Captured Heart

by Heather McCollum

  Meg’s gaze roamed the room, anywhere but at Caden. She focused on a little ball of fluff skittering out from the back corridor from the kitchens. It raced under her table. A slight tug on her skirt hem followed. She bent down and pulled the orange tabby kitten into her lap. The soft fur ran through her fingers as she stroked it.

  A woman brought around a tray of bowls filled with steaming stew. She set one before Meg and one before Caden. She hovered near him, but her happy expression faltered a bit when she noticed Meg. Her eyes shifted to the tuft of fur in Meg’s lap. “There’s Peter’s kitten. He belongs to my son.”

  “He’s adorable,” Meg said and handed the ball of fluff over.

  The woman tucked the kitten into a large apron pocket. “Cook heard ye like yer stew a bit salty, so she added some with extra thyme to yer bowl. I make it without much salt.”

  Where had the cook heard that? She’d have to clear that up later. “Umm…thank you,” Meg said. “You must be Bess Tammin?”

  “Aye, pleased to meet ye,” Bess said with a quick bob. There was definite unease in her eyes. “I better find Peter. He’s supposed to be helping in the kitchens.” She turned to Caden, a soft blush infusing her cheeks. “Good day to you, Caden.”

  She called him by his given name. Not chief or laird. They must be close.

  “I’ll be by to check on you, Bess, in a few days.” Caden tasted the stew and grinned. “Your best yet.”

  Bess beamed as Caden spooned more into his mouth. Meg wondered if he knew the woman cared for him, and her stomach sank. She glanced down at her own bowl. Had Caden visited Bess’s bed also?

  The widow walked across the room, a definite sway to her hips. When she turned to go back into the kitchens, the woman passed her hand over her chest in the sign of the cross. She met Meg’s gaze and shuffled back into the darkness of the corridor.

  Meg frowned. The woman probably called her a witch. She spooned a mouthful of stew into her mouth. The salty broth pinched her lips, but it was hot and flavorful. She dipped her spoon back in and a small mushroom floated onto it. Meg was about to lift it into her mouth when she noted the reddish color of the cap. She stared. Was that a deadly amanita mushroom? Could Bess have accidentally poisoned the stew? Meg dropped her spoon and grabbed Caden’s arm.

  “I think there’s something wrong with the stew.” She churned through her bowl. Two more of the deadly mushrooms surfaced. “Good Lord,” she murmured and peered down the table at all the people enjoying the hot soup.

  “What is it?”

  “The mushrooms in the stew. They are poisonous. Caden, they’re all eating it.”

  “I didn’t taste any mushrooms.” Caden spooned through the rest of his own bowl. He tilted the cup toward Meg. “No mushrooms.”

  She stared at the brown liquid. “Are you sure you didn’t eat any?”

  “I’m sure.” He pushed her three small mushrooms around with his spoon. “These were in yer cup.” He pulled a bowl from Hamish, who sat on the other side of him.

  “If you’re so hungry for Bess’s stew, I’ll get you some more.” Hamish tried to grab the bowl back.

  “No mushrooms,” Caden said.

  Meg frowned down at the offending fungus as Caden checked several more bowls. No other mushrooms were found.

  Caden stood. “Where’s Bess?”

  Gwyneth walked up then. “Caden, I need to tell ye.” She lowered her voice, though Meg could plainly hear her, and she spoke in English. “Chief Davidson sent word that he’s received a letter from an Englishman.” She glanced at Meg. “Something about witchcraft.”

  Even though Caden didn’t show any outward sign of worry, from contact with his arm, Meg sensed the clenching of his stomach, the jump in the pounding of his heart. Her own stomach twisted around the bread she’d just eaten.

  “Witchcraft?” she asked.

  “Where’s Bess?” Caden growled, ignoring Gwyneth’s announcement.

  “My cousin said Chief Davidson said the letter mentioned Meg Boswell,” Gwyneth continued.

  “I’m aware of the accusation. I’ll send word to Gilbert telling him to ignore it.” He strode off toward the kitchens.

  Gwyneth slunk back down the table to sit.

