by Tarah Scott
“Hush.” She smoothed his brow, as much to quiet him as to still the part of her that noticed the vibrancy of his voice.
“Gregory,” Lennox said while she began to wrap the wound. “We need horses.”
“John Ramsay’s farm is no’ that far,” Gregory replied.
“That will do,” Lennox said.
Julianna glanced up at Cailean, who watched in silence. “I will double wrap the wound,” she said. “Otherwise, ye might leave a trail of blood someone can follow.”
“Hopefully, that someone will be a doctor.”
The quip seemed too unconcerned, even amused. Was he drunk? Nae. She smelled no spirits on his breath. Mayhap he was lightheaded from loss of blood. That possibility, she didn’t like.
“What is your name?” Lennox looked at her patient.
“Cailean,” he replied as she knotted the end of the bandage.
“Cailean, can ye ride?” Lennox asked.
She glimpsed his smile again.
“Aye, well enough.”
Lennox grunted. “If you fall off the horse we will leave ye behind.”
Julianna flashed a look at her brother, despite knowing he couldn’t discern her features. “You willnae want him left where he can be found and then tell anyone we were out tonight.”
“You are right,” Lennox said. “Delay us, Cailean, and I will kill you.”
Cailean grunted. “You already tried, with no luck.”
“There is always tomorrow.”
Gregory chuckled, then pulled Cailean’s arm over his shoulder and started off.
To Julianna’s relief, they reached the outskirts of John’s farmstead without incident, and Cailean had walked the latter half of the way without assistance. Bluish peat smoke rose from the chimney of the darkened gray-stoned house. Thankfully, the farmer was sleeping. Two horses stood near the low stone wall that encircled the grazing field they shared with his cattle. Worry niggled. The horses were raw-boned and rangy. They could easily carry Julianna, but the men outweighed her by at least eight stones.
Lennox whispered to Gregory, “I will open the gate. You sneak inside and shoo the beasties out and I will close the gate after you.” Gregory started forward, but Lennox glanced over his shoulder at Julianna. “If he twitches a muscle the wrong way, kill him.”
“I guess that means no kiss?” Cailean said.
Lennox ignored the quip and hurried to the gate. Julianna rolled her eyes. Both men were idiots. Cailean still wore his sword—a fact she felt certain Lennox hadn’t forgotten—but he wanted Cailean to know she wasn’t to be toyed with. Of course, Cailean’s reply openly ignored Lennox’s warning. Lennox might better have been named Lummox. The creak of rusty hinges broke into her thoughts and she held her breath as Lennox eased open the wooden gate.
“The farmer would have to be deaf not to hear that.” Cailean glanced at the house.
She agreed, surprised John hadn’t heard. A sturdy hay cart stood nearby, its bed empty. She wished they could load everyone onto the cart and let the horses pull them. But that was tempting fate too much. Fear prickled her nape as Gregory and Lennox led the ‘borrowed’ steeds across the open ground toward them. The two animals were definitely long in tooth and swaybacked, but better than nothing—she hoped.
They reached the trees and Lennox said, “Gregory, you ride ahead with Julianna. Get her safely home.” Lennox brought her the saddest-looking steed—a dappled mare. “I will lead Cailean’s horse.”
“You ride and I’ll walk.” Cailean said. “I have no intention of being led like a child.”
“You are a fool if you think ye can walk all the way to Raghnall in your condition,” Julianna said.
“Raghnall,” Cailean repeated. “You’re taking me to Raghnall— Wait. Julianna—Lady Julianna, daughter of Sir Artair Grray?”
“Aye.”
He snorted a laugh. “I’m going to Raghnall with Lady Julianna—and her brother Baron Ravenstone, no less. This ought to be good.”
Julianna drew a sharp breath. “Lennox, our father—”
“Hush,” he ordered. “Our father is in good health. Pay this stranger no heed. I wager he is mad.”
Cailean grunted. “Sounds about right.”
Julianna crossed herself. “They said John the Baptist was mad.”
Cailean laughed.
The sound struck her as a little crazed.
“I didn’t say your father was dead,” he said.
But that was exactly what he had implied.
