by Willa Blair
He sighed and turned back to the lass, who stood quietly by as he peered out of the tent. As he faced her, she backed up a step, but only one. It puzzled him that being left alone with a strange man seemed to cause her so little concern for her own safety. She was no match for him, even with him injured, bound, and weaponless, but she neither called for help, nor tried to escape the confines of the tent. Instead, he saw with pleasure, she stood tall and proud.
If she was meant as a serving wench for an important prisoner, he might yet enjoy this captivity.
“Now that your curiosity is satisfied, you should not be on your feet,” she said as she pulled him away from the entry toward the table. He nearly stumbled in the fetters, but her grip held firm, and he stayed upright. At the table, she urged him gently to sit, and then more forcefully said, “Lie down.” He moved to obey before he could consider objecting. Her voice held a tone of command that he found he could not ignore. He lay back, puzzled. As he did, the pounding in his temples reached a new crescendo, preventing rational thought. He tried to stifle the groan, but it escaped. “Damn,” he growled, lifting his bound wrists to his throbbing forhead.
“Ah, your head,” she said, moving to the top of the table and leaning over him to push his arms down. With that nearness, her scent floated over him, softly pleasing, and something more...much more. His groin tightened in response. “This will help,” she said and straightened, taking her scent with her.
He could not see what she did, but her fingertips whispered across the skin of his forehead to ruffle his hair, and the pounding receded.
“You took quite a blow,” she said quietly. “’Tis a good thing you have a thick skull.”
He could hear amusement in her voice, but felt none of his own, only relief. The pain continued to recede as her hands stroked gently over his forehead and down the sides of his face. Tension he was not aware of holding ebbed, and he sighed deeply.
“Who are ye?” he asked, feeling more and more at ease and drowsy as she continued, the pain blessedly fading away. “How can ye do that?”
“I should be asking the questions, don’t you think?” Her voice projected calm reason, as if she was discussing nothing of importance. But she delivered her next question with more emphasis. “Who are you?”
“I am called Toran,” he heard himself say, biting his tongue before he said the rest of his name. What was she doing to him?
“And you do not belong to this clan Colbridge fought today, do you?” she asked. “Your tartan is different than the ones the other prisoners wear.”
Damn. Confusion and dismay washed over him and he reached for an answer that would satisfy the lass. He was in great danger here, bound and without his weapons in an enemy camp, but it would be worse if she found who he really was and told her leader. He’d fought with the MacAnalens, so the invaders probably believed he belonged with them, at least until she of the sharp eyes and soft hands noted the small differences in the tartan he wore.
“Aye,” he improvised. “My clan is related.”
“And you’re a chief?” she asked, seeming to accept his evasion. She continued to stroke his neck and shoulders, her fingers brushing over his torc, and Toran’s strange lassitude deepened, but not enough to halt his tongue.
“Aye,” Toran admitted after struggling not to speak, his voice sounding curiously distant to his ears. He tried to clench his jaw shut, but found that he couldn’t do it with her hands so warmly soothing on his skin. “Clan Lathan,” slipped out before he was even aware he was about to speak. He groaned his dismay and tried to clamp his lips between his teeth, but numbness stole his ability to compress them. Was she a witch, then, he mused dreamily, to pull answers from him even when he did not wish to give them?
“Ah, well then; that is why Colbridge wanted you,” he heard her murmur to herself as he slipped into a warm, blessedly pain-free sleep.
****
Gar Colbridge stood on the edge of the field of battle and looked around him with grim satisfaction. In the waning sunlight, the bodies of his enemies lay strewn like so much chaff across the landscape. A few of his men and some of the camp women picked through them, stripping useable clothing and searching for weapons and other valuables. Those, he knew, would be few and far between in this poor countryside.
“A good day, all in all,” his master-of-arms remarked, dropping his reins and dismounting next to his commander’s horse.
“Aye,” Colbridge answered, giving a nod to the sturdily built man beside him who had, under his guidance, molded a ragtag band of reivers into a passably capable fighting force. “We’ve achieved what we meant to do this day, and reaped a bonus, too...the MacAnalen chief, alive.”
He relished the moment, in the heat of the battle, when he’d recognized the clan leader. He had noticed the man’s torc a moment before striking and turned his blow to disable rather than kill. Odd that none of the laird’s men were nearby to defend him, but luck, it appeared, was in Colbridge’s favor this day. The tides of battle must have swirled them away, leaving him the element of surprise.
A clan leader, even an inexperienced one, as most were these days, would be a valuable source of information about his own holdings, and those of his neighbors. Colbridge congratulated himself on his forbearance. “Aileana’s tending him,” he continued. “Once he’s awake and talking, I’ll have what I need from him, and then be done with him. Scotland lost many lairds at Flodden three years ago; one more won’t matter.”
He noticed a man roaming alone among the bodies, stooping now and again to examine one but taking nothing.
“Who’s that? Ah, of course, Aileana’s man, Ranald. He’ll be looking for live ones, then, as if there are any worth keeping.”
