Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  “My Lizzie hasn’t been the same since the bairn came,” Hugh Loman whispered.

  Meg stood in the shade of the small house and wrapped clean linen over his stump. “Does the babe wake her during the night?”

  “Aye. Though sometimes I’ll wake to find her just staring at little Geilis sleeping in his cradle.” He nervously glanced toward the doorway and rubbed his hand down his face. “She won’t eat and she cries at everything. Won’t let me even out of her sight.”

  “Sounds like the same affliction that lay heavy in my neighbor’s mind after her babe was born.” Meg dug around in her leather pouch for what was left of her melancholy thistle root, just a bit now tied with string. Most of her healing supplies were in need of renewal.

  “Ye frown,” he said. “Do ye not have enough?”

  “Just enough. Let’s brew some for her.”

  “Thank ye,” he said with obvious relief.

  When they entered, Elizabeth turned from the cradle, her eyes wide.

  “Is his arm worse?” she asked and whisked over to him.

  “No, healing quite well,” Meg assured her.

  Elizabeth grasped Meg’s hand to squeeze hard. “Thanks to ye.” She curtseyed. “I owe ye my life, too, for without my Hugh I would perish and leave little Geilis with no one.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears, and one large drop broke free to trace down her thin cheek.

  Meg continued to hold the woman’s hand. In a heartbeat, she could sense the imbalance in Elizabeth’s brain, like a shadow penetrating the folds. The small organ in Elizabeth’s throat was also stagnant, just as if it had been in the new mother back home.

  “May I see your babe?” Meg asked as she peeked over the cradle.

  “He’s not here. I just…needed a break and…” Elizabeth’s words caught in her throat and she rubbed her face. “Bess has him down the road. Just for a spell so I could rest.”

  “Of course.” Meg patted Elizabeth’s hand. “That is wise.”

  Simple words, but they had the effect of a boulder falling into Elizabeth’s arms. She crumpled downward, shaking her head and sobbing. “Nay, I’m no good mother.”

  Hugh pulled her up and sat her on the bed.

  “Heat some wine with this root in it,” Meg told Hugh, and handed him the taproot of a melancholy thistle. He nodded and left them, though his concerned eyes glanced back to Elizabeth. Meg inhaled slowly through her nose and walked over to Elizabeth. She sat next to her and rubbed the distraught woman’s back as she cried.

  “Elizabeth,” Meg whispered to catch her attention. “You just had a baby and you’re tired. I’ve met several new mothers and at least half of them swore they were terrible at it.”

  Elizabeth just cried into her hands, inconsolable. Meg watched Hugh crouch before the low fire to stir the embers.

  Meg stilled her hand on Elizabeth’s back and shut her eyes. She imagined the place in Elizabeth’s brain, the place that was shadowed. Then she imagined that place lighter, just a smidge at first, then lighter and lighter until the shadow was gone. Meg’s thoughts moved to the darkness she sensed in the front of Elizabeth’s throat and imagined it lightening until it also receded.

  Thump! Meg opened her eyes. Hugh stared from across the room, the leather flask at his feet, pouring across the rushes.

  “What are ye doing?” Hugh demanded and moved across the room.

  Meg’s gaze snapped to her hands on Elizabeth’s back, expecting to see blue light emanating from them. There was nothing…just hands and back. Elizabeth sat up straighter on the bed and dried her eyes on the corner of a shawl.

  “I believe she was comforting me, Hugh,” Elizabeth said and offered Meg a smile before turning on him. “And what are ye doing, dropping the wine? That is what I’m supposed to drink. Right?”

  “Yes,” Meg said, still taking in Hugh’s startled face. What had he seen? Good Lord, did I glow? Would the man call her a witch? The fire leapt in the hearth and fear cinched her stomach.

  Elizabeth stood. “I’ll be sure to drink this brew,” she said. “Though just the thought of it and your kind words have brightened me already.” She turned with a small loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth. “I made this to thank ye for tending Hugh.”

  “The aroma is wonderful. Thank you.” Meg cleared her throat. She didn’t miss that Hugh watched her. “Well, I best go. Donald is most likely outside.” She passed Hugh on her way out. “I’ll check on your arm again in a couple of days.”