She detected a slight slur to his words and realized exhaustion and injury were taking their toll. He wasn’t himself. Truth be told, neither was she.
“Get on the damned horse,” Lennox snapped, “or I will split your skull here and now, despite my sister’s protests.”
“Nae. Your sister and Gregory may ride on ahead.” Cailean seemed unruffled, and Julianna feared he didn’t understand that her brother would do as he threatened. “I can return to Heatheredge.”
“Sweet Jesu, you are not well enough to wander about at night,” Julianna shot back. “And Lennox will not let you leave until we know why you were wandering around the village at night. I will ride with you, Cailean. I do no’ want you falling from your horse—”
“You will not ride with him,” Lennox cut in. “He is a stranger—and mad, in the bargain.”
Julianna ignored him. “Can ye mount, Cailean?”
In reply, he grasped the horse’s mane and swung up onto the animal’s bare back. Despite the easy movement, Julianna didn’t miss a slight sway before he steadied himself. Thanfully, the horse didn’t balk. She reached for Cailean’s hand to aid her mount.
“Julianna—” Lennox broke off at a noise beyond the trees.
She jerked her head in the direction of the farm, then realized the noise hadn’t come from the house but from the road.
Lennox cursed under his breath. “Cailean, here…” He seized Julianna’s waist, and tossed her across Cailean’s thighs.
She grabbed for his shirt as she felt herself slipping off the other side of the horse. His arms wrapped around her and he hugged her close.
He chuckled that same laugh she’d heard earlier, then bent his mouth to her ear. “This is more like it.”
She snapped her head up and frowned. “You will do well to worry about the wound on your arm.”
“My arm will heal.” He settled her against him.
“Gregory, go with them.” Lennox glanced at his cousin.
“Lennox,” Julianna called in a whisper, but he had already melted into the shadows.
Half a mile from John Ramsay’s farm, they emerged from the trees onto the road. Gregory’s horse broke into a canter. Cailean clicked his tongue and his thighs tensed beneath Julianna’s buttocks as he urged the horse to follow. The horse, surprisingly fit for such an ungainly beast, jolted into a run and Julianna seized Cailean’s plaid to keep from falling. He pulled her snug against his chest and she tried to remain as still as possible. The rise and fall of the horse’s gait made her too aware that she was bouncing up and down on a stranger’s lap.
This, she decided, was her brother’s fault. She’d intended to mount behind Cailean to gauge if he might swoon—and to put an end to his and Lennox’s conflict. To her surprise, thus far, Cailean had remained coherent. The horse’s gait jarred on the bumpy road and Cailean grunted. Ah, so his wound did hurt. Julianna groped his arm, felt the bandage slick with blood, and wondered if they should halt so that she could wrap his arm again.
“He is bleeding,” she told Gregory.
“Raghnall is a no’ much farther,” he said. “He willnae die before we arrive.”
The strong heartbeat that thumped against her arm suggested that Gregory was right. But she didn’t like the saturation of the bandage. Julianna released a breath. She would be glad when this night ended.
At last, Raghnall came into view, the stronghold’s curtain walls and four-storied tower dark on the hill against a full moon. Relief
swept her at sight of the guards that patrolled the battlements. The silhouette of their pointed hats and spears disappeared in the next moment as the horses carried them around the massive bulk of the keep. Julianna was impressed with the beasts. They had cantered well and now confidently picked their way up the rocky path to the castle’s gatehouse.
“What is that?” Cailean demanded.
Julianna tensed. “What?”
“That.” He pointed at the castle.
“Raghnall?”
“You’re telling me that is Raghnall?” He sounded as if he didn’t believe her.
“Aye.”
“How far from Heatheredge are we?”
“Nearly three miles.” He said nothing more, and she turned to Gregory, “We will take Cailean to Auld Willie’s cottage. No one would dare bother us there with his ghost—”
“Ghost?” Cailean interrupted. “No one told me the Gathering hosted a haunted house.”
