Highlander Betrayed (Guardians of the Targe)

by Wittig, Laurin

  “I think ’twas you who handled her well,” Nicholas said, his eyes still on Rowan. “I was caught fast in her web.”

  Duncan looked up at him and nodded slowly. “It is rather like a sticky web, is it not?”

  Nicholas took a teasing tone with Duncan as he watched Rowan rise and give Jeanette a kiss on the cheek. “Sticky for most of us lads, but you slipped clear of it without effort.”

  “Years of practice. That one was born flirting.”

  “But not Rowan?”

  Duncan looked at him, all seriousness now. “Rowan is cheerful, takes care of anyone and everyone. She clearly loves her cousin, but she worries over Scotia’s obsession with the lads. We all do.” His eyes narrowed for a moment, as if he concentrated. “I cannot say I’ve ever seen her attempt to gain a lad’s attentions for herself, though she’s good enough at gaining it when there is work to be done.”

  They fell silent while they turned their attention back to the excellent meal.

  Duncan’s insight shed light on Nicholas’s brief experience with Rowan. He had found her to be loyal to her cousin. Protective, even when it appeared her protection was not wanted. Brave. Stoic. And she had sent him to be sure Scotia’s trysting lad had not been harmed when Rowan could not go. She had trusted him with Scotia’s secret even though she had no idea who he was. He did not know whether that showed great insight on her part or great naiveté. Yet when he had taken her hand, she had seemed at a loss for what to do, and when he’d touched her, smoothing that errant lock of her amazing hair behind her ear, her breath had caught as if no man had ever done such a thing before.

  Just as his own breath caught as he watched her move gracefully through the hall toward him. His gaze traced the long line of her back as she leaned down to speak to an older woman, the gentle curve of her breasts against the pale golden-yellow of her gown as she stood again, the subtle sway of her hips as she once more moved in his direction. She was beautiful, all the more so because she looked perfectly at ease, as if she belonged here and knew it deep in her bones. He’d never known that feeling, that sense of belonging, even after the king had taken him into his service.

  But now that he knew what it looked like, almost without thinking he took note in case he ever needed to simulate such a thing. Mostly, he simply enjoyed watching her.

  Nicholas didn’t even try to take his eyes off her as she arrived at the end of the trestle table. Conscious that all eyes in the hall were upon them, Nicholas smiled at her, trying to exude benign trustworthiness in his posture and countenance.

  “Duncan. Nicholas.” She nodded at both of them, a hint of a smile softening her full lips.

  “Will you join us?” Nicholas motioned to the place beside him on the bench. Rowan took the seat across from him, next to Duncan.

  She leaned close to Duncan and said, just loud enough for Nicholas to hear, “I see he is not a god after all, but only a man. Scotia had me doubting my memory.”

  Duncan glanced at Nicholas, mischief alive in his eyes. “Pray, what did she say?”

  Nicholas leaned in, ready to be teased by this striking woman.

  “Only that he had the strength of ten men,” Rowan said, sighing with great drama as Scotia must have done, “and the shoulders of a god. That his hair… well, she has a weakness for hair such as his.”

  Duncan stifled a snort. “Aye, she certainly does.”

  “Long?” Nicholas played along with the teasing by flagrantly twitching his almost shoulder-length hair out of his face.

  Rowan grinned and it was as if the world were new and bright. “Just hair. She does not fancy bald men.”

  Nicholas laughed and was delighted by a husky chuckle from Rowan.

  Duncan shook his head and smiled as he looked from one of them to the other.

  “My aunt regrets that she has not been well enough to do her duty as the chief’s lady and properly welcome you to Dunlairig, so I am here in her stead.” The formal words, so at odds with the teasing of a moment before, lent credence to Duncan’s description of this woman.

  “I am sorry your aunt is ill. I wish her a quick recovery.”

  “Thank you. Duncan has got you settled, then?” she asked, clearly determined to do her duty in this task.

  “Aye.”

  “If there is aught you need, you have but to ask.”

