“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 had 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.
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 on to 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’s 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.
“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 the 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 whom no one else had seen or acknowledged. 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 wanted only to kick him in t
he 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.
Before Catriona could blink, James took her by the arm and pulled her through the tent flap and outside the makeshift infirmary. Cold wind slammed into them, whipping their hair and tearing at James’s plaid and Catriona’s cloak. A light drizzle still fell, and the air was thick with woodsmoke from the kettle fires. The acrid smoke stung Catriona’s eyes, but when she slowed to knuckle them, James kept hurrying her along.
He slanted a look at her as they hastened past the spring where she’d washed earlier.
“We’ll be there anon.” He didn’t say where, but she saw that he was leading her toward another tent. Colorful standards flew above this tent, and the banners were Lowland.
And when they reached the tent and he ushered her inside, she saw that it was a refreshment pavilion. Oak benches ranged around the walls, and several trestle tables stood in the tent’s middle. Catriona could only stare at the rich variety of delicacies. Baskets of wheaten loaves were placed on the tables, and she even spotted bowls of oysters and whelks, though they didn’t tempt her. There were also platters of cold spiced capon and trays of wild roast boar.
Heavy silver candelabrums should’ve illuminated the offerings, but the tapers had gutted, leaving the smoky tinge of melted wax to haze the air.
The tent was also empty.
Catriona dug in her heels just inside the door flap. “I’m not hungry, if that’s why you brought me here.”
He scowled at her. “I brought you here so we could be alone. The worthies who were using this tent rode away with the King. And the commoners yet remaining are too busy bending their necks to gawk at the slaughter to think of their bellies.” His words held a fierce edge. “Our own people won’t come here—”
“There’s a flaw in your thinking.” Catriona folded her arms. She ignored how her heart beat in her throat. How she’d responded—again—to his kisses in the heather, the feel of his hard-muscled body pressed against hers. “I have no wish to be alone with you. You could have told me about Lady Scandia outside the infirmary tent.”
He took a step toward her. “Nae, I couldn’t have done.”
She lifted her chin, proudly. “I do not melt in rain and wind. Truth be told, I thrive in such weathers.”
“So does every Highlander, last I heard.” He glared at her. “This is no’ about you. It’s about my clan.” He came closer, his voice hardening. “I’ll no’ have them hear the name Scandia. For sure, no’ on such a dark day as this.”
Catriona let her gaze pass over him, lingering on his broad, powerful shoulders and the sword at his hip. “I can’t believe you’re afraid of a young woman who’s not just beautiful and your own kin, I’m thinking, but who is also as wispy as a moonbeam. However solid she might appear at times.”
He flushed. “Scandia is a bogle. A ghost. She is no’ a young woman.”
“But she was.”
“Aye, she lived—once. And I would that she’d ne’er been born. See you, each time she appears, tragedy befalls the clan. There are no exceptions to the blackness she brings.”
“Perhaps she appears to help you?” Catriona liked that idea. “I’ve heard of such family bogles. They’re always long-passed family members who show themselves to warn of ill things to come, not to cause them.”
“Scandia is a doom bringer.” He cut the air with a hand, his eyes glinting in the dimness. “I’ll grant she might no’ have set out to be such a harbinger, but her death made her one. She jumped from the Lady Tower. Her death unleashed one of the worst disasters our clan has e’er seen.”
“Dear saints.” Catriona couldn’t believe the ghost wished the clan ill. She’d seemed so proud of James the night he’d rallied his men. “Who was she?”
“If you knew her history, you wouldn’t want to know.”
“Then tell me.” Catriona prodded.
For a moment, she thought James would push her aside and stride from the tent. He looked that angry. But he only rammed both hands through his hair and then heaved an annoyed sigh.
“Scandia lived hundreds of years ago.” He took her by the shoulders then, looking down at her as if he was about to say something so terrifying she’d run from the tent. “She was the daughter of a Cameron warrior and a Viking woman, given to the warrior as a war prize. Those who have seen her say she has raven tresses and alabaster skin, and that she looks much like Isobel.
“I know that to be true, because I’ve seen her.” He looked down at her, his gaze intense. “I also know you saw her on the field this morn. You mistook her for my sister.”
“I think she wanted to stand with the other clanswomen in support.” Catriona was sure of it. “She looked sad when I saw her.”
