“’Tis nae the same!” he roared. “Your people destroyed my family.” His voice shook from the brutal force of his emotion. “My home burnt tae the ground and my family in it.” Unshed tears glistened in his eyes as he glowered at her. “They were innocent and harmed nay one.” He blinked and his tone lowered in remembered agony. “The bastards didnae ken that I was hiding in the hills overlooking my house, watching my kin being burned alive…”
She felt the blood drain from her visage.
“I am sorry for your loss,” she said, attempting to keep her voice stable as the shock of his revelation hit her. Darra didn’t know what King Harold and his men did outside the English borders. She certainly had no idea that they were so brutal, so cruel.
“What do ye ken of my loss?” Blane demanded furiously. He bunched his fists at his side as if he was restraining himself from ramming them into something or someone. “Ye live in your sheltered castle while your kinsmen go out and murder guid people.” The bitterness in his voice seeped into the room, affecting everyone in the vicinity.
“The lass cannae be blamed for the death of your relations,” Rory said, cutting into the thick silence. “Indeed the womenfolk cannot be responsible for what their men do.”
“Then ye are a fool tae believe it,” Blane said bitterly. “The enemy is the enemy, whether they be womenfolk or nae.” He waved at the basket in Darra’s hand. “She claims tae ken how tae heal, sae she would also ken how tae kill.”
“I dinnae believe it.” Rory shook his head and folded his arms across his massive chest.
“Ye dinnae believe it because ye are too busy fucking your English whore,” Blane said, his face darkening.
Darra drew in a sharp breath. His words lashed out at her like a whip. With everyone assessing her, she wanted to perish from the humiliation.
Rory walked up to Blane. “Dinnae call the lass that,” he said, his voice dangerously soft.
“Or what will ye do, Rory?” he said, his voice tight and taunting. “Everyone kens what ye have been doing with the whore —”
Rory pulled his arm back and rammed his fist into Blane’s jaw, causing the other man’s head to snap back.
“I said dinnae call the lass that,” he said. Turning to Darra, his expression was apologetic. “’Tis unfortunate that ye had tae hear that, lass.” He appeared as if he was going to say more when he stopped abruptly, and focused on something past her shoulders. Darra whirled around, and watched in horror as Blane came throttling toward them like a rabid boar.
Reaching for her arm, Rory flung her aside just as Blane dove at him, knocking his legs out from under him. The air whooshed from his lungs and he landed flat on his back.
In the next moment, Blane was straddled on top of him, ramming Rory’s face with his fists.
“Stop it!” Darra yelled. When the brawling men ignored her, she turned to the person closest to her. “Griogair, do something! Rory is getting hurt!”
Griogair started to a step forward when Duncan stopped him. “This is between Rory and Blane.”
She looked at Duncan in disbelief. “You cannot mean to have the man beat on your brother!”
“Rory would nae like it if we interfered,” Duncan said.
They hadn’t fought like this since they were lads, but this battle was different. Blane was out for blood. He seemed to dip into his inner rage, and every slight, every torment he suffered in the hands of the English was targeted at Rory.
Fortunately Rory managed to throw in a few solid strikes, but his friend retaliated and delivered his fair share of hits.
Rory raised his forearms to avoid another punch to his head, but the impact on his arms still rattled his teeth. After several more pounding blows, he sensed that Blane was tiring, his jabs becoming slower, more sloppy.
Blane’s cheek was red and swollen, and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his lip. As he threw another fist, Rory trapped it between his arms, locking onto the limb and wrenching it downward. The abrupt movement propelled Blane’s torso forward, throwing him off balance.
Then calling upon his reserve, Rory lifted his hips in the air, pitched his weight to the side, and flipped them both over so that he was positioned on top.
“I bested ye when we were lads,” he growled. “Today willnae be different.”
With that, he rained down his fists, aiming at Blane’s unprotected head. But Blane wasn’t new to fighting, and he twisted his head right and left, left and right, dodging the powerful punches.
