by Amy Jarecki
As she sighed, a tendril of breath coiled on the air. There she stood on the wall-walk of a grand castle. Fate had brought her here. And being a scullery maid afforded her far more comforts than she’d enjoyed living with her family in a two-room cottage with its dirt floor. And she wasn’t completely unhappy. Goodness, Divana ought to be content to live and work among Clan Cameron for the rest of her days. Perhaps she would be…if Kennan weren’t so very important to the clan. But one day he would be laird of the castle. One day he would have a wife and family.
A tear slipped down her cheek as she tried to see beyond the dark outlines of mountains. If she left this place, where would she go? What would she do? How would she live? On Hyskeir finding food was a daily chore. It was painfully lonely and ever so cold. Did she truly want to return to such a life?
I’m being a daft curmudgeon. I’ve naught but to accept my lot and thank the stars Clan Cameron has opened their arms and their doors to me.
On her third trip around the wall-walk, the cadence of horses approaching the postern gate resounded from the south. Clutching her blanket tightly about her shoulders, Divana leaned out a crenel and strained to see.
“Two horses approach!” shouted a guard from the tower.
Though it oughtn’t be anyone in Kennan’s retinue, Divana jumped as high as possible, craning her neck for a better look. There! As the dark figures neared, she saw only the silhouette of one rider—and something bulky bouncing on the second horse.
“Open the gate!” cried the rider in an adolescent tone, one that sounded a great deal like Baltazar’s—Runner, they called him.
Divana clutched her fists over her heart as the gates screeched open. But she broke into a run as soon as she realized a man’s body was draped over the back of the second horse. In a heartbeat her blood turned to ice, her breath caught in her throat. No one needed to tell her who it was.
Dear God, he cannot be dead!
Her feet barely touched the stone steps as she raced down the endless spiral stairwell. When she dashed out into the south courtyard, Runner had dismounted while three guardsmen raced toward him. “’Tis Sir Kennan—he’s been shot in the shoulder and thrown from his horse. Quickly! Fetch his da!”
All three men headed for the keep while the big Highlander’s back heaved, hanging upside down over the back of a horse, the animal snorting from exertion.
“Wait!” Divana shouted, relieved to see him breathing. “One of ye alert His Lairdship. The other two, help Sir Kennan to his chamber.”
They gaped at her for a moment.
“Now, please! Make haste.”
While the two returned, she raced to Kennan’s side and placed her hand against his forehead. “Who did this?”
Runner untied the ropes that had kept Kennan’s body in place. “’Twas that scoundrel sergeant—he and his dragoons were lying in wait at Loch Eil—and after the captain received a pardon from the queen herself.”
“This is unbelievable.” Divana’s voice trembled as she wiped streams of blood from Kennan’s beautiful face, willing him to open his eyes. “Do ye ken how to find the healer?”
Throwing his thumb over his shoulder, Runner gave a nod. “Aye, Mistress Ava lives just yonder.”
“Fetch her at once.” Divana secured the horse’s lead line while the two guards stepped near. “Have a care moving him. Can ye see which shoulder is injured?”
“’Tis his left.”
Her stomach twisted. “Saint Columba’s bones.”
Kennan grunted as they slid him from the horse. Though the sound was pained, it filled her with reassurance.
“I’ll carry him above stairs,” said the largest, hoisting the injured heir over his shoulder. “’Tis the only way to ensure we do not jostle his arm.”
“Thank ye.” Divana followed. “Ye’re home, Sir Kennan, and we’ll set ye to rights.” What else could she say? “Please don’t die”? “I cannot survive without you”? “I love you more than the air I breathe”?
The poor Highlander moaned and grunted as the burly man trudged through the servants’ entrance and up the narrow rear stairs. Divana took a moment to stop in the kitchen to grab a pail of water and some clean cloths, then quickly took two steps at a time until she found the guard heading down the third-floor passageway.
“I’ll open the door,” she said as the water sloshed over the rim of the pail.
“Divana,” Kennan mumbled, his eyes still closed. “I kent you’d be here.”
