Loved By a Warrior

by Donna Fletcher

  “We never got the chance,” Tara said. “When our vows were spoken, he turned to me, smiled, and collapsed dead at my feet.”

  “Good Lord, Tara, how terrible.”

  “More than you know,” she admitted.

  He scrunched his brow and rubbed his chin. “You have never been with a man?”

  Tara threw her hands up in the air. “I tell you that the curse killed both men, and all you think about is that I’ve never coupled?”

  “You haven’t?” He smiled; he couldn’t help it.

  “What does that matter when I killed a man I loved and a husband. Do you truly want to take a chance and be number three?”

  “No, I will be number one, the first and only man who makes love to you.”

  “I can’t say that I don’t want to make love with you,” she said, reasoning that it was best to be honest with him in hopes that he would understand. “I find myself desiring you most all the time, but I fear if I surrender to my passion, that it may cause you to surrender your life.”

  “You desire me all the time?”

  “Don’t you hear what I’m saying?” she demanded.

  “I heard everything you have said. Now hear me,” he said adamantly. “Your curse will not hurt me and cannot hurt me. Not now, not ever. Besides, Rory suffered an unfortunate accident. Terrible as it was, things like that do happen. Your husband died like many I have seen, talking and laughing one moment, dead the next. It is the way of life. Death claims those it will, not a curse.”

  Tara shook her head. “You are a stubborn fool.

  “No.” He grinned. “I’m always right.”

  He was glad to see her smile, glad he could make her smile, and he wanted to keep making her smile.

  “We agreed to take this slow,” she reminded, her smile remaining.

  “No, we agreed that probably would be difficult.”

  “But we’ll try,” she urged.

  “I suppose we could,” he said, walking around the table and reaching out for her.

  She skirted away from him. “We need to.”

  “There’s something I need,” he said, inching closer.

  She inched away. “What?”

  “Another kiss.” He stepped closer.

  She moved around the table. “That might not be a good idea.”

  “Why?” he asked, continuing to follow her.

  “Because I want more,” she admitted in a lusty whisper.

  He moved so fast that she yelped and jumped as he grabbed her and wrapped her in his arms. He held her tight and kissed her quick. “I can give you more.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  He whispered close to her mouth before he claimed a kiss. “There’s nothing to fear.”

  Again they feasted like two starved lovers, their hands at each other’s garments and their passions ruling.

  The loud toll of a bell sounded like a mighty roar of thunder, stunning them and splitting them apart so fast that it was as if a mighty hand had reached down from the heavens and ripped them away from each other.

  “What is it?” Tara asked.

  “We must go to the keep,” he instructed, grabbing her cloak then his off the floor.

  “Are we under attack?”

  “No, the bell would still be tolling,” Reeve explained. “One toll is a warning that an unexpected troop approaches the village.”

  He hurried her out the door. “You will wait in the keep with the women.”

  Tara grabbed hold tightly of his arm, forcing him to stop. “Promise me you will not die.”

  “I have all the reason in the world to make sure I live.” He grinned. “I have yet to make love to you.”

  Chapter 14

  The snowfall had turned into a raging snowstorm, the keep barely visible the short distance away. Tara yanked her hood up and latched on tightly to Reeve’s hand. He in turn tucked her against his side as he attempted to keep the bitter cold and swirling snow from pelting her.

  Tara kept her head tucked into Reeve’s shoulder as he struggled with the keep door, and when he finally got it open, the icy wind blew them inside.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, tossing her hood back.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, though her teeth chattered.

  He walked her over to the hearth. “You’re cold. You need to warm yourself.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, and nodded toward his family, headed their way from various directions in the great hall.

  Duncan had his arm around his wife and set her next to Tara.

  “Are you feeling better?” Tara asked, though from Mercy’s pale face, she could see that she wasn’t, and Mercy confirmed it with a shake of her head.

  “I don’t want her alone,” Duncan said. “Could you please stay with her?”

  “Certainly,” Tara said, and Mercy sent her a grateful glance.

  “What’s going on?” Reeve asked.

  “All we know is that a sizeable troop heads this way,” Bryce said. “The snowstorm has made it difficult to ascertain who exactly it is.”

  “So it could be the king’s men?” Reeve asked.

  “We’ve seen no sign of them close to the village,” Carmag said.

  “Then let’s go greet them,” Reeve suggested.

  “Poor visibility prohibits that,” Bryce said.

  “The same rings true for them,” Reeve reminded. “I say we at least go scout and see if we should prepare to greet or battle.”

  “You and Bryce are good at that,” Carmag said to Reeve. “Go and see what you can find out.”

  Both men nodded and left the great hall.

  Duncan and Carmag wandered away from the trestle table to talk in private, and Mara left after informing them that she better have cook have hot food ready when they returned.

  Tara turned to Mercy. “Are you in pain?”

  “No,” Mercy said, shaking her head. “It’s strange. I just suddenly feel very tired, as if something is weighing me down. I don’t understand it at all.”

  Tara grew concerned immediately. Could her curse have returned, or had it never left?

  “I do recall my mother complaining to me that when she carried me, I had so exhausted her that she spent most of her time in bed. I’m assuming it could be the same for me.”

