The Shadow 0f Her Smile (Highlander Heroes Book 3)

by Rebecca Ruger

  As the enormous wooden gates were once again opened, to admit Kinnon and Ada, she ducked her forehead against Kinnon’s sweaty back and wept.

  THEY PASSED THROUGH the tunnel and were greeted by several soldiers inside the yard, Torren included. Ada had regained enough coherence to wonder that he was not at his laird’s side. The big man scooped her off the steed and set her on the ground, onto her wobbly legs. Ada then had to squint against the sunshine as she looked up at him. Somehow, that beautiful sun was now especially offensive, daring to shine while such tragedy took place just outside these gates.

  “Anice?” She thought to ask.

  Torren was quick to assure her. “Tucked away, safe.”

  Kinnon had dismounted. He stood beside Ada, a glazed look about him, his hands and sword smeared in blood, a smattering of it splashed across his forehead.

  Ada threw herself into his slim embrace. He pressed his chin onto her shoulder, squeezing her tight, sharing all that relieved fright. “You are amazing, the bravest man I have ever known,” Ada spoke into his collar. She pushed back, kept her hands on his shoulders. “But how did you manage it? You are only one man. There were so many of them—”

  “’Twas the archers, lass,” he said, his face for once flushed to near red. “They kept up a steady stream. I had only to handle one at a time.” His youth showed then, his mouth trembling with what could have been. Ada hugged him again.

  “Get inside now, lass,” Torren instructed. “Kinnon, up on the wall.”

  “Aye,” said Kinnon and he scampered away.

  Ada obeyed as well, her eyes scanning the yard briefly, which showed only grave-faced soldiers moving about. Likely, the initial fretting and scurrying of people within, triggered by the warring army, had been done while Ada was still outside. Torren followed her inside the hall, which also was eerily quiet for this time of day. That cheerful sunshine slanted in through the thin and glass-less windows high on the walls, creating lines of brightness across the rush-strewn floor and the tables.

  “Lass, can you stomach giving aid to any wounded when they come?” Torren asked. “I’m bound to keep Lady Anice locked away and safe for as long as I can.”

  Ada’s dullness of mind was lightened for a moment, at Torren’s overprotective bent toward Anice. This, then, explained why he’d remained inside the castle; Gregor Kincaid must lead his own army, and Torren was the only one he’d entrust with his wife’s safekeeping. “I can be helpful, though I haven’t much experience.” Save for the tending of her own trauma when Margaret had helped her flee Dornoch, and she’d been lost somewhere near Stobo for weeks, bleeding and shattered. “Where?”

  “Right here,” answered Torren, even as the steward, Alastair, came into the hall, followed by two kitchen girls, their arms laden with stacks of linens while the steward hauled in a steamy cauldron of what Ada guessed was heated water.

  Torren moved the trestle tables and benches to the perimeter of the room, six against each wall, leaving the center of the hall clear. The girls draped each table with the full linens. Ada helped with this while Alastair announced he would fetch the medicinals.

  Torren left them, too, intent on returning to the wall, just as a loud cheer swept throughout the castle and yard. The two serving girls exchanged relieved smiles. “We have triumphed,” said the blonde one. And then their pace quickened, expecting now to be met very soon with many in need of their attentions.

  The blonde lass, Lucy, ran back to the linen storeroom and found an apron for Ada. She tied this around her waist, over her borrowed gray kirtle and then Lucy shoved another item at her “Put this on, too,” she said quickly. Ada opened the folded fabric to reveal a kerchief, which she tied round her neck and swept up over her forehead, pushing all of her hair down her back.

  All three girls jumped then as the door was thrust open with such force it slammed against the wall behind it. They moved quickly, realizing it was the Kincaids, bringing in the wounded. It was Arik who had crashed open the door, having the arm of another man wrapped around his neck. Sadly, they must be accustomed to this, for without hesitation, Arik half-dragged the man to the nearest table and lifted him up on to the linen covered top. The man groaned and removed his hand from his middle. Blood oozed immediately. Ada gasped, and while Lucy and the other lass seemed only rooted to the floor with dismay, Ada stepped forward, grabbing up some of the strips of linens. She rushed to the man’s side, and slapped the linen over his stomach, pressing firmly upon the gaping wound. She met Arik’s gaze across the table. His brown eyes displayed adequately his assessment of the wounded man’s fate.