  Meg sat, just sat, for a long while, as Caden’s words sunk in. A letter about her, from England, sent to holdings in Scotland? From her father? And Caden already knew about it. The acid flooding her stomach churned into nausea. He must have received one, too.

  Caden came out with a frowning Bess. “I didn’t put any mushrooms in the stew,” she insisted.

  “What are these, then?” He pointed at the poisonous little tops. People all along the table peered into their half-eaten soup. Meg stared at the mushrooms, her mind whirling. Would she have been dead before her aunt could reach her if she’d eaten them?

  Bess’s lips pursed into a hard line. “I didn’t put them in her soup, I swear. Perhaps cook had them on a shelf and they fell in.”

  “Cook doesn’t keep bloody poisonous mushrooms sitting on her shelf,” Caden said.

  “You are aware of an accusation against me?” Meg asked softly. She tried to take a sip of wine but Caden intercepted it first and took a large swallow. When he didn’t keel over he handed it to her and she set it down.

  “Meg, the mushrooms—” Caden started.

  “You are aware that an Englishman is calling me a witch?” she asked. Fury blended with shock and fear. I’m in danger and he didn’t even tell me.

  “I received a letter,” Caden said and then glanced at Bess. “Figure out where the mushrooms came from and how they got into Meg’s soup.”

  Bess curtsied. “Of course.”

  Caden swiped the mushrooms into the rushes and crushed them under his heel. “Until then, all of Meg’s food will be tasted first.”

  Meg stared at the retreating woman. “And you didn’t tell me,” she said, her voice still low even though the thoughts in her head screamed. Angry tears threatened at the back of her eyes.

  Caden’s eyes were hard when he turned to her. Irritation, worry, anger? “I didn’t want to concern ye.”

  “You didn’t want me to know that someone was hunting me for witchcraft?” she asked incredulously.

  All conversation around them had ceased.

  “Ye were leaving England, Meg. I assumed ye already knew.”

  “I was leaving to visit my aunt.” Well, it was true, but not completely. She blushed.

  Caden stood and leaned down to her ear. “While watching over yer shoulder the entire time.” He straightened and grasped her hand. “Perhaps ye, too, should have mentioned yer father.”

  Meg forgot to breathe. He knew it was her father. He knew that the man who was supposed to love her wanted to try her for witchcraft and possibly kill her.

  “I want to read the letter.”

  “The missive was destroyed.”

  Meg stared with wide eyes. “Destroyed?”

  “Fell into the fire,” Ewan called from down the table. Meg’s attention snapped toward him. Ewan waved his hand as if the whole affair was nothing to fret about. “The letter just mentioned the possibility of being examined for witchcraft. Ridiculous! Not worth acknowledging.”

  “Gilbert Davidson seemed worried,” Gwyneth mumbled, and received a glare from Ann. Gwyneth shrugged and raised her eyebrows in a helpless gesture. “I’m sorry…I just thought ye should know.” She bit into a piece of bread.

  “Is there anything else you think I know that you haven’t told me?” Meg asked as Caden grabbed her elbow and hoisted her out of the seat. “Or perhaps I should ask Gwyneth? Where are you taking me?”

  “Somewhere private,” Caden mumbled. Murmurs meshed together around the table. Caden walked them past the staring musicians. “Play something,” he growled.

  Meg clasped the shawl closed across her collarbone to hide the blotchy blush that prickled its way up her chest. Her mind jumped from anger to fear. A letter, about her, sent out through the Highlands.
r />   Her mother’s warning beat inside Meg. She wouldn’t let Rowland Boswell take her. She must find the evidence of his treasonous plans against King Henry. That was the only way to defend herself. She sank one hand into the pocket of her skirts, fingers curling tightly around the key she always kept near.

  Caden reached the shadows near the stairwell and stopped to pull her before him. He placed heavy hands on her shoulders. His heart beat strong as his muscles tensed. She breathed in his scent, strength and man mixed with fresh Highland wind and pine. The man must bathe often to smell so good. Meg frowned. Instead of sniffing him, she should be yelling at him.

  “Meg,” he said and exhaled. “There is a lot I must tell ye.”

