Leila’s Legacy

by Madeline Martin

  Nothing, at least, until she began to struggle.

  Water filled Leila’s mouth and nose. Impossibly cold, like a million needles stabbing into every part of her. Except her legs, which were blessedly numb.

  Her lungs ached, desperate for air. She twitched beneath Niall’s firm hold.

  Don’t struggle.

  The thought was a shadowy whisper in the back of her mind. Her shoulders wrenched forward of their own volition, her body ignoring her command. Niall’s face above was locked with a hard stare, mouth thinned. She wanted to comfort him, to let him know she understood, that she realized he had no choice.

  Fire.

  Her chest was on fire. Alight with the need to breathe. The need for air.

  The need, the need, the need.

  The desperation was clawing, scrambling over her resolve like a sharp taloned beast. She sucked in as though she could bring in air. Except it was not air. It was water, and it only made everything burn more brilliantly.

  Her legs kicked against the bottom of the river and her lungs tried desperately to breathe. Pain. In her throat in her chest, in her eyes, her head. Her moving feet slipped over something and kicked again.

  This time she found purchase and shoved. A barrier held her shoulders and kept her down.

  Niall’s face above her was no longer set in a mask of steely determination. It had crumpled with the pain she felt resonating through her. Loss. The only emotion more powerful than love.

  Niall.

  The Lion.

  Was this a vision?

  Confusion swirled in her mind.

  Her lungs ached with an intense agony she could not bear. She needed to stand up. To breathe.

  Don’t struggle.

  Why would she not struggle? She shoved harder, but the resistance at her shoulders did not yield. She had to breathe.

  She grabbed at the pressure on her shoulders. Wrists. Hands. Someone was shoving her down. She tried to wrest the person’s grip off her.

  The Lion.

  Panic ran like poison through her veins. She couldn’t breathe. Air. She needed air.

  She clawed at the arms holding her, raking her newly grown nails over tender skin. Her vision came in flashes, the sky beyond the shadow of her mind, a face visible between the thrashing of her hands and the churning water.

  Golden hair. Hazel eyes. She’d know the handsome face of the Lion anywhere.

  The man she would love. The man who would kill her.

  Her thoughts slowed, too difficult to focus on and her limbs too tired to fight against the weight of the water. The world began to dim.

  A warm tingle started at her neck and washed through her. She fell into the familiar sensation, allowing the calm to ease through her tortured body.

  Visions flashed in her eyes, the way a brilliant sun flares between leaves in a copse of trees. It was a lifetime of them: the past, the present, the future. The attack on Werrick Castle, her mother’s screams, the siege, the great pestilence, all of it.

  The man in a cottage who vowed to poison another. Witches. That vision lingered longer than the others. The Lion. He shoved her under the water, holding her. He carried her to the bed, loving her.

  Finally, the last of the visions crawled to an end as the world began to fade. One final spark, a glimmer of a vision she had never before seen, whispered through her dying brain. One so beautiful and so precious that she tucked it against her heart as it stopped beating.

  21

  Niall clutched Leila’s shoulders long after she’d stopped struggling, reeling with the horror at what he’d done. What he’d been forced to do.

  It didn’t matter either way.

  He had killed Leila. Snuffed the light from her eyes, held her down as she struggled against him, fighting for life. Her head was pushed forward by the rapidly flowing water, sparing him the sight of her still face. Her slack limbs were pulled forward as well, sucked by the current as it tried to pry her from his grasp.

  He tightened his grip.

  “Let her go,” Alban said from where he stood dry and unfeeling on the shore. Close enough for Niall to throw a dagger and strike with little need to aim.

  Niall did not obey immediately. He had a role to play, he knew. The bewitched man with his spell finally broken. He was to release her without consideration and walk away. As though he had never cared. As though he did not still love her.

  But it wasn’t true, damn it. He did love her. He did care. He always would.

  Not that it mattered now. She would be gone to him forever as soon as he released her.

