Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  “Donald needs tending.” She pointed back the way they had come.

  “You dare attack my man and take my…” Caden paused for the slightest of seconds, “…guest.”

  Meg pushed hard on Caden’s arm. “Donald was hit by a falling tree limb.” She lowered her voice. “I tried to help him.”

  “Hamish, Sean,” Caden ordered, eyes and dirk still trained on Gilbert. “Find Donald.”

  Hamish and a young warrior spun their horses around with their knees, keeping swords drawn, and tore off through the woods.

  “What are you doing on Macbain land?” Ewan called.

  Gilbert kept his eyes on Caden. “I was checking to make sure ye received my gift of grain. I didn’t know I’d be treated like an enemy.”

  Caden lowered his dirk and the other four men lowered their swords. “We will repay the favor when you are in need.”

  Gilbert bowed his head.

  “I take it you know your way home.” Caden wheeled his warhorse around. He wrapped an arm around Meg and leaned into the charge. As they broke through the trees, he urged the horse into a gallop across the moor.

  “Donald’s mount,” Meg called above the wind as she spotted a lone horse grazing half way to Druim.

  Caden motioned to one of the warriors and the man veered toward the animal.

  She turned and leaned her face into Caden’s shoulder and peered back over it. Hamish and Sean rode out of the woods at a slower pace, and Donald rode upright on Pippen’s bare back. “Thank God he seems well.”

  He grazed Meg’s ear with his lips, scattering a million little shivers throughout her body. “More likely, thank Meg.”

  …

  Three more days and still no word from Alec Munro. Caden leaned his head forward, arms braced against the hearth to stretch his shoulders. He stared at the snapping flames as they danced around the dry peat in the hearth. Rachel had returned a full week ago to the Munro holding and Alec had yet to demand the release of his beloved niece.

  Did the old chief think to steal her away? Caden made it understood that Meg was not to again leave the village of Druim, even with a guard. Donald had healed rapidly under her care. The branch was examined but no evidence against Gilbert Davidson could be found. Nor had they figured out how her saddle had been cut. Perhaps Davidson had done the deed to give her a reason to ride with him.

  Caden frowned. Too many questions lay unanswered and, bloody hell, all they could do was wait for a reply from Meg’s uncle. Caden had a loyal maid in Munro Castle. She’d witnessed several curt exchanges between Rachel and Alec that had quickly led to behind the door shouting, but the topic was never fully overheard.

  Perhaps Alec believed his niece was safe at Druim since she was being treated like a guest and not rotting in the dungeon. Wind whistled down the chimney making the flames dance and shudder. Did Alec think Caden wouldn’t let a guest starve through the winter?

  The door banged open, caught by the wind. The harvest festival was planned for the next day, yet winter already snapped at the heels of autumn. Hamish and Ewan strode across the fresh rushes strewn through the great hall. Hamish handed Caden a folded parchment.

  Finally, Alec Munro’s response.

  “Did Gregory bring this?”

  Hamish shook his head. “Someone I didn’t recognize. Headed south once I swore I would take you the missive.”

  Caden studied the wax seal. A rose, red and thick as old blood. Not from Alec. The grand design smelled of England. He broke the seal, unfolded the thick parchment, and scanned the script. The hand at his side rolled into a fist as he read it through a second time, making certain to miss nothing.

  “From England?” Ewan asked, his brow furrowed. “The messenger wore English steel, but no coat of arms.”

  “Aye,” Caden said and passed the parchment to Ewan. Fury pinched inside Caden’s chest as control battled to keep his fury within. Anger would just cloud reason.

  “Is it from her father? Rowland Boswell is her father?” Ewan asked.

  “Aye, and he wants her back.”

  “To test her for witchcraft,” Ewan read.

  “Bloody hell,” Hamish cursed at the same time Caden slammed his fist down on the top of the oak mantel. Fire leapt up with breath from the wind as if God himself roared up on Meg’s behalf.

  “Says he’ll give us food and weapons against the Munros if we give her over quickly,” Ewan spat. “How does he even know she’s here?”

