the weapons he’d been holding and took a small leather-wrapped flagon from his sword belt. “Here” – he offered the flask to her – “have a sip of uisge beatha. Battles make people see odd things. Thon woman is Beathag and no one else.”
“I can see that.” Catriona waved away the whisky. “Now. But I know what I saw before.”
“You didn’t see my sister.” He fastened the flagon back onto his belt.
“Perhaps not….” Catriona felt a chill. “Could be the woman was-”
“All Cameron women save Beathag are with the wounded.” His harsh tone said more than his words. As did the sudden hard glint in his eye and the twitching muscle that leapt to life in his jaw.
She’d seen the Castle Haven ghost again.
And James knew it.
But for some reason, he didn’t want to admit the lovely raven-haired spirit existed.
He also seemed bent on ignoring their night, no matter how hotly the memory beat around them, stirring the air. She couldn’t deny the challenge sizzling between them, the storm of passion that seethed inside her whenever he was near. Since then, much of it was angry passion, but it still made her heart thunder and sent quivers of sensation all through her. A dizzy kind of madness that only worsened the longer he stood before her, so tall, dark, and irresistible.
Which meant it was time to be rid of him.
She glanced about as unobtrusively as she could, searching for someone – anyone, or even anything – she could use as a reason to send him on his way.
But there was nothing.
This corner of the field stretched empty. Nothing stirred except the autumn wind, brisk, cold, and blowing ever-thickening curtains of mist across the rock and heather. An eerie creaking sound came from a nearby copse of pines, but the noise was only branches tossing in the wind.
If she wanted to be free of James, it fell to her to escape him.
So she flicked at her sleeve, pretending indifference.
Then…
Quickly, she darted around him, but tripped over a sword hilt. James caught her before she could slam to her knees, flashing his arm around her waist in an iron-hard grip. But before he could right her, he also lost his footing and they tumbled into a springy patch of heather.
James landed on top of her, the long, hard weight of him pinning her to the ground. He’d tightened his arms around her as they’d toppled and he still held her fiercely, making it hard to breathe. Worse, his mouth was only a breath away from hers. And the desire in his eyes sent a jolt of pure feminine excitement racing through her.
“Get off me!” She squirmed, trying to wriggle out from beneath him.
But he only shot to his knees, straddling her with his powerful thighs, his hands braced on either side of her shoulders, caging her.
“Destiny, sweet, is everything. And” – he leaned down, bringing his face even closer to hers than before – “it seems my fate is be plagued by you!”
Then he slanted his mouth across hers, stifling any protest she might’ve made with a hard, rough kiss that was fierce, hot, and much more savage than their kiss in the stair tower. He swept one hand behind her neck, cupping her head with his strong fingers as he deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue between her lips to dance with hers as waves of pleasure began washing through her.
Her entire body tingled, arching against him as she slid her arms around his shoulders, clinging to him. She plunged her hands into his hair, tangling her fingers in the thick, silky strands.
“Ahhh…” Feeling dizzy, she let her tongue twirl and caress his, again and again, needing more. The taste and scent of him filled her senses, the heady thrill of his kiss blotting everything except the feel of powerful hard-muscled body pressed so intimately close to hers, the magic of his kiss, so impossibly seductive.
Then - just when she was sure the world had ended, leaving them alone in bliss – he broke away, leaping to his feet as if he’d been jabbed with a red-hot poker.
He threw his plaid back over his shoulder and shoved both hands through his hair. Hands that shook slightly, Catriona saw with much satisfaction.
She also heard voices – men’s Lowland accents – and, following James’ gaze, she saw Earl David, Sir Walter, and their guardsmen walking among the fallen, coming slowly in their direction.
“I’m sorry, lass, after the night of the bath, I’d sworn no’ to come near you again.” James glanced towards the approaching men, then back to her. “To be sure, I’d no’ willfully cause you shame.”
He reached to help her to her feet. “You bring out the worst in me.”
“Plagues will do that!” Catriona ignored his outstretched hand and scrambled up on her own, brushing furiously at her skirts.
Then, before he could stop her, she snatched up the discarded swords and axes and strode away, leaving him to stand beside the crushed clump of heather.
He might think he’d just salvaged her honor.
But she knew the truth.
He thought she was a plague.
And that was a great shame. Because now, more than ever, she knew he was the only man she’d ever want. Worst of all, she was pretty sure she’d fallen in love with him. And, she knew, her chances of happiness with James Cameron were about as good as if she were betrothed to Lore MacShade.
She kicked a pebble as she marched along.
Just now, she’d almost prefer Lore.
Chapter 18
Hours later, at the Cameron end of the field, Catriona stepped beneath the shelter of two large sailcloths stretched across staked poles and was sure she’d entered the anteroom of hell.