Before he understood what was happening, Blane lifted one leg up and planted his foot on Rory’s chest. And with one big, violent heave, he hoisted Rory off of him.
The force of the shove hurled Rory backward, causing his arms to flail involuntarily. He spun his head around in time to see Darra, a shocked expression on her face. Why was she standing behind him and Blane? Move it, damn it! his mind screamed.
But then as if time slowed down, he felt himself hurtling in her direction, the moment of impact imminent.
And when the collision finally came, his larger form slammed into hers. She screamed. And then her body flung backward, crashing against the stone wall with a sickening thud.
She slid to the ground.
“Darra!” he cried hoarsely, clawing his way over to her and ignoring the sharp pain that shot down his back.
But when he got to her, her body was limp and lifeless.
“Nay!” he gathered her tightly in his arms, rocking her to and fro.
Mairead and Kila rushed over to his side, but he didn’t want them to touch her.
Blane watched the commotion, his eyes narrowed and his chest heaving heavily. Reaching up, he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Ye shouldnae have brought her here,” he said. “All ye did was tae bring trouble on our heads.”
“Get out of my sight!” Rory bellowed, despair clenching at his lungs. “I dinnae want tae see your face here ever again!”
“Rory,” Mairead said sharply, drawing his attention to her. “Let me see her.”
Finally he nodded and allowed his sister to place her hand underneath Darra’s nose. When she glanced up again, Rory saw her relief.
“She’s breathing.” Mairead opened her mouth to continue, but then her troubled eyes moved past Rory, and she watched as Blane retreated from the chamber. She took in a deep breath as if to compose herself before returning her attention back to Rory. “Dinnae worry, Rory,” she said. “Your Darra will recover.”
Chapter 16
Your Darra will recover, Mairead’s words echoed in Rory’s mind. He held onto the phrase as if it was something tangible, something that he could derive comfort from. But in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. The proof was right in front of him. Darra lay so still on the bed; her smooth, silken skin was pale and cool, and her breathing was barely audible.
He watched as the village healer wiped at the dried blood on Darra’s temple.
“The lass cracked her head when she hit the wall,” Agnes said, making a clicking noise with her tongue to demonstrate her disapproval. She slanted a look at him before going back to tend Darra’s wound. “The impact was too much for such a delicate thing.”
Rory nodded, and the guilt that he had unwittingly caused rose to his chest, seizing his heart and twisting it until it was hurting.
She took a bowl of herbs and peat moss, mashing the contents up with her fingers. The mixture released an acrid smell that caused his nose to twitch.
There really was no choice but to call on Agnes since he didn’t know how to help Darra. The one person who would have any knowledge of healing was lying prone on the bed.
Agnes scooped a generous helping of the poultice with her fingers and applied it to Darra’s temple. She then reached over to the table next to her and took a long strip of linen, wrapping the material around Darra’s head.
All the while, the woman continued to make that damn sympathetic noise in her mouth. Each cooing
noise reminded him of the hopelessness of the situation, and the frailness of the lovely lass that lay unconscious on the mattress. It grieved him to know that she was present only in body but not in spirit.
In his mind’s eye, the scenario played over and over again, pausing and then moving in slow motion as his sizable physique slammed into her fragile form, slinging her against the uneven wall. Even now her scream echoed in his brain.
And the silence that followed gutted him. When he turned and saw her lifeless frame sprawled on the ground, his mind was seized with shock and alarm. Any anger and aggression that the fight evoked dissipated in an instant. As she lay crumpled on the ground, a sound of raw pain bellowed from his lips.
He dragged his way over to her even though he was broken and battered himself. The bastard Blane had punched him in one eye so he could only partially see Darra, but he could still recognize that her injury was severe.
Duncan moved to assist him, but he growled at his brother to move out of his way. Gently lifting her up into his arms, he took her to her bed chamber. But that was several hours ago, and here she still lay, dead to the world.
