Highland Destiny

by Hannah Howell

  Hastily, she shook aside that dark thought. It did no good to mourn things she could never change. She turned her full attention on the keep they rode toward. Set behind high stone walls, Donncoill had not suffered the neglect the lands had. It had clearly been strengthened and improved from the original square tower house she could still see prominently positioned amongst the additions. On the right of the old, squat tower ran one wing leading to a second narrower tower. Another wing extended to the left of the old structure leading to what was obviously going to be another tower. Her mother had often entertained her with tales of the grand castles of France and England. Maldie began to think Sir Balfour had actually seen such places or heard the same tales, for the castle taking shape behind the thick curtain walls would soon equal any her mother had spoken of with such awe.

  “The work proceeds slowly,” Balfour said as he walked up beside her and took hold of his horse’s reins.

  Praying that she did not look as unsettled as she felt, both from his sudden appearance at her side and his nearness, Maldie drawled, “Mayhap ye should put your sword back in its scabbard more often.”

  “I would be happy to let it rest there, but I fear Beaton doesnae share my hopes for peace.”

  “Ye speak of peace, yet march to battle. I am fair certain that Beaton didnae invite ye to his walls.”

  “Oh, aye, he did. If he had sent an herald he couldnae have said it clearer. He stole away my young brother Eric, sent his curs onto my lands whilst the lad was out hunting.”

  “And so he was expecting you to come clamoring at his gates.”

  Balfour nodded, embarrassed by what he now saw as his own stupidity. “Aye, he was. I kenned that our attack was a mistake even as we rode onto the clearing before his keep. Then, I called to him to speak with me, to try and settle the matter without bloodshed. He led me to believe that he would do so, and, blind fool that I am, I drew nearer. It was a trap. He but wished me near enough to kill with ease and to make my men less watchful. It almost worked. Howbeit, his arrows fell short of their mark, and my men were wiser than I. They ne’er trusted Beaton’s plea for peace.”

  “Yet ye lingered there so that he could glean your forces.”

  “Ye dinnae understand, lass.” Balfour briefly wondered why he was taking the time to explain himself and the battle to her, then realized that he simply liked speaking to her. He suspected that he was also trying to explain the whole bitter failure to himself. “My men were enraged by this low trickery and wished to extract blood for blood. They are as weary of this constant war as I am, and their fury possessed them. It took but a moment to see that the day was lost, but men caught tight in the grip of battle and bloodlust arenae easy to reason with. When Nigel fell they came to their senses long enough for them to heed my calls for retreat.”

  “And Beaton still holds fast to your brother.” Maldie felt a wave of sympathy for the man, but did not want to. She did not want to become concerned with his trials and tribulations. She had enough of her own.

  “Aye, but at least wee Eric now kens that the Murrays will fight for him.”

  “And why should he think otherwise? He is your brother.”

  Balfour grimaced and hesitated, then decided there was no need to be secretive. “Eric is but my half brother. My father bedded one of Beaton’s wives. Beaton discovered the liaison. When Eric was born he had the bairn set upon a hillside to die. One of our men found the lad. It wasnae hard to discover who he was and why he had been cast aside.”

  “And thus began the feud.”

  “Aye, thus began the feud. E’en my father’s death didnae end it. Now it takes on a new shape. Beaton tries to claim Eric as the son he could ne’er breed on his own. He means to use the lad as a shield ’twixt him and all those who hunger for what he has. We must rescue Eric ere Beaton’s illness makes him too weak to fight off the wolves, or finally takes his life.”

  “Beaton is dying?”

  Maldie bit the inside of her cheek until tears stung her eyes. She did not need the swift narrowing of Balfour’s eyes to tell her that she had reacted suspiciously to that news. Her voice had been too sharp, too full of emotion. The thought that Beaton’s age and illness might rob her of the chance to gain her revenge infuriated her, even alarmed her. Beaton dying on his own would leave her unable to fulfill her vow to her mother. Maldie knew all of that emotion had been clear to hear in her voice. She prayed she could talk away Sir Murray’s blatant curiousity.