  “Good question,” Caden said. “And apparently Boswell wants Rachel Munro dead, too.” He glanced around the hall that had been decorated with dried flowers and ribbons for the festival. No auburn hair, bewitching hazel eyes, and lovely lips.

  “The bastard lays it out quite succinctly,” Ewan continued. “And if we don’t comply, then he gives weapons to our enemies as well as turning over evidence that we’ve murdered Englishmen, aided Catholics, and kidnapped a loyal English girl.” He threw the parchment down on a bench. “So we’ll have two ill-tempered kings ready to hang us.”

  “King Henry’s too far away to bother with us up here,” Hamish said.

  “Not if he thinks we’re harboring Catholics and rallying against him. The man spooks at the hint of rebellion ever since the uprising in York over the abbeys being burned. He sent Suffolk with orders to hang men, women, and children,” Ewan said.

  “So what do you want to do?” Hamish yelled. “Hand the wee lass over to be examined, tortured, and burned?”

  “Nay!” Ewan shouted.

  “Stad!” Caden held up a hand. He looked to Hamish. “Send word to the Munros about Boswell’s offer. Make sure Rachel Munro hears that her niece is not as safe as she thinks.”

  The heat in Ewan’s eyes froze instantly into shock. “Caden, you’re not planning—”

  “I will not hand Meg over to Boswell, even though he has legal custody. We still haven’t heard anything from the Munros, and winter is coming. We need to leverage this information, use it to our advantage.”

  Hamish headed to the door just as Meg blew inside, followed by Angus. Her hair lay in scattered waves around her shoulders, her cheeks pink from the brisk wind. She was fresh and alive, brightening the entire room at once.

  Hamish tipped his head to her as he ran out.

  Caden folded the parchment and set it up high on the mantel. He wasn’t ready to explain that the devil had caught up with her.

  “Smile,” Caden told Ewan.

  “What?” Ewan still wore a fierce, battle-hungry scowl.

  “Smile,” Caden commanded. “Else she’ll wonder.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I don’t.”

  Ewan smiled and bent over Meg’s hand. “Milady, ye are radiant.”

  Meg twisted her hair over one shoulder. “Thank you, though this Highland wind is fierce. Thank goodness the festival is inside tomorrow, or everything would blow away.”

  Her gaze rested on Caden. She tilted her head just slightly off center. “Is something amiss?”

  Caden relaxed his fists that had clenched at his sides. He’d inadvertently taken a battle stance. “Nay,” he said, though the lie tasted bitter. At some point the lies would have to be told, sometime soon. He frowned more.

  “He doesn’t smile,” Ewan said.

  Meg stepped forward and laid her hand on Caden’s arm. He tensed as the soft touch coursed through his body. She frowned. “Does your head ache? Your neck, perhaps? Your muscles are very…tense.”

  “Ye can tell that by a touch?” Ewan asked.

  Meg continued to study Caden’s face, his eyes. She was close enough for him to smell the flower scent she preferred, close enough to pull her into his arms and kiss her like the other night. “His stance, his solid arm. I sense unease in people easily.”

  Caden stared into her eyes, mesmerized by the golden flecks within the greenish orbs. “My arm is always solid.”

  A twinkle in her eyes washed away the crease in her brow. “Of course,” she murmured. “I can help
the ache in your head.”

  “I didn’t mention an ache.”

  Meg stared up at him, and he noticed a small leaf stuck in her tussled waves. She paused for a moment. “No, you didn’t. If you get one, I have something to help.”

  “Probably tastes foul,” Angus said with a laugh as he took a drink of ale.

  Her eyes opened wider as Caden reached for her hair and leaned near her ear. “I’ve never met a lass so in need of plucking.”

  He captured a little leaf, pulling it free. He held it so she could see it before letting it float to the rushes.

  Sparkle came to Meg’s eye with a healthy shade of rose staining her cheeks.

  “Angus, where’s yer cough?” Ewan asked.

  Angus patted Meg’s shoulder. “The lass gave me some brew to drink. Terrible stuff but,” he paused and took a full breath in, “I breathe better than I have in years.”

  “Miraculous,” Ewan said.

