Highland Promise

by Hannah Howell

  It was not easy getting Eric up into the saddle, but, after some pushing, it was done. Bethia took a deep breath to steady herself, then mounted in front of him and took up the reins. Although she considered herself a good rider, she had never handled a warhorse before, nor even any horse as big as Connor, and she was not sure how well she would do. The moment Eric wrapped his arms around her waist and was resting steadily against her back, she nudged Connor into a slow amble.

  “We could go a wee bit faster, lass,” Eric said, a little concerned over how slowly the warmth was returning to his body.

  “Nay, not until I get to ken this beastie a wee bit better,” she replied. “Do ye think William is nigh?”

  “He would have to be in France ere I ceased to think that he was too nigh. Nay, e’en that would be too close.”

  “Aye. I wouldst prefer him and his loathsome sons dead and buried.”

  Eric smiled weakly against her wet hair. “Ye always call them his loathsome sons.”

  “All ye would have to do is see them once and ye would understand. They are huge, dark, hulking beasties with cold eyes that clearly reveal their bone-deep meanness. William feels that he has a sound reason for murdering people. His sons dinnae want or need one.” Bethia sighed and shook her head. “Dunncraig would probably be knee-deep in bodies, save that William holds a tight rein on that evil pair. They do, however, abuse the lasses within their reach with impunity. I saw that soon after my arrival. Aye, and did so despite the weight of my grief. It did puzzle me some that Sorcha ne’er did.”

  It was getting harder not to offer a rather sharp, unflattering opinion upon Sorcha. Eric suspected the woman would never have seen the plight of the women on her lands simply because she probably never really noticed who did all of the work. If the woman was unable to see the sad plight of her own twin for years, she would certainly never notice some poor maid’s distress. That was more truth than Bethia would want to deal with now, however. Eric was not sure she would ever wish to do so.

  Holding his tongue concerning Sorcha was going to prove difficult if he and Bethia got married. Eric was forming a picture of the woman as vain, completely self-concerned and selfish, and probably irresponsible. It was possible for the woman to have been all of those things and worse, yet still appear sweet and charming. It was becoming clear that no one had ever denied Sorcha anything. Sorcha Drummond had been able to trip through her, admittedly, sadly shortened life happy and smiling disarmingly, for people had scurried to remove all obstacles from her path or she had simply ignored them. Someday Bethia was going to relate one tale too many revealing her sister’s charming disregard for all around her and Eric feared he might feel compelled to tell her a few cold truths. Perhaps, he thought with a wry smile, the constant battle to allow Bethia her delusions about her twin would be the penance he had to pay for seducing her.

  Too exhausted to keep talking, Eric clung to Bethia and tried to regain his strength. His head throbbed and his body ached all over from the battering it had taken in the river. There was a painful knot too low in his throat to clear away and his lungs ached with every breath he took. Eric feared he had not cleared all of the water from his body.

  A few more miles passed before Eric realized that he needed to stop moving. He was not going to get the rest he needed to recoup his strength sitting on the back of a horse. What he needed was a bed, no matter how rough, perhaps a little food, and a long rest. It was not safe to pause for too long while Robert Drummond’s murderous kinsmen dogged their trail, but without a good rest, Eric knew he would collapse, and could easily become too ill to move for days. They were close to Dunnbea, but not close enough. That was true of the little village he had been riding toward as well. Even if he could cling to health and conciousness until the village, the chill damp in the air told him that a storm was brewing. Another soaking could well finish him.

  “Bethia, we must halt soon,” he forced himself to say, ruthlessly beating down that prideful part of him that longed to keep on going.

  “Ye wish to eat or”—she blushed—“see to some other need?”

  “Nay. It shames me to admit it, but I need to rest. I need to lie down near a warm fire.”

  “’Twould be best if ye did that. I just wasnae sure ye would heed me if I said so.”

  “If ye had said so whilst we shivered on the riverbank, I probably wouldnae. I was determined to shake off the battering that twice-cursed river gave me as easily as I shook the water from my hair, but that was prideful nonsense. My head throbs so fiercely it causes my stomach to churn and I dinnae think there is one part of me that doesnae ache.”