  “Aye, ’tis what I have been told,” Balfour said, watching her closely, confused by the sudden flare of emotion on her lovely face and its equally sudden disappearance.

  “I ask your pardon, sir,” Maldie said. “For one swift moment all I could think of was that ye had taken up your sword against an ageing, dying mon. Then I recalled your brother’s plight.”

  “Ye dinnae have much faith in the honor of men, do ye, lass?”

  “Nay. I have ne’er been given much cause to believe in such a thing.” She stared at the huge iron-studded gates of Donncoill as they drew within feet of them. “Surely there is a healing woman within such a fine keep, and thus ye have no real need of my skills.” She looked at Balfour, but he only spared her a fleeting glance before staring at his keep.

  “We had a verra skilled woman, but she died two years past. The woman she tried to train has neither wit nor skill. She favors leeches for all and any ill. I have oft felt that her untender mercies hastened my father’s death.”

  “Leeches,” Maldie muttered, then she shook her head. “They have their uses, aye, but are too often used wrongly. Your brother has already bled freely enough to remove all ill humors and poisons from his body.”

  “So I believe.”

  “Howbeit, I have no wish to offend the woman.”

  “Ye willnae. She doesnae like the chore, does it only because no other can or will, and it does provide her with some prestige. I can easily find her another chore that will give her the same place of honor amongst the other women.”

  Maldie just nodded, for all of her attention was on the bailey they were entering. It was crowded with people, few of whom paid her any heed. The sharp sounds of grief began a moment later, and she desperately fought to close her ears to them. Even as a small child she had been able to feel what others felt and the sorrow of those who had lost someone they loved in the battle choked her, their pain knotting her stomach. Yet again she wished that her mother had helped her learn how to shield herself from such emotional assaults, then scolded herself for being such an ungrateful child. There had been a use or two for her odd skill, uses that had gained them some much needed coin from time to time. Taking a few deep breaths, she struggled to calm herself, to clear her mind and heart of the invasive feelings of others.

  “Are ye ill?” Balfour asked as he helped her to dismount, worried about her loss of color and the chill on her skin.

  “Nay, just weary,” she replied and quickly turned her attention to Nigel. “He must be put abed. The journey on the litter was a rough one and the sun begins to set, taking the day’s warmth with it.”

  “I think ye need to rest as weel.”

  She shook her head as she fell into step behind the men carrying Nigel into the keep. “I shall be fine. I think ’twas just riding on a horse. He is a fine steed, needing but a light touch and a soft word to do as he ought, but I am unused to riding. Dinnae fear, Sir Murray, I am hale enough to heal your brother and toss him back into the fray.”

  Balfour smiled faintly as he watched her follow his brother into the keep. For a moment she had appeared so affected by the grief of the bereaved women in the bailey that she was close to swooning. Then, although still pale and shivering faintly, she had returned to what was clearly her usual state of impertinence. Nigel was right. There was a mystery about the girl. She leapt from sympathy to scorn in a heartbeat. There was also her odd reaction to the news that Beaton was dying. Her explanation for that reaction had not rung true. He still desired little Maldie Kirkcaldy mor
e than he knew was wise, perhaps even more than was sane, but he would be cautious. With Eric’s life hanging in the balance, he could not afford to let his passions steal away all wisdom. Maldie Kirkcaldy had a secret or two, and even as he tried to satisfy the desire he felt for her, he would work to find out exactly what those secrets were.

  Chapter Three

  A soft moan of weariness escaped Maldie as she stood up. She hastily glanced at Nigel, relieved to see that he still slept peacefully, that her groan had not been loud enough to disturb him. For three long days and nights she had nursed the man through a raging fever, allowing herself only brief respites when Balfour took her place by his brother’s bedside. The fever had finally broken, but she hesitated to ease her watch.

