by Gwyn Brodie
Leaning his forehead against the wall tapestry, Alex laughed until tears filled his eyes.
"Och, I'm most pleased to see my misery has provided you with such entertainment," Drostan said drily. "I'm quite ready to change the subject if you dinnae mind."
"Very well," he said, chuckling at his friend's obvious discomfort with the matter.
Drostan stretched out his long legs and folded his arms across his chest. "I noticed the wolfhounds in the great hall. They're as fine a pair of animals as I've ever seen. Where did you find them?"
Alex took a seat on the settle close to the fire and held his hands out toward the flames. "At a market in Argyll two days ago."
"'Tis an uncommon place to find even one such animal, let alone two."
"Aye. I deem myself fortunate indeed for catching sight of them before they were sold to someone else." As if on command, one of the hounds bayed at the top of his lungs and was soon followed by the other. "What the devil is going on?"
A knock sounded at the door.
"Aye?" Alex inquired.
"M'laird, something has upset the wolfhounds," Leith, his steward, shouted through the thick oak door, his words barely coherent above the ear-splitting barks.
He got up from his chair and opened the door. "What's the matter with them?"
Leith shook his head. "I dinnae ken. 'Tis as if the two of 'em suddenly went daft."
Alex and Drostan followed the steward to where the two massive animals, who had ceased their barking, whimpered and strained at their leashes, their gazes locked on the door leading outside. It took all young Willie's strength to hold them back, and he was by no means a man of small stature. The dogs had only been at Blackstone for a short while, but even so, perhaps they sensed something was amiss. But surely no enemy would be fool enough to be out in such weather. "Take them out into the bailey and see what happens."
The steward opened the door, and the two animals almost dragged Willie across the snow-covered bailey to the portcullis, where they stood peering out between the iron bars, whimpering and wagging their shaggy tails.
Alex frowned. What was going on? Was someone lurking about? If so, then their reaction was quite unusual. They should be baring their teeth and growling.
The larger of the pair, whom he had named Lud, stood on his hind legs and clawed at the gate.
"Remove their leashes and let them out, but stay alert for an attack."
The portcullis was raised just enough to allow the dogs to slip beneath, then quickly lowered. Baying at the top of their lungs, they took off, then suddenly there was no sound at all. Had an archer's arrow taken them down? Or had they simply run off, headed back to where they originally came from, as dogs were sometimes prone to do? Squinting into the falling snow, he looked up at the ramparts. "Anything amiss, Glenn?"
"Nay, m'laird."
"Leith, fetch a lantern and several guards. I'll not rest until I learn the cause of the wolfhound's uproar."
With a lantern, Drostan, Leith, Willie, and four well-armed guards in tow, Alex unsheathed his broadsword, then motioned for Glenn to again raise the portcullis.
They followed the dog's tracks a short distance across the snow-covered moor. Near the wood, a horse stood beside a dark shape in the snow. Had the dogs been trampled to death? Highly unlikely. Alex sent two guards to the left and two to the right, while he, Drostan, Leith, and Willie slowly moved forward with the lantern. As he drew near, he could see the dogs, but there was something else. Could they have taken down a stag? He held the lantern closer, then cursed beneath his breath. A woman lay partially hidden in the snow, her hood covering her face. Whether or not she was dead, he could not determine.
A dog lay on either side of her, their massive heads across her chest and midsection as if trying to keep her warm. "All's well," he shouted to the others. Leash the dogs, Willie, so I can see to the lass."
The wolfhounds snarled and strained at their tethers, as they were pulled away and dragged back to the castle.
When Alex lifted the woman into his arms, the horse snorted and pawed the ground unhappily. "Take the stallion to the stable, then feed and water him well. Watch him, James. He's a magnificent animal, but a warhorse, taught to kill a man with a single kick to the head."
"Aye, m'laird," James said, warily watching the warhorse as he grabbed his reins, and headed toward the stables.