The wounded clansmen did not have the value of their laird, but some of them made acceptable additions to his army. Once their clan was broken, they had little choice but to join him or die. Many were so grateful for life and health after suffering grievous wounds that they took little convincing, especially the ones only Aileana could heal. Her abilities saved many when their wounds were beyond the care of the lesser healers.
She had talent, that one, and the Sight. While he had never yet been seriously injured in battle, with her considerable skills on his side, he believed that his conquest could not be stopped by the blows he might take in the future. That made him fearless, and feared. Word of his prowess traveled ahead of his army, so that a few clans surrendered rather than fight, and gained his protection. Not all. Not the MacAnalens today. They paid the price of defiance. Their dead lay before him. The rest were prisoners whose fate would be decided by the choices they made. Their women, children, and old ones huddled in their village, begging for mercy. He would give it. He had more important matters to attend to than his new subjects.
His companion’s expression turned grim. “There were observers on the ridge early this day,” he said.
Colbridge nodded with satisfaction. When the observers reported back, their unknown laird would have an advantage, but only briefly. “They’ll know we’re here, and in what strength,” he said. He grabbed the reins and pulled his horse’s head down, preparing to mount. “They hung back to assess the enemy rather than rushing in to defend another’s turf. Just as I would have done.” He considered his next moves and swung onto his horse. The observers would carry word of his prowess to the neighboring clans and villages. That was good, if they chose the wise course and surrendered to him. If not, well, he must find the observers’ clan and destroy their ability to fight, or they’d be a viper at his back when he turned south.
“Get the men together,” he ordered. “Send out scouting parties now and again at first light. Find the ones who watched, assess their strengths, and report back.” His underling started to object, but Colbridge shouted over him, “We have no time to waste picking over the bodies of peat cutters and crofters. Go!”
His sense of satisfaction returned as he watched the man hurry to obey. A lightning strike and all woul
d be over here in the north for the year. He would spend the winter at his keep in the south. It would be done.
Chapter Two
Toran came awake to the sound of men moving around outside the tent. Damn, whatever the healer had done to him had put him to sleep. He needed to stay awake if he was going to get out of here.
He listened intently, barely breathing, until the footsteps moved away. Just the guards changing, then?
Nay. He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard horses moving away from camp. A patrol going out. For one bad moment, he’d feared that they’d come for him. It was still black as pitch but it must be getting on toward morning. Their leader would not leave him here indefinitely.
He glanced around the tent. The interior was barely visible, but he could tell that the healer’s chair was empty. Nor did she stand by the doorway. Where had she gone? Did she have somewhere else to sleep?
No matter. This was just the opportunity he needed. He sat up carefully, determined not to make any noise that would draw a guard. He stretched his bound hands over his head to wake up his arm and shoulder muscles, then began to twist and pull at the leather binding his hands together. If he could loosen the bonds, get even one had free, he’d have the use of his hands and arms and have a fighting chance. Though whether he could get free of a camp full of armed men, he had no idea. But if he could get these bonds off while it was still dark, he might manage to escape into the forest and make his way back to the Aerie. Or meet his people coming to look for him.
He worked for what seemed like hours, ignoring the pain and the dampness. The tough old leather was tearing the skin of his wrists and the abrasions bled. But if his blood softened the leather, it might stretch faster. He kept tugging, stopping every once in a while to rest his wrists and worry at the leather with his teeth. It was slow going. Painful. And bloody. But it was the best chance he had unless the healer came back with whatever she’d used to cut away his shirt.
Twice he was forced to stop and lie back as footsteps neared the tent he was in, but they passed on. He kept at it until warm wetness started to run down his arm. Even with the added slip of his own blood and saliva, he could not pull a hand through the loops. His wrists were raw and the bindings were still too tight. He had to stop before he did so much damage that he’d be unable to use his hands at all.
Resigned, he rested. Surely the healer would be back to check on her patient. Perhaps this time she’d bring a blade. He could wait for her to arrive.
****
Dawn had brightened the mists an hour earlier, and Aileana heard men on horseback leaving the camp soon after. Rather than get up, she claimed the luxury of dozing a while longer, taking advantage of the relative quiet that followed their departure.
At rest in her solitary blankets, she recalled Toran’s efforts to resist her questions, something no one before had been able to do. That worried her. Worse, she’d been a fool, dozing off instead of keeping watch over him. There was no question in her mind that even bound, he was fully capable of injuring or killing her before she could say a word to him or could scream for the guards. But he had not harmed her.
Instead, he’d focused on learning more about his enemy, as any warrior would do. She’d held herself still, but had fought back tears as he’d peered out of the tent for the first time and seen what he was up against. No escape. She used to dream of it, of finding a crofter who would shelter her, or disappearing into woods too thick for Coldbridge’s men to pursue her, anything that would lead to returning to what remained of her village. However, after the first summer passed and winter threatened, she became resigned to her fate. As Toran would.