  Caden studied Meg. The lass had been up to more healing. Hugh told Caden he’d seen a blue light coming from Meg’s hands when she healed Elizabeth’s sadness. The incident had scared the hell out of his most seasoned warrior, but now Hugh was spreading praises. His merry Lizzie was back. And now Angus’s cough was gone. Would he be as accepting if he knew she’d used magic on him? Would his clan welcome a lass with unnatural powers?

  Meg was indeed valuable in more ways than one, although fear of unholy magic and superstition was a solid part of the people in this hard land. Caden watched her talk with Ewan and Angus. She could melt the hearts of the crustiest old bastard. And yet Meg Boswell was marked for death as a witch. Evidence and family history pretty much confirmed that she could wield the same powers. He’d yet to find the dragonfly birthmark on her, although he’d love to explore.

  Caden picked up the parchment on the mantel. Meg’s nightmare. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the fire. The hungry flames scorched the parchment until it crumbled, the wax seal puddled into a pool of blood. He turned away from the burn to the beauty walking across the hall. Valuable indeed, he thought. So valuable that…he would never let her go.

  …

  Heavy snow blew down from the gray sky in diagonal sheets the next morning. Meg shivered as she turned from the small glass windowpane. She stepped into the farthingale and stood while Fiona laced her stays.

  “Snow already?”

  “Aye.” Fiona helped Meg into a green velvet gown that she’d chosen from several that Aunt Rachel had sent over. Her aunt had time to find her gowns but still hadn’t sent word inviting her to Munro Castle. Did her uncle not want her to come? Did he know that her father might be searching for her? Meg sighed and tamped down her suspicions.

  She focused on the image in the polished glass. The cut of the gown accented her waist and full bosom. After her encounter with Caden, she chose the softly flowing dress with the low bodice for the festival. Gwenyth would surely dress with seduction in mind. In this gown Meg should be able to keep Caden’s attention. The brief thought of him following the lovely widow home again pinched Meg’s stomach.

  Fiona tied the bell-shaped sleeves at the shoulders. “The festival is late this year.”

  “Mmmm,” Meg murmured, her thoughts on the healthy muscles sculpting Caden’s chest the other night she’d seen him practicing in the hall, the night of the kiss. Laird Caden Macbain epitomized everything she could desire in a man. He’d escorted her north to safety without ever making her beholden to him. He even knew about her magic yet didn’t seem to despise her for it or even seem to fear it, although Meg couldn’t imagine him fearing anything.

  She sighed. And she had told him that she wanted to leave. Fool, she thought, pulling her thoughts back to Fiona as she covered the ties of her sleeves with rolled satin braids that brought out the golden green color of her eyes.

  “Snow’s about on time,” Fiona continued.

  “It’s barely into autumn.” Meg selected a warm shawl lined in fur.

  “This is the Highlands, milady. We have a day or two of autumn and then charge right into winter.”

  “Quite a ways north of England,” Meg said, her heart thumping. Dear Lord, please let the foul weather slow my father down.

  “Yer blood will thicken in time,” Fiona said knowingly.

  In time. Where would she be in time? Life right now was so uncertain she barely dared to think about the future.

  “Ye are lovely,” Fiona said as she tucked one of the ribbons back into the delicate weave down Meg’s back. “Queen of the festival, ye are.”

  Meg laughed. “Thanks to your handiwork.”

  “If only Rachel were here to see ye.”

  “Have you heard from her? News of when I can visit?”

  Fiona’s eyes focused on Meg’s hair as she tucked and twirled the cascading curls. “They’ve been so busy over there getting that old, drafty castle in order for yer stay. I’m sure that’s why she’s been delayed in sending for ye. She knows ye’re safe with me here.”

  Fiona did meet her eyes then. “If ye are in any need to go to her, I can get ye there.”

  “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Meg said.

  Fiona squeezed her hand. “Rachel loves ye dearly, like she did her sister. Ye would be no intrusion. Rachel just wants ye to be comfortable up here in the Highlands. Right now this is the safest, most comfortable place for ye to be.”

  “Thank you, Fiona.”

  “No fretting now. Go enjoy yerself.”

  Meg’s smile spread into a genuine one as she stepped forward.

