The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  The child pulled back, pointed silently, and tried to draw her to the table, but she rose to her feet and stayed where she was, her eyes on Iain.

  “I’ve come to take his place. Let him go.” Her voice was smoky and soft. She raised her chin, and he looked for a weapon, but her hands remained by her sides, empty, and there was no bulge in her sleeve. She was trembling slightly, afraid, but determined not to let it show. He noted the throb of the pulse at her throat. He couldn’t move from where he was, didn’t dare. He stood, but his leg ached, wobbled under him. If he fell, she’d take the child and run . . . He eased his weight slightly and pressed his knuckles on the surface of the table. He held her in place with his eyes. “Will ye sit down?” he asked politely.

  She surveyed the table, the fine china, the silverware, the half-finished chicken on the boy’s plate. She glanced at Wee Kipper, and he tugged her hand again. This time she came to stand at the far end of the table.

  “He doesn’t speak,” Iain said, running his eyes over her. He felt the same shock of awareness he’d felt the first moment he’d seen her at Glen Iolair, the instant, undeniable, desire. It came with a feeling of relief so strong it nearly toppled him. She was here and safe.

  “No,” she said. “He’s called Wee Kipper. He’s only six.”

  The boy shook his head and held up seven fingers.

  “You fed him?” she asked.

  “He was hungry,” he said simply, though he knew what she was thinking. “He’s a child, Laire,” he said, and she looked away, ashamed, and relieved.

  “Thank you,” she said. She was wary, her eyes ringed with dark circles, her body as tight as a bowstring. Not the Fearsome MacLeod’s innocent, confident daughter now. She looked fragile and beautiful. Her spine was stiff, as if the core of steel he remembered was all that held her up. He stayed perfectly still, felt sweat on his forehead and warm blood on his thigh. The boy was oblivious as he returned to his seat to continue devouring his dinner. Iain saw Laire note the child’s ease and swallow. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she looked at him again, curious now—or suspicious. Her fingertips met at her waist.

  For the first time he wondered how she’d simply appeared in his dining room. He hadn’t heard the door.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “I might ask you the same question. Did you follow me here?”

  She blushed, and looked at her hands. “How did you know I’d be at my uncle’s?” she countered.

  “Your—” He paused. “Sir Hamish MacEwan is your uncle?”

  “He’s my mother’s brother.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, tempted to laugh. “Your uncle is away from home, or so I was told when I called on him this afternoon.” She blanched, and he saw the misery in her eyes. There’d be no salvation there, no sanctuary.

  “My father, my sisters—are they . . . ?”

  “They live,” he said, though he had no way to know that was true. Her shoulders drooped with relief, and he saw the telltale sparkle of tears in her eyes. She closed them for a moment, refusing to let them fall.

  “Is this—is it Bibiana’s house?”

  “It’s my house,” he said. She looked surprised.

  “But the room upstairs, the beautiful gowns . . .”

  He felt the shock of that go through him. “Now how did ye know about that?” he asked in a quiet voice, studying her. Wee Kipper looked up at her with interest.

  She glanced at the boy, then looked away quickly, fixing her eyes on the wall, and didn’t reply.

  “The clothes upstairs belonged to my wife.” His tone was gruff, hard-edged. He watched her cheeks bloom with hot color again, and her eyes flew to his.

  “Your wife,” she murmured, scanning his face. He didn’t want her pity. He wasn’t going to explain himself.

  “Sit down, Laire,” he said, annoyed.

  “Tell me your name,” she said. “I only know you as the sealgair.”

  “My name is Iain Lindsay.”

  “Iain Lindsay,” she repeated. “I suppose I am now your prisoner. Let Wee Kipper go.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the door opened again and banged against the wall. A ragged young man entered, pushing Morag ahead of him.

  He held a dirk to her throat.

  Laire jumped as the door burst open. Hoolet, Bear, Dux, and even Fussle and Magpie entered the room, holding dirks and weapons. Chieftain had the old woman, who was pleading for mercy. “Give us the lass and the boy and we’ll let the old woman live,” Chieftain said.

  Laire looked at the sealgair—Iain Lindsay. He hadn’t moved. For the first time she noted he was sweating and his skin was pale, though his eyes were hard as flint. “Are these friends of yours, Mistress MacLeod?”

