by Erin Grace
Behind her, an old wooden cart was tethered to her horse.
The old Laird turned back to him, a disconcerting look in his eyes. "There is also a matter I need to speak with you about."
Wary, Ewan eyed the cart and gripped his sword. "What matter?"
MacPherson dismounted and walked to the back of the buggy.
Ewan followed, flanked closely by Hamish.
MacPherson grunted something under his breath, then folded back a thick fur to reveal the pale face of a young woman who appeared to be sleeping.
At the sight of flaming curls peeking out from a woolen cap, Ewan's heart stopped, feet turned to clay.
"Do you know the lass?" MacPherson scratched his head. "Liam found her by a stream near the border nae a week ago. Dressed like a man she was, though they were clothes the like I'd ever seen before. At first Liam thought her English, but now I can’t be certain."
"Ellie." Her name came out a mere whisper, as a hot surge of relief washed through Ewan. He hadn't been dreaming her.
"She claimed to be your wife. But she can’t speak properly and has strange ways about her. We thought her a bit daft, perhaps, but she is English after all."
Ewan's heart wrenched as he pulled back more of the fur. God, she was white. Her lips were pale and dark patches stained under her eyes. "Liam? What happened to her, MacPherson? If that bastard cousin of mine has so much as touched her . . . ." He grabbed the Laird by the chest and pushed his sword under the man's chin.
The soldiers faced off, and the woman on the horse shot Ewan a worried glance that betrayed her austere exterior.
"I didn’t do this." MacPherson grabbed Ewan's wrist, met his eye. "She did."
He pushed the sword higher.
"Ewan!" The woman cried out. "For God's sake, ma husband is telling you the truth. The lass went into the lake to find our Rory. He'd fallen in . . . she saved him."
"Aye. Mad or not, I thought I owed her to find out who she belonged to."
Ewan released his grasp on the Laird's plaid, lowered his sword, and turned to the cart. His heart ached, fingers trembled, as he reached under the tiny bundle, lifted her wilted frame against him, and carried her into the keep.
His dream was real, but would she survive? The thought of her waking up alone and defenseless in the middle of nowhere tore at him like a wild demon. He hugged her closer, the faint scent of her skin penetrating his hardened senses.
Never again would he allow her to be in danger.
He pushed open the door to his chamber with his foot and carried her over to the bed. He lay her down gently, brushed her cheek with the back of his hand, pulled the woolen cap from her head.
A torrent of fierce emotions whirled about inside him. Rage. Regret. Fear . . . Love.
A lump lodged in his throat as he closed his eyes, grasped a handful of soft red hair, pulled her close, rested his forehead against hers. His heartbeat pounded like a drum before battle.
If it meant dealing with the Devil himself, he wouldn't lose her. He couldn't.
He needed her.
Gasps from behind him caused Ewan to restrain his open show of affection. Despite his distress over Ellie’s wretched state, he refused to let his servants see his weakness. He was their future Laird, their master. To see him vulnerable now might cause his people to lose faith in his ability to keep the clan safe. He couldn’t allow it. Yet, as two maids hurried into the room, he held Ellie close until their motherly hands gently drew her away from him.
He moved away from the bed, his jaw hardening as his thoughts turned to Liam. Aye. There was revenge to be had. "See to your Lady, stay with her. Do you understand? She is nae to be left alone for any reason. If she wakes, I am to be fetched at once."
He paused at the doorway, turned and absorbed one more longing glance at Ellie. Was he afraid she wouldn't be there when he returned? He forced himself away and went back down to meet his unwelcomed guests.
As he descended the staircase, cold tension gripped his chest, his fist tightened into a ball. If his uncle wanted to air the past after all this time, then he wouldn't stop him.
As he knelt before the chapel altar, Father Martin watched with great interest as Ewan left the staircase and disappeared into the great hall. Wobbly knees forced the priest to lean on his walking stick and pushed himself upright.
A sneer of satisfaction tilted his lips.
He knew why MacPherson wanted to see the ailing Laird. The curse invoked by Laird MacKinnon had taken the life of the MacPherson's eldest son, Collin, ten years before. No one dared speak of the lad’s death since.