  …

  Garlands of braided grasses and dried flowers decked the doorways, mantel, and tables of the great hall. The rushes had been swept from the floor for easier dancing. Large tallow candles glowed at intervals on long tables. Several women from the village hurried about with platters of meat and trenchers of bread. The Davidson’s gift of grain for the festival had arrived two days ago, just in time for baking.

  Meg stepped down the stairs and into the excitement. Villagers shook their boots and cloaks in the entryway and carried in more treats to share. Roast goose, venison, and wild hares in aromatic herbs were displayed on platters. Bowls of nuts and sweet suckets sat at intervals. Brown bread lay with bowls of churned butter. Wild onions and sliced beets coated with herbs steamed from other bowls.

  Ewan walked in with Ann on his arm. She spotted Meg across the hall and raised her hand. Meg waved back. Jonet and Gwyneth came in, quick on their heels.

  Three musicians began a lively tune and several couples formed a line. The flute played a quick song accompanied by the harp, and pairs began to weave in a familiar reel. Meg tapped her foot with the tabor drum. She’d danced this pattern with Uncle Harold at the festival near her home.

  Ewan escorted Jonet out to the floor while Kieven took Ann.

  “Would ye care to dance, lass?” Kenneth asked.

  Meg gasped, her hand to her pounding heart. “I do like to dance.”

  Kenneth tugged her along. “Come then.”

  They caught up to the end of the increasing line. The steps came back to Meg easily and she laughed as she twirled, her skirts soaring outward. No longer chilled, she was glad she’d left the shawl at the table. Soon she and Kenneth had worked their way to the top of the line. They would run down the parallel rows, weaving and twirling between other couples until they reached the end.

  Kenneth stood with her at the top. “Ready?” he huffed.

  “Yes,” Meg said, and they turned away from one another to bow and bend beneath the raised arms of opposite dancers. As she rounded the next lady to meet her partner in the center she caught sight of Kenneth grinning from the end of the row.

  Warm fingers encircled her own. Caden squeezed her hand gently and then they parted to weave back among two more pairs before meeting again in the middle.

  “Did you yank Kenneth out of the dance?” Meg asked Caden breathlessly. His dark hair was captured in a leather strap, revealing the cut line of his smooth jaw and
sensuous lips.

  “Would you prefer the grizzled warrior to the chief, then?” he asked with a slanted grin and released her hand as they wove down between two more pairs.

  When they rejoined Caden glanced at her gown and frowned. “I will find ye a shawl.”

  “I am quite warm,” Meg said with more than a hint of sauciness. They turned once more and the reel ended with a bow and a curtsey. When she stood straight, Caden’s eyes caressed her form, all the way up to her face.

  “The color suits ye,” he murmured.

  Perhaps it was the exhilaration of the dance, perhaps it was the kiss from the night before, perhaps it was the promise in Caden’s eyes that more could follow. For whatever reason, lightness and cheer filled her. Even though her future was unknown, the present held so much potential that she was going to surrender her worry and embrace simple happiness. At least for today.

  The musicians struck up another reel but Caden led her back to the table where they sampled the feast.

  “Meg!” Elizabeth Loman sat gingerly on the bench with the baby. “Thank ye so much for the melancholy thistle brew. I am truly so much better.”

  Meg squeezed Elizabeth’s hand and peeked at the blue-eyed baby. “I’m so glad.”

  “Ah, the fair Meg,” Ewan sang, and stood over Meg’s shoulder. When she greeted him, his gaze plunged down her low neckline. Before she could respond, Caden stood and shoved Ewan aside before he fetched the shawl from the other end of the table. Caden glared at his friend as he draped the warm fur over her shoulders.

  Elizabeth laughed and returned to her husband by the fire.

  “’Tis good to see you, Ewan,” Meg said.

  He bowed and moved further down the table.

  She frowned at Caden.

  “Ye shivered,” he grumbled and picked up a mug of ale.

  Under the table, Caden’s thigh rested against the folds of Meg’s skirts. She sensed the heat there, the strength of his muscles even without using her powers. He reached for the venison platter, brushing her arm and sending chills along her skin. She tried to ignore her increasing heart rate and the pool of heat sprinting through her blood, but it was impossible. She picked at her food and tried to swallow down the creeping blush.