  He needed to see her sunny smile again, to see the twinkle in her eyes as she teased him, to hear that husky chuckle that sent blood rushing where it should not.

  “I have shelter, food, and work to earn my way.” He held her gaze with his, struck by the seriousness that had replaced the play in her pale green eyes. “There is nothing I need, mistress.” He needed naught, ’twas true, but what he wanted… that was something entirely different.

  He took a bite of the boar, swallowed it half-chewed, and changed the subject. “Your injury is healing well?”

  She startled, as if pulled out of her thoughts. “Oh, aye, well enough.”

  She leaned in toward him, a soft smile on her face now that the formalities were done, so he leaned toward her, happy to be close enough to catch a whiff of her fresh scent. It was not lavender. It seemed all the ladies at court smelled of that at one time or another. Perhaps it was heather, or the clear mountain air clinging to her.

  “It itches something fierce,” she whispered, and for a swift moment he had lost the momentum of their conversation, distracted by her nearness. “The cut,” she added when he had paused too long.

  “Wounds often do. I’m told it means they are healing well. Perhaps you need something… or someone,” he smiled at her and didn’t even think about what he wanted to convey in the smile, “to distract you.”

  Before she could reply, a small boy with white blond hair and bright blue eyes pushed between Rowan and Duncan, reaching for a wooden tray of honey cakes. Mischief sparkled over Rowan’s countenance once more as she scooped the tray up, holding it over her head.

  “Give it!” the boy squealed. “Give it!”

  “That is no way to ask for something, wee Ian,” she said with barely suppressed laughter.

  “Give it to me!” The boy stood back, planting his fists on his tiny hips as if he were a fierce Highland warrior already.

  Rowan turned away from him, lowering the tray enough to peer at its contents but not so low the boy could snag it with a quick lunge.

  “Oh my,” she said, letting a smile light up her face, “there are only three here. One for me, one for Nicholas, and one for Duncan.”

  “Nay! S’mine!”

  The lad couldn’t have been more than five winters old, yet he mimicked a Highland warrior in his stance and attempted severe expression. Recognition slammed into Nicholas like a fist to the gut. Five winters. Was he himself this fiercely a Highlander at five? He certainly had been at ten and two when he’d reluctantly left the Highlands behind him.

  “I might consider sharing one,” Rowan said. She winked at Nicholas and his momentary melancholy was wiped away. “Would that merit a proper request from you, wee Ian?”

  The lad stood there glaring at Rowan for a long moment. She picked a cake off the tray and took a slow bite, closing her eyes as she let out a low “mmmmm.” The boy’s fierce look turned quickly to pleading, and Nicholas knew he would plead, too, if her teasing were aimed at him. He tried to suppress his grin.

  “Please? Please, Rowan?”

  “Oh, you are asking nicely now?” She slowly licked the sticky honey from her lips and heat began to build in Nicholas’s belly.

  She was not an exceptional beauty, and yet there was something about her that he couldn’t quite name that drew the eye more strongly than even the most admired ladies attending the king’s court. He could not take his eyes off her mouth.

  “Please, may I have a honey cake, Rowan?” wee Ian finally managed to get out, his hands folded and tucked under his chin as if in prayer.

  Rowan seemed to consider the request for a long moment.

  “Do not
torture him for his ill manners too long, mistress,” Nicholas said quietly. “There is only so much we lads can take from a bonny lass.”

  Pink tinged her cheeks even as she raised one auburn brow at him. Rowan lowered the tray so wee Ian could see the prize that awaited him.

  “Only one,” she said. “Remember how your tummy hurt when you ate too many last time.”

  The boy considered the remaining cakes carefully, grabbed the largest one and scampered away with a gleeful shout of triumph.

  “But now we are one cake short,” Nicholas said to Rowan. “Whatever shall we do?”

  She rose from the table, reached through the people sitting at the next table down and snagged a cake.

  “There are always plenty of honey cakes,” she said, looking him in the eye. “One only needs to ask nicely.” And she dropped the cake on his trencher.

