The Guardian (Highland Heroes Book 1)

by Maeve Greyson

  “I suggest you ask him,” Crestshire said as he waved Graham forward. “Father William’s reasoning is known only to himself.”

  “My son!” The priest waved at Graham, then dismounted from the mare that most of the clan had decided was more Father’s William’s wee pet than his mount. He kissed the wooden cross hanging from his neck and lifted it to the sky. “Thanks be to God for my safe and successful journey.” He patted the cross back in place on his chest and crossed himself. “How fares your poor wife?”

  “We mean to see if she’ll be able to awaken in a few hours, Father.” Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to have him here after all. He could lead them all in prayer. “Why did ye no’ come with the others? It wouldha been safer.”

  “I was safe with God.” Father William gave him a haughty look, then hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his brown robe. “And I bear a message since Chieftain MacCoinnich could spare no more men until this issue is ended.”

  “What message?” Duncan asked as he joined them.

  Father William gave the man a withering glance. The two had never gotten along. The priest’s attention shifted back to Graham, completely ignoring Duncan. “A message from the king himself.”

  A chill washed across Graham, making him swallow hard. “Tell me.”

  Father William gave a knowing nod. “His Majesty wishes to see Lady Mercy immediately.”

  Graham scrubbed a hand across his face. They all wanted Mercy in front of the king. But thanks to the mongrels the king had unleashed, it seemed impossible. He turned about and motioned for the priest to follow. “Come with me, Father.”

  Stomping through the woods, Graham led Father William to Mercy’s side.

  As soon as the priest set eyes on her, he pulled out his rosary beads, closed his eyes, and started praying, “Heavenly Father, all healing comes at Thy bidding and all diseases and infirmities heed Your commands. Redeem this woman’s life from this terrible destruction. Crown her with Thine loving kindness and mercy…” The prayer tapered off into fervent whispered words as he walked circles around Mercy, holding the crucifix over her as he moved.

  “At the chapel, his prayers are always in Latin,” Gretna whispered from behind Graham, poking him in the center of his bare back.

  “Perhaps, he wishes to give us more comfort by making the words easier to understand.” He turned and gave Gretna a sad smile. “Some of us struggle with Latin.” How many times had Mam sent him to Da’s solar to study his lessons with Alexander, only to find them play-fighting with their wooden swords instead? How he wished he’d paid more attention to the tutor who had bored them beyond measure. Then he could have prayed for Mercy himself.

  Gretna gave him another not quite so gentle prod. “Strip your kilt off here and go to the pool and bathe. I’ve washed and mended your tunic, and I’ll brush out your kilt whilst ye’re scrubbing.”

  “Are ye mad?” They were about to awaken Mercy. Had Gretna lost her mind?

  “Do ye wish your wife awakened by your words or your stench? Ye smell like shite, Graham MacCoinnich. Go wash while Father finishes his prayers. Then we’ll see to opening your lady’s eyes.” Gretna poked him in the middle of his bare chest. “Do it. Now.”

  Graham bit his tongue and fisted his hands to keep from cursing in front of Father William. “Ye’re no’ my mother. Dinna behave as though ye are.”

  Gretna’s challenging stance told him all he needed to know. She didn’t speak, just glared at him.

  “Damn your stubbornness!” Graham handed his pistols and dagger to Gretna, then stripped off his kilt and tossed it over beside his boots. With the warm weather and his torn tunic, he’d taken to walking around camp barefoot, wearing nothing but his bandages, kilt, and weapons.

  Gretna didn’t spare him a glance, just rolled her eyes before returning to her worktable and setting his weapons aside. She waved him onward as she selected a brush from her pile of tools and headed toward his kilt. “A clean bandage awaits ye as well. On wi’ ye now.”

  “And ten Hail Mary’s for your swearing, my son,” Father William shouted from behind him as he stomped away toward the pool.

  “Ten Hail Mary’s, my arse,” Graham muttered, sweeping branches and bushes aside.

  “Twenty!” Father William shouted.

  Damned priest. Had the hearing of a bat.

  *

  She was floating upward again. Mercy pointed her toes and pushed her hands harder down through the darkness, shoving against the rise. She had to dive deeper. The dark waters swirled around her and kept her pain at bay. Soothing relief. No sound. No light. The place suited her.