  Perhaps she had misspoke about having experience. She knew nothing, knew not what to do other than to staunch the flow of blood.

  “Just stay with him,” Arik said, possibly having read her horrified expression. He moved around the table to whisper to Ada, “No one wants to die alone, lass,” before he left the hall.

  More wounded came, either on their own, or carried or hauled in by those not injured. Ada saw the two girls had since moved, each busy with other wounded at different places in the hall.

  Ada returned her gaze to the dying man on the table before her, who still writhed in pain and despair. Carefully, with little hope and an unavoidable grimace, she lifted the linen away from his tunic. Blood still seeped, if only with slightly less force. She knew him only by sight, had seen him in the hall. She did not know his name. His face was absolutely colorless, as his blood continued to escape.

  “Shh,” was all she could think to say. She cried yet again today. She only realized this as a teardrop splashed onto the back of her hand pressed still on the man’s stomach. “You’re going to be fine,” she promised him, even as he stopped moving. Ada’s lip fell open, staring at the lifeless man on the table. Her eyes scanned the room for assistance, saw Alastair at the table with Lucy, struggling to wrest some object out from a screaming man’s leg while two soldiers held him down and Lucy stood ready with hot and wet linens. “Help,” Ada whispered, her voice cracking. The other girl, Fiona, was at another table, chasing down the swinging arm of another lad while the lieutenant, Fibh, hollered at him to stop wrestling.

  The hall was filled with people now, at least several dozen, wounded or not, moving or milling about the room.

  “Help,” Ada croaked, her hands still pushing the linen firmly into the dead man’s belly.

  Fingers touched her arm. Ada faced forward again, saw a large hand covering her wrist. Her eyes followed the fingers and the hand, up the strong arm and wide shoulders to find Jamie MacKenna standing next to her. “He’s gone, lass,” he said, his tone mild. He flexed his fingers, pulling her hands away.

  She nodded, seeming to recall none of her hatred of him at the moment. She continued to nod and pulled her hands back, leaving the gauzy fabrics in the man’s body. She hated war and blood and death and all the evil and greed that made it part of her world.

  “Ada,” he said fiercely, his hand moving up her arm to give her a little shake. “Harden yourself,” he ordered, lacking any hint of sympathy. “There’s more who need your help.”

  She met his gaze, perhaps only the second time she’d ever done so without rancor or loathing. “But I cannot—”

  “Aye, you can,” he cut her off, his frown deepening. “You, more than most, are equipped to handle this.”

  She gave her own frown. Yes, she was. “I meant I haven’t any idea how to be helpful. I know nothing of medicine or tending wounds like these.”

  “Then do as you have. Hold their hand, stop the flow of blood, until Alastair comes ‘round.”

  Jerkily, she nodded again, and glanced around the room, to see who might need attention.

  JAMIE WATCHED HER WALK away, speechless and overcome by what he felt just now. There was something about her that drew him, his gaze, his attention, a desire to shield her from atrocities as she’d seen today, and at other places. He’d not felt like this, not ever, about any other human, not even his own wife while she�
��d lived. Having no other explanation, he supposed his own guilt was the basis for such leanings.

  When the alarm had been sounded today, he’d left the hall and had sprinted across the yard and up the stairs to see what danger came. He hadn’t thought of anything or anyone, ‘twas only the soldier in him that needed information before decisions could be made, knowing Gregor was out in the field. Observing then the army stampeding out of the trees, directly toward Stonehaven, had straightaway set him into warrior mode. He needed no further explanation—a party came to make war, he would stop them. He’d turned away from the sight, intent on finding his destrier and making quick time before they came too close to the keep. A shouted call of, “Kinnon and the lass are outside!” stopped him, and Jamie had jerked back to the wall. He’d not noticed them before, his gaze having been so intent on the coming militia. He’d not seen the two small figures in the forefront. He’d squinted, just as Kinnon had pushed Ada away from him. She’d run toward the keep, her pace sluggish. Quickly, he’d judged the distance, between her and the keep, and between her and the enemy. She had no chance.

