Her pursuers followed her slowly down the corridor, gaining on her, but always keeping out of range of the sword.
Out of the corner of her eye, Liandra saw one woman lunge forward. As quick as she was, Bronnia was even quicker. Squealing, she darted out and grabbed a pot from its stand, and hurled it, before returning to her place of safety behind Liandra. The projectile slammed against the woman who fell back against her comrades sending them sprawling onto the floor in a flurry of skirts, thrashing arms, legs and much cursing.
Fraser MacLeod flung himself at Liandra, and at the last moment she managed to lift the claymore. With a cry of pain he jumped back. Horrified, she saw the slit in his arm where the blade had cut. Blood dripped down onto the floor. She stared at her own handiwork, sickened to her stomach.
“You shall pay for that witch!” He pounced on her, his fist connecting with her jaw.
Liandra reeled backwards, the sword flying from her grasp. Every bone in her body jarred as she crashed against the wall. Furiously, Fraser dragged her to him. She tried to prize his fingers from her. He would have none of it. Her blouse tore as she twisted away from him. She scratched his hands with her long nails, and although she hurt him, not for an instant did his hold lessen.
“Now we have the witch...” He raised his fist.
“Touch her again, and be assured it will be the last thing you ever do!” Connal's chillingly quiet voice froze Fraser instantly.
Liandra saw Connal in the hallway, sword in hand, several kins-folk gathered about him.
Striding up to Fraser, Connal wrenched him away from Liandra and flung him back against the wall. With his arm across Fraser's throat, he held him suspended inches above the floor. Connal's sword was poised to strike.
Liandra saw the fury in Connal's face, the throbbing tic in his clenched jaw.
The silence in the hallway was terrifying. Dougall shouldered his way through the crowd. He paused a few paces from Connal. “My Lord?"
“Stay out of this, Dougall!” Connal's gaze never left Fraser's face. “I will not have any of my women abused.” He drew in a ragged breath and stepped away. No longer supported, Fraser slid down the wall and sagged onto his knees. Connal stared down at him. “Well, no words to me? You were very vocal moments ago."
“Con,” Liandra used her most soothing counselor's voice. “Do not harm him. He deserves your pity."
Connal swung on her, the unbridled fury in his eyes impaling her. The tic pulsed anew in his clenched jaw as his gaze rested on the torn blouse, the scratches in her flesh. “Pity? For what he was about to do to you?” He swallowed down hard, trying to master the rage burning through him like fire. “What happened here?"
“I intervened when I found him whipping Bronnia."
Connal's grim face turned ashen. He turned to Fraser MacLeod. “Beating a child? What a man you be, MacLeod!"
“The brat is unmanageable! I have to take her in hand; else she will bring shame down on the clan like her mother. A man must control a wayward woman!” He glanced sidelong at Liandra and that look was not lost on Connal. He dragged Fraser to his feet and hurled him back against the wall. Again, his arm pressed against Fraser's throat until he gasped for air.
“As for shaming the clan, that you have done already by your actions here today. I will have no one beaten in this Castle, least of all a child. You are expelled from my house. Get you gone from my sight!” He flung Fraser away.
“And what of my niece?"
“You have forfeited any right to lay kinship to her. Understand this well, everyone here. Bronnia MacLeod is now foster-child to Connal MacArran and no one, no one, touches her without my permission.” He rounded on Vanora and her women. “Get out of my sight, too, before I cast out the lot of you. Now leave. All of you!"
The household scurried away in silence. Connal drew in a deep breath and turned to Liandra. He held out his hand. “Give me the sword, Liandra."
She retrieved the sword from where it lay on the floor. She held it out and Connal stepped back as the tip wavered in front of him.
He smiled grimly. “Please, hilt first! Or do you intend to blood me, as well?” He took the sword from her. “Dougall, have the sword cleaned before it is returned to the mounting."
Dougall collected the sword and Connal's own claymore and stalked down the corridor.
