Rogue Highlander
Page 1
Copyright 2017 by Sondra Grey All rights reserved.
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Rogue Highlander
A Captured Heart
By: Sondra Grey
Table of Contents
Rogue Highlander; A Captured Heart
Rogue Highlander; Surrendered Love
Rogue Highlander
A Captured Heart
PROLOGUE
T wo young men stood on a hillside, looking down at the village below. From their vantage point, the village was nothing but a series of brown rooves amidst the deep green of late summer trees. The scene was empty save for a lone figure who was leaning against the grey stone walls of the kirk.
Gavin Stewart squinted to try and make the person out, his concentration broken when a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder.
“I feel sorry for you, I do,” said the hand’s owner. “You can’t go anywhere near her, man. Not now. Lord knows you’ll catch the sickness, yourself.”
Gavin stared over his shoulder at his friend, William Graham. William’s eyes were on the kirkyard as well. Then his gaze met Gavin’s, sympathetic.
“There are many people in the village that haven’t caught the sickness,” said Gavin, but he felt heavy with worry. He squinted down at the fair-haired figure now pacing about the front of the kirk. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Your betrothed? I can’t see from here,” William lied. He had eyes like a hawk. Indeed, it was Isla. Beautiful, Isla MacLeay, whom William had lusted over for years. She was a cold, proud harpy, who’d rejected William’s proposal of marriage and who’d slapped him when he’d pressed his suite and tried to kiss her. Isla, that harlot, who’d accepted Gavin’s proposal not two months later.
“It might be her,” William continued, “But I’m not getting closer to find out. That woman has always given me the chills.”
Gavin glanced at William, both in censure and in curiosity.
“Come now, Gavin,” said William, his voice rising with false incredulity. “You must know that Isla’s a witch!”
Gavin’s lips thinned. “Enough of that. I’ll not have you speaking ill of the woman I’m to marry.”
William was purposefully silent. His mind went back to the moment when she’d shamed him: Isla’s skin, so creamy and white at her throat, had contrasted brilliantly against William’s fingers where they stroked the long column of her neck. And her eyes, so vivid and blue, practically sparking with anger as he’d grabbed her close and kissed her. He could still feel the vicious sting of her slap.
“I’m your friend,” William said to Gavin, his voice intentionally slow, hesitant. “I speak only out of concern for your safety.”
Gavin snorted. “You think Isla would ever harm me?”
“No, of course not,” said William quickly. His gaze fastened now on the young woman, leaning once again against the grey, stone wall of the kirk. “It’s just strange. You know? Who would choose to close themselves inside a kirk with some many of the sick, unless they knew they weren’t going to sicken and die themselves. She’s been down there a week, man. And we’ve both heard the news of her, she’s hale and healthy as ever.”
Gavin shook his head, his chin stubborn.
“I wouldn’t be a real friend if I didn’t speak up,” said William, with a shrug. “Isla’s a good lass, but people have been talking. Her mother’s death, three months ago? Why, Deirdre was the first to fall ill. The sickness was in Isla’s own house and did not touch her.”
Gavin said nothing, but worried at his straw-blond hair with a distracted hand. William turned his head to hide a smile and continued. “Mary, she likes to talk after we tumble, she said that Isla was asking after your inheritance. Asking how much you stood to gain if Andrew were to sicken.”
The last time William had laid eyes on Gavin’s older brother, the man had looked terrible. Joss Stewart, Gavin’s father, had forbidden anyone from entering the town once the sickness started to spread. But William knew that Andrew had been seeking his pleasure with the spinner’s daughter and hadn’t ceased to see her when the sickness started. And Willian knew what Gavin didn’t, that Andrew’s wife had ridden off to her father’s house just that morning. William was willing to bet his best shirt that Andrew Stewart, second cousin to The Stewart of Castle Stalker, was afflicted with the strange sickness that plagued the village.