  Hearing that made Tara feel somewhat better, for it did make sense.

  Mara suddenly appeared with a pitcher of hot cider and a wooden bowl piled with chunks of bread and cheese.

  Tara removed her cloak, the fire having warmed her, and laid it beside her. Mercy filled two tankards for them, and they sat side by side, their hands cupped around the tankards, neither saying a word.

  Conversation wasn’t necessary. Their thoughts were similar; they prayed that no battle would take place this day.

  Mara appeared again, this time with her healing basket. “Just in case anyone should need tending.”

  Both women acknowledged her preparedness with a nod though, silently, they continued to worry.

  It seemed like forever until a message arrived, the courier out of breath and appearing half-frozen. Mara shoved a tankard in his hands, and he cupped it gratefully and took several sips before he was finally able to talk.

  “It’s the Picts.”

  “Why are they here?” Duncan voiced everyone’s thoughts. “We have no quarrel with them.”

  The courier shook his head, the tankard still at his lips.

  “What is it, Robert?” Carmag asked the young man.

  He continued shaking his head after lowering the tankard. “The Picts have Trey with them. He’s badly injured.”

  “No!” Mara screamed, and Carmag had to stop her from running out of the keep in search of her son.

  “He’ll need you.” Carmag needn’t say any more.

  Mara took a deep breath and started shouting orders. “I need fresh linens spread on a table and water kept hot.”

  The servants nodded and carrie
d out her every command without question and with tears in their eyes.

  Carmag and Duncan immediately left the keep to be ready to help with Trey.

  Mara turned to Tara. “I saw the clothes you stitched for the babe. You are good with a needle. With Mercy not feeling well, you will help me.”

  Mercy tried to protest. “I can help. I want to help.”

  “I will not have you grow worse and need healing while I need my attention on my son,” Mara said. “Tara will help.”

  Tara realized that Mercy felt useless, so she offered, “We will need someone to prepare bandages and keep the needles threaded if Trey should require stitching.”

  “She’s right,” Mara said. “You can start on that now.”

  The three women worked side by side, each glancing at the door time and time again until finally. . .

  The door crashed opened.

  Reeve carried Trey in his arms, and from his limp posture, Tara feared he was dead.

  “Here, lay him here,” Mara instructed, standing by the table dressed in clean linens.

  Tara was right at Mara’s side when she looked upon her son, and she almost gasped at the sight of so much blood. The woman didn’t hesitate; her hands were at her son, peeling away the blood-soaked blanket, trying to get to his wounds.

  Tara didn’t wait for instructions. She relied on her instincts and recalled what the women in her clan would do when tending the wounded warriors. With a thick towel, she reached for the smaller of the cauldrons in the fireplace. Reeve was quickly at her side to help, and when she looked into his dark eyes, she could see that he pleaded with her to help save his brother.

  For a moment, she froze. Could this be her fault?

  She felt Reeve’s strong grip on her arm. “Please,” he whispered.

  She could not fail him. She would not, and so she nodded.

  Tara had never seen so many wounds on one person. She thought some were arrows, another could have been a sword, and another was too jagged to tell. She did not know how he would survive, for surely fever would set in and claim him. But like Mara, she wouldn’t give up. This was Reeve’s brother, and she would do all she could to save his life.

  Mara had the men turn Trey on his side to examine him further, and Tara said what they both thought. “We need to stitch this wound right away.”

  Tara worked alongside Mara, stitching and stitching. She allowed herself no thought, only concentration. She worked on Trey as if he were a delicate silk garment that required tender and precise stitches. She hadn’t realized that Mara had stopped and moved out of her way as she had made her way along Trey’s body. Tara only knew that she had to apply her finest stitches to his wounds, and so she continued working diligently over him, hour after hour.

  She didn’t know when her back had begun to ache; she only knew when she had suddenly become aware of the dull, steady pain. She gave a stretch and then continued until she finally came to the jagged wound on his chest. She examined it carefully, the flesh torn so badly she wondered if it could be repaired. After considering what stitches would be best to apply, she decided on tight cross-stitch embroidery stitches.

  She called to Mercy, “I need the embroidery needle.”

  It was in her hand before she finished stretching her back, and she never looked to see who had handed it to her, never saw the anxious faces that watched her intently; she was too busy finishing her piece of embroidery.

  Thirty minutes later, she was finally done. She cleansed her bloody hands in the cauldron, the water having been refreshed time and time again. She then began dressing the wounds with the bandages stacked on the table next to where Trey lay. When she finished, she cleaned his face thoroughly of all blood, having left it for last since it had been the only place he hadn’t suffered a wound.

  He was handsome, but in a different way from Reeve. Reeve’s features were sculpted whereas Trey’s were more natural, as if the heavens had decided to grace him with fine features. He looked to be perhaps a couple of inches shorter than Reeve, and lean, his muscles naturally defined while Reeve’s were chiseled.

  She poured some warm water over his hair until the blood rinsed out, and his color, dark auburn, shone through. Once done, she straightened with a stretch and a hand to her lower back, her backache beyond bearable.