  Maldie moved to a small table set near the arrow slit in the wall that served as the room’s window, and poured herself a goblet of spiced cider. It was hard to nurse Nigel all alone, but she had needed only one look at Donncoill’s healing woman Grizel to know that she would never let that woman within yards of Nigel Murray. Grizel was filthy and suffered from some skin ailment that left her dotted with ugly sores. Maldie had also sensed a deep, bitter unhappiness in the woman. Grizel not only disliked being the Murrays’ healing woman, she disliked everyone and everything. Such a woman would not and could not care if the one she tended to lived or died. The woman would never be a healer no matter how much knowledge she gained, for she had no urge to heal or help anyone, no feeling at all for the afflicted or their pain. Maldie knew that, before she left Donncoill, she would have to try and explain that to Balfour, so that he would not return the woman to the same place of honor and responsibility. It would help if she could find someone with more heart and skill to take Grizel’s place, but she needed to get out of Nigel’s room to do that.

  She grimaced, finished her cider, and refilled her plain silver goblet. Now that she could leave the room, she was reluctant to do so. It would mean that she would have to confront Balfour without Nigel and his wounds as a shield. Maldie knew that she had never once flagged in her duty as a healing woman nor in her determination to keep Nigel alive, but she had also hidden behind the fever-tormented man every time Balfour had drawn near to her.

  That cowardice annoyed her even as it alarmed her. Balfour had made no overt attempt to touch her. His deep concern for his brother had been all that had brought him into the room. And, yet, she had felt her blood warm each time he had looked at her. Her every sense had come alive. Despite her exhaustion, it had often been hard to rest when he was in the room, because she had been so intensely aware of him. No matter how often she told herself she was just being vain, she still felt his want, his desire for her. With his every glance, even the briefest, most courteous touch, she had sensed his passion and her whole body had responded to it eagerly. Getting too close to Balfour could be very dangerous. Not only would she have to fight her own desire and attraction to the man, but she would have to try and shield herself from his, as well as the delight it stirred deep within her. Maldie wondered if she should have stayed hidden in those bushes by the side of the road.

  “I begin to think that I have taken a grave misstep,” she murmured, staring into the goblet.

  “Nay, I dinnae think so. My brother looks much improved,” came Balfour’s deep, rich voice from close behind her.

  Maldie squeaked and had to scramble to hold onto her goblet, her surprise at his sudden appearance making her lose her firm grip upon it. “Ye just terrified ten years off my poor wee life.”

  Balfour bit back a smile. He found her unease around him both encouraging and amusing. At first he had wondered if she was afraid of him, but had quickly shrugged that concern aside. It was not fear he saw in her beautiful eyes, but a reflection of the desire he felt for her. He wished he could know for certain if her unease came from a maidenly aversion to such desire or from the strength of it, from a strong need to give in to it. Such knowledge would make it easier for him to know what step to take next. Then he inwardly laughed at himself. Knowing the truth about how she felt would make little difference to what he planned, except that it might give him leave to act more quickly upon his desire. He wanted Maldie Kirkcaldy and he intended to have her.

  “Come, I am nay so frightening,” he said softly as he gave in to the urge to gently stroke her thick, unruly hair.

  Although his touch was as light and fleeting as a soft spring breeze, Maldie felt its power. Standing so close to him, she could almost smell his desire for her. The heat of it reached deep inside of her, warming her blood, demanding a response. She could feel his seductive thoughts. He did not need to speak them. They were as tangible to her as any caress. She trembled and stepped away from him. As she took a long, deep drink of her cider, she covertly glanced his way and inwardly grimaced. His expression of mild amusement told her that he saw her move for exactly what it was—a cowardly retreat.

  “I am nay afeared of you, sir. I but find this situation unsettling.” She set her empty goblet down on the table, pleased at how steady her hand was, for her insides were churning like the mud beneath the feet of an advancing army. “Being alone in a bedchamber with a mon I have but recently met was something I was taught ne’er to do.”

  “Weel, there is a simple answer to that trouble,” he said.

  “Oh, aye? Ye are leaving?”

  “Nay, ye must learn to ken me better.” He smiled sweetly at her disgusted glance. “’Twill nay be so painful, lass. Ye cannae hide away in here for all time.”

  “True. I shall stay until your brother is weel, and then be on my way.”

  “It may take months for Nigel to be fully healed yet, already, he doesnae need unceasing care from sunrise to sunrise. Ye need to enjoy the spring.”