Connal crouched down to where Bronnia cowered against the wall. As he reached out, she screamed. He snatched his hand back and looked up at Liandra.
She was shocked to see tears glittering in the steel depths of his eyes.
“What is wrong with her?” Connal whispered.
“She's hysterical."
“Bronnia.” Connal gently touched the child's head. “You be safe. Come with me."
“Want—Liandra."
“Liandra can come, too."
A slight movement of her head, Bronnia looked up at him doubtfully, one swollen eye blinking from behind a wild tangle of hair. Connal caught his breath as he saw the bruise on the child's temple. “Seven Stars!” he whispered. “How long has this been going on?"
“I don't know,” Liandra said.
“Awhile.” A woman stepped out of the shadows. Liandra recognized her as being among the group who had fled the moment Vanora and Fraser had begun their assault. “We considered it his business, since she be his niece. We thought you knew, My Lord."
“And you think I would condone such? Since when have any of my people been thus treated?” He paused and clamped his hand over hers. “I am not angry with you. You did well in coming to me, Magda. If you had not done so...”
Connal raised Bronnia's limp form into his arms and grimaced as she planted a tear-wet face against his neck. “Mistress Tavor, please come with me,” he said, coldly.
She had to trot to keep up with the brisk pace he set. Breathless, she followed him into his chamber. Moments later the healer joined them.
“Dougall said you have need of me?” Katrine asked, quietly.
“Aye, see to the child.” Connal said, placing Bronnia onto his bed. She cringed away as the healer went to touch her.
“NO!” Bronnia wailed. Liandra gently ran a hand through the child's matted hair and sent soothing thoughts to her. Finally Bronnia relaxed enough to allow the healer to remove her torn clothing.
Connal stared at the battered flesh on her small body and turned away. “There are so many bruises! Will she recover?” he asked.
“Aye, bodily, in time,” Katrine said, hoarsely.
He shook his head in disbelief. “What sort of chieftain am I to allow such activities in my Castle?"
Liandra glanced at him, shocked to see the pallor of his face, the desolate pain in his eyes. He was sickened to his stomach. She drew him away from Bronnia. “You didn't know, Connal,” she said, gently stroking his arm.
“And that makes it right? I am master here, I should know all."
“You can't be everywhere at once.” She frowned down at the little girl curled in a tight ball on his bed. “I suspected something amiss. But then she seemed so happy coming to the sewing circle that I forgot my suspicions. Connal, it's my fault!"
He reached out and stroked the back of her hand. “No, ’tis mine. I am MacArran, and I have not made your life so easy that you can spare much of a thought for others. No! The blame lies with me!"
Liandra swallowed back her tears. “Bronnia has suffered more abuse than I realized. I would like to monitor her and heal her mind and body..."
“With your crystal bed?"
“Yes."
“Very well.” Connal strode to his desk and drew out a key. He went to a side door and opened it. “I have kept your bed here.”
Liandra had often wondered what that room contained. Even when she came for the daily cleaning of his chamber, the door remained locked. None of her keys would open it. The other women did not know what lay behind the locked door, either; their curiosity led to ribald speculation. Their inventive suggestions had made Liandra blush.
<
br /> Glancing at her bed, she saw that it was deactivated. No wonder she had been unable to catch any of its emanations. He had been very clever in securing her property.
Connal rummaged through various cupboards and returned to her, carrying the crystal prisms. Taking them, Liandra hastily prepared her bed.
When Katrine had finally finished her ministrations, Liandra returned to Connal's bedchamber and went to lift Bronnia.
“Allow me,” Connal said, carefully raising the child into his arms. “Lead on, Counselor."
He gently placed Bronnia on the crystal bed and covered her with a quilt. The crystals came to life as Liandra joined with the bed, going deeper into her meditation. She activated the healing crystals and attaching the dreamer's cap to Bronnia's head, she stepped back.
“Like Fianna, Bronnia will dream. She'll be healed as she sleeps."
“There be no danger from the aliens?"