He'd been visiting MacPherson land when the incident occurred.
Laird MacKinnon had been invited to celebrate Collin's eighteenth birthday, along with Ewan and a few members of MacKinnon's household. Since the night of Lady MacKinnon's death and subsequent slaughter of the pagan priests, Laird MacPherson was one of the few clan Lairds to remain loyal to the MacKinnon clan.
As a birthday gift, Laird MacKinnon presented Collin with a magnificent black horse. Yet to be broken in, the animal was wild and carried a tempestuous nature. Collin was warned by both Lairds not to attempt riding the creature until it was properly trained by one of the more experienced soldiers.
But being young and stubborn, Collin took the sage advice as an affront to his manhood.
Ewan, Father Martin recalled, had tried to talk his cousin out of his foolish plan to take the horse out at night. He'd stumbled across Ewan and Collin arguing in the bailey, then hid himself in the shadows of the bright solstice moon and listened to the conversation.
Perhaps he should have gone and warned the lairds about the lad's mischief.
Perhaps.
But having a horse spooked whilst riding could have happened to anyone. More's the pity, Collin's head split open on a large stone when he fell from the enraged animal. Nothing could be done for the lad, dead before the Father could administer Last Rites.
MacPherson was beside himself with rage and grief, blamed his son's death upon MacKinnon's curse. After all, it was MacKinnon's gift that killed his beloved son.
For years after, Lady MacPherson had been inconsolable.
Shaking his head, Father Martin made his way behind the altar, reached into a small hole at the base of the plinth, and retrieved a small object wrapped in cloth.
The smile returned to his face as he glanced toward the staircase.
Perhaps it was time he paid his respects to their mysterious new visitor.
Drowning.
Ellie's eyes shot open, pulse raced. Her hands lashed out to grab anything she could. Darkness surrounded her, dragging her farther down into the icy abyss.
"Ewan . . ." Her voice sounded strange, ragged, as if it wasn't hers at all. Her words were replaced by a rasping cough that hurt her lungs, made her fight for breath. "Ewan, where are you?"
Something touched her forehead, startled her. She grasped what felt like a hand. "Rory?"
"Ma lady?" The voice was soft, female, but didn't sound like Brianna. "Aye, but you are burning with fever."
Through the hazy mist in her mind, the blurred image of a room came into focus, the worried face of a young woman hovered above her. Ellie licked her dry, cracked lips and turned her head. Cradled within the soft, warm furs, a familiar scent surrounded her, rekindled her senses into action.
Ewan.
Heart pounding, she pushed back the covers and tried to get out of bed. As she tried to stand upon shaky legs, the young woman clutched her arm and attempted to push her back down.
"Get off me! I need to find Ewan."
"Annis, help me. Our lady dinna know what she's doing. 'Tis the fever."
Another, even younger looking girl joined the fair-haired woman in subduing Ellie onto the bed. At first Ellie tried to resist, but her energy had evaporated. She collapsed against the furs, her chest panting from the effort of moving. She swallowed, tried to catch her breath. "I need to find Ewan . . . please . . . Ewan."
&nb
sp; Dizzy, she closed her eyes as a cold cloth was placed on her forehead, a goblet of wine held to her lips. "No. No wine. Water . . . water, please . . . ."
With a faint cry, she fought the darkness threatening to envelope her like the depths of the icy lake, but her mind quickly succumbed out of pure exhaustion.
Then, as if in a dream, she waivered in and out of consciousness for what felt like hours, stirred occasionally by muffled noises echoing around her.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and squinted at the sight of flames leaping in a nearby hearth. Her head pounded with a terrific ache.
Had she blacked out?
Where was she?
Her head and shoulders were being supported by someone, a cup of strange smelling liquid tilted against her mouth. Where was she? Bloody hell, everything was such a blur.
She tilted her head upward and met the intense stare of a man she'd never seen before. His aging face didn't appear threatening, but something in his cold, dark gaze chilled her to the bone.
A shiver raced along her spine, but she couldn't move. Every muscle in her body seemed unwilling, or unable, to find the strength to fend off the stranger.