Alex pressed a finger to the woman's throat. Her heart still beat, albeit weakly. "Leith, run ahead and tell Maggie to have the servants build a fire and ready my mother's bedchamber."
Leith raced back as quickly as the deep snow would allow.
After drawing his plaid around her, Alex carried her to the castle.
Maggie, the housekeeper, was waiting when he came through the door. "Poor lass," she said, shaking her head.
Where had Drostan gone off to? He had been right behind him but a moment earlier. "Fetch the healer and send someone up to get her undressed. She's soaked to the skin. And find something belonging to my sister for her to wear."
"Go with the laird," Maggie ordered Flora, the servant girl standing beside her. "Take m' candle to light those in the chamber. Jim is already there preparing the fire."
"Aye, Mistress." She hurried up the stairs in front of him to open the door.
He carried the woman inside, then frowned. The bedchamber was as cold as a well-digger's arse. She was in dire need of warmth—and plenty of it. "Flora, I'm taking her next door where 'tis much warmer."
"Aye, laird." Flora opened the door between the bedchambers to let him inside.
"Leave the door open," he ordered when she started to close it. "And let me ken when the healer arrives."
She nodded, then went back to preparing the chamber.
Alex carried the woman across the room and took a seat on the settle near the fire. 'Twas quite obvious she was high-born. The ermine-lined cloak and deerskin gloves she wore were some of the best he had chanced to see. Her finely stitched wool skirts were those of a lady, as were the superbly crafted boots adorning her feet.
Curious to see what she looked like, he gently slipped the hood from her head, sending a river of long, dark-brown curls spilling over his arm, and providing him his first glimpse of her fetching features. The lass was beautiful—strikingly so, with flawless skin, now chaffed red by the wind, and shapely lips, blue from the cold. He surmised she had seen no more than twenty summers if that. He pressed his hand against her cheek. Her skin was as cold as death itself. Alex turned and held her close to the fire, careful not to get too near its dancing flames.
A quarter hour later, Maggie poked her head into the room. "Alma has arrived, laird."
He rose from the settle and carried her into the next room, which was now much warmer, and gently placed her on the bed. He turned to Jimmy, squatting in front of the hearth. "You'd best bring in plenty of peat, lad, for the lass is nigh froze to death."
"Aye, m'laird," he said, then hurried from the room.
"I'll leave you to it," he said to the healer, then turned to Maggie. "Fetch me once Alma has finished going over her."
The housekeeper nodded, then went to assist the healer.
With his head reeling with questions, Alex went back into his own bedchamber and closed the door. Who the devil was this woman? And why was she wandering about the countryside in the middle of a snowstorm? He walked over to the fire and warmed his cold hands over the flames.
One thing was certain, the lass was no stranger to the wolfhounds. Theirs was a loyal breed, which was one of the reasons Alex had purchased the pair. Aye, they indeed knew the lass, but how? The more questions he posed, the more questions arose—such as why had she been riding a massive warhorse? He had been contemplating the situation for some time when a knocked sounded at the inner door. "Aye?"
"Alma is finished with the lass, m'laird," Maggie said from the other side.
He opened the door and stepped into the bedchamber, now warmer than before. A pair of sgian dubhs lay on
the table, one with a jeweled hilt, still in its sheath. The young woman lay on the bed with her legs dangling over the side, her feet, ankle deep in a basin of water. Her wet clothing and boots had been placed before the fire to dry, and several layers of bedclothes and furs had been tucked around her. He was pleased to see her lips were no longer blue. Alex turned to the healer. "Will she recover?"
Alma nodded. "Aye, m'laird, she will, but the wee thing spent a great deal of time out in this weather. I can only guess as to whether or no' her feet can be saved, but her hands warmed up quickly."
He picked up a candle and peered into the water. Her small feet were unnaturally pale. Alex knew warriors who had lost appendages to frostbite and those who had had the misfortune to die from it, as well. "Can anything be done to help her?"