  “It wouldnae hurt me and James to take a wee rest either,” Bethia said, “and I dinnae say that just to soothe your poor wee pride.”

  “A mon’s pride isnae a poor wee thing, lass.”

  She ignored that. “James and I may have made the crossing safely, but we were both soaked to the skin. Aye, and I am feeling a wee bit battered myself. And our clothes and a few other things could do with being dried out. So we will stop and rest as soon as I see a suitable place to do so.”

  “Try to find something that isnae too easy to see, yet will provide some shelter.”

  “Ye wish to be hidden.”

  “As hidden as possible, aye. A roof of some sort may be needed as weel, for I scent rain on the air.”

  Bethia nodded. “I can feel a storm moving o’er us too.”

  It was a good two hours later before Bethia found something. Set against a rocky hillside, nearly obscured by trees and the hill itself, was a surprisingly well-built shieling. The little shepherd’s hut had walls of rock seamed with hard clay and what appeared to be an intact thatched roof. Either it was newly built or the builder was skilled at a lot more than herding his animals. Next to it was a shallow well in the hillside that would serve perfectly to stable the horse, even sheltering it from the storm now blackening the sky overhead.

  Such a sturdy house was sorely needed, Bethia thought, as she fought the urge to nudge Connor into a gallop and race toward the shieling. In the last hour, Eric had begun to rest more heavily against her, obviously losing the battle to stay concious. What troubled her more, however, was how warm he felt against her, too warm if she was any judge. If she could get him bedded down by a fire so that he could rest easily, she might yet stave off the fever she feared was seeping through his body.

  “Bethia?” Eric muttered when he felt the horse stop. He had to fight to overcome the grogginess that clouded his mind.

  “I found us a place to rest,” she said as she dismounted. “Just stay there until I can make sure ’tis empty and that the inside looks as good as the outside.”

  As he clung to the pommel of the saddle, Eric stared at the little hut. Bethia was right. It did look good, promising them a sturdy, dry shelter. In truth, it was finer than some of the crofter huts he had seen. Whoever had built it evidently did not want to suffer any discomfort while watching over his animals, might even have thought to make this a permanent home someday.

  Still marveling that the tiny hut had a proper, heavy wooden door and not simply a heavily oiled drape of animal hide, Bethia stepped inside and murmured with delight and satisfaction. Greased leather tightly covered the two small windows and, along with the door, had insured that no animal had gotten inside to make a home. A sturdy, somewhat large wooden bed was set against one wall. Dirt had been scraped away to reveal the rock beneath giving the hut an uneven but surprisingly clean stone floor. What truly amazed her, however, was that, instead of a hearth set in the middle of the floor, there was a roughly built fireplace in the wall opposite the bed. A table and two stools were set to the side of it. The place was more of a home than a temporary shepherd’s shelter.

  After a quick but thorough check of the thick straw mattress on the bed to ensure that it was clean and free of vermin, Bethia set James down on the bed and hurried back to get Eric. “’Tis a wondrous little place, Eric,” she said as she helped him dismount.


  “Do ye think someone still lives here?” he asked, silently cursing his weakness as he slumped against her.

  Staggering a little beneath his weight, Bethia pulled him into the hut and urged him down to lie on the bed next to James. “Nay, but I am nay sure ’tis only a drover’s hut.”

  “Mayhap a hunting lodge for whate’er laird rules o’er these lands?”

  “Aye, or mayhap the drover who built it plans to live here once he is too old to be a drover.”

  “Or it could be some laird’s wee love nest.”

  “It seems a lot of work to go to just to enjoy a tussle now and then.”

  Eric grinned briefly. “Some men like to do their tussling in comfort, lass. Or the lass he is tussling with is too weel kenned and an illicit tryst too dangerous.”

  “Weel, no matter. I dinnae expect anyone will come along, so we should be safe.” She frowned at Sir Eric, who still looked dangerously pale. “Can ye keep an eye on James for just a wee while so that I might tend to a few chores?”