“Dear saints.” She paused just inside the door flap, pressing a hand to her breast.
The makeshif
t infirmary was worse than she’d dared to imagine.
Moans, groans, and worse sounds filled the air. Wounded men, the source of the terrible noises, lay on plaids and pallets. Women tended them, many looking almost as spent and ragged as the injured men. A light rain pattered on the sailcloth roof and gusting mist blew in through tent’s opening flap each time someone hurried in or out, which appeared to happen often.
And because daylight was fading, scores of wax and tallow candles burned everywhere, casting a flickering reddish-orange glow on the shelter’s linen walls. The flames from braziers and the fires beneath three steaming cauldrons added to the hellish scene, though the acrid woodsmoke from the kettle fires helped chase the stench of blood.
“Dinnae think to smear your owl droppings on me!” Kendrew’s deep voice came from one of the pallets. “I’ll slit you belly to gullet if you dare. I’ve ne’er laid a hand to a woman, so you’ll be the first.”
Turning, Catriona saw him at once. Purple-faced with outrage, he lay on a plaid, a folded wolf’s pelt bolstering his burly shoulders. He’d pushed up on his elbows to glower at the stout woman kneeling over him. Her strong-looking hands held a small wooden bowl, the object of Kendrew’s upset.
Catriona recognized the woman as Beathag, the Cook’s wife from Castle Haven.
“‘Tis gannet tallow and crushed elder leaves, naught else.” Beathag’s voice came as calm as Kendrew’s was angry. “Even you must know that solan goose fat soothes wounded flesh.” She dipped her fingers into the bowl, reaching to smooth the ointment onto Kendrew’s stomach. “The crumbled elder leaves will do the rest, healing your cut before-”
“Are you blind as well as a pest?” Kendrew roared. “I’ve a scratch, no cut. You wasted good stitching thread on me and I’ll no’ have your smelly goop-”
“He’s been the worst of them all.” Isobel appeared at Catriona’s elbow, several lengths of clean linen bandaging draped over her arm. “The big ones always fuss the most, though he did take Beathag’s needle pricks without a word. The cut to his groin was deeper than a scratch. It was wicked, reaching nearly to his man parts.”
Isobel glanced his way, blushing.
“I heard James cut him.” Catriona followed Isobel’s gaze. Kendrew didn’t see them looking at him, for he was too busy glaring at Beathag. But he was sitting upright now and the reddish glow from the kettle fires fell across him, picking out the blue battle-kill marks he carved on his massive chest and arms.
Catriona shuddered, recalling his ferocity.
Isobel appeared fascinated.
“The marks count each man he’s felled in battle.” Catriona saw no reason not to enlighten Isobel. She just didn’t mention it was Maili who’d told her – or how Maili knew. “My brother might’ve been his next mark if James hadn’t challenged Kendrew when he was hacking at Alasdair with his ax.”
“Dear me – you’ve come to see your brother and I’ve kept you.” Isobel touched her arm, Kendrew and his blue kill-marks apparently forgotten. “He’s over there, with his dog. They’re just beyond the cauldrons….”
Isobel glanced toward the three fire kettles where a red-faced woman twice the size of Beathag scooped dipperfuls of steaming water into pails held by a seemingly endless stream of harried, tired-looking women and a few wide-eyed boys who were clearly kitchen lads.
Alasdair was nowhere to be seen, though that wasn’t surprising as he was surely supine on a pallet, just like all the other men. And Geordie would be pressed against his side, sharing the ordeal.
But Catriona did spot a woman’s fair head, her hair as bright as a Nordic summer sun. The woman knelt behind the third cauldron, her back to the tent’s opening flap where Catriona and Isobel stood. Images from Catriona’s night at Castle Nought flashed through her mind. Only one woman she knew had such shining golden tresses.
Or such a proud, commanding set to her shoulders.
Especially in such a hellish place where most backs were hunched with exertion and even the most diligent shoulders sagged in weariness.
“Marjory Mackintosh is here?” Catriona wasn’t surprised to see Lady Norn near Alasdair.
“That’s her, aye.” Isobel nodded, praise in her tone. “She’s a wizard with a needle and seems to know as much of healing as Beathag. She tended your brother and she vows he’ll regain full use of his arm. Your laundress, Maili, helped her and” – Isobel leaned close, whispering – “Maili said Marjory murmured ancient Norse blessings over the stitching thread before she set to work.”
Any other time, Catriona would’ve smiled.
She could well imagine Lady Norn promising to feed blood to Odin’s ravens for all her days if the Norse god of battle helped her win Alasdair’s heart.
