He held out his hand, “Then come, Lady Tilda.”
Her attention pulled away from the corpse and shifted to Duncan’s extended hand. Her entire body shook. Duncan prayed she’d find the faith to accept his help. “Just…Tilda, aye?”
“Aye.” He nodded, waiting for her to take his hand. “Tilda.”
She kept the weapon hugged to her chest whilst she slid her other hand into his. “Yer name again?” she whispered as she eased closer.
“Duncan.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Duncan MacCoinnich, at yer service.”
Slow and easy, he led her to his horse. “And this fine lad is Rab.”
At the sound of his name, the dappled gray shire tossed his head and grumbled out a friendly whicker. Rab nudged his nose into Duncan’s hand, snuffling for a treat.
“Big horse,” Tilda said in a quivering tone that sounded more filled with admiration than alarm. Her eyes flared as she took in Rab’s immense size.
“Aye, he is that, but ye’ll nay find a finer, gentler lad.” A quiet chuckle escaped him as he patted the horse’s side. “At least, until I need him to be otherwise. He can be a fearsome warhorse.” Duncan drew down the almost empty water skin and held it out to Tilda. “Forgive me, lass. It’s verra little, but even a little might help yer throat.”
She accepted the bag with a trembling nod, flinching as the mouthpiece bumped the split in her lip. She took several sips, then handed it back to Duncan. “I thank ye.” Her voice sounded some better.
“Can ye ride?” Duncan couldn’t fathom the woman’s potential injuries and was not about to ask such a delicate question when she had just now stopped looking at him as though he were a wolf about to eat her. But he needed to know.
“Aye.” Tilda lifted her chin and attempted to stand taller. The top of her head almost reached his shoulder. “Ye saved my maidenhead, if that’s yer concern, and I thank God Almighty for ye getting here when ye did. ’Tis true, they rough-handled me something fierce, but they failed to complete their evil intent.”
“I am glad of it.” And thankful she felt safe enough to share that information with him. It would make securing help for her that much easier. “Where can I take ye? I fear I dinna know this area of the Highlands as well as I know my own.”
She pulled his kilt tighter about her and stared down at the ground. “My father had urgent business in Inverness. Brought me with him because Angus, our clan solicitor, was down with the ague and couldna travel.” She made a twitching shrug of a shoulder. “Numbers and such come easy to me, and Angus says I know the law almost as well as he.” She shook her head and shivered. “Angus says I argue good, too,” she whispered. “The White Lion. We always stay there whilst in Inverness. It belongs to our clan. Take me to The White Lion.”
An uneasy prickling stung the hairs on the back of his neck. Duncan swiped his hand across his nape to rid himself of the feeling. A clan lawyer. A tavern owned by the clan. Urgent business in Inverness. All this information lent itself to Tilda possessing some status within Clan Mackenzie, a dangerous, powerful clan in its own right. She sounded as though she held the rank of ladyship whether she wished such a title or not. “Who is yer father, lass?”
“Lord Matheson Mackenzie, fourth Earl of Wrath.” Tilda gave him a determined yet tremulous smile, the first smile she’d managed since her horrendous ordeal. “Chieftain to Clan Mackenzie.”
The very man the MacDonald of Skye had warned Duncan to be certain to avoid while in this part of the Highlands.
Chapter Two
She had refused to sit in front of him. Her gaze had kept darting to his hands as though she feared he might attack her at any moment. It was understandable. He admired her greatly. The way she pushed forward and handled the aftermath of her attack showed a rare combination of grit and courage.
So, she had sat behind him, perched on Rab’s wide arse with room to spare. She held tight to his waistcoat, her small fist knotted and bumping against his side with every bounce. She huddled against the center of his back, still clutching her blade and occasionally resting her head between his shoulder blades. Every time she’d weaken and melt against him, within moments, she’d jerk herself upright, sitting stiff and tensed once more. Weariness plagued the lass. Duncan ached for her loss of peace. God bless her and keep her.
And something else set the rage in Duncan’s gut to a slow boil. He couldn’t believe he had only killed one of the bastards. What the hell was wrong with him? Three drunken sods and two of them had escaped. He sucked in a breath and snorted it out. Disgusting. What a damned failure. He was better than that.