“Gathering?” Julianna looked up at him. Did he fear bogles? “You need no’ worry about ghosts. Auld Willie doesnae haunt his home, much as the tongue-waggers insist he does.” Her cousin made the sign against evil. Julianna shot him a warning look. “Dinnae act like a child, Gregory. You have never seen Auld Willie as a ghostie.” Gregory crossed himself and Julianna rolled her eyes.
“So, Gregory, you’re undecided on whether Auld Willie is a bogle or no’?” Cailean said.
Julianna stifled a laugh. Apparently Cailean had noticed her cousin’s contrary warding against evil as well as his crossing himself. Her cousin had never chanced that the old gods lacked sway where the Christian god might not.
She recalled her great-grandfather and the stories he told of mythical beasts, vengeance-seeking ghosts, curses, and other mysteries. His every tale ended the same; with a warning never to doubt the old ways. Julianna didn’t. She teased Gregory, but the evil eye existed, as did the uncanny gift of second sight. Gooseflesh raised on her arms. Sometimes, those who possessed no such gifts sought to create their own magic. Men like Crowe.
“Dinnae worry,” Julianna assured Cailean. “Auld Willie was a harmless old man, though he was not always frail and feeble.” Her throat thickened with emotion. He’d been kind to her when she’d been a wee lass, and she’d loved the graybeard. “Long before we were born, Auld Willie was simply William. He sold his sword arm and fought as a mercenary for the southern Border lords. One raid went badly and the English captured him. Years later, he returned home a broken man, though he told no one what happened.”
She glanced up at the stronghold, reassured by the spears of the night patrol as they strolled the high curtain walls. “He couldnae bear the clash of swords and grew distraught when the garrison men trained. In truth, he wasnae able to look upon the guardsmen on the walls or at the gatehouse. He would sweat and his face would turn white while his limbs shook. And so our great-grandfather built him a cottage. A wee haven in the woods beyond Raghnall’s walls, just far enough from anything that troubled him. But close enough for us to keep him safe. He liked Haven Cottage.”
“The taletellers say he hasnae left,” Gregory said.
“Pah!” Julianna shook her head. “Even if he did haunt the place, he would never hurt anyone. All that matters is that no one save us or Malvina goes near Haven. I can attend to Cailean’s wound properly without my mother knowing he is there.”
Gregory’s head shifted in her direction. He wasn’t pleased with the notion of a stranger in Raghnall, unknown to her mother. Fortunately, their father departed a week ago to collect rents and hear tenant grievances. He would return a week hence. Anxiety knotted her stomach at the memory of Cailean referring to Lennox by their father’s title, Baron Ravenstone. Julianna became aware of her arm pressing Cailean’s chest. Even through her sleeve and his shirt and plaid, his heat seemed to penetrate clear to her bone. Had his words been a slip of the tongue or was he unaware of his prediction?
She’d seen such things with Malvina, their healer, was also a seeress. She would make what seemed like a benign comment about a subject she could have no knowledge of, then she wouldn’t remember the comment the next day. Some thought the seeress mad. Too much time alone in her garden, digging in the earth, talking to her herbs and berry bushes. She roamed the hills on moonlit nights, lifting her hands to the heavens and muttering words no one understood. Touched in the head, folk whispered. Julianna disagreed. She’d never known a less addled woman.
Could Cailean be like Malvina? She’d never met a man with the gift, but knew of many powerful seers—most who either looked like a monk or Methuselah. Cailean however, looked more like a Celtic god. Whoever he was, whatever his secrets, she meant to root them out. Haven Cottage came into view through the trees up ahead. She only needed a little time to question him.
Julianna waved away the thin spider web that greeted her upon entering the darkened cottage. “Wait while I light a candle.”
She knew where the kindling lay and where the candle rested, for she had placed them there three days ago. She crept to the table and groped until her fingers closed around the cool brass of the oil lamp. She carried it to the kindling box beside the hearth. A long moment later, light flared to life. Julianna lit the wick, then stood and turned.
Despite the cold and damp, the cottage still boasted a few comforts; a stone-flagged floor and a fine heather broom. Sturdy shutters protected against the worst of the fierce Highland winds. A modest straw bed stood to the right. The rafters were hung with a carefully selected assortment of dried healing herbs, while a corner cupboard brimmed with earthen jars filled with salves, tinctures, and ointments. And best of all was the tidy hearth grate—a large sheet of metal surrounded by stones—at the cottage’s center, complete with a neatly stacked supply of peats and logs.