The moony eyes they’d made at each other at Castle Nought had shown the way that wind blew.
Hopefully she hadn’t made a similar fool of herself to James earlier. If he guessed how she felt about him, after what had happened between them, she’d never live down the shame. Just the thought set her blood to buzzing in her ears. Feeling almost dizzy, she forced herself to stand straighter and hold onto her nerves.
“Has anyone seen to James?” She blurted the question she hadn’t planned to ask. “I’m good with a needle. If his ankle still needs care-”
She bit her tongue before any more such nonsense could escape her lips.
Something in the woodsmoke must be addling her wits.
She was the last soul James would want tending him.
But Isobel just lifted a brow, giving her a woman-to-woman look. “He saw to the gash himself. He used to help Beathag when he was a lad. She has a son about James’ age and the two of them followed her everywhere. I’d vow” – she stepped aside when someone threw back the door flap and hurried past them, into the tent – “James can sew a wound better than any woman here, save Beathag herself.
“He was here only moments ago if you” – Isobel’s brow inched a bit higher – “wished to speak to him?”
She didn’t.
If she did, she might stick a stitching needle in his eye.
She was that angry with him. Still.
“Shall I send someone to find him?” Isobel’s gaze flickered to the kitchen laddies near the cauldrons.
“Nae.” Catriona shook her head, no doubt too vigorously. She could also feel her face heating. “I came to help, that’s all.” She rolled back her sleeves, showing her well-scrubbed hands and arms. “I washed at the spring outside the tent. So if I can-”
“The worst is past us now, praise be.” Isobel patted the bandaging on her arm. “I was just returning these linens to the bandage creels.” She nodded toward the row of large wicker baskets running along one side of the tent, most of the creels empty now.
“All of the injured men have been tended.” She looked back to Catriona. “Most of us are just seeing to their comfort now. Plumping bolsters and making sure the pallets are as clean as we can keep them.” She flipped her braids over her shoulders, and then rubbed the back of her neck. “There’s wine and ale to be passed around to the men who are thirsty. And uisge beatha or draughts of Beathag’s sleeping tisane for those who need something stronger.
“Anything you wish to do is welcome.” Isobel glanced deeper into the smoky, stinking tent. “The men” – her voice hitched, roughly – “they are grateful, whatever.”
Isobel frowned and lifted a hand, dashing at her cheek. “None of us should be here, doing this….” She spoke low, blinking hard against the sheen in her eyes.
And in that moment, Isobel looked so much like the beautiful, raven-haired haint, that Catriona could only stare at her.
She touched her amber necklace, noting that the stones were chilled as ice. Almost as if the spirit of ambers had withdrawn into some mysterious depths, hiding from the battle and its terrible aftermath.
But she was there.
And so was Isobel, along with every other woman of the glen. Including, she knew, one who no one else had seen or ack
nowledged. It seemed a grievous slight for Catriona was sure the raven-haired beauty felt the day’s tragedy as deeply as the living women.
So she swallowed against the sudden thickness in her own throat. And then she drew a nerve-summoning breath, reaching to grip Isobel’s arm.
“I must ask you….” Catriona’s voice was amazingly firm. “Is there a ghost at Castle Haven? A lovely young woman with hair like yours and-”
“You’ve seen her?” Isobel’s eyes flew wide.
Catriona nodded. “I believe so. Unless there is someone flitting about who looks very much like you, but prefers to stay hidden.”
Isobel’s eyes went even rounder. “She’s said to look like me. Or” – she shook her head as if she couldn’t believe her own words – “perhaps I should say that I am believed to resemble her, because she lived so very long ago.”
Catriona’s pulse quickened. “You know who she is, then?”
“To be sure.” Isobel glanced round, dropping her voice. “But you mustn’t tell anyone else you’ve seen her, for she is a bringer of bad tidings.
“She is Lady Scandia.” Isobel leaned close, speaking the name against Catriona’s ear. “She’s known as-”
“The Doom of the Camerons,” a deep voice finished behind them. “And to see her brings ill fortune and sorrow to all.”
“James!” Catriona spun around, her heart beating madly. He stood just inside the tent flap, his damp-glistening hair and clean plaid, showing that he must’ve bathed at the nearby spring.
He was also bending such a dark look on her that she forgot all about his spectral ancestress and only wanted to kick him in the shins.
“I will tell Lady Catriona of Scandia.” He spoke to his sister, but his words brought the raven-haired beauty right back into Catriona’s mind.
And – God help her – whatever the poor woman’s tale, his harsh tone when he spoke of her, made Catriona want to defend Scandia, regardless.
James had just tossed fat into the fire.
And this time she wasn’t going to let him jump away from the flames.
Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1 Page 27