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth called.

  Hugh said nothing.

  As Meg turned she caught the quick movement of Hugh’s good hand across his chest. The man had just made the sign of the cross! Her face flamed.

  She walked down the lane with Donald, but her mind was frozen. Hugh had seen something that scared him, something she had done. Word would spread. People would cross themselves when they saw her, and they may even call her a witch. Yet helping Elizabeth was the right thing to do. Doing so gave her purpose and made her curse a gift like Aunt Rachel said.

  “Are ye well, lass?” Donald asked. “Ye seem flushed.”

  Meg concentrated on breathing smoothly. She swallowed the worry. Like dry bread, it hurt going down and lumped in her stomach. Did it really matter what they called her if she could help people like Elizabeth? Yes, if she could be burned like her mother.

  She inhaled deeply. Fiona could get her to her aunt if needed. “I am well, Donald.”

  Ann and Jonet waved. They came across the road winding among the thatched cottages. Jonet glanced beyond Meg’s shoulder. “Good day, Gwyneth.”

  Meg turned to see Gwyneth, fresh and graceful.

  Gwyneth stopped. “Anyone seen Caden? I have something important to discuss with him.”

  “Are you trying to get into his bed again?” Jonet asked in Gaelic and rolled her eyes.

  Again?

  “I’ll just walk on a ways and let you lasses talk,” Donald said. He gave his sister a warning glance and shuffled down the road.

  Ann ignored Donald. “You caught him fair and square last harvest festival,” she quipped, and Gwyneth let out a little chuckle. “The man’s too wrapped up now in trying to find us food to fall into anyone’s arms.”

  “The food shortage is that critical?” Meg asked, breathing past the sudden nausea at the thought of Caden with the raven-haired beauty. All three sets of eyes turned. They seemed surprised that she’d understood them.

  Although they nodded in unison, the message each gave was different. Ann seemed to have let slip a deep secret. Jonet raised her eyebrows, like it was not really all that bad. And Gwyneth’s eyes popped wide and overly innocent.

  “Many could die this winter,” Gwyneth said, switching to English. “Unless we are saved.”

  “Which is why I think we should still have the harvest festival,” Ann said. “We should be thankful to the Good Lord for what we do have and ask Him for help.”

  Jonet held her skirt and turned in a circle. “We could still have the dancing. The men could hunt.”

  “I have found us some grain, too,” Gwyneth said excitedly. “That’s what I want to talk to—”

  “The chief,” Ann finished and pointed.

  Meg turned around and her stomach flipped. Caden walked toward them, a small bundle of cloth over his left shoulder. As he neared, the bundle moved and whimpered. His big hand all but covered it as he gave it two little pats. A baby—he carried a little baby on his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Caden walked with strength in each step, shoulders wide. Yet holding a small baby so naturally against his chest made him look so much more…well, everything. Stronger, bigger…it took Meg’s breath away.

  “Good day,” he said. He frowned at Meg. “Where is Donald? He is yer escort.”

  Meg blinked. “You have a baby.”

  Caden patted the babe’s back once more.

  Meg peeked around. “And it’s drooling down your shoulder.”

  “Bai
rns drool when they’re sleeping,” he said and a crack of a grin softened his frown. “Some lasses do, too.”

  Meg’s face flamed instantly. Had she drooled when he slept next to her on the journey?

  “The bairn belongs to Hugh Loman. I offered to bring him home from Bess Tammin. Where is Donald?” he asked again.

  Meg glanced down the road and pointed to where Donald stood against another house. When he saw Caden he jumped away from the wall and came toward them.

  “He didn’t seem interested in women talk,” Meg said. She stepped up to the baby. “May I touch him?”

  Caden shifted the baby off his shoulder and lowered him into Meg’s arms. She held the sleeping cherub with one arm and touched his softly curled hand. Air rushed through his fresh lungs, blood moved along his vessels in rhythm with his heartbeats. His body hummed with life, thriving, growing.

  “He’s healthy,” Meg said and played with the baby’s toes.