He appealed to her in a way that was new to her, pleasurable yet also a little frightening. As a healer, and a daughter and granddaughter of healers, she knew what happened between a man and a woman, but she’d never experienced it herself. She turned and punched the bag of rags that served as her pillow, trying to achieve some comfort. And, if she were to be honest, trying to distract herself from the memory of his handsome face, his strong body that so pleased her eye, his... Oh, damn. This was hopeless. She might as well get up.
It would be wise to check on her patient before he awoke. There would be less temptation that way, on her side and his, assuming that a handsome laird such as he would have any interest in a simple lass from a small village such as she. All the more reason to control her wild imaginings, check on her patient, and see him taken out with the other prisoners. Then she could soon forget him. Breakfast would have to wait until she finished doing all that.
As expected, Toran still slept when Aileana slipped softly into the Healer’s tent and paused by the entrance. He lay on his side, facing the doorway. The deep blue eyes she’d admired yesterday were closed, his head pillowed on his bound hands. Her newfound resolve crumbled as she watched his chest move with his breath, and she wondered what it would be like to remove his bonds and feel his arms wrap protectively around her. Except to take her arm and hurry her along, no one ever touched her. Not even Ranald dared more than that.
Aileana shuddered to think what Ranald would make of her interest in her present patient if he knew. Ranald was the son of her father’s first wife. Despite being only a handful of years her senior, silver glittered in the dark hair at his temples, giving him an appearance of experience and wisdom. Since he had been fostered away after his mother died, Aileana rarely saw him while she was growing up in the village. She’d been shocked to find him attached to Colbridge’s army. His battles were fought before she encountered him, including the one that nearly cost him his leg. To keep himself alive and of value, he’d been using the simple treatment skills he’d learned from her mother during his rare visits to his father. She’d recognized him immediately, and they had protected each other since. She made it clear he was useful to her and he made it clear she was off limits. In fact, it had been Ranald who had started the tale that her Healing was tied to her maidenhood. He would be concerned about her interest in this patient, this Toran, Laird Lathan. Ranald would think her a silly girl, indeed, to risk everything that had kept her safe so far.
Aileana moved silently to Toran’s side and raised her hands over him, intending to monitor the beat of his heart and the depth of his breathing.
Instead, he rolled to sitting, jerked her off her feet and hauled her against his bare chest within the circle of his bound arms. “Look what I’ve caught,” he murmured. “The healer. What are ye doing here alone? Where are the guards?”
“Outside,” she gasped, answering his last question first, since it only required one word and she didn’t have breath for more at that moment. “I’ve come to...to see how you fare,” Aileana stammered, still breathing heavily from the surprise and the exertion of struggling within the circle of his impossible strength. She’d wished for his arms around her, and here she found herself. She wrenched her attention back to the very real man in front of her. She kept her voice low, not wanting the guard to overhear, rush in, and attack. Not yet, anyway. If need be, she could scream. “I did not mean to wake you, only to see if you were recovered.”
“And ye would know that merely by watching me sleep?”
Aileana could see he was wide awake now, and studying her intently as he held her. That regard gave her pause. How to answer him? She was a Healer, not a witch, but an ignorant Highlander might not know the difference, even if that ignorant Highlander was a laird. She’d heard they burned and drowned witches in the south. She had no intention of meeting either fate.
“By your breathing, and repose,” she finally answered. “If you were still in pain, you might have slept fitfully, or not at all. But I see that you are rested and well recovered.”
“Recovered?” One eyebrow lifted, as if he didn’t recall being wounded, and didn’t know what she meant. That gave her a bit of confidence that he wasn’t completely resistant to her will.
“I believe I am,” he continued, studying her face. He gave her a small smile. “I suppose ye wa
nt me to put ye down.” His regard never wavered, but his tone softened and his vise-like grip on her relaxed as he leaned forward and set her on her feet.
“Aye.” She’d replied with the only proper thing to say. Although, her body reveled in the sensation of his arms around her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to be released. Had she lost her mind? She chided herself again for her foolish fantasies. It was one thing to imagine herself in the arms of the man as he slept, and quite another to consider it when he was wide-awake and looking at her in that…way. Oh, but he tempted her beyond reason, with his deep blue eyes drinking her in; his full lips, now slightly parted as if he contemplated kissing her senseless. Senseless she was to even be imagining it.
He lifted his arms, releasing her, but as she stepped back, he reached out and cupped her face with warm fingers. She gasped at the sudden sensations that gentle touch evoked, so different from the effortless strength he had used to lift and restrain her. The heat from his fingers on her face nearly burned her, yet chills skittered down her neck, across her shoulders, and she fought the urge to lift her fingers to his lips in turn.
“Ye’re a bonny lass…” he whispered.
Her shiver of anticipation surprised her, and she firmly stifled it. Instead of giving in to the yearning to feel his warm skin under her fingers, she stepped back out of his reach.
“Don’t…you can’t…touch me,” she breathed, still fighting the power of her desire to hold the warmth of his face in her palm.