  Bear waved his knife, but Iain Lindsay stood where he was, leaning on the table, though he looked neither fearful nor angry.

  “Aye,” she said. She turned to Hoolet. “Hoolet, Wee Kipper isn’t a—”

  “No names!” the girl hissed.

  Bear crossed the room, grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, lad. We’re going.”

  “He’s welcome to stay,” Iain said. But his voice sounded hollow.

  His gray eyes rolled in his head, and Laire watched as he toppled backward into his chair. He reached down under the tablecloth and brought his fingertips back bloody.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Bear and Dux carried Iain through to the library and laid him on the settee while Morag screeched and cried and fluttered around her master.

  Laire took Hoolet’s knife and used it to slit the leg of Iain’s breeches. Bear whistled at the sight of the wound. Morag fainted in a heap.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Hoolet said, pointing at the ragged scraps of broken thread that edged the wound.

  “Leave him and let’s go,” Chieftain sneered. “He can’t come after us.”

  Laire frowned. “We can’t just leave him. What if he bleeds to death?”

  “It’s not so bad as that,” Iain murmured. He lay on the settee and stared at Laire as she leaned over him. Even after so long in the city, she smelled of the Highlands. He shut his eyes, ignored the pain and breathed her in. She’d go now, flee again, and he’d lose her . . .

  “He needs to be stitched again, Dux,” she said firmly, and Iain opened his eyes again. “I’ve seen plenty of Highland warriors and men with sword wounds and knife gashes. If it bleeds too much, or if the wound becomes corrupt, he’ll die. My sister’s the healer, but I know that much.” She wasn’t going anywhere. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or horrified. Her eyes were on the young man with the glasses, and Iain watched as the lad turned as pale as the dusty draping cloth that covered the room’s sparse furnishings

  “You’re as close to a doctor as we have, Dux,” Laire said when the lad didn’t move.

  “I—can’t,” Dux said. He looked around at the others. “The sight of blood makes me sick,” he admitted. “’Tis the real reason I left medical school. I faint—like her.” He pointed at Morag.

  “Then ye’ll stitch him, Hoolet,” Chieftain said. “Hurry up about it.” He was the only one who hadn’t put his weapon down, Iain noted.

  “Me? I canna sew!” the girl cried.

  Laire rolled up her sleeves, and Iain saw the determination in her eyes, the way her lush lips were pursed.

  “You?” he asked. She met his eyes.

  “Aye, me. Are ye afraid? I can sew, and I’ve seen it done. We need clean linen and—” she hesitated.

  “Whisky,” Iain mumbled. “Pour whisky over the wound to clean it. The needle as well. There’s a sewing basket is in the cabinet in the corner with needles and thread.”

  Laire crossed and found it. A half-finished baby gown made of fine lawn lay inside the basket. Iain looked away. “Use it as a bandage,” he snapped.

  Bear handed Laire a flask, and she kept her eyes on Iain’s as she poured the spirit over his leg, her hand shaking. He held her gaze, and she winced more t
han he did. “Now sew,” he said, taking the flask from her. He drank a long swallow. “Your pardon, but I hate this part.”

  Hoolet gasped as the needle went into his flesh. Laire’s hands were warm and steady and her long hair tickled his naked thigh. It shouldn’t be erotic, and it wasn’t, really. It was Laire. He took another swallow of whisky and shut his eyes.

  Laire saw his eyes close. She was hurting him, though she went carefully, was as gentle as she could be. She braced her hand against his thigh. His skin was warm, hairy and the muscle was hard as iron. Was he as hard all over? She felt a flush of heat rise in her belly. She ran her eyes over his chest, the width of his shoulders, the flat, linen-clad plane of his abdomen.

  He shuddered, and she glanced at him. He was staring at her, and the look in his eyes was unreadable, intense. It was the way he’d looked at her the day she saw him hunting in the wood. He’d touched her cheek . . . She felt her skin tingle, felt her body heat, bloom with awareness of him. She could smell his skin, the familiar masculine scent of him, learned from wearing his cloak. She was aware of the heat of his flesh. She concentrated on the next stitch, and the next. He didn’t move. She finished and cut the thread carefully with Hoolet’s dirk. She was trembling, and her body buzzed with awareness. The air between them crackling. She could feel his eyes on her, smell the whisky on his breath.

