“Aye, milady. All the men said it was Meg Boswell.”
Rachel’s stomach clenched with a mix of frantic worry and excitement that her niece was finally away from England.
“And just how did the Macbains end up with your niece?” Alec jumped on the question. “Steal her away from England? Using her against us! Nay! You aren’t going, wife!”
Rachel shut her eyes for a long moment, then walked to her husband. She touched his blotchy face. His heart raced as if in battle, every muscle in his body tightened, his stomach clenched. Worry. The corners of Rachel’s lips turned up.
“I love you, too, Alec.” She stared into his blue eyes and stroked her hand down to sit on his upper arm where she squeezed. “I have to go to Meg. She’s all I have left of Isabelle. You know I can save her.”
Alec breathed out low. “Nay, woman. Do not go.”
“I will be safe. And I know you have half a dozen faithful Munros over there that could secret me out if need be.” Rachel sensed Alec’s blood slowing in his veins. His chest relaxed. “You, husband, get to fight on the battlefield to save your family. Let me save mine.”
He stared at her a long moment and Rachel knew she’d already won, but she would wait until he gave his approval. Husbands must appear to be in control even when they weren’t.
Alec continued to stare while he spoke out to the room. “Phillip, prepare a group of twenty men to escort Lady Munro to her niece. Let Macbain know that we were not at Loch Tuinn today and that if anything unpleasant should befall my wife, I will have his head for Christmas supper. I expect her returned within the week.”
Rachel leaned in and kissed her husband hard on his lips. She turned and ran with Margaret up the stairway.
…
“She is growing hot.” Caden’s voice rushed about the room. His hand lay along Meg’s cheek.
“Shock turns to fever fairly quickly in a wee lass,” Caden’s housekeeper, Evelyn, said and tucked a blanket around Meg.
Caden took up the damp rag from a clay bowl and washed Meg’s forehead. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Meg Boswell was to be used to force a peace, but she wasn’t to be harmed in the process. The mission: to quickly take her from her home in England, to bring her safely up to the Highlands, and then give her to The Munro in exchange for a promise of peace and the return of their livestock. Simple.
Bloody hell! He should have anticipated the attack, should have shielded her, had her constantly surrounded by his men.
Evelyn shook her graying head, her hands on her ample hips as she peered at Meg, studying her. “A bonny lass. Hard to believe she’s niece to a witch.”
She touched the heavy cross that hung from her neck. “She’s but a wee thing.” Evelyn’s gaze turned to the hearth. “Smart of her to keep that beast around, I suppose.” She eyed Nickum lying unconscious on his side before the fire.
Caden stood on the opposite side of the bed. Meg did seem small in it. He had broken the shaft of the arrow that still lay in her torn shoulder. She lay flat under the light blanket. She was pale, like the dead, her dark lashes stark against ashen cheeks. Her shallow breaths barely moved the blanket. He watched them closely for several seconds to make sure they continued a regular rhythm.
Nickum whimpered but did not rise. Ewan and Donald had pulled the arrows from his body and wrapped him tight, but more was needed to bring the animal back.
His gaze returned to Meg and he ran a palm against her cheek. “Where is her aunt?”
“I sent Geoffrey with your letter as soon as you gave it to me.”
“Send for Fiona from the village,” he ordered. “She knows the ways of healing.”
“You need more than herbs to fix that,” Evelyn said, pointing to Meg’s covered shoulder.
His chest numbed, hollow, empty. “Send for Fiona. If Rachel Munro doesn’t come by midnight, I will bring her.”
Evelyn opened the door to the chamber. “What’s this?”
Caden turned to see corridor filled with warriors.
Ewan peered over Evelyn’s head, and into the room. “We’re here to see if there is anything we can do.”
“Anything you can do?” Evelyn asked.
“Aye, for Meg,” Donald said. “The wee lass helped most of us on the mission.”
Ewan spoke loud. “Aye, even saved The Macbain’s hard head, she did.”
Evelyn’s gaze moved between the men and Caden. She shook her head. “The chief will have need of you if the Witch Munro doesn’t come. And perhaps two of you to help hold the lass when Fiona pulls out the point of the arrow.”