“Of course,” she said, casting a bashful glance at the guards as she ushered them into the chamber. The passageway sconce reflected a stream of sweat on the heir’s brow. “Put him on the bed straightaway, thank ye.” She rushed forward, set the pail on the floor and put the rags on the bedside table, then pulled down the bedclothes. “Your strength is impressive. Sir Kennan is so large, I do not ken of any other men who would have been able to haul him up three flights of stairs.”
“Comes from carting hay on me back and swinging an ax, I reckon,” said the largest while they carefully laid Kennan on his back.
The shorter one then stepped away and brushed his hands. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, miss?”
“I’m not certain,” she said, tucking the bedclothes in. “I hope the healer will arrive shortly. Sir Kennan will most likely need some willow bark tea…I’ve brought water and rags.”
“What about hot water?”
Divana set to lighting the candles. “Aye…and anything you reckon Mistress Ava will need.”
“I’ll fetch it,” said the shorter man.
Kennan moaned, his eyes closed. But he still wore his leather doublet and shirt.
Divana rushed to his side, bent over him, and examined his shoulder—at least what she could see. He was in dire straits with blood pooled thickly on his clothes. “We’ll need to remove these garments.”
The big guard cringed. “With a musket ball in his shoulder?”
“Cut them off,” said a matronly woman from the doorway with Sir Ewen and Lady Jean standing behind her.
“Straightaway, Mistress Ava,” said the guard, drawing his dirk.
Ever so relieved to see the healer, Divana backed away from the bed while the grim-faced lord and lady of the castle neared. “What can I do to help?” she asked.
The matron pointed. “Gather those rags and stand at the foot of the bed. Be ready to sop up blood if need be.”
After cutting away Kennan’s shirt and doublet, the guard sidled toward the door. “I’ll go help Randy with the hot water.”
“What happened?” Sir Ewen demanded in a booming voice as he moved to the far side of the bed.
Lady Lochiel followed, her face drawn and tired. “The poor lad.”
Divana twisted the cloth in her hands. “Baltazar said Sergeant Corbyn and his dragoons ambushed them at Loch Eil.”
The chieftain’s face blazed with anger. “Bloody hell, I’ll see to it that demon of a dragoon is dragged before a court martial and hanged for this.”
Divana pursed her lips to stop herself from expressing her opinion. If it were up to her, she’d ensure the sergeant received a good-size rock in the side of the head and forget the court-martial.
Kennan appeared to be sleeping soundly while Mistress Ava stooped over him, running a moistened rag around an angry and puckered wound. “I don’t think the ball went in very far.” She glanced back at Divana. “Have a look at his doublet. It may have saved his shoulder.”
Retrieving the jacket from the floor, she held it up. “’Tis made of thick leather.” She poked her finger through the musket ball hole. “But it went clean through.”
“I always say a heavy leather doublet is as good as armor,” Sir Ewen said.
“More importantly, can you dig the ball out?” asked Lady Lochiel.
“Aye.” Mistress Ava looked across the bed. “But I reckon you ought to wait in your chamber, m’lady. This procedure is not meant to be seen by a gentlewoman such as yourself.”
Her Ladyship turned a tad green. “Of course.”
The healer shifted her attention to the laird. “Would you mind holding your son’s ankles?”
Lochiel moved to the end of the bed while his wife took her leave. “Very well.”
Mistress Ava beckoned Divana. “Stand beside me. Are you ready with the cloths?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
The matron removed a bottle from her basket and unstoppered it. “I’ll first pour a tincture of Saint-John’s-wort over the wound to help stave off infection.”
“He will nay die will he?” Divana asked, gripping the cloths in clenched fists. Kennan had not survived pirates and a shark attack only to succumb to an injury on his own lands.
“Make no bones about it, a musket shot of any sort can turn putrid, but our Kennan is a strong lad.” Mistress Ava’s lips formed a thin line as she returned the bottle to her basket and pulled out a small knife. “Now brace yourself.”