  “Now what?” she asked Dux, her voice thick and low timbred. “My sister would put a poultice on it, but I don’t know what herbs to use, or how to—”

  “Douse it with more whisky and bandage it,” Iain said gruffly. “Tis no worse than any other wound I’ve suffered.”

  “Have ye had a lot of them?” Magpie asked, coming to peer at the wound with round eyes.

  Iain smiled at the wee girl, a smile of such gentleness that Laire’s heart contracted. “Aye, a few.” He showed her a scar on his the palm of his hand, and Magpie giggled.

  Laire’s hands shook as she bound the wound.

  He brushed his hand over hers, caught her fingers when she finished. The shock of the simple touch ran through her limbs like liquid fire. She met his eyes. “Thank ye,” he said quietly. He tried to sit up.

  “No,” Laire said, putting her hands on his shoulders. It brought his face very close to hers. She heard his intake of breath, saw his pupils flare to consume the gray of his eyes. “Ye must lie still,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

  He sank back obediently, and she rose, moved away, wiped her hands and tried to regain her composure.

  “We must go. The wee ones need sleep,” Hoolet whispered.

  “Stay,” Iain said gruffly. His voice was thick with whisky and sleep. It vibrated through Laire’s body. She turned to look at him. He kept his eyes on hers. “There are empty rooms here, room for all of ye—guests, not prisoners, ” he said, with his eyes on hers. “Ye’ll be safe here, I swear it. Stay.”

  She saw the truth of that in his eyes, and the yearning. It made her throat close.

  “Stay? D’ye mean up here?” Hoolet said. “How grand! Might I have a room of my own?” Laire tore her gaze away from Iain’s.

  Chieftain scowled. “We have our own place. Let’s go.”

  “But the wee ones—they could have a real bath,” Hoolet said. “So could I.”

  Fussle frowned. “Not me.”

  “Ye can read all the books ye want,” Hoolet promised.

  “Then I’ll stay, Fussle agreed. “Can I go downstairs and fetch my whistle?”

  And just like that, the truth was out. Laire glanced at Iain. They all looked at Iain. “Be my guest,” he said blandly.

  Morag chose that moment to wake with a shriek.

  “’Tis all right, Morag. These are my guests. They’ll need rooms,” Iain said.

  “Rooms? For how long, Laird?” the old woman asked, confused. Bear helped her to her feet.

  Laird? Laire looked at Iain, but he didn’t react.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Laire can help ye cook, and sew,” Hoolet told Morag eagerly. “The wee ones can fetch and carry, and Bear can do any heavy lifting . . .”

  Morag set her fists on her hips and glared at Hoolet. “And what can ye do, missy?”

  Hoolet frowned at her. “Me? I can slit a throat or a purse with one single swipe of my dirk.”

  Morag paled. “I don’t know where ye’ve been all these long years, Laird, but ye’ve made some very peculiar friends. I’d best find some linens.”

  Hoolet herded the children upstairs.

  “Well, I’ll not stay,” Chieftain said proudly. “Bear? Dux?”

  The other two looked at each other. “I for one would welcome a night in a real bed,” Dux said.

  Bear nodded his agreement, and they left the room to follow the others upstairs.

  Chieftain shoved his dirk into his belt and stalked away in the direction of the kitchen, cursing.

  “Dux? Bear? Magpie?” Iain asked Laire after they’d gone.

  “Clan names,” she said. “In case they’re caught.”

  “And do you have a clan name?”

  She shook her head and glanced around the room, but they were alone. “I should have asked them help you upstairs to your chamber before they left,” Laire said. “I can help you if you like.”

  “I’d crush ye,” he said. “I’ll sleep here. I have before.”

  “You’ll need to rest your leg so it heals this time.”

  He sighed. “I can, now.”

  “Now?”

  “I had to find ye first. I trust ye’ll still be here in the morning?”

  She looked around the grand room, thought of the clan sleeping upstairs. She felt safe for the first time in weeks.