“I will help,” Hamish called from the back.
“So will I,” Kieven stated, and tried to shove through. “She saved my leg from turning black.”
“Stad!” Evelyn called and yanked Ewan and Donald into the room. “Kieven, be a help and find Fiona. Tell her to bring her cures.”
Kieven’s footfalls sounded through the stone corridor.
“Hamish, we’ll call you if you’re needed. Now all of you go back down and find something to put in your bellies. Did you bring any game back from England?”
“Aye,” another man called. “Meg even helped with that.”
Evelyn snorted. “For a Munro, you all think rather highly of the miss.”
“She isn’t a Munro, she’s a Boswell,” another insisted.
“Well you think rather highly then of an English lass with Munro blood in her veins,” Evelyn countered and shooed the rest of them away from the door.
Donald stood near Nickum at the hearth. “You think he will die, too?”
“No one is dying,” Caden said with determined patience, barely concealing the threat in his voice.
Evelyn moved back to the other side of the bed. “I’d say that your men are not the only ones thinking highly of the English Munro.”
Evelyn had been his nursemaid, his housekeeper, his friend, especially when his mother had died. And she’d always been able to see the truth in him even when he wasn’t sure of it himself.
He stared down at Meg’s pale forehead. “If she dies, we have nothing to bargain with, Evelyn. There’ll be no chance for peace.”
There. That was a plausible explanation for the twisting in his gut. He met Evelyn’s steely blue eyes. “The Munros may even blame us for her death.”
“Even though it is one of their bloody arrows in her?” Donald asked.
“They may say it wasn’t them,” Ewan retorted. “Alec Munro didn’t ride with them.”
Caden’s eyebrow rose. “Did anyone see his son, Searc?”
“Nay,” Ewan answered. “Nor did I see Gormal or Phillip. But the bastards called themselves Munros.”
Caden frowned. The door flew open, hitting the wall.
“That would be because Munros were not at Loch Tuinn at noon today.” A comely lady with a long braid stalked regally into the room. She shed her outer fur-lined cape, let it fall to the floor, and moved directly to Meg.
“They called themselves Munro,” Ewan repeated.
Sharp blue eyes flashed to Caden. “Someone is tricking you, Macbain,” the woman said. She was shorter than he’d thought she’d be, but there was no missing the strength she possessed in her resolve.
“Rachel Munro has arrived,” Fiona announced as she and Hamish hefted a large kettle of water to set over the hearth.
“You mean the Witch Munro,” Rachel said softly and gave Caden a sardonic smirk before turning back to her niece. She touched Meg’s cheek with the flat of her hand and frowned. “Heat the water. Rip these rags. Mix these herbs with fresh water. Turn her on her side. I’ll brace her; you push through swift and straight, Macbain.”
Caden waited for Rachel to grasp her firmly and he held her back right where the barbed tip poked through. She seemed so fragile in his hands, so small. Rachel nodded. Bloody hell, he hated to do this! One, two, three!
Meg screamed, even through her unconsciousness, as Caden forced the arrow through her shoulder and out the back. B
lood welled up, spilling out of the holes.
“Hold her on her side! Move!” Rachel placed her hands flat against the ragged flesh on both sides. “Keep her still.” She closed her eyes, inhaled, exhaled, her cheeks puffed out with the volume of air, and then shrank with her exhale. A bright blue light glowed out from under her hands.
“What bloody witchcraft…” Ewan whispered.
Evelyn murmured and made the sign of the cross. Donald took a step backward, toward the hearth. Only Fiona seemed unimpressed by the strange process. Rachel continued to hold Meg between her hands, eyes squeezed shut. Her face pinched tight as if she struggled against a great weight.
Seconds ticked by with Caden’s heartbeats, hundreds of them. The blue glow softened against Meg’s skin, softened until it faded to nothing.
“Catch her, Macbain,” Rachel whispered and slumped into a sitting position on the side of the bed. Fiona jumped to steady Rachel while Caden lowered Meg back to the plump tick. His eyes sought out the ragged holes. Neither one bled.
“Good Holy Christ the Lord,” Evelyn said, her hand pressed against her lips. She peered close at the holes. “They are…healed.”