“I'm only using a healing frequency."
“What of Bronnia? Will there be permanent scars on her body and mind?"
“The bed will heal all, though she'll retain some memories. I'm a counselor, so if you'd allow it, I can tend her daily. I'm optimistic of a full recovery."
“Aye, do what you must as often as you like. I want her mended."
“She will be, I promise."
“My thanks for that, darling.” Connal ran a hand over his face.
A warm tide of pleasure swept through her at his endearment. She sobered moments later. It was neither the time nor the place, in so many ways.
“The responsibilities of clan-leader lie heavily upon you, don't they?” Liandra asked gently. He glanced at her sharply. Almost, he smiled that tender man's smile that turned her inside out.
“Some times I do not know what I would do without you.”
“Your life might be more peaceful if I wasn't here."
He laughed harshly. “Peaceful? Maybe. Though certainly not as interesting. Now, turn to me."
Liandra did as he commanded. While one hand cupped her chin, the knuckles of his other hand rubbed her cheek where Fraser had struck her. She flinched with pain. His gaze dropped down to her shoulder, the torn blouse revealing the whip mark in her flesh. She saw his frown, the angry tic playing along his jaw.
“You did not escape unscathed, Liandra,” he said gently. “I have some liniment to help."
“You do?"
He smiled. “For bruises and small hurts when one of my sparring partners is too boisterous."
Liandra frowned. What did he mean? A few thoughts raced through her mind—bedmates mostly. Did he, did they, enjoy violent couplings? The thought terrified her.
Connal returned from the dresser and opened the jar of salve. It pungent sweetness, a mixture of herbs and spices she could not identify. He gently massaged the cream onto her bruised cheek. She choked back a cry.
“Stop your squirming, My Lady Witch and take your medicine. The stinging will ease in a few minutes.” He turned his attention to her upper chest. Carefully parting the rents in her blouse, he gently stroked the lash weal with fingers caked in lotion.
His face was a mask of pure concentration as his warm hand gently swirled over the swell of her breast.
Liandra gasped, not from the burning of the liniment, from the heat of his tender touch. Her stomach muscles cramped sharply in a pain that was almost a pleasure.
“Do your partners enjoy such delicate ministrations?” she asked huskily.
“My—partners?” He studied her in shocked silence, then slowly he smiled as he continued to rub in the salve. “You do me a great disservice Liandra Tavor. I can assure you no woman ever leaves my bed bloodied or bruised. ’Tis often I who bears the mark of their passion on my body. I do no such in return. My abrasions come from the exercise field."
“Oh,” Liandra said. Satisfaction raced through her.
“There.” Connal stepped back and smiled. “How does that feel?"
“Better. My thanks for your care. You are very gentle, for a barbarian, of course."
Connal grinned. “Of course. You and I must talk, if you feel up to it."
“Yes."
“In my sitting-room. Come.” Gently taking her arm, he guided her to a seat before the hearth. He joined her side after handing her a goblet of wine. Stretching out his feet to the fire, he stared at the flames for so long that Liandra wondered if he had forgotten her presence.
“Con?"
He glanced at her and their gazes met and held. He smiled, his eyes and face lit by something more than the reflected light from the fire.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to call you that."
“No, it pleases me that you do.” He took a sip of wine. “In my house no one has the right to raise sword, except in defense of another. Even I, as clan chief, must abide by this law. Only on the exercise field may a man unsheathe his sword, and even there, to draw blood is considered clumsy. A man who does is held in little regard. Though it was not always so. In times long past we were a barbarous people. We did feud among the clans. Now we rival one another in different, more peaceful ways."
“I don't really understand."
“Patience, Liandra. I be recounting some Caledonian history. I thought you might be appreciative of that fact."
“I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies."
Connal chuckled. “Off-field, blood-letting is a very serious thing. For over one hundred years no sword has been drawn in Castle MacArran in the way you did to MacLeod."