"Putting her feet in warm water was of most importance," Alma said, before taking a large bottle from her basket. "This oil from the great pine will aid in their healing. It must be massaged into her feet several times a day until the color has returned. But she must not be allowed to walk, or even stand until her feet 'ave healed completely." She again dug into her basket, and this time, pulled out a pouch. "When she awakens, she'll be in much pain. A large pinch of this powder made into a warm tea will help her to rest." She handed the pouch and pine oil to Flora. "Her feet have been in the water long enough," she said to the girl. "We dinnae want to leave them in overmuch."
Flora nodded to the old woman, then carefully lifted the young woman's feet from the basin and gently dried them.
Alex moved to the bedside, then lifted her into his arms. Her body temperature had risen considerably, for he could feel the warmth of her through the bedclothes, as he placed her lengthwise on the bed and stepped away. The lass looked so frail and helpless. She triggered a protectiveness in Alex he had never felt for anyone, save his mother and sister—and of course, Rowena, who had been the love of his life, before fate had taken her away from him.
Flora removed the stopper from the bottle, then poured a bit of the pine oil into her hands. She gently rubbed it between the young woman's toes, and along the bottom of her small feet, and over her ankles, which, he could not help but notice, were quite shapely. When she was finished, she took a blanket from beside the fire and carefully wrapped them.
Alma nodded. "Ye did fine, Flora. I'll be taking m' leave now, m'laird."
"Much thanks, Alma."
The old woman grunted and left the bedchamber.
Alex prayed the lass would have a complete recovery. "Maggie, I wish Flora to tend our guest until I say otherwise."
The housekeeper nodded. "Aye, m'laird."
A commotion outside in the corridor drew his attention. When he opened the door, he found Willie with the wolfhounds, who whimpered and strained at their leashes, as they tried to shove their way inside the bedchamber.
Willie held them back. "The lads nigh dragged me up the stairs."
"Remove their tethers," he ordered, curious as to what they would do, but certain he already knew their intention.
Willie's eyes widened, but he complied. The moment they were free, the two dogs raced into the room and jumped onto the bed. Lud lay down beside the young woman, with his head on her midsection, and Lad, across her legs.
Flora gasped. "Will the hound not harm her feet?"
Alex thought for a moment. "Leave him there for a bit. His body will provide her feet and legs with much-needed warmth." He turned to Willie. "Leave the tethers. That's all for now."
Willie nodded, then left, closing the door behind him.
While Flora busied herself tending the fire, Alex drew a chair up next to the bed, and sat down, hoping its occupant might soon wake. The candle on the bedside table flickered across her exquisite features, and he wondered what color her eyes might be while noting how her long dark lashes grazed her cheekbones. Her lips were pink, full and bow-shaped. He ached to brush his thumb across the lower one, then scolded himself for thinking such a thought when she was so ill. After a time, he rose to his feet. "Flora, come and get me when she wakes."
"Aye, m'laird."
No more had he entered his bedchamber when a knock sounded at the outer door. "Aye?"
"'Tis I," Drostan replied from the corridor.
"Come."
His friend came in and closed the door behind him.
"Where did you run off to? When I reached the castle, you were no longer with me."
Drostan chuckled. "With good reason. While you were busy carrying the lass inside, a silhouette against the snow caught my attention. I took two of the guards and circled around behind the horse and rider. When he saw us, he immediately asked about the young woman. He wanted to ken whether or not she'd made it safely inside the castle. I told him she had, but said no more. I figured you'd want to question him yourself."
Alex nodded. "I do, indeed. He could be the reason she was out in the storm. Where is he now?"
"In the library—under guard. He was nigh frozen, and the mare he rode—unlike the warhorse—would not have made it much farther. Her legs were trembling, and she went down twice on the way to the stables."
He frowned. "She should be immediately rubbed down and covered with blankets." Alex cared a great deal about horses, and as a horse breeder, he well knew how to take care of them.
"'Tis being done as we speak, and she has been fed an extra portion of oats," Drostan said, grinning.
"Good." His friend knew him well. "Now let's see if our guest can shed some light on the identity of the lass."