  She met his eyes. “I expect there is.”

  “When I met ye in England I was on a mission,” he started. “Nay.” He shook his head. “Before that ye must know there was a feud.”

  “A feud?”

  “Aye, it started a hundred years ago, over a lass. Two stubborn chiefs wanted her.”

  “What does that have to do with any of this?”

  Caden stared hard at her, his fingers curling into her shoulders, willing her to understand. “Ye have to know the whole story.” He shook his head. “Not just the what, but the why.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Continue.”

  “The chief of the Munros and the chief of the Macbains both desired the same lass.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “The lady was not able to choose. So they met to fight for her, to the death. They fought valiantly, but the lady couldn’t bear to have either one die over her. When the Munro sliced down to finish the Macbain, the lady dove between them.”

  Meg swallowed hard. “She died?”

  “By the Munro sword. The Macbain slashed back in fury and killed the Munro and thus began a feud that’s been fed through the years by raids and attacks, leading to more deaths and more hatred.”

  “Between the Munros and the Macbains?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “Then I am—”

  The sound of the front doors banging open cut into Meg’s words.

  “A message!” a man called out across the sounds of the festival. “To be delivered in haste.”

  “Finally,” Caden murmured.

  “You’re expecting something?” Meg asked, but he had already turned. Could this be the letter inviting her to the Munro’s holding? She frowned at Caden’s obvious relief.

  She followed him back into the festival where the gaiety hushed.

  “I am The Macbain,” Caden told the snow-dampened man. “From where do you hail?”

  “I am a Davidson. An Englishman brought this letter to be taken directly to…” His gaze moved past Caden to the filled hall. “Meg Boswell.”

  Everyone froze for the briefest of seconds and then turned in her direction. If she’d wanted to hide, these good people would have given her away. So Meg stepped forward, propelled by expectation and what she’d like to think of as courage. Although in all honesty, she just didn’t want to stand out as a guilty coward by retreating.

  “I am Meg Boswell.”

  The man handed her a rolled parchment sealed with a rose of dark red wax.

  “Bloody hell,” Caden said when he saw it.

  Meg’s hand shook as she unrolled the scroll.

  Dear daughter,

  Rumors abound over your disappearance from England. Some say you ran from the accusation of witchcraft. If you are innocent of such heresy, you would not have run away. Therefore, I believe the other rumor that you were kidnapped by Laird Macbain and his men to be used to manipulate a truce with the Munros. They will be punished.

  Do not fear, dearest daughter. I am on my way, with King Henry’s support, to rescue you from this nightmare. Be prepared to leave Scotland when I arrive. Your Uncle Harold and Aunt Mary travel with me and fear for your safety. If you are not at the Macbain or Munro holdings, I will assume you have run away in fear of God and his judgment. Your aunt and uncle will then stand in your place, as it was under their care that you were seduced by the devil.

  You are once again under my protection and authority.

  Your father,

  Rowland Boswell

  Meg’s inhale was shallow and hitched. A long moment passed before she was able to swallow. All eyes rested on her. She turned to where Caden stood, appearing none too patient. His hands were balled in fists, his face grim, legs spread in a natural battle stance.

  “Boswell,” he said.

  Meg drew a breath. “It seems the devil has caught up with me.” She handed the parchment to him. “He’s coming to take me to hell.”

  Chapter Eight

  20 December 1517—Feverfew: small white flowers

  with yellow centers.

  Give half a cup tea for fevers, nervousness, hysteria, induce monthly flux, and treat low spirits. Infuse into honey for wheezing. Bruise and heat mash into a poultice to stop pain and swelling from bug bites, face ache, and earache.

  Although often found in dry areas, the best plants are found along damp, windy mountain paths.

  “The bloody hell he is!” Caden slammed his hand down on the table. The festival was over, everyone gone home except his council and Ewan. Meg had retired immediately after receiving her father’s threat. For that’s what it was, cloaked in a letter of concern.

  “We did kidnap her, even if she doesn’t know it,” Ewan pointed out. “She wasn’t running away because she was a witch.”