His eyes shielded with one hand, he squinted against the brilliance of the late spring day as they emerged from the shade of the woods. The spires and rooftops of Inverness sullied the stark blue of the skyline up ahead. The cluster of buildings blocked the view of the sparkling sea beyond. The stench of the city tainted the gentle wind blowing in from the Firth. Duncan didn’t care overmuch for places like Inverness, Aberdeen, or Edinburgh. He disliked the larger towns in general. They had their uses, but he preferred to keep his visits to such crowded places as few as possible. The freedom and adventure to be found in the Highlands were dear to his heart.
Duncan slowed his mount’s pace as they entered the cobblestone streets. He reached under his arm and gave Tilda’s hand the lightest touch, taking care to brush his fingertips across her knuckles and in no way appear as though he was about to take hold of her hand. He had soon discovered if he covered her hand or spoke without warning, it startled her. She had nearly unseated herself once. The lass required careful handling. “Is there a stable near The White Lion, lass?”
“Aye.” Her voice was worse. Tilda needed immediate attention.
Up ahead on the right, a wooden sign emblazoned with a white-washed silhouette of a lion reared up on its haunches swung from an iron bar attached to the stone wall above a dark red door. The White Lion, Est. 1654 was painted in the same white as the lion on the sign. It was the largest tavern Duncan had ever seen, and he’d visited a few. The building took up most of the city block—three-floors tall. To the rear of the sprawling establishment was a stable. Next to the stable, a blacksmith. It provided everything a weary traveler could need.
He pulled up to a post in front of the stable and motioned to the boy sweeping the stoop. “Care for my horse. How much for a night?”
The young lad jerked a thumb toward the pub. “Tuppence. Tell Mistress Mackenzie. She’ll add it to yer tab.”
Mackenzie? Aye. Tilda had said the Mackenzies owned The White Lion. It appeared they owned the stable, too. A gnawing sense of apprehension chewed at Duncan’s innards. He’d known the Mackenzies to be a powerful clan even before the MacDonald had warned him to steer clear of their chieftain and the rest of them as well. They were known smugglers. Fierce competitors to the MacDonald’s operations.
Casting aside the ominous feeling, Duncan crooked his left arm and held it out. “Hold to my arm, lass, and I’ll lower ye to the ground.”
Tilda didn’t move.
“Lass?”
She didn’t respond.
Alarm filled him. Duncan had expected the woman to reach her breaking point at any moment, and it appeared that time had come. He swung his leg over the front of the saddle, dismounted, then hurried to catch Tilda up in his arms before she fell to the ground. She sagged against his chest, limp as a bairn’s doll.
“Boy!” Duncan jerked a nod toward Rab. “There’s a crown a day in it for ye if ye tend my horse better than any other, ye ken? Extra oats for him. A good brushing. Every day. Understand?”
“Aye, sir!” The boy dropped the broom and hurried to gather up the horse’s reins. Brows knotted, the stable boy wrinkled his nose and motioned toward Tilda. “Ye need a healer? Another crown and I’ll run and fetch ye a fine one for yer lady.”
“Not yet, boy.” Tilda’s care was up to her family, and he felt sure they would rather it be handled quietly and with the utmost discreti
on. He fixed the boy with a stern look. “Yer crown depends on ye tending to my horse.”
Immediate understanding flashed across the boy’s dirt-smudged face. “Aye, sir.” He wound the reins around one hand and coaxed Rab into the stable.
“Let’s get ye inside, lass.” Even though he knew the girl to be unconscious, speaking to her made him feel better. He prayed she’d somehow hear him and at least draw a little comfort knowing he’d do his best to get her the help she needed. The soft, warm weight of her in his arms hurried his steps.
He spotted a side door to the tavern, more than likely used by those lodging their horses at the stable. He managed the latch and shouldered open the door, pausing once inside to allow his sight to adjust to the dim lighting of the corridor. Subdued bursts of laughter and the low murmuring of voices reached him. Chairs scraped and boots thumped against the wood flooring. All were the typical sounds of a pub and appeared to be coming from down the hallway.
A white-capped maidservant holding folded linens rounded the corner, then came to an abrupt halt. Her gaze flitted across Tilda’s still form then gave Duncan a quick up and down. “Can I be a helpin’ ye, sir?”