  “Aye,” she said. “I’ll still be here.”

  Laire tiptoed down the stairs an hour later, carrying a blanket for him as an excuse. She really wished to thank him. She’d checked on the wee ones and found them asleep, looking content and happy, in a bed big enough to hold six children their size. There was no mission tonight, no danger. Hoolet had a room to herself with three fine wool blankets, plump feather pillows, a lace coverlet, and plenty of privacy.

  Dux found a room with a desk and books and was happy. Bear snored in a chamber meant for a lass, wrapped in pink sheets and surrounded by flower-sprigged bed curtains.

  Laire paused on the threshold of the library. She cleared her throat as she entered, but Iain Lindsay didn’t move. His big body overfilled the delicate settee, and moonlight filtered through the windows, illuminating his face as he slept. He looked younger. She stared at the planes of his face, the fullness of his lips, the kink in his once-broken nose. He had a fine face. A laird’s face.

  She tucked the blanket around him and tiptoed out of the room.

  Iain heard her enter the room. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to talk now. She was safe tonight, and he was drunk, and his leg still hurt every time he moved. He feigned sleep for those reasons—and because the moment he’d heard her footsteps on the stairs, arousal stirred. He was stiff as a pole and hoping she wouldn’t notice. He wondered why she’d come. Perhaps she’d thrust a dirk between his ribs for his sins. He lay still and waited, but instead she draped a blanket over him and tucked him in. No one—not even his mother—had ever done such a thing for him. His grandfather had forbidden such coddling. Iain wondered what the old man was thinking now, glaring down at Laire from his portrait. Iain was glad of the blanket, for it hid his body’s response to her. He kept his eyes closed and his teeth gritted as she stood over him. He could hear her breathing in the silent dark, smelled her skin, clean and sweet, heather-scented. Her hands were gentle as she smoothed the blanket over him.

  For a moment she stood in the moonlight and watched him sleep.

  What was she thinking?

  But she tiptoed out without saying a word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Iain spent two days on the settee in the library while the clan of youthful thieves and cutpurses made his home their own,
filling it with laughter and noise. He didn’t mind. He watched Morag and Hoolet and Laire tend the children, reading to them, making sure they ate well—and God knew they needed good food and plenty of it. Laire herself barely ate anything. There were hollows of worry under her eyes, and she started at small noises outside like an anxious doe.

  He watched her pace the floor in the library, her face drawn with worry that she’d hide whenever one of clan walked in. The odd collection of young folk had forged themselves into a family. Their original kin were forgotten, their lives raw and dangerous. Yet they cared for each other, their bonds stronger than the blood ties of Iain’s own family.

  But Laire knew such love. Away from her kin, she gave her love generously to the Clan of Thieves and cared for them like her own. Iain learned to watch for her smile, anticipate the way she brushed Wee Kipper’s hair or played with Magpie.

  Chieftain still refused to come out of the cellar—except for meals. Hoolet and Bear watched for him anxiously. The lad was young, perhaps only eighteen or so, but he was already a hard man, sly and cunning, because that was the only way he knew how to survive. Iain thought of his own privileged childhood. He’d been his raised as his grandfather’s heir when his parents died, the eldest surviving son. And when his half brother had arrived, the son of a woman his father had loved better than his own wife, their grandfather had seen it as a way to make Iain harder and stronger, to forge him into an iron leader. He’d encouraged constant competition between his grandsons until they’d grown to hate one another.

  Mairi’s love had been the final competition . . .

  He watched Laire MacLeod now, standing by the window, peeping out at the world from behind the curtain. She was beautiful, brave, and loyal to a fault. He knew she was thinking about her family. She was powerless to stop their destruction. He knew that, too—all too well. And he knew she’d never accept it.

  He winced at the hope in her eyes when she came to him after the others had gone to bed one night. He heard her footsteps descending the stairs, and his heart kicked in anticipation of seeing her. This time, he’d keep his eyes wide open. By the time she stood in the doorway, his heart was pounding, his mouth dry. She stirred a desire he thought long dead—nay, this was a feeling he’d never known. It was new and intense, painful and thrilling and dangerous. He curled his hands against his sides, against the longing to reach for her, pull her into his arms, and kiss her senseless.