  “She was running away when we found her,” Caden said. “From Boswell, though, not a charge of witchcraft.” He didn’t care what Meg could do with her little blue light. The woman wasn’t a witch. A witch had a pact with Lucifer, hurt people and animals, and usually had gnarled teeth and fingers and stringy gray hair.

  Meg was no witch.

  “The last letter promised food and weapons to fight the Munros,” Kenneth said. “Do you think that offer still stands?”

  “What are you saying?” Angus demanded. “The lass is innocent and sweet as honey. She fixed my cough. We’re not just giving her up to those damned English bastards.”

  Caden’s blood surged inside him. His muscles twitched with battle energy. Aye, he needed to kill something. And if Ancient Kenneth wasn’t careful, it just might be him.

  “I’m just saying…if the lass decides to go with him, I wonder if he’d honor his first proposal.”

  “He’s English,” Bruce said. “He won’t honor anything.”

  Kenneth continued. “Maybe when he gets here, we can demand the food and weapons before Meg goes out to him.”

  “Meg is not going anywhere,” Caden annunciated with such poison that his words drew fear out of Angus’s and Bruce’s faces as they took a step back. His gaze bored into Kenneth, waiting for the old man’s challenge.

  A slow grin spread across Kenneth’s bearded face. “Ain’t that telling?”

  “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Caden growled.

  Kenneth chuckled. “Meg’s not going anywhere,” he said. “Sounds like you have a fondness for the Munro lass.”

  “She’s not a Munro,” Caden said.

  “Oh, then she’s what? A Boswell? A Sasunnach, an English?”

  Fury welled up inside him. He slammed his fist onto the oak table again, making all the tankards and bowls jump and wobble.

  “You think Boswell will kill her?” Ewan asked. “His own daughter?”

  Caden concentrated on breathing and not grabbing his sword. His gaze followed a knot in the oak table. “Aye. The man killed his wife. Meg thinks it was because her mother found some damning evidence against him, something that showed him to be a traitor. I think the man is desperate to kill off anyone who could possibly bring out the truth.”

  “How can we keep her?” Ewan asked. “What she needs to be is a Macbain, legally, that is.”

  A Macbain? Of course, a Macbain! Caden’s head snapped up, his gaze connecting with Kenneth’s. T
he old man raised his eyebrows, waiting, as if he’d come to the same conclusion but needed his young laird to reach it on his own.

  “Angus, where was Father Daughtry headed after us?” Kenneth asked.

  “The Macleods’ holding.”

  Caden nodded and Kenneth did, too. Aye, it was the best thing to do. Meg would officially be under his protection. A blood bond with the Munros would force a peace. And most important, a marriage union would keep Meg at Druim, with him…forever.

  “Ewan, take a small group of men to Colin Macleod’s to fetch the good father. Leave before first light.”

  “Will he be giving the Englishmen last rites?” Bruce asked, and chuckled.

  “Nay,” Caden said. “He’ll be performing a wedding.”

  …

  Meg stared at the bright spot of sun trying to break through the gray clouds. The snow had finally ceased. She was so tired of her room that she had climbed the narrow stairs to the catwalk on the roof of the keep. The view allowed one to see the countryside all the way to the forest on every side. She breathed in the fresh, crisp air.

  “Be careful,” Hamish called as he walked the perimeter of the roof. “’Tis slippery.”

  She listened to his steps fade as he rounded the corner, watching over the people stirring below. Was Caden down there? Her eyes caught sight of a black beast sitting at the edge of the forest.

  “You haven’t abandoned me, Nickum.” The wolf trotted back into the forest as if something caught his attention. Would he follow her back to England? Her father would probably have him shot.

  The thought twisted Meg’s stomach. Her nightmare had come to life. Returning with her father meant succumbing to examination, possible torture, and probable painful execution. If she refused or ran again, her aunt and uncle would be in her place and the Macbains could be blamed for an abduction they didn’t commit.

  “Dear Lord, help me.” She trailed her finger in the melting snow along the wall. What can I possibly do?

  The door to the stairwell swooshed open and closed. She didn’t even look up, didn’t want to talk to anyone. She was too miserable to pretend courage right now, which is why she’d avoided the great hall for the last four days.