As she tasted drops of a vile liquid on her tongue, a wry smile cracked opened the man's mouth.
Her eyes widened in panic, but words wouldn't escape her tightened throat.
"Steady now with you, lass. Dinna be afraid. You've been verra ill it seems. Now drink this tonic. Aye, it dinna taste good, but it will help take away your fever." The man pinched her nose, forcing the foul brew down her throat. She finally dredged up the strength to resist him, but his arm held her chest pinned firm. "There now, you have to drink it. It will help you sleep. Dinna worry now . . . I'm Father Martin, and I will take of you."
Chapter 18
When Ewan entered the great hall, he found Lady Heather MacPherson sitting on a large wooden bench by the hearth, the young boy he assumed to be Rory, sitting on her lap. Her husband, Laird Sean MacPherson paced the floor nearby, hands clutched behind his back.
Ewan’s neck tensed, fingers flexed.
Aye. It was hard to feel kinship for these people, even though Heather was his father's sister. They had turned their back on his father by accusing the embattled Laird of causing Collin's death many years ago.
It was an accident. Just some bloody foolish stupidity. But no one, not even Ewan, could ever convince Collin he was doing wrong.
But none of that mattered now.
His beloved, was laying ill on his bed upstairs, wrapped in his furs, safe within the walls of his keep. And he would kill any man who'd dare try to harm her.
Including Liam.
Ewan stepped into the room, crossed his arms. "MacPherson. Whatever you have to say to ma da, you can say to me. He'll nae be seeing anyone today."
His uncle pounded the table with one large fist, sending several metal mugs scattering to the floor. "Like Hell! He will see me now, or I'll come back with enough men to make him come out."
Unmoved by the man's rage, Ewan stood. "Go home, MacPherson. Take your woman and your lad. Leave. I'll nae give you the opportunity to blame ma Da for any wrongdoing. In fact, the only reason I'm letting you go at all is because you brought ma wife back to me." He turned to his aunt. "This is your son?"
Worry glittered the woman's eyes, as the boy wriggled from his mother's arms and stood toe to toe with Ewan. "Aye. His name is Rory."
"Rory?"
The boy nodded and pointed to his father. "Aye, I am. My Da is a powerful Laird and he isn’t frightened of you or anyone else . . . ."
"Hush, lad." MacPherson reprimanded his outspoken son with a cutting glance. "Mind your place. This isn’t your home."
"But, Da . . . ."
"I said shut up!"
Ewan turned away from the boy, stared at his uncle. "He's so much like his brother, isn't he?"
The old Laird appeared uncomfortable and sat down at the table. "He's spoiled by his mother. I can’t say otherwise." The man up righted a goblet and poured himself some ale. After sipping a long draft, he continued, "For God's sake Ewan, I came here to talk, nae fight. We are kin. Surely that counts for something?"
"Once it might have. But you lost your right to be called ma kin when you blamed Da for Collin's death."
"I'll nae discuss this with you, Ewan. I came to settle things with your Da."
Settle things? Ewan wondered what his uncle meant by this. His father was in no condition to fight.
Ewan's hand slid to the hilt of his sword.
His uncle said, "Oh, dinna make this harder than it already is, man. I've come to apologize. I know Grant never meant for that damn beast to kill ma boy. I just couldn't face the fact that Collin had been too bloody stubborn to listen to me for once. I was angry as hell, Ewan. Ma son, ma heir, was dead. I dinna know what to do. I needed to blame something, somebody. But I was wrong."
The aging Laird glanced at his crying wife. "We both were."
Stunned by the frank admission, Ewan released his sword then sat down at the table. Never had he believed MacPherson would say he was sorry for anything. It was a trait that had been bred into Collin and no doubt, Rory.
Perhaps his father should see the man, assuming his father could recognize him. The old MacKinnon seemed to be getting frailer with each day since Ewan had returned from the future. Nothing he or the healers did appeared to make a difference. If the man had been poisoned, he had no idea how or with what.
He met his uncle's resolute glare. Hell. This might be his da's last chance to receive some sort of justice.