  Maldie watched him closely, her eyes narrowing as her suspicions rose. “I can see the beauty of the spring out of that wee window.” The man was flirting with her. She was sure of it.

  “Ah, true, but ’tisnae the same as walking in it, as breathing it,” he murmured. “Spring must be felt against one’s skin.” He slid his hand down her slim arm, ignoring the way she jerked free of his touch. “Its sweet breezes must be allowed to tousle one’s hair.” He lightly dragged his fingers through her hair. She pulled away, faced him squarely, and scowled. “And one must allow the sweet, warm air to soothe away all temper and ill humors.”

  “I am nay afflicted by any ill humors.” She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side, torn between amusement and annoyance. “If ye sense my temper rising ’tis because I dinnae play this game weel, sir.”

  Balfour hoped his expression of innocence was infallible, but the look she was giving him told him that it probably did not fool her at all. “What game do ye speak of, lass? I play no game.”

  “Ye are a poor liar, Sir Murray. Ye flirt with me, tease me, play the game of seduction.”

  “Mayhap ye misjudge me.”

  “Nay I ken the game verra weel.” Simply thinking of the subtle, not so subtle, and even brutal ways men had tried to lure her into their beds angered Maldie. “It has been tried many a time before.”

  “And failed?” Balfour was not only surprised at how badly he wanted her to be untouched, but alarmed. The state of her innocence should not matter to him at all, but it did. It mattered a lot.

  Maldie gaped, unable to believe that he would be so lacking in manners as to ask such a question. At first she was insulted and furious. Many men saw a poor girl as one without morals, and were deeply puzzled when she proved to have some. She had not guessed that Balfour held that insulting attitude.

  Then she took a deep breath and let her feelings guide her. It was dangerous to open herself up to the man’s emotions. The last thing she wished to discover was that Balfour Murray, like so many men before him, thought that because she was poor, she was a whore. But, for reasons she did not care to examine too closely, she needed to know why he had asked such a rude question.

  At first it was difficult to reach beyond his desire f
or her, and her blind, immediate response to it. She forced herself to look deeper, and felt a calming sense of relief sweep over her. There was no scorn in his heart. She was certain he had not intended to insult her or, worse, thought she was the sort who would not be insulted by the insinuation behind his query. What puzzled her was that the question seemed to have been prompted by anger, fear, and reluctant curiosity. That was what she felt stirring inside of him. It was almost as if he deeply cared about her response, badly wanted it to be aye, and she could not understand why he should.

  “Of course they failed,” she replied, her lingering anger making her voice sharp. “As ye weel ken, I havenae had the wealth or comfort ye have enjoyed for your whole life. I was raised in a rougher world. Aye, men seem to think that, if ye are a poor lass, ye should be happy to do anything for a wee coin or two or just to please those who think they are your betters.” She was glad to see him wince slightly, proving that he understood the rebuke. “Howbeit, I chose to learn how to fight rather than to just smile prettily and play the whore.”

  “I meant no insult,” he said.

  “Mayhap not, but ye gave one.”

  He took her hand in his, ignored the way she stiffened, and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Then I truly and deeply beg your pardon.”

  “And, if ye meant that, ye wouldnae still be trying to woo me.”

  “Oh, aye,” he grinned and winked at her. “That I would.”

  Maldie gasped with a mixture of shock and outrage when he suddenly pulled her into his arms. “Ye have just humbly apologized for insulting me yet, now, clearly, ye intend to insult me again.”

  “Nay, I but mean to kiss you.”

  Balfour knew he was stepping over every boundary he had been trained to respect as an honorable man. Maldie might be worldly in knowledge, but she was an innocent in all other ways, had obviously fought hard to remain so. Custom demanded that he treat her with great respect. Instead, he had every intention of stealing a kiss if she did not protest too loudly or struggle too fiercely. It was undoubtedly a mistake, certainly not the way to woo someone as skittish and cleverly elusive as Maldie Kirkcaldy, but he realized that he was too weak to ignore temptation. She was close, she was beautiful, and he ached to kiss her. Had done so since he had first set eyes on her. Balfour just hoped that he would not pay too dearly for his impatient greed.