  The river pulled harder and the silence between himself and Alban turned harsh.

  “Let her go,” Alban repeated, biting out each individual word.

  There might still be a chance.

  The thought floated in his mind. It was delicate and fragile, but something in him clung to it in his awareness, cradling that thread of hope.

  He relaxed his fingers and Leila was immediately drawn from his grasp and swept away, like a bit of driftwood. His heart went with her, dragged from his body and carried off, leaving a burning, gaping hole.

  “Do ye feel better?” Alban asked.

  Niall was supposed to agree, to act lighter, more liberated. How could he?

  Instead, he glared at Alban. “Do ye?”

  The earl’s son smirked. “Aye, I do.”

  “Ye dinna want to rape her anymore, then?” Niall should stop talking, but he couldn’t resist the prod.

  Alban narrowed his dark eyes. “And ye dinna love her anymore.”

  This was where Niall could not afford to misstep. Any hope Leila had hinged on his detachment. He couldn’t see her body any longer. He steeled himself for the words he knew he must say. “I never did.”

  Alban’s mouth spread into a wide grin beneath his red beard. “Good to have ye back.”

  “Mayhap now ye’ll actually follow orders,” Niall replied.

  “No’ likely.” The earl’s son shrugged his shoulder.

  The arrogant bastard. Rage whipped through Niall’s blood and fired enough energy into his body to kill the blighter in one messy strike. Niall ignored the comment and accepted Alban’s proffered arm as he shoved down the temptation to pull it rather than take it.

  A commotion arose from the dais, drawing both of their attention as their arms fell from one another. Not that Niall needed to see. He already knew what caused the disruption.

  “Get them,” Lord Armstrong’s order rose above the din. The guards scrambled like ants on a demolished hill to comply with his command.

  Niall rushed into action, moving with the cluster of men, losing himself among them. The fledgling hope within him had grown brighter, clearer.

  If he left now, mayhap he could find her. He edged to the outskirts of the surrounding villagers as they dispersed. The spectacle was complete, and they’d seen their fill, their vengeance placated. A missing prisoner held no meaning for them.

  But they would not find solace and respite in Leila’s death like they thought. It might take a sennight, mayhap a fortnight, but they would see many still falling ill, many still dying.

  Leila had forgiven them for their fear, but Niall hated them for it. It made them weak. Stupid.

  Anger rose up in him once more as he slipped away into the surrounding forest. He eased behind a tree and waited to ensure he wasn’t being followed. When no one came, that was when he ran. All the pent-up energy exploded from his limbs, carrying him along the inside of the forest’s edge lining the river. As he ran, he looked out over the water, seeking a glimpse of red trews or pale skin.

  All he was able to make out were bits of ice caught in the rushing water. By the time he had arrived deeper into the woods where his destrier had been tied up, the fledging hope had begun to wane. He swung up onto his horse and guided him to the bank once more. There was the risk of being seen, of course, but if someone happened upon Niall, he could say he was searching for Bonnie and Brodie.

  N
iall wandered farther down the riverbank, his eyes scanning the river as frustration tightened the muscles along the back of his neck. His hand clenched the reins.

  River water had soaked through his clothing and trews. Nearly all of him was wet. He hadn’t noticed it before when rage pumped through him. Now, with the onset of disappointment and hopelessness, it had sunk through his sodden skin and was settling into the core of his soul.

  His nail beds were blue at his fingertips and his muscles ached from the intensity of his shivering. A bit of red caught his eye, peeking out from behind a large tree that had long since fallen into the river.

  Hope shot through him. He jumped from his horse and ran closer to the shoreline. There it was. A bit of red, just a sliver, but enough to make him forget his drenched clothing once more.

  He rushed into the water, shoving through the weight of it dragging at his legs. A foot came into view, pale as death, where it had been wedged between two branches. The current washed over it, heedless of the obstruction.