“Fiona,” Rachel said, her voice weak. “Pack a poultice of hedge woundwort leaves on each wound. Change the dressing once a day and it will heal completely without issue.”
Caden raised his eyes from Meg to her aunt. Rachel Munro was drained, like a wet cloth rung out until not a drop of moisture remained. Her courageous spirit was dimmed, her flashing eyes sunken.
“Ewan,” Caden said. “Help Lady Munro to the fire to sit.”
At first he thought she would argue, but then she leaned on Ewan’s arm as he helped her shuffle across the room. “I will be fit again once I rest,” she announced and accepted a cup from Fiona.
“Evelyn, have a room made ready for Lady Munro.”
“Nay, Macbain. I will remain with my niece,” she said.
The flames crackled in the hearth, throwing shadows across the stone walls of the room. No one moved. Caden nodded to Evelyn, setting everything into motion once again. He sat on the bed next to Meg. Color crept back into her face. He touched her forehead. Warm, not hot. His gaze drifted to Rachel where she sat slumped before the hearth. The witch had taken the lass’s fever, too. At what cost to her?
“She still must sleep, Macbain, for my healing to take hold.” Rachel’s words carried despite Ewan and Donald sloshing the pot of dirty water out through the door, and Evelyn and Fiona carrying blankets in and out. Evelyn’s eyes stayed on Rachel as if the woman might grow horns and a tail at any moment.
Caden brushed a finger along Meg’s cheek and then stood. He walked to the hearth, around Meg’s wounded pet. Fiona took the empty cup from Rachel.
“Fiona,” Caden said. “Can you make some of your poultice for Meg’s beast?”
Rachel’s eyes flickered open and her head came up to stare at the animal as if she hadn’t noticed his massive presence before.
The maid’s large eyes showed a healthy amount of fear.
“Donald and I will put it on the beast. I would not have Meg wake to find her beloved friend dead after he stood his ground over her.” Caden’s gaze connected with Rachel’s. “He saved her life while we fought off…whoever ambushed us.”
Rachel’s eyes softened as if she understood that it had taken him much to recognize the possibility of trickery in the attack.
“Did you already remove the tips?” Rachel asked.
Caden nodded. “He lost a lot of blood.”
“Fiona,” Rachel said. “Mix some feverfew with the same poultice you will make for Meg.” She paused and closed her eyes, head falling against the straight back of the chair. “Once I’m rested, I will pray,” she said, “over the beast as well.”
“Pray?” Evelyn said low, and shook her head as she headed out the door.
“Yes, pray.” Rachel opened her pale blue eyes. She leaned forward and caught Caden’s hand to leverage into a standing position. “My gift is from God,” she said as they stepped toward the bed. “I am no Lucifer-worshipping witch, Macbain.”
Caden tipped his head briefly, and she relaxed into his arm. He helped Rachel down. Side by side with her niece, there were few traits showing their blood connection. Only their build and long slender fingers were similar.
“Is this gift passed on through generations?” He placed a blanket over the woman.
“Yes.” Rachel turned toward Meg. “Sometimes to our detriment.” She closed her eyes and began to breathe in a slow steady rhythm, falling instantly asleep.
Caden moved around the bed to sit in a chair near Meg. Long lashes lay like fans against soft skin; light freckles sprinkled across the gentle slope of her nose. Her eyes moved behind the lids following her dreams.
Meg’s pink lips parted on an exhale. “Caden…”
Caden leaned over the bed. “Ye’re safe, Meg,” he whispered.
A quick glance showed that the room lay empty as Fiona had gone to the kitchens to prepare the poultices.
“Caden,” Meg murmured.
He ran his thumb across one smooth cheek, down to her jaw near her ear, then followed the soft lines of her neck. “Sleep, lass. Ye’re safe and well.” The same words he’d used each night while she battled her dream demons.
Meg released a sigh and surrendered to a deeper slumber. Caden sat back on the rickety chair.
“Interesting,” Rachel said from her side of the bed. Her eyes flicked open. “She calls for her captor in her dreams?”
“She doesn’t know that she is a captive,” Caden said, his words gruff but without remorse. “She believes that fate brought her an escort to you. She runs from some man, I think her father.” Rachel frowned and Caden continued. “In all truth she would have died on her way here alone, if I hadn’t run into her.”