  But whenever she floated upward, whenever the liquid around her grew lighter, the incredible pain and suffering returned. Agony returned. Fear. Sorrow.

  “Mercy. Come back to me, lass.”

  A voice? Here? Mercy shied away from it even though she knew it. Somehow, it sounded kind. Loving. It stirred a strange aching warmth in her heart. But how? How could she know a voice here? This was her world alone.

  The surrounding light increased. Sensations swirled about her, grew stronger. An aching swept across her body. A foul taste. A hollow roaring in her ears. She couldn’t breathe unless she gasped in and out through her mouth. A popping when she swallowed—or tried to swallow. Where was the peace of the dark waters? Why had it spurned her and forced her into the light?

  “Mercy. Can ye hear me?”

  A woman’s voice. Panic flooded her. A woman. A muddled fog of jagged memories filled her mind. Flashes of suffering. Betrayal. Pain. Hatred. She shielded her face with her hands and veered away from the madness the woman’s voice stirred.

  “Talk to her, Graham,” she said. “She fears me. That wretch’s voice may ha’ been the last sound she heard before we lost her to the darkness.”

  Graham. The name centered her, made her heart beat harder, made it more difficult to breathe. She held her head in her hands. Graham. The name made her feel safe.

  “Mercy, love. Try to open your eyes. Come back to me, dear one. I beg ye. ’Tis me. Graham. Your husband.”

  A dull pounding battered inside her skull, right above her eyes. She curled to her side, burying her face in the crook of her arm. Her beloved darkness was gone. Hard ground beneath the rough blankets tormented every soreness across her shoulders, hips, and knees. She laced her fingers through her hair, wincing as she discovered tender spots all across her scalp.

  “Mercy, ’tis me, love.”

  The kind voice. Graham. Husband. The memories surged. Her heart and soul leapt with joy. Graham. Yes. She loved Graham. He was alive!

  “Graham.” Her dry mouth made it so hard to speak. “G-graham,” she repeated louder, wincing as the sound of her own voice rasped through her skull.

  “Aye, love, ’tis me.” Tender laughter or was he sobbing? Why?

  She risked lifting one hand from her aching head and reached toward the sound of his voice. A trembling kiss pressed into her palm and then the familiar curves of her beloved husband’s face, the scratchiness of his stubble, the hard cut of his jaw. Yes. Graham. But tears? Graham’s cheeks were wet.

  “D-don’t cry.” Such a struggle to speak. To choose all the right words and sort through them. To say them properly.

  “Aye, love. Now that ye’re back with me, all will be well.” His mouth moved against her hand as he spoke. “Can ye try opening your eyes, Mercy? Open your eyes, love, so Gretna can look into them? ’Twill help her heal ye.”

  “Gret…na?” Memories of her newfound friend emerged, dashing away the dark scenes of Janie. Gretna was the woman’s voice. The knot in her chest eased. Gretna and Graham were here. She was safe.

  “Aye, m’lady,” Gretna said. “I ken the brightness of the day will be a struggle to bear, but if ye can manage it…”

  Fighting against the dull pain, Mercy cracked an eyelid open, flinching against the light. “So, bright.” She shielded her eyes and closed them again. “Too much.” She shaded her eyes and tried opening th
em again. Blurriness greeted her.

  Gretna gently pulled her hands aside. “Let me look into your eyes, m’lady.”

  The longer she kept her eyes open, the more the pain from the light eased. She sensed movement, made out cloudy shapes and faint colors in the shifting fog in front of her, but nothing else. She blinked hard, trying to clear the fog away. “B-blind,” she finally blurted. Panic rising, her eyes stung with tears and the pounding in her head increased. “I am blind,” she repeated.

  “Tell me what ye see,” Gretna said. “Exactly what ye see.”

  “Light. Dark.” She struggled to pick out the words to describe the confusing world to which she’d opened her eyes. “Shapes,” she finally said, sobbing as she covered her face with both hands. “Some color.”