  Niall cried out Leila’s name and rushed to where she lay face down, her hair dragged forward like dark seaweed. Niall ran deeper into the river, to his waist now. It pulled at him, tugging, threatening him with death at the slightest shift in his balance. It wanted him, as it had wanted her. But the river would have neither this day.

  Niall bent to put Leila’s chest to his shoulder and gently loosened her foot as he stood, bringing her with him. She hung loose over him, unmoving. He carried her to the shore and lay her upon the gritty surface. Her eyes were closed, her face serene in death.

  She’d only lost the one shoe; the other remained sodden on her foot.

  He put his hands over her chest like Lady Davina had instructed and pressed down hard. Leila’s body was cold, the bones of her chest unyielding. Lady Davina had said to push with the weight of his body as the healer had, to make the movements fast.

  He braced his hands on her and shoved his weight down on her chest. It felt wrong, as though he were beating the body of the woman he’d been forced to kill. Which was exactly what he was doing.

  But if it worked…

  He repeated the action again and again, each time becoming easier than the last. Desperation drove his hands as tears burned in his eyes. He kept going until water gurgled from between Leila’s lips.

  Niall’s pulse jumped at the sight of such a miracle, at the spark of hope.

  Leila might truly live.

  He grasped her by the shoulders and hauled her to a sitting position as she coughed and sputtered more of the river onto its shore.

  Leila was alive.

  Fire blazed up through Leila’s chest and throat with a glowing hot intensity. Every cough, every sputter seemed to draw up more water. Her body was weak and pain shot through her. She raised herself on the bank with arms that could scarcely bear her weight and retched.

  Her elbows buckled, but she remained upright, held aloft by the strong hands at her shoulders. She should care about hands on her shoulders. She should try to fight, to move away. That was what her last thoughts had been before this moment.

  But how could she fight when she couldn’t even support herself? She gasped in a harsh breath. It did not fill her with relief like she had expected. Nay, it only served to stoke the flames of her pain so that she sputtered and retched all the more.

  Aggressive shivers overtook her body, no more able to be controlled than the choking breaths that delivered violent sips of air to her starved lungs.

  “Leila,” a male voice whispered brokenly in her ear. “’Tis a gift from God, mo chridhe.”

  Mo chridhe.

  She went still and slowly turned her attention toward Niall to find him watching her with tears shining in his eyes.

  “Forgive me.” He brushed a bit of lank, wet hair from her face. “Forgive me, my love.”

  Niall. She opened her mouth to speak and found her throat unable to work properly. Instead, she shook her head and began to cough more. He pulled her against the solidness of his body, against the slight heat there.

  She could stay there forever, melting into him until they were of the same shape and contour. Not that it stopped her shivering, as if she were completely frozen in the middle and nothing might ever warm her through again.

  “I need to get ye from here.” Niall kept her in his arms as he stood, removing his grasp from her only when he set her atop the horse and swept up behind her.

  Leila’s torso sagged toward Niall as they rode, pushed back by the speed of their travel and remaining there due to lack of strength to do anything otherwise. Icy wind rushed at them as they went deeper and deeper into the dense forest. Several times blackness claimed Leila until she awoke with her head lolling and her body firmly secured between Niall’s powerful arms.

  She had no idea how long they had been riding when they finally drew to a stop. A cottage was nestled in a dense thicket of trees, virtually hiding it from view. Niall leapt from the horse and carefully eased her down into his arms. She wanted to protest she didn’t need to be carried, that she could walk. But if she were being entirely honest, she didn’t know that she could actually walk. Indeed, she didn’t even know if she could speak to say the words.

  A pallet had been made up on the floor of the cottage with furs piled atop it. Niall set her in a chair before the empty hearth and immediately knelt before a pile of kindling.

  She curled her arms around herself and shuddered with the cold while Niall pushed log after log into the hearth from a neat stack of dry wood. He struck a flint several times. So desperate was she for warmth that she imagined little pockets of heat emanating from those glinting sparks.