Divana’s stomach squelched, but she swallowed the bile and leaned in with her cloth at the ready, watching the woman’s dagger angle toward Kennan’s mottled flesh. Had Sergeant Corbyn shot him knowing about the missive from Mar and the queen’s pardon?
Kennan had been in such a hurry to charge off to Glasgow. If only he had waited a sennight, this mightn’t have happened. But now, staring at him bleeding on the bed, Divana would give an entire year’s pay to be in his place, to suffer his pain.
She cringed as the knife pierced the skin. Kennan’s eyes flashed open. Bucking like a calf in a castrating pen, he bellowed.
“Easy, son,” growled Lochiel, struggling to restrain the kicking legs.
Mistress Ava’s hand remained steady while she twisted the knife, baring her teeth. “I nearly have it.”
Dear God, please, please make his suffering be over.
And if as an answer to a prayer, the ball popped out, straight into the healer’s fingers, and with it came a gush of red blood. Divana surged forward with a cloth.
“Press as hard as you can,” commanded Mistress Ava, holding up the musket ball. “I’ll wager he’ll want this for a keepsake.”
At the foot of the bed, Sir Ewen released his son’s ankles. “I’ll wager he’ll be shoving that wee bit o’ lead down Corbyn’s throat.”
Divana stretched for another cloth. “At this rate, Sir Kennan is making enemies faster than he’s making allies.”
“Och, I’ll see to the sergeant myself. Once the lad is back on his feet, he’ll be itching to chase after Vane—’tis where his priorities lie, mark me.”
Her arms burned from applying constant pressure, but she wasn’t about to stop. Every time she changed cloths, the blood ran like a mountain burn.
“Would you like me to give you a spell, lass?” asked Lochiel. Holy Moses, the chieftain of Clan Cameron was offering to take a turn?
“No, m’laird, I think the flow is slowing.”
Mistress Ava set a pot on the bedside table. “This is a salve to help heal the wound.”
“Are you not going to stitch it?” asked Divana.
“I’ll bring some leeches in the morning. ’Tis best if we leave it to air.” The healer looked to Lochiel. “Ye ken these wounds. Someone must sit with Sir Kennan to ensure he doesn’t grow fevered.”
“I’m not leaving his side.” Divana threw back her shoulders as she grabbed another cloth and firmly held it in place. She did not make poultices and hold vigil over him on Hyskeir only to lose him now. “Not until this very man wakes and tells me to go.”
Emboldened, she eyed Lochiel, the leader of one of the most powerful clans in the Highlands. Though in truth, she cared less if he was a king. She wasn’t leaving. “And though ye’re his da, and a grand chieftain, and I respect ye for it, not even the likes of ye can tell me to go.”
“Are you certain, lass?” His gray eyes filled with concern rather than contempt. “You need your sleep just like everyone else. I could send in a night guardsman.”
“I’ll have no other tend him.” She pulled away the cloth and checked the wound. Praise be, the bleeding had ebbed some. “Thank ye for your thoughtfulness, sir.”
Lochiel gave a nod. “I should be thanking you, lass. ’Tis understandable why my son thinks highly of you.”
With those words, tingles spread across her skin. Kennan thought highly of her? Now, why hadn’t he bothered to say so himself? She bowed her head to hide her smile. “Good night to ye, m’laird.”
* * *
After the bleeding stopped, Divana leaned on the post of Kennan’s bed for a time. Since the healer had left, Kennan seemed so peaceful in slumber, his deep breathing the only sound. A sense of calm fell over her as it had when no pecking order existed and they’d been but two people working to survive on a lone isle. Yet their time on Hyskeir seemed like another world away. And though tending him emboldened her, she never would have hoped for a tragedy to befall the man to bring them together again.
“Ye should have let your men go without ye…” She sighed, running her fingers down the post. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”
He tossed his head, his brows pinching as if he were in pain.
“Let me fluff your pillows. That’ll make ye more comfortable.” Divana ran her fingertips over the heavy damask coverlet as she walked to the head of the bed. “Look at ye, living in luxury with a chamber four times the size of the bothy and a stately bed large enough for an entire family. Why, ye have enough feather pillows to make a pallet for a king.”