“Gregory, you start a fire and I will have our guest tended at the soonest,” she said.
“Guest?” Gregory cocked a brow, but crossed to the hearth and crouched before the grate.
Julianna turned to their ‘guest,’ worried by his gray pallor. “Sit, Cailean.” She pointed to a bench near the hearth grate.
He took a step, listed, but righted himself, then reached the hearth and dropped heavily onto the bench. Julianna discerned his deep inhale by the rise of his chest beneath his shirt. He clasped his right shoulder and massaged the muscle as he rolled the shoulder. His sword arm ached. Not surprising. It seemed they’d fought all night. At least he had injured his left arm and not his sword arm. Her gaze locked onto his right arm, where a small cloth wrapped his arm between the leather wristband and his sleeve. An old wound? Sweet Jesu, the man liked to fight.
His hand slipped from his shoulder and he leaned toward the first flames Gregory coaxed around a small pile of peat bricks, kindling, and logs. Another few moments is all they would need for Cailean to begin warming up. Resting his elbows on his knees, he bowed his head. He was more spent than she’d guessed. Just like a man to pretend all is well when, in fact, he courted death. Julianna hurried to the table against the wall and poured water from a pitcher into the basin beside it.
“Gregory, fetch Cailean some of the cider in the bottle there on that shelf.”
She nodded toward a shelf in the corner, then fetched a pot from a different shelf, filled it with water, and hung it over the fire. While she waited for the water to boil, she collected garlic and comfrey, then retrieved several strips of linen from a small lidded basket beneath the table. When the water started to bubble, she dropped in the herbs, then tossed the bandaging after them. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gregory hand Cailean the cider. He drank it in a quick motion, then lowered the cup and looked at it.
He shifted his gaze to Gregory. “What the bloody hell was that?”
“I do no’ think he likes Malvina’s cider,” Gregory said.
“That was cider?” His brow rose. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then added, “Yes, it would be more sour, unfiltered and thicker. No’ as much alcohol either, I imagine
? After the day I’ve had, I need something stronger. No whisky hidden away in one of those cabinets, by chance? It’s all right to share. I promise not to tell.”
Julianna frowned. “Whisky?”
He sighed. “Still playing the part, are we? Uisge beatha, then?
“You want uisge beatha?” she repeated.
Cailean gave a hoarse laugh. “Your accent is superb, my lady. “Ooshku-bey-a,” he imitated her. “I saw a shop in Heatheredge selling it, locally distilled. I intended to buy some and see how it compares to Glenfiddich.”
“A shop in Heatheredge?” Gregory said. “You willnae find a shop selling uisge beatha. Folk hereabouts make their own. We have none at the cottage. Some of the younger lads brought a few laundresses out here a sennight ago and the fools drank every last drop.”
“They should have known better.” Julianna leaned over the boiling water and waved a hand through the rising steam as she peered into the pot. She straightened. “My regrets. You will have to do without uisge beatha.”
“All right, then, cider.” Cailean handed the cup to Gregory. “And more than the sip you just gave me.”
Julianna returned to the table, scooped up two more clean rags from the basket, slung them over her shoulder, then carried the basin to the bench. She placed it next to Cailean’s hip, then sat down on the other side of the basin.
“Take off your shirt, Cailean,” she ordered.
He looked at her, and her pulse skipped a beat when his grin went lopsided. “As ye wish,” he said, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
He drew his sash over his head and when he sluffed the fabric from his shoulders she came face to face with the broad expanse of his tanned chest. Sweet God, the man hadn’t lied when he’d said he was pure muscle. She lifted her gaze to his face and found him staring, amusement in his eyes.
“Gregory, lend me your dirk,” she said, and gave thanks that her voice remained steady. “It will serve better than my blade.”
Gregory pulled the dirk free of its belt sheath and handed it to her hilt-first. She faced Cailean, grasped the knotted end of the bandage, and started to slide the blade between the knot and his arm.