A muscle jerked in James’s jaw, but he said nothing.
When he spoke, his words were harsh. “You are too kind to her. If she cared for our weal, she wouldn’t have done what she did. See you”—he took a breath—“Scandia was betrothed to the son of a great Norse warlord. The marriage was to secure peace between her father and the Viking raiders who were her mother’s people.
“They were a band of unruly Northmen who ne’er stopped harrying our coast. It was hoped that Scandia’s hand would appease them. Her father also agreed to allow them to retain the land they’d seized and were beginning to settle, against the clan’s will. But”—he paused when a gust of wind shook the door flap—“even such an alliance, so beneficial to the invaders, couldn’t change that they were pagans and rough, bloodthirsty men.
“The Viking who would have been Scandia’s husband, a young man called Donar Strong-Sword, was reputed to be especially fearsome. Clan legend tells that Scandia wept on her knees, begging her father not to give her to such a ruthless and savage man.”
Catriona frowned, not liking the tale.
“Scandia’s father refused to unsay the pledge he’d made to Donar. Such alliances between warring parties were known to bring peace if not happiness, and he had to think of the greater good.” He spoke those words as if they soured his tongue. “So-o-o, when Scandia saw herself bound to a man she loathed and feared—”
“She sprang to her death,” Catriona finished for him, the thought hurting her as if someone had rammed a blade through her ribs, piercing her heart.
“So it was, aye.” James was watching her, carefully. “On the day Donar Strong-Sword and his entourage rode to Castle Haven to claim Scandia, she ran to the top of the Lady Tower to await his approach. Then, when Donar and his warriors appeared, she leapt from the battlements, dying at his feet rather than becoming his bride.”
“Dear God…” Catriona blinked, stinging heat pricking her eyes. She shuddered, the image flashing across her mind as if she’d seen Scandia’s plunge. “I’ve never heard anything so horrible.”
James arched a brow. “The worst came later when Scandia’s father took vengeance on Donar and his people. He blamed them for her death, you see. And his rage was great, some say bottomless. He sent out the fiery cross, gathering his fiercest warriors and all that would rally to him from allied clans. Together, they set torch to the Norse settlement, burning every living soul, man and beast. They chased down those who tried to flee, slaying them where they stood and leaving their bodies for the ravens.
“When word reached Donar’s homeland, the Norsemen’s wrath was equally terrible and swift. They came at once, scores of their dragon-ships bringing their own best fighters. They raged along our shores for years, bringing death and destruction not just to Camerons, but to many innocent clans who had the ill fortune to dwell within striking distance of the coast. Before ever
y such terror—”
“If you’re going to say that Scandia appeared, I say she did so because she was appalled.” Catriona straightened, bristling. “Not because she wished such horrors to happen.”
“I ne’er said she desired such doom”—he took her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze—“only that she stirs the like.”
“Because she took her own life?” Outrage whipped through Catriona.
“So it is believed.” James proved his stubbornness. “All know such deaths leave darkness behind them.”
“I know you’re unfair.” She wrenched away from him and grabbed the tent flap, flinging it wide. “I’ve known that for a while now. And I also know why Scandia is sad. The men of her clan blame her for their own hotheaded folly. She sought peace and took it the only way she could.
“You”—she threw a glare over her shoulder as she stepped out into the rain—“and your ancestors stole her rest. You are the Doom of the Camerons, not that poor, anguished maid whose name you blacken.”
“Damn it all to hell!” James’s roar echoed inside the pavilion. A shattering crash, perhaps a fallen wine ewer, underscored his wrath, his anger only making Catriona hurry faster from the tent.
But not because she feared his rage.
Her heart pounded, and the blood was roaring in her ears for a very different reason. A good reason. Because—she nipped around the edge of the infirmary tent, then stood, tipping back her head to let the drizzle cool her face—Scandia’s tale gave her an idea.
And it was a wonderful plan, she decided, bending to pick a sprig of heather.
She held the blooms to her heart, feeling better than she had in weeks. She’d soon show James her mettle. And she had more in reserve, waiting for his next assault.
She’d not be cast aside again. She’d use her every womanly wile and her wits to ensure that no clan’s strife and warring would ever again bring grief to the glen.
Sins of a Highland Devil Page 27