Gavin glared daggers at William, but William pretended he didn’t see. “I suppose,” William mused, “that any young woman might be interested in knowing how much her man is worth – but I worry… Have you ever seen the lass fall ill? Even a sniffle? No pox, no fevers…”
“Enough William.”
“While the whole town boards up their windows and doors, she strides right into a kirk full of sickness…”
“Enough William!” Gavin’s voice was hard, and he held up a finger in warning. William bowed his head in silence, but when he looked up, he made sure to look worried. He grabbed his friend’s arm and said nothing more. But he watched with a wicked glee as Gavin looked anxiously down at the kirkyard.
“Let’s go back to the keep, aye?” Gavin said, and he turned his back on the village.
Isla’s heart was breaking. All around her the groans and cries of the sick and dying filled the air. The small church was overwhelmed with patients, laid out on cots, curled up on blankets on the floor. The stench of their sickness was overwhelming and neither Isla nor the priests could clean everything fast enough. She’d had to beg Father Minchen to open the windows and doors, but even the breeze wasn’t helping much. Despite the precautions, Isla had advised everyone take, five more villagers had fallen ill. The sickness seemed second only to the plague. The people who caught it were burning up, they couldn’t keep down food, or water, and Isla had long since run out of herbals to soothe stomachs and lower fevers. And there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to those who were on the mend. Some people were getting better, but most were not.
Isla had sent messages to some of the villagers, urging them to go out to the woods to find coltsfoot, dandelion, and vervain. Nobody had returned, and Isla didn’t dare leave the sick long enough to find some herself. The priest and the monks who’d been called in from the nearby abbey needed all the help she could offer them.
Isla had never seen anything as devastating as this sickness, she’d never seen so many people ill at once. She was overwhelmed with the enormity of her task, and she felt strangely helpless. She wished, suddenly, that Deirdre were here. Deirdre would have known what to do, would have conquered the illness by tending the sick with her brusque confidence, competent hands knowing exactly what herb to use, exactly how to seat a patient in bed to stop their cough. Isla felt tears of frustration start to build and she blinked them back.
She had to be strong. The villagers needed a healer. They need Deirdre. But Deirdre could help them no longer. It was up to Isla now.
Isla reached for the cloth hanging at her neck and began to tie it back around her nose and mouth when the sound of hoof-beats stalled her hands. A grey horse appeared, toting a small cart.
Isla recognized the rider and her heart started to pound. It was Gregory, one of Joss Stewart’s men. Behind her, the door flew open, and two of the monks ran down the stairs to help unload whoever was in the wagon. Isla was paralyzed against the stone wall, her heart all but stopping when she saw a thatch of blond hair. No. Not Gavin. Please god, not Gavin.
“Who is it,” she called, moving to help open the door.
“It’s Andrew Stewart, Ms. MacLeay,” called Gregory. “And he’s in bad shape.”
Isla didn’t leave the kirk for two entire days. In her efforts to do all she could for her betrothed’s brother, she’d barely slept three hours at a time. But Andrew had been too far-gone to help. His death had been terrible and slow. She wanted to tell Gavin herself, wanted him to hear what had happened from her. So she’d left the kirk for the first time in a week, and had borrowed the priest’s pony to ride up to Joss Stewart’s manor.
But there had been clansmen standing guard at the low manor house. They weren’t letting anyone from the village near Joss Stewart and his family. Isla had had to pass word of Andrew’s death through them. She’d watched as the messenger had entered the house and not returned. Isla imagined she could hear Joss’s howl for his son, but in reality, she’d heard nothing. Nobody came out to see her.
“Tell Gavin I’ll be in town. That I’m going to check there to see if anyone else is sick.” She’d begged the clansmen who stood barring the way to her betrothed. But they didn’t look at her. Refused to meet her eyes. They’re distraught, she thought to herself. So she headed for the village. She’d wait only an hour, and hopefully Gavin would come. She desperately wanted to see him, to make sure he was all right.