  “Archers! Keep that lad alive!” Was all he called as he left the wall and took the stairs three and four at a time. He grabbed the reins of the closest horse, as Gavin and the stable hands were already saddling several and swatting their rumps to send them out of the stables and into the yard for whoever came.

  Gregor’s army was well trained and well disciplined. The gate had begun to open before he’d needed to give that order, as others raced around the bailey, gaining the seats of their mounts.

  He would never forget the sight of her, as he’d neared, of that unmitigated horror in her gaze, her face a frozen mask of terror even as she stumbled along the lane. He’d had some angry thought, wondering, My God, what will You throw at her next? But he’d reached her in time.

  This time.

  The relief he felt as his hand met hers, mere seconds before she would have been carved up on that road, had not gone unnoticed. Only when she wrapped her arms around him, when he knew she was safe, did he release his breath and switch his intention to getting to the lad.

  Jamie closed his eyes briefly now. It made no sense, served no purpose to entertain the what-ifs and could-haves. Opening his eyes, he saw her now at another table in the hall, holding the bloodied hand of another wounded. She spoke softly to him, her head bent near his, her hair falling around her shoulders, out from the kerchief, and onto the man’s tunic.

  Spotting Gregor finally coming into the keep—Jamie knew the man would not leave the battlefield until all his men were accounted for—Jamie crossed the hall and sought answers.

  “It was de Musselburgh,” Gregor said, before Jamie had put the question out. He was looking around the hall. “Where is Anice?”

  Jamie shrugged, but pointed out Torren. Gregor approached his captain, who had his thick hands upon the shoulders of a lad, pushing him firmly onto the table while Alastair wielded needle and thread to close the hole in his side. Gregor grabbed Torren’s arm.

  “Anice?”

  Jamie could well discern the panic in his friends voice.

  Torren quickly put him at ease. “Locked in the chapel.”

  “Walk with me,” Gregor said to Jamie and strode quickly from the hall. Jamie followed as directed, and Gregor repeated, “It was de Musselburgh.”

  “That bastard who caused me grief last year?”

  “Aye. We’ve been through three sheriffs in the territory in the past six months—de Musselburgh is the current pet of Longshanks, installed just last month. I’d wondered how long it would take him to stir up trouble, because I’d no sworn fealty,” said Gregor, as they wended their way through dark corridors to the north side of the castle.

  “That’s some bollocks to come crashing in with only a hundred men,” Jamie murmured.

  “And so I’m wondering: did he mean only to warn me that he’s got his eye on me? Or is that only the forward army, promising more to come if I dinna make a vow to England?”

  “He’s no but a sheriff,” Jamie said, with a thoughtful frown, “how much more of an army does he command?”

  “Good question. Wallace had shared some rumors he’d come upon, said England was sending some of the Welsh mercenaries to get a better grip up here in the north,” Gregor said, as they reached the arched door to the chapel. “God damn it, Torren must have the key,”

  “Gregor?” Came Anice’s voice from within.

  “Back away from the door, Anice.”

  “All right,” she called, and then added, mere seconds later. “I’m away.”

  Gregor shoved his shoulder into the door, which splintered away from its lock, while Jamie gave some thought to Gregor being unable to wait to see Anice only the few more minutes it would have taken to procure the key. Gregor rushed in and took Anice into his arms, while Jamie remained in the corridor, leaning his shoulder against the cracked wood of the doorjamb and watching the couple express their relief and gladness to each other.

  Anice eventually pulled away from Gregor’s embrace and ran her hands over Gregor’s face, assuring herself of his well-being. “I would have waited for you to fetch the key, love.”

  “Would you have?”

  “Not happily, but aye, I would have.”

  “I couldn’t.” He kissed her brow again and set her away from him. “It was de Musselburgh,” he said to Anice, who gasped before Gregor continued, to Jamie, “which makes it even more imperative that Wallace and Bruce join forces and expel England and all its henchmen, and with all due haste.”