  Nicholas laughed and she smiled back at him. He picked up the offered sweet and took a large bite. “Mmmm,” he said, his eyes on hers.

  “Good, aye?”

  “Very.” The easy banter disarmed and charmed him. There didn’t seem to be any ulterior motive on her part, no seduction in spite of the lust that flooded through him. But perhaps a small spark of interest? A spark that, if fanned, might aid his cause.

  She took a bite of her own cake, a look of pure pleasure lighting up her face.

  A horn sounded mournfully from the bailey. Once, twice, thrice. Silence fell around those still lingering over the evening meal and they all rose, the loud conversations and laughter of a moment ago replaced with a quiet murmur.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “We are called for a blessing,” Rowan said, the fun and ease of a few moments ago gone, the formal tone once more in place. “She should not be out of her bed.”

  “Who?” he asked, but Rowan was already heading for the stair that led to the bailey. He turned to Duncan. “Who should not be out of her bed?”

  “Lady Elspet. It is she who makes the blessings.” Duncan stuffed the last of his dinner in his mouth, snagged the last honey cake and motioned for Nicholas to follow.

  Curiosity had him hard on the man’s heels.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A LOW RUMBLE of mutterings passing from person to person accompanied Rowan out of the hall and into the bailey that was growing more crowded by the moment. People streamed in the gate, adding to those who had clearly been within the castle confines when the horn sounded. What was Elspet doing? She didn’t have the strength to be out of her bed, never mind the strength to perform a blessing.

  Rowan tried to find Jeanette or Scotia in the crowd but it was too dark and there were too many people. How had they all arrived so quickly? She skirted the thickest part of the gathering, moving easily through the open space between the large knot of people and the wall toward the tower, but was stopped by a warm hand on her shoulder.

  Nicholas stood behind her. He dropped his hand and was about to say something when the sound of the tower door opening sent a complete and sudden hush throughout the gathering.

  Kenneth filled the open doorway, his arm wrapped around the waist of the striking, but very frail, Elspet. Rowan noted that despite her aunt’s faded hair and gaunt and deeply lined face, it was as clear as ever that Jeanette was her daughter, for they favored one another strongly.

  The couple made their way slowly through the bailey, the crowd parting to ease Elspet’s passing. When Kenneth reached the nearest part of the destroyed wall he tried to stop, but his wife said something to him. He quietly argued for a short moment before capitulating to his lady’s wishes. Rowan’s heart warmed. Most thought of Kenneth as a hard warrior, a strong chief to his clan, but only those closest to him—and she was glad to count herself amongst them—knew of the soft place he held in his heart for his wife. He had an exceedingly hard time saying nay to anything Elspet truly wanted.

  Keeping his arm about Elspet, he helped her not only to the center of where the wall once stood, but up on one of the larger stones that had not yet been moved. She tried to step away from him, but he refused to take his arm from around her waist, and in this she yielded with a gentle smile.

  Elspet seemed to gather herself carefully. She pulled a small ermine sack from a fold of her arisaid and held it cupped in her hands. She cast her gaze across the entire gathering, nodded her head as if something satisfied her, raised her hands with the white furred sack in them heart-high, and then she began what felt like a prayer, though it was not in a language anyone understood. It was the strangest combination of musical and guttural sounds, as if they fought each other to escape on Elspet’s voice. Rowan always thought them beautiful. Her aunt swished her hands through the air as she spoke, leaning heavily against her husband while she did so. Kenneth looked grave, but did not stop his wife.

  “What is she saying?” Nicholas whispered to Rowan.

  “I ken not. No one does,” she said just as quietly, “but it is a blessing of the old ones, the ones who came before. It has been passed from mother to daughter over many, many generations.”

  “Does she ken what she is saying?” Nicholas leaned so close she could feel his breath on her ear, sending shivers over her skin that had nothing to do with the temperature of the air.