Reaching behind him, she punched the cushions inward, trying not to jostle him overmuch.
Again, Kennan moaned and knit his brows.
“Is your shoulder ailing ye?” she asked, glancing downward and gasping. “Oh, dear.”
Runner had mentioned the captain had been thrown from his horse, but everyone was so fraught with the musket ball in his shoulder no one noticed the bruise spreading down the back of his neck. Honestly, if Divana hadn’t been leaning over him, she wouldn’t have seen it.
Ever so lightly, she rubbed her fingers toward the back of his neck. When everything felt normal, she continued upward and found a knot the size of her elbow.
Kennan grunted and winced.
“Saint Columba, ye’ve struck your head something terrible for certain.”
Wringing her hands, she turned toward the door. Should she have someone fetch the healer? But what more would Mistress Ava do? It wasn’t as if she could stitch a lump. She’d left the salve, and a guard had brought up a tincture of willow bark tea for the pain. The knot on his head clearly must hurt something awful.
Divana spooned a bit of tea between his slightly parted lips and watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. After half the cup was gone, she rolled him to his uninjured side.
“That ought to make ye more comfortable.”
At the washstand, she poured water from the ewer and doused a cloth, then cooled Kennan’s head with it. “Ye’re going to grow well. I refuse to think otherwise.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek, breathing in the masculine scent of him—of the man she’d come to know in the bothy. “Now rest and let your body heal itself. Have not a care. I’ll be here until you wake, mo cridhe.”
Aye, he had become her heart, her courage. And she vowed to be his strength in his hour of need.
God willing, she would move heaven and hell to see her Highlander smile once again.
Chapter Fourteen
Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Kennan knew he was home. He’d suffered a severe blow to the head once before when he’d fought a band of dragoons while fleeing the Samhain gathering at Inverlochy with his sister. The red-coated bastards had bludgeoned him half to death, and he remembered very little of the incident.
Now, as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he again found his memory lacking. If only he were able to wake and to ask what had happened, but there was a terrible pounding at the back of his head and, every time he tried to move, searing pain shot through his shoulder as i
f someone had prodded him with a red-hot fire poker.
During fleeting moments of consciousness, he sensed Divana’s presence. Cool cloths were replaced on his forehead time and again. Sometimes Da’s voice would resonate through the chamber. But mostly the dear lassie’s soothing voice gave him ease.
When she sang a ditty, he’d wanted to open his eyes and smile. “A lusty young smith at his vise stood a-filing…” In Kennan’s mind’s eye, he saw her swaying with the tune on the beach at Hyskeir, her mien carefree and dreamy, her hair billowing in the wind. Perhaps he managed a smile when she held forth about a “buxom young damsel.” He wanted to open his eyes so badly but must have drifted off before the song ended.
When next his consciousness returned, her voice cooed to him again.
“I never thought I’d work in a fine house like Achnacarry,” she said softly as if speaking to herself. “I always thought I’d end up a crofter’s wife like my ma. Wives must know so very many things—making candles and soap, cooking, cleaning, stitching clothes, knitting and darning. I even learned to weave a bit. I think I rather like weaving.”
“I reckon you’d make a fine weaver—you’d be good at anything you set your mind to.” Kennan’s throat sounded dry and hoarse as his eyes opened.
A sharp gasp came from the bedside. “Ye’re awake!”
His tongue ran over chapped lips. There he lay, once again being tended by his redheaded spitfire. How did this state of affairs come to pass? “Water.”
“At once.” She took a cup from the table and gently slid a hand behind his head. “Can ye sit up a wee bit, else I can spoon it into your mouth as I’ve been doing.”
He felt as weak as a bairn, but he managed to clench his muscles, lift his head, and drink. Groaning, he dropped back to the pillow. “How long have I been abed?”
“Three days.”
“Damn.” He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. His thoughts were a complete jumble. Hadn’t he been traveling somewhere? “How the bloody hell did I end up at home?”