“Aye.” Duncan glanced down at Tilda’s closed eyes and kept his voice low. “Chieftain Mackenzie or his wife. Are they about?”
The maid’s dark brows arched. “Her ladyship didna accompany Himself this trip. And Himself’s not here either. Gone to search and sound the alarm.” She lowered her voice and took a step closer. “His beloved daughter has been gone since early morn.” She peered closer at Tilda’s face, half hidden in the folds of his kilt. “Is that her?” she whispered as if thrilled to be the first to learn a secret.
“Send word to the Mackenzie,” Duncan ordered. “No other. Understand?” He’d not tolerate any ill rumors about his helpless charge. He hitched Tilda higher against his chest. “And get me to a room where I can settle this weary lass. Now.”
The maid turned back and pointed where she had just come from around the corner. “This way. I can take ye to the Mackenzie’s rooms.” The girl glanced back as she led him up the stairs. “It would be best if I fetched Mistress Mackenzie to help. She’s sister to Himself. She’ll see to the Lady Tilda proper. I swear it.”
Since no other of Tilda’s closest kin appeared to be about, he didn’t see where he had much choice. “Aye. Fetch her.”
The young maid gave a quick nod, then motioned toward a set of double doors at the opposite end of the sitting area in front of the suite. “Wait over there. I dinna have the keys to all the rooms on this floor.”
With his back to the wall, Duncan watched both directions of the private sitting area, eyeing the two hallways. A sense of doom filled him. His precarious position in this situation had become clearer by the minute. He glanced down at Tilda’s face, wishing the lass would open her eyes. On second thought, maybe not. She might scream at finding herself in his arms.
“Stay asleep a while longer,” he begged in a soft whisper. If Tilda screamed, the Mackenzies would have his bones scattered from here to hell’s gates before he had the opportunity to explain.
The sound of heavier steps followed by the maid’s lighter gait gave Duncan a wee bit of hope. At last. Someone to tend this ill-fated lass.
A thick, broad-shouldered woman, tall as himself, and looking ready to kill, careened into the narrow lobby. “Where did ye find our poor wee lamb?” She rushed to Tilda and brushed back the fold of the kilt hiding her face. The woman shook her head as she traced a knobby finger along the bruising on Tilda’s cheek. “Ah, my precious girl, what have ye gone and gotten yerself into this time?” Her troubled look settled on Duncan as she pointed to the double doors. “Open the doors for him, Sairi. Make haste.”
Duncan opened his mouth to speak—.
“Take her to the room on the right,” the stern matron ordered. She took hold of Duncan’s arm and steered him through the suite of fine rooms. She marched him along with the commanding tone of a war chief. “I be Moira Mackenzie. Sister to the Mackenzie and owner of The White Lion. Once I hear yer story, I’ll decide if the chief should grant ye the reward or no’.”
She yanked him to a halt and stared at him. Her cutting scowl leveled with his. Moira Mackenzie was the tallest woman he had ever met. She shook a finger in his face. “And let me warn ye now, I can smell a lie as sure as I can smell what’s cooking in my own kitchens, so ye best speak true, ye ken?”
He’d had enough. He yanked free of Mistress Mackenzie’s hold, kicked open the door she had indicated, and strode to the bed. He eased Tilda down among the pillows, taking care to keep the lass covered with his kilt she still held clenched between her hands.
“I asked ye—”
“Hold yer damned tongue, ye vile woman!” Duncan powered back across the room. Time to do a bit of jabbing of his own. He aimed a finger at the end of the woman’s long, crooked nose, then directed her toward the private sitting room adjoining Tilda’s bedchamber. “After ye’ve fetched a healer, I’ll tell ye all I know but not before.” Through clenched teeth, Duncan strained to keep his voice low so as not to disturb Tilda. “And I shall share it in the sitting room. Away from the lady. I’m sure it would trouble her to hear it. Understand?”
“Aye,” Mistress Mackenzie replied in a quieter growl. Righteous fire snapped in her eyes as she marched into the sitting room. With a snap of her fingers, the maid appeared, as if summoned by magic. “Fetch the healer. The one on Barberry Street. Agnes Cafflecary. None other, mind ye. And send Rory to find the Mackenzie. Run now, girl! Run!”
The maid fled from the room as if her petticoats were afire.