Rory’s eyes traced her angelic face, willing her to wake up, willing her to view him with her alluring cobalt orbs.
“There,” Agnes said, securing the linen cloth around Darra’s head. The white cloth contrasted starkly against her skin, making her appear even more pale and vulnerable.
“Will she…?” He desperately wanted to ask the healer for reassurance, but the words refused to come out. Instinctively he knew what the healer would say. Yet he wanted to believe that there was at least some chance for Darra.
The healer gave him a sympathetic look, and answered his unspoken question anyhow. “There is nothing physically wrong with her — no broken bones,” she made a soft click with her tongue. “It has only been three hours, my laird. Give it more time and perhaps she’ll wake.”
But even though she said it, he perceived that the old woman didn’t believe her own words. There was a real possibility that Darra might not wake up. Everyone believed it. His siblings had come to offer support, but there was nothing they could do, and one by one they left him to his grief.
It was up to God and no one else. But Rory’s faith had never been strong. Would God listen to his pleas?
After a while Agnes left the chamber, although he barely noticed. His eyes were fixed on the rise and fall of Darra’s chest, grateful that she was at least breathing.
“Forgive me, lass,” he whispered brokenly. With trembling hands, he reached over and smoothed a lock of hair from her lovely face. “I didnae mean to see ye hurt.”
But she had no answer for him, and her silence continued to hang heavily in the air.
Rory clenched his fists together. He had saved her many times in the past. But this time was different. Everyone said that Darra’s injuries were caused by the accident, but they were wrong. It was his body that flung her against the wall; he was the sole cause for her suffering. She should have awoken by now, but the devastating blow had knocked her unconscious. What would happen if she never woke up? Could he be able to live with himself? The answer that sprung to his head was an emphatic nay. He had never cared for any woman as much as he cared for Darra. And if he had to give away his life in order to save hers, he would do so without remorse. Unfortunately he was never offered an option to trade up his life.
He dropped his hand, flattening them on the mattress, and sighed.
“Wake up, my bonny lass,” he said softly, reaching to cup her chin and gently shake it. When cajoling didn’t work, he tightened his grip slightly, and made his tone firm and commanding. “’Tis enough, lass. Wake up, and stop trying tae put a fright in me.”
But the only answering sound was the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.
It seemed unbelievable, but over such a short period, she managed to wedge under his skin. She made him care for her despite the fact that she was English. And the origin of her birth no longer mattered.
Rory winced when he once again remembered the audible thud against the wall. A blow like that would have felled a full grown man. He was aware that some people never woke from severe strikes to their heads.
He could feel his chest constricting and he bunched the bed-clothes in his fists. “Why did ye do it? Why did ye try tae interfere in my fight with Blane? If ye would have stayed back, ye wouldnae be hurt like this.”
His questions hung heavily in the air, yet he already understood the reason why she intervened. She was a healer, and she hated to see people hurt. Except she was the one that was injured, and there was no one that could help her.
The tears burned beneath his eyelids, blurring the image he had of her. “I love ye, Darra,” he said aloud, hoping that somehow she could hear him. “I dinnae ken what I’ll do without ye…” He picked up her slender hand and laced his fingers with hers.
A sudden noise that arose from the courtyard seemed to make the silence in the small chamber more acute. He released her hand when he realized that he squeezed it too hard. Although he didn’t know how much time passed, he determined that it was too long.
Come back, come back his mind called to her, chanting over and over again like a prayer. Folding his hands together in supplication, he raised his eyes heavenward. “God,” he said, his voice pouring out in a choked half sob, “I dinnae care about myself, but take pity on the poor lass. And — and bring her back tae me.”