He stood from the table. "Verra well, MacPherson. I'll take you to see him. But, I warn you now, he's nae what you'd expect. You can’t stay long."
In cold silence, he guided his uncle to his father's chamber, then paused before the large wooden door. Ewan knew what awaited him inside, and it sickened him to his core. With a deep sigh, he pushed the door open and allowed MacPherson into the dimly lit chamber. Following closely behind, Ewan noticed his father seemed awake, his deep-set, listless eyes gazing off into God knew where.
What he wouldn't give to see the man astride his favorite mount again, heading off for a hunt.
MacPherson's brow furrowed as he approached the bed and looked down at the ailing Laird. "So, what kind of horse shit do you call this, Grant?"
Ewan's first instinct was to throw the man out, then he heard the faint reply of his father.
"Eh? What the hell? MacPherson, is it? Who let a bastard like you into ma keep?"
A smile curled the edge of Ewan’s mouth. It was so damn good to hear his father say something, anything—even better when he was cursing a MacPherson.
His uncle pulled over a chair and sat down. "I came to see you, you old son of a bitch. If you have a problem with that, then perhaps we can take it outside to the bailey, just like old times. I'm in a right mood to kick your sorry arse."
"Hah!" Ewan's father coughed and tried to sit up, but stumbled. Fighting his urge to help the man, Ewan stayed where he was and let his da try to do it himself. "I'd like to see you try, you pompous shit."
"Oh, aye. I could and you know it. What's that thing you’re wearing, man? Looks like a wench's wee nightie. Forgotten how to wear your plaid have you?"
"Shut your trap, you bastard . . . ."
Ewan backed away from the quarrelling pair and headed out the door, content that his father was riled up for the first time in weeks.
His da wasn't dead yet.
Anxious to see how Ellie was doing, Ewan walked into his chamber to find Father Martin hovering over her inert body. Smears of green littered her lips, chin and cheek.
Poison?
A burning pain gripped his chest as he strode across the room, grabbed the errant priest by the throat, and pegged the stunned man to the hard stone wall. "What did you do to her, you son of a bitch?"
The priest struggled within his tightening grasp, trying to pry his iron grip loose from his throat. "I . . . I dinna hurt the lass."
Fury pumped through Ewan's veins, set his jaw like rock. "You were warned to stay away from ma kin, you evil bastard. If you have poisoned ma wife, you will die now by ma bare hands."
A strange look washed over the man's purple face. "I swear to the Saints, I dinna poison her. I gave her a tonic for the fever, that's all."
Still holding the man against the wall, Ewan looked over to where Ellie lay huddled in furs. She seemed to be breathing soundly, her lovely face no longer so pale, a hint of color flushed her cheeks.
Ewan returned his attention to the dangling holy man and gritted his teeth. "You know I banned all medicines until I found out what was poisoning the laird."
"Aye. Perhaps, you'd preferred I let the lass die?"
Incensed, Ewan pulled the man close. "Get your belongings, priest, and get out of ma keep – now."
He dropped the Father Martin, who crumpled into a heap on the floor.
"And if I ever catch you on ma land again, I will kill you without hesitation."
Her body aching all over, Ellie pried open her tired eyelids and focused on her surroundings in the filtered morning light. Cripes, what a headache. Why in Hell didn't she study chemistry at school instead of history? Knowing how to make aspirin in this time period would have made her a very rich woman.
She licked her lips and screwed up her face. Ergh. Had she been vomiting? Lord, whatever lingered there, it tasted foul. Maybe she should invent mouthwash instead? Or at least a toothbrush.
Where was she? It didn't look like her room at the MacPherson keep. Didn't smell like it either.
She tried to roll over onto her side, but found her body pinned in place by a huge, muscular arm.
Shit.
Liam?
He didn't—she couldn't—
Panic swept through her as she struggled to recall the last few days. She remembered running toward the lake, diving in, finding the boy and pulling him to shore—Christ, everything after that was like some sort of deranged jigsaw puzzle dancing in her head. Perhaps after she'd rescued Rory, she passed out or something? Hell, she didn't know.