  Ann and Gwyneth stood over the baby, cooing as his eyes blinked open. Jonet pushed her little finger in the baby’s palm and he clasped it.

  “Caden, I’d like to talk with ye,” Gwyneth said.

  “Aye,” Caden said, though his eyes remained on Meg and the baby. “Talk.”

  “Ann and Jonet would like to still have the harvest festival,” she said right away.

  “There’s no harvest,” he said with flat finality.

  “I found grain,” she said with a tip of her chin. “My cousin lives with the Davidsons and talked with their chief about giving us five sacks of grain for our festival.”

  “We should thank God for what we do have,” Ann added. She clasped Jonet’s arm as if the scowl Caden gave her might knock her down.

  “Folks will miss the festival,” Jonet said softly. “The dancing.” She shrunk under Caden’s glower.

  Meg should try to help them. Wasn’t that what friends did? “I like dancing. T’would be fun to dance.”

  Caden didn’t turn back to Gwyneth. “Thank yer cousin. I will send thanks to Gilbert Davidson for the grain. Make yer plans, ladies.”

  The women beamed. Meg handed back the baby to Caden. “Thank you.”

  “Donald, stay with Meg, even if ye don’t like woman talk.” Caden turned toward Hugh’s house, the little baby snuggled into his neck. His kilt hung around his narrow hips, and his large calf muscles flexed as he walked up the hill. The patch of baby drool dried on his shoulder.

  “My, my,” Gwyneth said.

  “Gwyneth!” Ann and Jonet yelled at the same time. Donald choked on an inhale.

  Meg ignored the comment. “I would like to help with the festival,” she said and trudged past Gwyneth toward the keep.

  “Why ye will be the main attraction,” Gwyneth said, grinning. “The niece to the great Munro.”

  Meg’s shoulders tensed with the innuendo in Gwyneth’s comments. The silent worry that passed between Jonet and Ann couldn’t be missed. Just what it all meant, Meg wasn’t sure. It definitely meant something.

  …

  The last meal of the day had been painfully long. Caden sat before the fire and rubbed an oiled cloth over the razor edge of his sword. Ewan had played the courtier, but even his mood was forced. Caden’s headache intensified with each of Meg’s questions about the harvest and each of her pleasant expressions, because her bloody smiles encouraged lingering warriors to boast more chivalrous tales.

  Now all was quiet, everyone to bed. Only the wind in the chimney and the occasional creak and skitter broke the silence. Now he could think.

  Caden stood and hefted the huge sword straight up, pointing to the ceiling. Balanced in his grasp, the weapon became a deadly extension of his arm. With a toss of weight, the hilt floated in his grip. He turned the weapon and sliced through the air. The blade sang. He rotated and sliced across and then upward as if fending off attack from a mounted enemy. His muscles warmed, the tension sliding from his body as he performed the familiar movements. He paused to take off his shirt, leaving him only in the kilt draped low around his hips.

  He took up the sword and worked through several movements, letting the fire and the dance melt his tension completely away. In the blessed peace of the motion, his thoughts sifted through pieces of information. Boswell’s letter, Fiona’s information, Alec’s silence thus far.

  Meg.

  And here his thoughts solidified. Meg was at the center of it all. She showed amazing courage yet seemed afraid to face the possibilities of what she was. She was intelligent but had no idea of her worth. Her face was that of an angel and her innate happiness could turn the meanest warriors to babbling fools. What was he going to do with her?

  Caden sliced against the silent air, spun on instinct, and froze, his blade out before him parallel to the stone floor. The tip pointed toward the dim staircase, directly at Meg. She stood with a tallow candle before her, more apparition than woman in a flowing white robe. Her eyes were wide, hair free flowing around gently sloped shoulders.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Caden straightened, lowering his sword. “’Tis not safe to walk alone at night.”

  She glanced around. “I don’t see anything frightening or dangerous. Just a waning fire and lovely tapestries.” She trod lightly to the hearth, set the candle on the mantel, and splayed her hands toward the heat. The edge of white cotton stuck out from under the robe to fall just on the tops of her leather slippers.