“She has not had an easy time avoiding death while in your care, either, Macbain.” Wise eyes assessed him sideways. Rachel pushed up on her elbow.
“I ask you not to tell her,” Caden said. “If she thinks she’s a guest—”
“So Meg is a hostage?” Rachel asked.
Caden paused. He inhaled slowly to help the twist in his stomach that he ignored. Just because his plan had deviated from the original one, he wouldn’t give it up. Bargaining for peace was his best chance at saving his people.
“Aye. Your niece is the only thing I have left to bargain with. I will release her to the Munros when your husband agrees to a peace between us.”
“You also have me now,” Rachel said.
“I gave my word that you could go.” Caden’s jaw hardened. He wouldn’t break his promise.
“Even when your larders are empty and your cattle have been raided away?”
“I do not go back on my word,” he all but growled.
A softness tugged at the corner’s of her mouth. “So I told Alec. Very well. You be the one to tell her.”
Simple words, but powerful. The tightness in his chest relaxed. The news must come from him. He owed Meg that much for using her need for escape as an easy way to ensure her cooperation.
“Why do you think it’s her father who chases her?” Rachel asked.
He leaned back. “She mentioned that her mother was killed.” He’d leave out the fact that a lot of what he’d learned had been from Meg’s nighttime talking. “That a man had accused her of being a witch and had taken her away to be burned. She fears this man would legally be able to take her. She never mentioned a father.” He rubbed at the tension above his eyes. “Who else would it be?”
Rachel’s lips pinched. “So the bastard has realized his jeopardy.”
“What’s his name?” He would have a name for the one who tortured Meg in her dreams?
“Rowland Boswell. He’s got some title in England, but it doesn’t mean anything except that he can play court games. Isabelle, Meg’s mother—my sister—discovered his treasonous plans. She thought that if her husband was caught, her daughter would lose everythin
g. Colin Macleod tried to rescue her but she wouldn’t leave. Knew she was close to ruining Rowland’s plans for good. I don’t think my sister knew just how far Rowland would go to punish her.”
“So the marriage wasn’t one of love?” he asked.
Rachel snorted and swore under her breath. “My sister was…dutiful. When my father demanded she return to England and marry, she protested once, but when Father threatened to take his revenge on the Macleods, she returned.”
“You were more fortunate.”
“Father did not approve of my praying and how I wouldn’t hide it. When he heard Alec wanted to marry me despite my talents, he blessed the union.”
“Isabelle had similar talents?”
“Aye, though only I knew. She hid them completely. Boswell created those charges of witchcraft. They were lies.”
They sat in silence. Caden watched Meg breathe.
“Could Meg have your talent?”
When she didn’t answer, his gaze raised to her. A smile haunted her lips. “As far back as I’ve been able to trace, every woman in my line has.” Rachel pulled back the sleeve of her kirtle. A brown shape lay against her skin. She held it up so that the light of the fire caught it, revealing a large birthmark.
“The mark of the dragonfly,” she said. “My mother had one on her leg, her sister on her hip, their mother on the bottom of her foot. Isabelle’s was also on her foot.” She lowered her arm. “We’re fabled to have stemmed from a great healing witch in the tenth century, from somewhere in Denmark.”
Maybe Meg didn’t have one. Perhaps the lass was without this power. He’d watched her carefully with his men and had never seen a blue light. None of their wounds had healed quickly like Meg’s had. “I haven’t seen a dragonfly on her.”
“Have you seen her naked?”
“Nay,” he snapped, but then smoothed the edge from his voice. “There’s been no mark on those areas exposed. And she healed my men with constant care, not magic.”
Rachel shrugged and relaxed back down into the hay-filled tick. “How unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?”
“Death stalks all of us, Macbain. Talents such as mine fend it off for a time.”
He’d never thought of it that way. His whole life he’d heard stories of the Munro Witch, how she healed with dark magic and that her soul would pay the price. Yet he saw no evidence of demonic presence or a dark nature. She didn’t pray to Satan or require a payment for her dark arts. Would he have paid it if she had?
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