The walk to town was silent. At this hour, Elleric was usually bustling. The stalls were still open, and there’d be people out walking back from the farm, or the keep. But there were only a few people out now.
“Isla!” Near the well, Isla’s friend Thomasina waved. The recently married woman’s soft brown hair was pulled off of her face by her kerchief, and she had her bucket with her. Indicating that she’d come out to get water from the well.
Isla was relieved to see her friend, and she rushed forward, grasping the young woman’s hands. But Thomasina didn’t look happy to see her. The young woman looked distressed in fact. “Isla, where on earth…”
“I’ve been at the kirk,” said Isla, curiously. She thought everyone knew where she’d been. “Oh Thom, the worst thing has happened…”
“It has Isla, I’ve been hearing terrible things about…”
“Mrs. Clay!” Isla called over Thomasina’s shoulder. The crofter’s wife had come out of her house, and Isla wished to give her news of her son, who was at the kirk, still fighting for life. But when Mrs. Clay spotted her, the woman blanched and crossed herself. Isla opened her mouth to call out again, but something stopped her. A commotion behind her.
“ISLA!”
The voice over her shoulder was loud, demanding, but Isla knew its owner and she whirled to where Gavin Stewart had emerged from the woods and into the village square. Gavin. Relief flooded her at the sight of him: lean, young silhouette, sandy blond hair in disarray, eyes wide with sorrow. Oh Gavin! He’d had the news of Andrew, then. Her heart broke a bit and she rushed forward.
Only to stop short. He looked forbidding, ill even. His face was pale, and his eyes were alive with a fire she’d never seen from him before. He appeared upset, and furious, even a bit wild.
“Gavin?”
“What did you do to him, Isla?” Gavin cried out, voice raw with emotion. “What did you do to Andrew?”
“Oh Gavin,” said Isla, her heart breaking a bit at the sight of his distress. “I did the best I could. I tried to help him. He was too sick…”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw William Graham turning the corner, but he stopped before he quite entered the square. She had no time to spare for him, and so she turned her gaze back to Gavin, who was shaking his head. Behind her, Thomasina was backing away and Isla found herself standing alone in the center of the village, villagers emerging from their homes and shops to watch the scene.
“My brother,” Gavin cried, voice cracking in agony, mouth pinching around his sorrow. “You killed him, Isla. My brother. How could you!?”
Killed him? Isla gasped. “Gavin what are you talking about?”
“Witch!” someone behind her called out. She whirled. It was Mrs. Clay, white and staring, looking fearful and angry. Isla whirled back to Gavin, who looked as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“Are you a witch, Isla? Did you bewitch Andrew, curse him to die, so that I might have Father’s lands? Were you planning to kill me next?”
“Filthy witch!” Someone else called. A man’s voice.
“Gavin stop!” Isla cried, fear building inside her like a river about to spill its banks. “You’re upset! I did nothing to your brother!”
“How is then” he demanded, “that you can walk amongst the sick and not get sickened? How is it you sleep amongst the dying but do not catch their fever!?”
Isla shook her head. She’d always been healthy. She and her mother had taken tonics ever morning to ward off sickness. She opened her mouth to try and explain, but voices of the villagers overwhelmed her.
“Witch! She’s a witch! She brought the sickness here!”
“She’s a witch!”
“She killed her own mother to have the house!”
Gavin looked terrified, and he swung away as Isla reached for him. “No!” He yelled. “You’ll not curse me Isla MacLeay! Get back!”
“Gavin!” Isla, who never cried, was crying now, tears spilling down her cheeks and she stumbled after him.
“Get back!” He hollered, stumbling backwards.
Something hit Isla shoulder’s with a sickening thud, and she stumbled. She turned to see what had hit her and a rock flew at her face. She ducked so that it only grazed her temple, knocking her sideways into the side of the well.