  “I asked her once,” she said, her feet rooted to the spot in spite of her urge to move closer to the compelling Nicholas, “when I was a wean. She told me she repeated what her mother taught her, understanding the intent, but not the meaning.” She shrugged. “She said the meaning had been lost over time, but it was a blessing.”

  Elspet’s voice suddenly rose, raspy but stronger than Rowan would have thought possible. She placed the sack at her feet, then raised her hands and began waving them almost violently through the air, the motion at odds with the normally graceful and peaceful blessings her aunt gave. An unfamiliar sensation began in Rowan’s feet, climbing up her legs in time with her aunt’s frantic hand motions, almost as if water filled her, pressing against her skin from the inside, pushing, pulsing to get out. The pressure built as Elspet’s words became something not benign, soft, reassuring, but powerful, with a force that washed out over the bailey like a punishing wind before a summer storm.

  The hairs on Rowan’s arms rose as an unnatural wind whipped around her, calling to the pressure inside her that pounded in her head and pushed almost painfully against her skin. She gripped her head lest it explode. She doubled over as her stomach roiled, the deluge of pressure overwhelming all her senses until she could neither see nor hear nor feel anything of the world around her. She tried to cry out, but could not draw enough breath to so much as whimper. Her knees went weak under the assault but she did not fall.

  “Rowan? Rowan! What is it, lass?”

  She reached for the voice like a lifeline and slowly began to pull herself out of the maelstrom. She heard her name again and realized it was Nicholas calling to her. His hands gripped her shoulders, steadying and supporting her. The hard plane of his chest was solid against her back. She pulled those sensations about her like armor, shielding herself from the confusion and fear she would not give in to.

  “Lass?” Worry laced through the single word and Rowan opened her eyes, only then realizing that the world hadn’t gone black. Torches still beat back the night, flickering in their sconces along the standing part of the wall.

  “I am fine.” She tried to pull away from him, but he held her there, gently but firmly. She sank back against him, leaning into his strength, grateful he had not released her, grateful that all eyes remained upon her aunt.

  Elspet repeated the last words of the once more soothing blessing, letting them drift over the silent gathering as gently as a morning’s mist. With the last graceful movement of her hands she crumpled into the waiting arms of her beloved husband.

  “It is done,” Kenneth’s voice boomed. He held Elspet in his arms, cradling her like a sleeping bairn, her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. “The blessing is made, even if it is late, and not
in the usual way. I shall hear no more about evil spirits and witches from any of you. The wall fell. We will discover the reason for it, but it is not an omen of ill and your lady has blessed us and this place. Nothing can harm us while we rebuild the wall.” He stepped off the high stone with care and took his wife back to the tower. Jeannette and Scotia separated themselves from the crowd and followed in their wake.

  The crowd stood still and silent for the longest time and when Rowan tried to push away from Nicholas again, he still tethered her in place with his hands. Finally, as if there had been some signal that she did not hear, everyone began to disperse at the same moment.

  Tentatively, Rowan pushed away yet again and this time Nicholas released her. She tensed, wondering if it was his touch that had chased away the panic or if Elspet’s completion of the odd blessing had released her from its grip.

  When the barrage of debilitating pressure and fear didn’t return, she swallowed hard and only then realized that her face was wet, the cool breeze tracing the tear tracks on her cheeks. She wiped them away, then headed toward the tower where her family had disappeared.

  Nicholas grabbed her arm and gently pulled her around to face him, stopping her from retreating, which should have panicked her more but oddly calmed her.

  “What happened?” Worry made him look older than she’d thought him to be. Concern and curiosity swarmed in the dark depths of his eyes and the urge to lean into him again, to let him support her with his strength and comforting touch, to confide in him exactly what she had experienced, was strong.

  But she didn’t know what had happened to her. Never before had she felt such a thing during a blessing, or any other time for that matter, but then Rowan had never seen a blessing like the one tonight. Nay, Nicholas was a stranger here and she had no reason to trust him, especially where her aunt was concerned, even if she could find the words to explain it.