  It was then she realized that complete silence surrounded her, and she turned.

  Mara and Carmag stood side by side, his arm around her. Bryce was next to them, and Duncan stood beside Mercy, where she sat at the table, and Reeve was not far from her side. Had he been the one handing her what she needed? Standing beside her through it all?

  Mara stepped forward. “Your stitches proved far superior to mine, and when I saw that, I knew my son would be grateful if I allowed a skillfully elegant hand like yours to tend his wounds. I am forever grateful to you.”

  Tara was not accustomed to being thanked or her stitching skills being acknowledged, let alone praised. She didn’t know how to respond, and so she stepped closer to Reeve.

  His arm instantly went around her waist, and he fit her snug against him. “Thank you.”

  Tara looked from Reeve to all the others. She feared that they believed she saved him, an ironic twist. Usually, it was death she brought to people. “Trey’s wounds have a long way to go before they or he heals.”

  Mara stepped forward. “True, but what you have done has given him a fighting chance.”

  She could only hope that she had. “He should be moved to his bedchamber before he wakes.”

  Her sons stepped forward before Mara even summoned them.

  “Leave him to me. I’m the strongest,” Reeve said.

  No one argued, and Reeve carefully slipped his arms beneath his brother’s prone body and lifted him. He cradled him like a precious babe, and his mother draped clean linen over Trey.

  “Tara,” Mara said, “come help me settle him.”

  Mara led the way, Reeve followed, and Tara trailed behind.

  Tara noticed that there was a woman’s touch to Trey’s bedchamber when she entered. A trinket box lay on a slim table next to a cushioned red velvet chair. And over it was draped a pale blue shawl with braided fringe. White silk ribbons were tied in bows around the pewter candlesticks on top of the mantel, and the hint of roses permeated the air. Remnants, she supposed, of the woman he had loved and lost.

  She watched Mara fight back tears as she helped settle Trey comfortably in bed, but she retained her composure. No doubt she knew that it was more important to doggedly help her son rather than succumb to defeat.

  “We’ll need to take shifts and watch for fever,” Mara said, tucking the ends of the soft wool blanket under the mattress.

  “I’ll sit with him now.”

  They looked up to see Mercy, followed by Duncan, Bryce, and Carmag entering the room.

  “And don’t bother arguing with me,” Mercy said. “Since I’m feeling tired, it is the best chore for me. I can rest and be useful at the same time.”

  “I agree,” Duncan said, taking the armless, red velvet chair in front of the fire and placing it next to the bed.

  “We can all take turns,” Bryce offered, and everyone nodded in agreement.

  “It is time to talk to the Picts and see if they know what happened to Trey,” Carmag said, “and to offer them nourishment and shelter.”

  That spurred Mara into action. “Tara, we best get the hall cleaned and food set out.”

  Reeve stepped behind Tara and massaged the tops of her shoulders. She nearly sunk against him, it felt so good.

  “Tara is exhausted, mum,” he said.

  “When all is done, I can rest,” Tara said.

  Mara nodded. “Tara’s right.” And as she walked past the couple, she gave a slap to Reeve’s arm. “She’s a keeper. See that you don’t lose her.”

  Everyone smiled for the first time since Trey had been brought home.

  Reeve turned Tara around and moved his hands to massage around the back of her neck.
“I will ease the soreness from your muscles later.”

  “Promise?” Tara asked with a sigh, his touch exquisite.

  “Aye, it is,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

  Realizing his family was around, her eyes flew open, and her cheeks flushed.

  “Only Mercy remains,” Reeve said, “and her eyes are intent on Trey.”

  Tara’s shoulders slumped in relief. “I must go help your mum.”

  He took her face in his hands. “Thank you for what you did tonight. Your hands and concentration never wavered. You remained focused and gave thought to nothing except my brother. Mum saw it too, and she was wise to step aside and leave Trey in your capable and skillful hands.”

  He stopped her protest with his lips. Though it was a brief kiss, it contented her, and she simply smiled when it was done.

  “We must go,” Tara reminded, and they did, though not before she checked on Trey one more time. She didn’t like what she found. He already felt feverish to her.

  Chapter 15

  Reeve listened along with Tara and his family as the Pict Roan explained how on their return home they had found Trey lying in a pool of blood.

  “We thought he was dead,” Roan said.

  The four other Picts at the table ate as Roan spoke, though their eyes often darted around, alert and ready.

  “Then I realized there was life left in the fallen warrior and that I knew him. He was the Highlander warrior who had come to our village to see about the injured woman Mercy, and so we brought him home.”

  “For which we are eternally grateful,” Carmag acknowledged. “There were no signs of his attackers?”

  “None that we could discern,” Roan said.

  “Had you seen any signs of another’s presence in the area?” Bryce asked.

  “The king’s men have been seen more often than usual. Thieves have been more prevalent of late, and more clans seem to be uniting. The wind of change is decisively in the air.”

  “That it is,” Carmag agreed. “And again we are grateful that you brought Trey home to us. And you are welcome to seek shelter and food here for as long as you need.”

  Roan nodded. “Thank you, but as soon as the storm lessens, we will depart. How is Trey doing?”