“Witch! Murderer!” More stones now; a hail of stones and rocks, driving her backwards. Someone stuck out a leg and she fell down, skinning her hands and knees through her skirt. She stared up through her hair to see William Graham standing over her. “Witch,” he said. But he was smiling.
Isla stood. She ran.
CHAPTER ONE
U nless you looked carefully, you might not have seen the woman in the dark brown plaid, huddled behind a fallen birch, amidst a thicket of aspen and ash trees. Not for the first time, Isla felt like sobbing, and only deep, steady breaths kept her misery from getting the worst of her. She’d lived in Elleric all her life, had never strayed further than ten miles from home. Who knew where she was now. Lost, alone…
At least she wasn’t hungry. It might have been worse. She’d fled from the village, running straight into the arms of her friend, Thomasina, who’d run with her, hiding Isla in her home as villagers gave chase, giving Isla a heavy plaid and whatever food she had on hand.
“Gavin!” Isla had gasped at Thomasina. “Thom did you see Gavin?”
“Forget Gavin!” Thomasina had said, viciously. “He’s betrayed you Isla. He’s called you a witch before the whole town. You must leave when it’s dark, they’ll be hunting you. Leave, Isla, and don’t come back here.”
That the forest was still gave Isla little peace. She’d run for hours, certain she was being pursued. She’d splashed through rivers in case word had reached Castle Stalker, and in case The Stewart had sent men with dogs. She kept to the thickets in case she needed to hide.
That night, when Isla’s feet hurt too much for her to continue, she climbed into the tangled limbs of a yew tree, hid behind its thick curtain of needle leaves, and listened to the owls.
Her pace had been less frantic this morning, and she’d saved some of Thomasina’s food by supplementing the bread and cheese with berries from blaeberry and juniper bushes and a few mushrooms.
Then she’d hidden herself in the thicket of young aspen trees and here she sat, currently trying to come up with a plan.
There was only one option open to her: Head west, towards Gordon lands, where her mother’s sister still lived, and maybe other members of the family (although Deirdre had only
ever spoken of her sister). But Isla was no woodsman, she didn’t know the way to Cairnie, the town of her mother’s birth. And so the plan was an incomplete one. Isla would need directions, which meant she’d need to enter a town. But what if word had reached the towns? What if Joss Stewart or, worse, the Clan Chief had sent men out looking for her?
There was nothing to do but keep moving north, to try and survive as best she could in the woods, or maybe happen upon a farmhouse where someone might be inclined to help. The Stewarts might not bother to ride into the hills, and so as long as Isla kept heading north and then west.
There was nothing else for her to do, and the enormity of her situation finally sunk in. She could never go home. Her parents were no longer living and her betrothed had called her a witch before the entire town. Any moment, she might be found, brought back to Elleric for a witch’s trial the likes of which the town had not seen in fifty years. And she’d be burned, or drowned, or hung. An overwhelming tide of sorrow threatened to pull her under, but Isla struggled to master it.
Be strong! She chastised herself. You can get through this! At least you’re still alive. As a healer, Isla had to hone an iron stomach and an iron will. Her mother had always praised her stoicism. She tried then to summon Deirdre’s voice, to recall the hard resolve that always seemed to steady her mother’s green gaze.
But it wasn’t Deirdre’s voice she heard. It was father’s, clear as that time on the banks of Doire Lochan, after they’d buried her two-year old brother, dead from ague. Donald MacLeay had wrapped his arms around her, his hugs always longer than her mother’s brief embraces. “It’s all right to grieve.”
The sobs escaped for Isla could stop them, and although nobody was watching, she was ashamed of her tears. She pulled her brown and grey plaid over her head, and cried and cried. With her hair tangled, dried blood staining the side of her face from where the rock had struck, with her hands and knees scraped from two days spent scrambling through thickets, and now with her eyes puffy and streaming, Isla MacLeay knew looked a terrible sight. And knowing this made her cry even harder. She’d truly lost everything then, even her beauty.