Liandra studied her lap. She didn't like the sound of this. “I suppose as punishment, I can look forward to months of housework, or ... worse?"
“Look at me, Liandra."
When she did dare raise her eyes to his, she saw many things in his steady gaze, anger and revenge not among them.
He frowned. “Bronnia is but skin and bone. It fell on to your shoulders, to protect her. To do my duty for me. I should have..."
“Connal, you can't be everywhere. You can't see all. Bronnia has secret places in the castle where she plays alone. How can you see someone who prefers to remain hidden?"
Connal smiled tightly. “There will be no punishment for you, though you drew sword against my kinsman. In times past you would have been challenged for that."
“Challenged?"
“Aye. Honor must be satisfied. As a woman you could not have fought, that right would have gone to your closest male kinsman. Generations ago, blood feuds were started over less."
“I have no wish to start any feud."
Connal shook his head. “The matter is ended. For your defense of a child, everyone will overlook what you did. If a wrong needs to be righted, do not ever take up sword again. Tell me and I can deal with the matter in a civilized way."
“You are not civilized.”
Connal returned her smile. “You are deliberately trying to provoke me."
“I?”
“Perhaps instead of calling you witch, I should instead re-name you ban-laoch."
Ban-laoch... “What is an amazon?” Liandra asked.
“A woman warrior."
Liandra shuddered. All this talk of blood and feuds and warriors, and what she had done ... She put down her goblet and strode to the window. She closed her eyes against the memories, the sight and smell of Fraser's fear, the metallic taint of his blood.
“Ban-laoch?"
She turned to him, finding to her surprise, that he stood behind her.
“Don't call me that! Please! I'm not a warrior. What I did was a terrible thing."
“Fraser deserved more besides for his actions."
“He must have deep reasons for his behavior. Let me counsel him."
“I have banished him, in disgrace, back to his clan. Within the week, he will be far from here. How can you wish to help a man who did what he did to you and Bronni? ’Tis a strange woman you are, Liandra."
“I am what I am” She ran hands through her hair. “Seven Stars! I used a weapon against another creature.
I could have killed him!"
“That I doubt. You have not the strength to use the claymore to proper effect. ’Tis not a woman's weapon."
Liandra turned away and pressed her forehead against the window. The cool glass brought some relief to the pounding in her head. Like Connal, she felt sick to her stomach—so small, so afraid—so lost in this world of bloodletting and swords ... What she had suppressed for weeks was finding its release through her lack of control, a legacy of the events just occurring.
“You are trembling,” Connal whispered against her ear. His hands rested on her shoulders, gently kneading.
She turned and pressed her face into his chest. Tears came to her eyes and rolled unchecked down her cheeks.
Connal gently stroked her hair. “Hush, My Lady. What is wrong? Tell me."
“Can't!”
Sighing, he lifted her into his arms. Liandra did not protest, nor did she say anything when he sat once more in his chair before the fire, and brought her down on to his lap.
More emotions began to well up inside. She began to struggle. She had to get away and relieve her misery in private, away from him. She couldn't let him see her fragility. Couldn't. “Let me go, please."
“No! You stay! Does not a friend console another in time of pain? Allow me to do this for you."
Liandra tried once more to escape, but found his embrace intractable. The struggle was over before it truly began. Her emotions were out of control. She needed the closeness of another creature to sustain her through her misery. He was offering it. His presence was so welcome. So very welcome.
How long she cried, Liandra did not know. Throughout, Connal silently cradled her in his arms.
He cleared his throat. “Would you prefer I sent for Angas to console you?” His voice was a tight whisper.
Couldn't he bear to be near her, or did her hysteria disgust him? It sobered her instantly. As she brushed her cheeks with the back of her hand, Connal produced a strange square of linen from his vest pocket and with infinite gentleness, wiped the tears from her face.
“Send for Angas? Why?"
“For you,” Connal said, tightly.
“I don't care for Angas,” Liandra murmured, then she gasped as his thoughts washed over her, through her.
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