  At last the fire caught and the logs erupted into hot, glowing flames. Leila stretched her shaking hands out to the heat. Her eyes closed with bliss and she had the irrational urge to put herself into the hearth to let it blister the cold away.

  “We need to get ye from those wet clothes,” Niall said softly. “Or ye’ll get ill.”

  She opened her eyes to find him watching her, his forehead creased with worry.

  He shook his head. “I had no choice.”

  She swallowed around her aching throat and nodded. “I know.” The words eked their way out and emerged huskier than usual, the pain evident in her speech. “Brodie’s sister?” she croaked.

  “Bonnie is safe, thanks to yer bravery.” Niall knelt before Leila and took her frigid hands in his. “Lady Davina is hiding her and Brodie for the day. They will join us when ’tis safe to do so.”

  He settled his brow to their joined hands in supplication. “I dinna know what I’ve done to earn the miracle of ye coming back to me, or if mayhap my da was in heaven looking out for ye. All I know is that I’m grateful ye’re alive.”

  She touched his face to turn it up toward her once more. As she did so, she reveled in the scrape of his golden whiskers against her palm. “I love you,” she said softly.

  “And I ye.” Niall got to his feet. “Now let us get from these sodden clothes, aye?”

  Leila nodded, beginning to shiver again despite the blazing fire Niall had stacked as high as a solstice pyre. He grasped the hem of her shirt and drew it over her head. This time as she was undressed before him, she didn’t blush. She couldn’t spare the heat to do so.

  He knelt in front of her and helped free her from her trews. She held onto his broad shoulders for support as he slid them from her legs. Her skin was damp and all the colder without any clothing. Niall straightened and carefully unbound the length of linen from her chest while she shuddered uncontrollably against the chill.

  When he was done, he wrapped her in a linen he’d warmed by the fire. It was blissful against her skin, soothing and hot and wonderful. He assisted her into a fine chemise and a finer kirtle, wool dyed a soft lavender.

  “Whose are these?” she asked in her strained whisper.

  “Lady Armstrong’s.” Niall spoke from behind Leila as he finished lacing up the back. “She dinna have a happy marria
ge and made Lord Armstrong rather miserable toward the end of her life. Lady Davina’s betrothal was a sore spot between them, an alliance Lady Armstrong had insisted on that Lord Armstrong soured on over time. Apparently, she pressed the issue often, trying to encourage the union, and Lord Armstrong did not approve.”

  Leila nodded. Lady Davina had spoken often of the man she loved, the man she had been so eager to finally wed.

  Lady Armstrong’s insistence on the marriage explained why Lord Armstrong had so readily given Leila several gowns while she was being held at Liddesdale Castle. No doubt the earl saw it as an insult to his wife’s memory to let a woman he presumed to be a witch wear her clothing.

  “It is rumored he had her killed.” Niall came around Leila with a slight frown. “I dinna believe it before. But now…” He shook his head. “I was blinded by what I wanted to see and may have missed what was actually there.”

  The memory rushed back to her of what she’d seen in her vision at the cottage on the night of their failed escape. “Niall, I saw something before we were captured. I tried to tell you…”

  Niall pulled her to the bed. “No’ now, mo chridhe. Ye need to get under the covers while I make ye a tea and see to the horse.”

  Leila allowed him to pull her toward the pallet piled high with furs. Already, her body had ceased to shiver. “I must tell you.”

  “Later.” Niall pulled back the furs to the inviting heat.

  Leila’s eyes were heavy, her mind still murky from drowning. Still, she stopped allowing him to pull her forward and instead took his hand in hers. “Now.”

  He nodded. “Aye, but by the hearth at least.”

  “Only if you put on dry clothes as I speak,” she countered.

  Niall’s mouth thinned into a hard line, but he nodded in agreement.

  Only after he had her set before the hearth with enough heat on her back that she feared she might catch on fire, did she speak. As he undressed, she watched his body move with appreciation and deeply regretted her exhausted state. She wanted nothing more than to go to him and let their chilled bodies heat up together.