When Alex opened the library door and dismissed the guard, the man looked up from his platter, heavily laden with food and drink. No one went hungry at Blackstone, not if Maggie MacClain had anything to say about it.
Drostan came in behind him and closed the door, then took a seat across from the stranger.
Alex crossed his arms and leaned against the wall beside the fireplace. "I'm Alex MacPherson, the Laird of Blackstone Castle."
The man quickly got to his feet and bowed. "I'm most thankful for ye kindness, m'laird."
"You're welcome. Please, sit down and finish your meal."
He nodded, then again, took his seat.
"What are you called?"
"Art, Art Grant, is m' name, laird."
"I understand you wished to ken about the young woman's condition."
The man nodded and frowned. "Aye. Last night, she rode into my camp, hungry and exhausted. I shared m' meal with her and offered her a place to rest for the night. When she woke, she broke her fast and bid m' farewell. I could see the storm coming from afar and tried m' best to get her to stay for another day, but she'd hear naught of it."
"Why did you decide to follow her?"
Grant shrugged. "Once she'd gone, I realized I should 'ave insisted she wait until the storm passed before leaving. I was worried for her safety and packed my meager belongings and went off to find her. I saw where she'd fallen in the water, and feared she'd die if I didnae find her soon. Thank the saints, she found her way here. Might I see her?"
Alex sat down on the settle beside Drostan. "I'm afraid not. She's not awakened since I found her lying in the snow. I've had the healer see to her, and it appears her feet are frostbitten."
The man visibly paled. An odd reaction for someone who had but met her the day before.
"Did she give you a name?" Alex asked, hoping to learn her identity.
"Ceana, she said. Whether or not 'tis her true name, I dinnae ken."
"She gave you no clan name?"
Art shook his head. "Nay."
Alex rose to his feet and opened the door. "You're welcome to sleep in the great hall near the fire. Once the young woman wakes, I'll be certain to let you ken."
The stranger nodded. "Much thanks, for yer hospitality to both me and the lass," he said, as he left the library.
Drostan crossed his arms and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"Do you think he's genuinely concerned
about her?"
Alex shook his head. "I dinnae ken, but he appears to be. Only time will tell. I'll post a guard outside her door. He'll not be allowed to see her until I make certain he's not up to something. For all we ken, he could be lying."
IN THE GREAT HALL, Art drew his cloak around his shoulders and lay down close to the fire. On either side of him, men snored loud enough to wake the dead. Any other time, he would have been unable to sleep with such a racket about, but not this night. He was exhausted.
He stuffed his pack beneath his head and stared into the flames of the massive fireplace, where a log the width and length of a full-grown man crackled and popped. Frostbitten! Guilt gnawed at him, the same way the flames gnawed at the wood. His sight suddenly blurred, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Forgive me, brother. I shouldn't have allowed her to leave my camp without me. But I promise you and Eliza, I'll go nowhere until I ken the lass is safe, even if it takes the rest of my days to see to it.
Thankfully, no one would venture to guess the two of them were kin, for Ceana uncannily resembled her mother. He trusted she would wake soon and whispered a prayer for her quick recovery. And once he confided in her his true identity, he wanted to know what to hell happened at Teineaer Castle.
Chapter Four
After looking in on Ceana, who had yet to awaken, Alex went to his own bedchamber, undressed, and slipped into bed. Sleet pelted the window, as he tossed and turned, trying to fit the pieces of the night together. What was she doing out in such a storm? And how did the wolfhounds know her? And what of Grant? How did he fit into the scheme of things? Alex pondered those questions over and over in his mind—plus a great many others. Sometime before dawn, he drifted off to sleep.
Early the following morning, he threw back the covers, dressed, then quietly opened the door and peered into the other bedchamber. Flora sat slumped in the chair beside the bed. By the light of the fire, he could see Ceana had not moved, nor had the dogs. They looked up at him and wagged their tails. He would have Willie take them out for a run a bit later.