  A strong arm slid beneath her shoulders and cradled her, holding her close with the gentleness of handling a newborn babe. A kiss brushed across her forehead. Shushing sounds reached her ears. “’Tis early, lass. Give your sight time. As ye heal and grow stronger, it may improve, aye Gretna?”

  “Aye,” Gretna said. “I am relieved that ye can see and hear. Even speak at all. And ye remember us. ’Tis a good sign, m’lady.”

  In her weakened state, Mercy could tell Graham and Gretna were doing their best to comfort her. She might not be able to see their faces, but she picked it out in their tones.

  “N-no lies,” was all she could force out. The more upset she got, the more difficult it became to string words together.

  Graham held her tighter, the moment between them suspended time. Ever so slowly, he lowered her back to the pallet. “Ye’re alive, and ye’ve returned to me, love. That’s all that matters.” He lifted her shoulders again and propped more blankets behind her, lifting her to a slightly inclined position. A cup pressed against her mouth. “Water, dear one. Just a wee sip or two for now.”

  Mercy struggled to swallow, then pushed the cup away. Too painful. She pressed her fingers alongside her sore nose and felt the tender ridge of her brow.

  “Broken nose, love. ’Twill heal, but I ken it makes swallowing hard.” The cup pressed to her mouth again as Graham said, “A few more drops and then I’ll leave ye be. If ye take to the water well, Gretna will fix ye a fine broth later.”

  All she wanted Gretna to fix was her sight. Mercy forced down another sip to make Graham leave her alone. The longer she remained upright and awake, the more her mind cleared and flooded her thoughts with all that had happened. She knotted her hands in her lap and bowed her head. Janie had hated her.

  A shifting in the blurry fog beside her startled her. She shied to the side, one hand clasped to her chest.

  “Forgive me,” Graham said. “I didna mean to give ye a fright. I rose to get ye a damp cloth for your face. It seemed to bring ye comfort before.”

  Mercy pressed a hand to her face, struggling not to cry. Tears hurt worse, filled her head with such pain she’d surely vomit. How could she live like this? How could she be a wife? A mother? Graham should have let her go. He should have allowed her to die.

  “Gretna,” she forced out, her tongue more manageable since she’d forced down the water.

  “She’s gone to the fire to start your broth and steep ye another tisane.” Graham took her hand, his blurred shape hovered beside her, blocking out the light. “Shall I fetch her? Are ye in more pain?”

  Panic filled his voice. And more. Worry. Fear. Poor Graham. Saddled with such a useless wife.

  “No more pain,” Mercy forced out. No more pain for either of them if she had her way about it. “Talk to Gretna. Alone.”

  Mercy marveled at the fact she heard his every breath, felt the heat of him, and if she concentrated hard enough, swore she heard the beat of his heart. Graham didn’t wish to leave her side.

  He scooped up her hand and pressed a kiss across her knuckles. “I shall fetch her for ye, but know this, Mercy, I willna allow ye to harm yourself in any way, ye ken? Ye may be blind, but I am not. I see what ye’re thinking.”

  Mercy pulled her hand away. She didn’t argue. She would save her energy to speak with Gretna. The healer would understand. She was a woman already widowed once before finding Colin and starting life again. Gretna would help her. And if the woman refused, Mercy swore by every trace of agony flickering through her mind, body, and soul—she would find a way to free both Graham and herself from this nightmare life had become.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It had been another sennight, and Mercy’s sight fared no better.

  “She rarely speaks.” Graham watched Mercy propped upright in the shade of the same ancient oak that had cradled them while they’d made love on that fateful night. Her eyes were clear and alert, her bruises fading, but her gaze registered nothing. She stared out into the woods, seeing nothing of the world.

  “Words still dinna come easy to her yet.” Gretna paused in her tying of the bundled herbs she’d gathered that morning. “Your lady fears appearing weak and helpless more than anything else. Stumbling to speak angers her. Anger makes her struggle to grasp the words all the harder.”

  She tucked the bundles into a small sack, cinched it tight, then packed that sack into a much larger tote hanging from the knob of a nearby tree. Returning to the table, Gretna cast a wistful glance Mercy’s way. “And since I refused her the belladonna, she willna speak at all unless I nettle at her like a herd dog until she snaps.” Gretna shook her head. “Just because she canna speak, dinna think her mind has not returned to her. She’s a wily one. Tried to convince me the nightshade would help her eyes.” She turned and pinned him with a fierce look. “Ye must convince her to live, that she’s worth everything to you. The two of ye can still live a full life, if she’ll only try.”