Duncan closed the bedchamber door with a soft click, then paused and listened. Silence. Good. He hoped the lass wouldn’t come to until the healer was present. He turned and faced the old she-dragon herself. “Duncan MacCoinnich at yer service, Mistress Mackenzie.”
“MacCoinnich, ye say?” Wringing her hands, she paced about the room, circling Duncan. “Heard tell MacCoinnichs took over the Neals of Ben Nevis.” She eyed him as though trying to decide how best to kill him. “’Tis said yer clan ousted quite the evil when the MacCoinnich took Catriona Neal to wife right out from under Jameson Campbell’s nose. That scoundrel was her betrothed, was he not?”
A crystal decanter and a pair of glasses on a table beside the window caught Duncan’s eyes. He smiled at it. “Aye. I would like a drink, thank ye verra much. It has been a trying afternoon.”
His indifference to the woman gained the desired effect. The matron’s overly powdered cheeks flamed a bright red usually attained by a whore’s amount of rouge. He gave her his most charming smile.
“Ye shall have yer drink when ye have said how ye came about showing up here with my niece unconscious in yer arms.” Mistress Mackenzie stormed forward, her black skirts rustling. She came to a halt within an arm’s reach of Duncan. “Dinna underestimate me, Master MacCoinnich. The Mackenzies rule here. With a snap of my fingers, I can have ye strung up by yer bollocks.”
He would travel straight to hell and back before he’d cede control to Mistress Mackenzie. He ignored the threat, strode over to the table, and poured his own drink. With a sniff of the pale, golden liquid, he exhaled a happy sigh. “Whiskey. Just what I need ’bout now.” He took a sip, made a show of holding it on his tongue, then swallowed. “Not as good as MacCoinnich whiskey, but it’ll do.”
“I shall have ye shot.” She stomped toward him, her large, bony hands trembling. “I may even do it myself.”
Satisfied that he’d made it clear he wouldn’t cower even though the Mackenzie name might warrant such, Duncan lifted his glass in a toast to the woman, then downed it. He poured himself another measure as he spoke. “I found her in the woods. Half-a-day’s ride to the west.” He pulled in a deep breath and blew it out, all levity gone. “That is where I came across yer niece, Mistress Mackenzie. Terrified. Screaming. Lashed down like a helpless animal with three British soldiers about to ravage her.”
Mistress Mackenzie’s hand flew to her mouth. With a shaking intake of breath, she lowered herself into the nearest chair.
“I killed one. Wounded another.” Duncan downed his drink and refilled his glass, the memory of the two escaping renewing his anger. “The wounded man and his partner escaped. I left the dead man in the woods to feed the crows.”
“Good.” Mistress Mackenzie turned aside, staring off into space, her mouth twitching and her eyes wet with tears.
A shriek interrupted them.
Without a thought to propriety, Duncan rushed into the bedchamber, Mistress Mackenzie on his heels. “Lass! Ye are safe. Open yer eyes and look about.” Common sense took hold and shook him. This was not his place. He halted and eased back a step. “Ye are with kin now. We made it to The White Lion. Safe.”
Tilda’s panicked gaze found his, and she calmed. Her cracked lips parted, and she croaked out a hoarse whisper. “White Lion?”
Duncan smiled and took another step toward the door. “Aye, lass. Look here.” He pulled Mistress Mackenzie out from behind him. For some strange reason, the odd woman had lagged back. “Yer auntie’s right here. She’s worried sick about ye.”
“Dear, sweet lass.” Mistress Mackenzie crept forward and lowered herself to the edge of the bed. After an awkward pause, she gathered Tilda up in her arms and rocked with her as though the girl were still a babe.
“Auntie Moira!” Tilda sobbed, and Mistress Mackenzie joined in, both women holding tight to one another as they wept and swayed from side to side.
Duncan did his best to look anywhere except at the women. The two needed this time alone without some stranger gawking at them. He stepped one foot out the door.
“Wait!” Tilda said, her weak voice worsened by her tears. With one arm still tight around her aunt, she held out her other hand. “Please, dinna leave just yet.”
He halted, opening and closing his hands, uncertain what to do next. Situations such as this made his arsehole pucker. He gave Tilda a polite bow of his head. “I shall stay if ye wish it.”
The Warrior (Highland Heroes Book 2) Page 2