  “Aye.” Eric laughed softly when he looked at the child lying beside him gnawing on his plump little toes. “That much I can do.”

  Bethia hurried out to get their things. She then unsaddled Connor and secured the horse in the small stable. Once back inside the hut, she strung Eric’s rope across the room and draped their wet clothes over it. She got a small fire going, fetched water to boil, and then hurried away again to search out as much dry wood as possible before the rains began. Seeing that both James and Eric were asleep, she took the small bow and arrows she always carried with her and slipped away to try to do some hunting.

  The smell of roasting meat brought Eric out of his deep sleep. Then he recalled that he was supposed to be watching James and, slightly panicked, looked around. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the child sleeping peacefully in a rough blanket-lined box upon the floor by the bed. His gaze then rested on Bethia, who slowly turned the spit upon which the meat roasted.

  “Rabbit?” he asked, wondering why his throat was so sore.

  A soft gasp of surprise escaped Bethia and she turned to look at Eric. He had been sleeping soundly for the whole afternoon and most of the evening, but he still did not look that well. His voice was very hoarse. She prayed he was only suffering a mild chill from his near drowning, but did not say so.

  “Aye, this wee valley fair teems with game,” she said as she quickly moved to plump the pillow she had made from moss and soft grasses wrapped in one of her shifts so that he could lean against the crude headboard of the bed with a little comfort. “Whilst ye were merrily snoring away the day, I collected my wee hunting bow and arrows and went to fetch us some meat.”

  Eric touched the strange yet comfortable pillow set behind him. “Ye have some odd skills for a weelborn lass.”

  “As I have said, I spent a lot of time forcing my company upon Bowen, Peter, and Wallace.”

  “I doubt it troubled them verra much.” He took a sip of the water she served him, savoring the way it soothed his sore throat.

  “Nay, I think not, although they found much pleasure in complaining about it. Are ye hungry?” she asked, taking the cup back after he had finished the drink.

  “Oh, aye. ’Twas the smell of food that roused me.” He cautiously sat up on the edge of the bed, still a little groggy, but confident that he could do at least one thing without her aid. “Has the rain come?”

  “Come, gone, and, I believe, thinking of pouring down on us again verra soon. Where are ye going?” Bethia asked when he slowly stood up.

  “I may be as weak as a bairn, but I must insist on doing at least this one thing without your help.” He smiled faintly when, after scowling in thought for a moment, she gasped softly and blushed. “Exactly.”

  “I will get ye some food whilst ye are out,” she mumbled, hurrying back to the fireplace.

  Eric was sweating and shaking slightly when he returned, but fought to hide it. He did not understand why he was so weak. When he crawled back into bed and sagged back against the pillow, he began to fear that one day of rest was not going to be enough to cure what ailed him. A frowning Bethia set a small dish of rabbit and porridge in front of him and he realized that he was no longer very hungry.

  “Eat as much as ye can,” Bethia urged. “Ye cannae regain your strength on an empty belly.”

  “Nay. I just dinnae ken what ails me,” he muttered and slowly began to eat.

  “Ye were cracked o’er the head by a branch and nearly drowned in some verra cold water. ’Tisnae something ye can just walk away from. Ye may have also taken a chill.”

  “Ye havenae.”

  “I didnae get my head split open or nearly drown.”

  “True.”

  He finished the meal but Bethia could see that it had been a struggle as she took the bowl and handed him another cup of water. “Dinnae worry o’er it. There is plenty of food, water, and wood for the fire. We can set here until ye are hale again.”

  “Your enemies are searching for you.”

  “I ken it, but this place is weel hidden. There is also a wee path to the top of the hill this place crouches next to. I went up there and one can see all about for what looks to be miles. And when ye decided we needed to rest, I moved off the trail we followed by a wee bit.”

  “Ye got lost.”

  “A wee bit,” she reluctantly admitted. “Rest, Eric. That is what will heal you.”