  Under the chemise, she would be soft, supple, and completely nude.

  Caden drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Control, he’d mastered it early in life. He could certainly control his reaction to the lass. She turned and gave him the most sincere bloody, damned smile he’d ever seen. Her gaze flicked to his bare chest before flying back up to his face, but just the quick caress sent heat through his body, melting his resolve to stay distant.

  “A lovely lass alone is always in danger.” He took a step toward her and stopped.

  She pursed her luscious pink lips. “Sounds like you think I can’t take care of myself.”

  “I don’t see yer beast nor yer bow. I would say ye are as defenseless as a bairn.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “A clever woman always has a trick or two. Uncle Harold made sure of that.”

  Caden stared at her for a long moment, his face growing serious. “Do ye mean the blue light? Is it also a weapon?” More than just curiosity—he should know if she could truly defend herself if needed.

  Meg’s face fell, her eyes blinking toward the ground. “I…that’s not what I meant.” She met his eyes again, weighing him. “I don’t know what I can do. I know it can fix what I sense is wrong in a person.”

  “Like yer aunt.”

  She nodded. “Do you know that people call her a witch?”

  “Aye, I do.”

  “Do people call me a witch, then?”

  “Nay, lass. I haven’t heard that said.”

  Relief flooded her face and a measure of tension melted in Caden. “Is that what ye fear? That ye’ll be called a witch?”

  She shook her head. “To fear is foolish.”

  “I’ve heard yer nightmares. And fear is not foolish. Fear keeps men and women alive.”

  “My mother died because she was called a witch. I’ve been taught to be as far from being a witch as possible.”

  “Yet ye’re a healer.”

  Meg sighed and wrapped her arms around herself. “With…talents like mine, it is almost impossible not to help someone when I know exactly what is wrong with them.”

  Caden took another step toward her. “Ye didn’t heal the men on our journey with yer powers.”

  “I used my powers to discover what was wrong, but I’m only now learning that the blue light can change things.”

  “Rachel.”

  “She told me I should try. I’ve only tried once, but it seemed to help.”

  Caden stepped up close, his tunic nearly brushing her bodice. “If ye keep helping people with it, they will call ye witch.”r />
  Her face tightened. “I know. I…I can’t just let people suffer when I can help, either.”

  “The world is dangerous for a lass and even more dangerous for a witch.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she stared up at him. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Have ye put a spell on me?”

  “I can’t do that,” she snapped. “If I could, the world wouldn’t be so dangerous for me, would it?”

  Caden pried her hand from her robe and placed it flat against his heart. The contact of her skin against his burned through him. He inhaled her scent, warm woman and summer flowers. He hardened beneath the kilt. “Meg, I learned as a boy to control my mind, my will, my strength.”

  She swallowed again.

  “What do ye feel in me now?”

  She hesitated. “I…your headache is gone. Umm…your stomach is working. Your heart is beating most rapidly.”

  “As fast as yers?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What else?”

  “Your blood is flowing fast. Your…” She blushed deeply and her eyes dipped to his kilt and then back up to his eyes.

  Caden stared down into her eyes and touched her chin. “I control everything about me. My mind, my body. When ye smile.” He rubbed his thumb across her bottom lip and it dropped open slightly, showing her teeth. He moved closer, so close that her short breaths fell against his own lips. “I am always in control, but ye, lass, are making me lose it.”

  Caden’s lips touched hers with restraint. Then the softness, the sweet honeyed taste of her mouth, crashed through the walls he’d erected. He pulled her into him, encasing her in his arms against his body. If she’d have stiffened just a bit, resisted, it would have snapped him back to the familiar confines he placed on his actions, but she didn’t. Meg melted into him, her slender, softly rounded body melding into his muscle-hard chest.

  His mouth slanted against hers and Meg let out a little moan. That small sound, barely audible at the back of her throat, had the effect of five cups of whisky. Her hands crept up to his neck, fingers catching in his hair. He explored her sweet rounded backside, lifting her to fit intimately against him. No resistance—nothing but warm, awakening passion. He raked a hand through her hair to cup her head.