***
A languid warmth covered Darra, a warmth that was as soft and as soothing as a summer breeze. She looked around, and was surprised to find herself in a meadow. The last thing she remembered was being in Tancraig Castle. This field seemed different somehow. The vivid color of freshly sprouted grass surrounded her, and stretched as far as she could see. Birds chirped cheerfully from the tree tops while the sound of crickets and the screech of beetles encircled her. Oddly, she felt as if she arrived early at a fairy ball, and overheard the animals and insects rehearsing their music.
Darra bent down and plucked a flower that was near her foot. She brought it up to examine its delicate petals, while her brows creased in bewilderment. Everything around her indicated that it was spring, yet she was sure that harvest time was finished, and that the leaves were now falling from their branches. How could an entire season pass without her knowledge?
Raising her gaze to the sky, she observed gray clouds curling in the distance, indicating that a storm was headed her way. But still the sun was shining overhead. It was bizarre. And though the sun shone brightly, and the trees off to her right swayed gently in the breeze, she felt no warmth, no wind kissing her skin.
Fortunately the one thing she did feel was happiness. Darra smiled, and lifted the flowering bloom to her nose, inhaling the floral scent. Since she was a little girl, she had never felt this content. But then she frowned when a sudden thought occurred to her. She scanned the meadow and discovered that the landscape now seemed strangely recognizable somehow. In fact it was similar to the area outside Lancullin Castle. Turning around, she took a staggering step back when she saw the solid castle walls looming behind her. Why didn’t she notice it before?
She stepped forward, eager to return home. But she hesitated when she noticed a horseman riding across the drawbridge and heading toward the road.
Darra squinted, and when the figure became clearer, she blinked again, not believing what she saw. It was her father. There was no mistaking his solid form. He was easily the tallest man in the castle, and his height intimidated his friends and foe alike.
Excitement and delight filled her heart.
“Father!” she yelled, waving. “Here, I am over here!”
Sir Arthur Berchelaine glanced around him and slowed his horse. When he saw her, he cocked his head to one side, as if trying to discern who it was that shouted at him.
But then he recognized her and a slow grin spread across his comely face. He pivoted his horse and veered off the main road. His horse moved a sh
ort distance when it stopped abruptly. Frowning, he dismounted and tried to walk to Darra, but there was some barrier that prevented his progress.
He raised his hands and started to push at the invisible barrier. There was no give, and eventually he quit his struggles. Resting his hand on the clear wall, he began to speak.
Darra moved forward, but a similar block prevented her from getting closer.
“I cannot hear you, father. Speak louder!” she shouted.
But he continued to talk although no sound emerged from his lips. Whatever he was trying to tell her, she couldn’t understand a single word.
She banged her fist uselessly against the clear barrier, a frustrated sob rising to her throat.
But then her father stopped speaking. A sadness seemed to cover him. He placed one hand over his heart, and looked at her as if he was telling her farewell.
And to her dismay, his familiar image started to waver, and slowly he along with his horse and castle began to disappear.
“Nay!” she pounded her fists furiously against the barrier. “Nay, do not leave me, father!”
But it was too late. He was gone.
Her throat tightened and she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tears running down her cheeks. She already lost her father, and somehow she lost him a second time.
Tiredly, she opened her eyes again. The image of her father and Lancullin Castle had completely vanished, and in their place was emptiness. She lifted her palm to beat on the invisible wall once more, but her hand passed freely through the air.
“What is —?” she gasped. And when her mind seized on the realization that the barrier was lifted, she ran to the spot where her father stood.
“Father!” she yelled, her voice echoing in the empty field.
He was truly gone. Darra sank to the ground and lay down as the sobs began to wrack her body. She had hoped with all her heart that he would reappear again, but she knew it was a useless wish. It had been so long since she had seen his smiling face. Her mother had neglected the running of the castle in her grief, and someone had to take charge and care of the inhabitants. And that someone was Darra. Stoically putting aside her own sorrow, she did what was necessary. She never admitted to anyone that she missed her father. But she did. She missed him greatly.
The Highland Chief Page 14