  “Do ye no’ think I’ve been doing my best to make her believe such?”

  Graham skinned the bark from the staff he’d fashioned from a sturdy rowan sapling. He’d chosen the tree as protection for Mercy, praying she’d accept the walking stick for the loving gift it was. His heart ached for her. “’Tis my hope when we reach London and she speaks with the king, she’ll see she’s got a future worth living.” He prayed such. Constantly. He refused to consider the other possibilities.

  “Has she agreed to speak to the king? I canna imagine she’d do so from the way she struggles with words right now.” Gretna hooked another tote on the tree limb and set to packing it. “She nay understands that the more she speaks, the easier the task should come to her. I can work with her whilst we ride.”

  “Have ye told her that?” Graham scraped the blade of his dagger across the knob of the staff, ensuring the area Mercy would grip was smooth to the touch.

  “I can hear both,” Mercy said without turning her head in their direction. “Blind. Not deaf.”

  “Shite,” Graham whispered under his breath.

  Gretna shrugged, then pointed first at Graham, then at Mercy. “Convince her,” she mouthed.

  Aye. He would. Slipping his dagger back into its sheath, he ran his hand over the knob of the staff and down the length of cane. Good. ’Twas slick as waterweed and had a good weight to it. It should fit her well. With a deep fortifying breath, he approached Mercy.

  She didn’t look up, but he could tell she felt his presence. She might be blind, but the woman’s other senses were keen as a huntress.

  “I’ve a gift for ye, m’love.” Graham did his best to sound lighthearted. He laid the staff across her lap and stepped back. “’Twill help ye when ye walk about. Find your way better.”

  Mercy’s dark brows drew together as her fingers flitted up and down the stick. She gripped the end with the knob, then brought it close to her face, scowling at it. “Cane?”

  “Aye, love. A cane to help ye feel your way about. Ye seem to hate asking anyone to walk with ye.” Her strength had increased since she’d stopped taking the herbal mixture. She could even breathe through her nose some, and her sense of smell was returning. He prayed the trip to London wouldn’t set her back. “We leave
at dawn for London. When we stop to rest, ye’ll be able to walk along the roadside all by yourself. I ken how ye are about your independence.”

  Using the cane for balance, Mercy pushed up from her seat on the log. She turned to him. “I’m a burden on you. Leave me there. Return to your home. I will beg king to pay you. Marriage annulled. Because of this.” She motioned across her eyes.

  Those were the most words she’d spoken since she’d awakened, and they rent his heart and soul in two. Graham closed the distance between them, knocked away the cane, and gathered her into his arms. “Ye are my wife ’til death parts us and even then, our souls are bound beyond the grave. Ye’re no’ a burden, and as far as I am concerned, ye never spoke the words ye just uttered.” He gave her a tender kiss and cradled her close. “Come back to me, Mercy. Find yourself. Return to the courageous woman I married. The woman willing to fight for those she loves. Dinna let them win by stealing your courage. Dinna let them steal your joy. Your light. Your soul. Those bastards took everything away from ye but me. I beg ye, Mercy, I pray ye, tell me I am enough for ye. Enough to pull ye back into the light. Please. I beg ye.”

  Mercy shuddered and bowed her head, burying her face into his chest. A low howl rumbled against him as she fisted his tunic and kilt in both her hands and pounded her fists against him. “So… hard,” she cried.

  Men came running from all directions. Gretna held them at bay, motioning for them to remain silent with such a threatening look none of them dared cross her. Father William drew out his rosary, cast a glance skyward, then folded his hands around the beads and bent his head in prayer.

  “I ken it’s hard for ye, dear one, but ye can do it. I know ye can.” Graham wrapped his arms tighter about her and gently rocked as though she were a fretting babe. “Cry all ye like, love. Let it out. Scream, if ye wish. I ken ye’ve been robbed and left raw and hurting, but dinna give the bastards another moment of your life. We can move on from this. Together.”