  When he just closed his eyes rather than argue further, Bethia felt uneasy. The man was certainly unwell and she was not terribly skilled as a healer. After securing the hut and banking the fire, Bethia slipped into bed beside him. It was scandalous to share the bed, and it held more temptation than she might be able to deal with, but there was no other choice. Between James and Eric all the blankets were taken. Bethia lightly touched Eric’s face, felt the warmth there, and softly cursed. He was feverish, although he did not appear to have a very high fever. She prayed he would recover quickly and not just because she needed his protection. To her dismay, Bethia realized it would tear her heart out if he died.

  Chapter Five

  “Ah, I am still alive.”

  That deep, slightly hoarse voice right next to her ear startled Bethia awake so abruptly she had to scramble not to fall off the bed. Slowly she turned to face Eric and lightly placed her palm on his forehead. Cool. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “’Twould appear so,” she drawled, fighting to hide her elation over his recovery.

  “How long have I forced us to linger here?”

  “Four days. Ye developed a verra bad fever, Eric.”

  “Four days,” he muttered, ran a hand through his hair, and grimaced in mild disgust over how dirty and tangled it was. “Have ye seen anything of your enemies?”

  “Nay. In truth, I have seen no one. The rain would have washed away our trail and it has been raining for most of the time ye were ill. William would have had no trail to follow. And he likes his comforts far too much to be out riding o’er the countryside in this poor weather.”

  “Good. We should leave here.” Eric tried to sit up, but found even that meager action almost more than he could accomplish. Bethia needed to put only one hand on his chest to hold him in place.

  “Nay. Ye couldnae get your strength back that first day we rested here because the fever had already gotten a grip on you. Now ye will rest and eat. A day, mayhap two, and then we shall be on our way.”

  “’Tis dangerous to stay so long in one place.”

  “’Tis even more dangerous to try to ride out when ye are so weak ye will fall off your horse ere we have left the valley.”

  “Ye do ken how to wound a mon’s vanity.”

  She just smiled and slipped out of the bed. Keeping her attitude cool and aloof, she helped him see to his needs, ignoring his muttering. Once he was back in bed, she began to make him some porridge. At his insistence, she left him struggling to eat without help and saw to a now awake James.

  It was l
ate in the afternoon, after Eric had slept and remained clear of the fever, that Bethia conceded to his demands to have a wash. She left him with two buckets of heated water and, taking James with her, went to climb to the top of the hill. Setting the boy down and letting him play on the grass, she stared out at the surrounding countryside. To her relief, there was still no sign of any riders. For now they were still safe.

  With a sigh, she sat down, idly accepting James’s gifts of bugs, rocks, and most anything else he found on the ground. Now that she was out of Eric’s sight, she allowed the deep relief she felt over his recovery to show. For four long days she had lived in fear that he would succumb to the fever. Now that the weight of that fear was lifted from her shoulders, she felt exhausted.

  The time she had spent nursing him and praying for his life had forced her to face a hard truth. She loved the man, deeply and probably incurably. It frightened her. A man like Sir Eric Murray was not for her. She was facing only heartbreak, but she knew there was no turning back now.

  Time and time again, as she had sat by his bedside, bathing his brow, she had thought about his wish to have her share his passion. He gave her no words of love, no hint that there would ever be anything more than passion. Bethia had scolded herself again and again, repeated all the dire warnings given to young maids of good birth, but none of it made any difference. As she had sat there, terrified that he would die, she had cursed herself for not succumbing to his seduction.

  “Fool,” she muttered.

  Now that he was alive, now that she knew how much she loved him, temptation was back in force. What she needed to do before he recovered fully was decide if she would give in to that temptation. It would ruin her for marriage, but then none had been offered or arranged for her. Shortly after Sorcha’s marriage, Bethia had begun to think that her parents had no intention of seeing her wed, had never even given the matter a thought. She did almost all of the work around the demesne and they obviously did not want to give that up. It was a lonely life with little joy and no thanks. It was the life waiting for her when she returned to Dunnbea. Did she really want to go back to it without tasting the passion she and Eric could share at least once?