  Jamie nodded. They all knew what had to be done. It was a matter, after so many years of fighting, so many years under the thumb of the English, to convince the nobles that they would prevail, but only if they all came together.

  “Where is Ada?” Was the first thing Anice thought to ask.

  “In the hall, helping with the wounded,” Jamie supplied.

  Anice made to leave the chapel, but Gregor’s hand did not allow her to go. She turned back to her husband and before Gregor could even refuse her, she said, “I know. I know. I’ll stay in the hall. I’ll not touch an open wound. I’ll not do anything strenuous. I will remain within Torren’s sight at all times.”

  “Jesus, am I that bad?” Gregor asked with a frown.

  “Yes, and I love you.” She kissed him briefly again and was off, Gregor and Jamie following slowly behind her, Gregor much more relaxed now that he knew that Anice was safe.

  “Now what?” Jamie wondered, about de Musselburgh.

  Gregor shook his head as they turned a corner in the long and dimly lit hallway. “I need more information before I decide. I dinna want to get caught up with this now, as Wallace needs us focused and ready for him. But we just decimated them out there—half his army dead, at least. A dozen prisoners, maybe.”

  “Aye, and I’d wager they have intelligence they’ll be pleased to share,” Jamie said with a predatorial glint in his eye.

  “My thinking as well,” Gregor acknowledged.

  They’d reached the hall again. Jamie’s eyes searched immediately for Ada. She was still with the same wounded warrior, but now Alastair was at her side, inspecting the man’s trauma.

  Torren and Fibh joined them, giving Gregor a report on the Kincaid injured and dead, thankfully so much less than the number of de Musselburghs. Jamie continued to watch Ada, over Torren’s large shoulder. The man whose hand she held was no more than a boy actually, showing barely enough stubble to have need of shaving. He cried and she lowered her head to his, being almost eye to eye, soothing him with soft words. Her free hand skimmed the hair off his forehead, resting on the top of his head as he lie on the table. Observing her compassionate attendance of the boy made Jamie think he was glad she was with Will when he died—he had to assume she had been, that she’d been right there beside him. He could now imagine, or pretend, that Will had known some comfort, just hearing her voice, knowing he wasn’t alone.

  An hour later,
Jamie entered the hall once again, he and Gregor having made a tour of the village, which mercifully, had suffered no visitation from the de Musselburghs. The initial chaos of the surprise attack and aftermath was well settled by now, so much so that they returned to find Anice facing Torren, arms akimbo, berating him for daring to actually lock her in the chapel. Her tone was filled not so much with anger but composed of a long-standing frustration as she insisted she was not an idiot to be treated so, but actually quite capable of taking care of herself.

  Torren was cowed not at all by her chastisement, and dared to insist, “Squawk all you want, lass. You’ll be locked away for safekeeping every time danger comes near.”

  Ada stood nearby, her hands washed of all the blood they’d been soaked in today, holding a stack of clean linens, these pressed against her chest. She stared between the two and seemed to smile at Torren’s last words. When Anice threw up her hands, portraying her continued vexation over this oft-repeated discussion, Ada said, “Would that every one of us were as fortunate to be so well safeguarded.”

  Though she hadn’t meant it as a rebuke—Jamie could well read the wistfulness in Ada’s stance and gaze—Anice seemed to take it as such and lowered her arms to consider Ada. After a moment, Anice said to Torren begrudgingly, “I appreciate your concern always, Torren. And I love you dearly.” Torren beamed, but too soon, for Anice added, “But if you ever lock me in a room by myself again, I will poison your ale with buckthorn and rhubarb.”

  Gales of laughter sounded all around when it was realized that Anice had just threatened him with a purgative. Jamie himself grinned, more so at Torren’s puckered brow and lips, but his eyes stayed on Ada. She smiled as well, as those around her did, but it did not reach her eyes. She just stood there, hugging that pile of fabric to her breast, pretending a levity to match the company she kept, but her mind was elsewhere, Jamie was sure.

  Would that every one of us were as fortunate to be so well safeguarded.