by Allie Mackay
Aidan bit back a curse.
“I’m no’ the only one who saw.” Tavish pulled a hand down over his chin, but not before his mouth quirked. The lout was amused. “It’s good for the men to know you’re so smitten. They’ve been worried about you.”
“Grinding on my patience is what they’ve been doing.” Aidan flashed him a dark look. “You most of all.”
“You wound me, my friend.”
“I’ll do more than that if you dinnae leave me be,” Aidan groused. He clamped his lips together, refusing to be goaded any further.
“Ho! Have done being so sour.” Tavish leaned over to thwack him on the shoulder. “We’ve been seen. The drawbridge is down. But isn’t that Geordie and Ross with the gatehouse guards? I thought you’d ordered them to guard your lady?”
“I did.” Aidan frowned.
He stared ahead, squinting against the afternoon sun. Disbelief washed over him, but there could be no doubt. The drawbridge had been dutifully lowered and the gatehouse’s heavy iron portcullis was rattling upward even as they approached, his best guardsmen hastening to swing open the second, inner gates.
As was expected of them.
Them, and not Geordie and Ross, two of his most trusted men.
The apparent lackwits who’d sworn they’d watch over Kira with their very lives.
A score of dire possibilities making his head reel, Aidan spurred his horse across the last stretch of rough, wind-blown grass. But when he thundered over the drawbridge and through the gatehouse arch, the only men crowding the guardroom doorways were the ones he’d assigned duty there.
His relief great, he swung down onto the cobbles, tossing his reins to a running stable lad. “The sun must’ve blinded us.” He glanced at Tavish as he dismounted. “I should’ve known Geordie and Ross could be trusted no’ to leave their post.”
Tavish snorted. “My vision has yet to fail me, though I’ll agree I see nary a sign of them now.” He set fisted hands on his hips and looked about, his face grim. “What I do see isn’t pleasing. Too many men are avoiding your eye.”
“They will think more kindly of me when they see my cousin hauled into the dungeon.”
Looking doubtful, Tavish glanced to where a handful of Aidan’s stoutest guards were already escorting Conan Dearg across the bailey.
“Then let us make certain he’s put in a cell he cannae escape,” he said, starting after them.
Aidan threw a last glance at the gatehouse, pleased to see his younger men crowding around Kendrew, Conan Dearg’s man or no. He had no wish for the lad to witness his former liege laird being hustled away.
Tavish signaled, waiting for him. “I want surety. We’ve both seen the bastard wriggle out of the worst scrapes and come back to jeer at us.”
“He’ll no’ have the strength this time.” Aidan kept pace with him. “No’ living on salt beef and soured water.”
“You’re the one who’ll wither away on such rot, and in your own foul pit.” Conan Dearg twisted round to sneer at him. He spat on the ground, showing no concern as Aidan’s men tightened their grip, bundling him through the low-ceilinged door that led to the steep, stone steps into the dungeon.
“The sun will ne’er rise on the day you get the better of me,” he boasted, squaring his shoulders to walk proud along the cold and dank passage.
“Some might say that day came this morn.” Aidan fell in step beside him. “Salt beef and soured water ne’er sustained any man for long and I’ve yet to meet one who can live on bluster alone.”
Conan Dearg snorted. “I am a hard man, Cousin. Rancid victuals and darkness willnae break me. Soon, I shall prove it to you.”
Aidan glanced over his shoulder, not surprised to see the dirk raised in Tavish’s hand.
“That isnae the way,” he warned, hoping his way wasn’t a mistake. “Each hour he spends in his cell will repay one of the lives he’s taken. We both know how great the number is. A swift death is a mercy he won’t find here.”
“I dinnae trust him.” Tavish frowned, but thrust his knife back beneath his sword belt all the same. “He’ll charm the water rats into bringing him cheese and wine.”
Despite himself, Aidan chuckled, his spirits lifting for the first time that day. His cousin was a charmer. No’ that it would help him now. Still, even with a blackened eye and swollen nose, his roguish looks were bold enough to dazzle any woman who caught a glimpse of him.
That his flashing smiles and swagger would be lost on all but scuttling vermin and whatever nameless creatures slithered in the matted rushes scattered across the dungeon floor, was a meet end for a man of Conan Dearg’s vanity.
Aidan started to say as much, but they’d rounded a corner, entering the oldest and dankest part of the dungeon. A familiar smell hit him square in the face, an odor apart from the usual reek of damp stone and stale air. He stopped short, blinking into the murky passage even as a pitiful, canine wail filled the darkness.
“Odin’s balls!” Aidan hurried forward, almost slamming into his guardsmen and Conan Dearg who’d stopped a few paces ahead, their passage blocked by the howling beast’s great bulk. Aidan stared at his dog, his jaw slipping. “Ferlie!”
The dog’s presence was an impossibility, for he feared the dark and especially avoided the dungeon.
Yet there he was, sitting on his ancient haunches beside one of the blackened, iron-hinged doors. He also looked intent on staying there.
“Heigh-ho! So you’ve arranged a mourner for me.” Conan Dearg laughed. “A pity you couldn’t have chosen a less offensive creature. The beast stinks.”
“He is worth a thousand of you.” Reaching past him, Aidan snatched one of the rush lights out of its wall bracket. He stepped forward, stunned when the sputtering torch illuminated not just his afraid-of-the-dark dog, but two sets of masculine legs in the shadows behind Ferlie.
Legs, as a lifting of the torch revealed, that belonged to none other than Geordie and Ross.
“What mummery is this?” Aidan thrust the light at them, his blood icing. “You swore to guard my lady, vowing to see to her safety even if the Valkyries came calling for you.”
“Ah. See you, we … m’mmm…” Geordie, the larger of the two twisted his hands, looking uncomfortable. “Your lady, sir, is-”
“His lady?” Conan Dearg looked on with interest. “I’d heard he’d gone off women.”
“You’ll hold your tongue or lose it,” Tavish growled, his own face dark with anger as he rammed an elbow into Conan Dearg’s ribs, then pressed the tip of his dirk beneath the lout’s chin. “Be silent if you know what’s good for you.”
Scarce hearing them, Aidan’s felt rage sweep him. For whatever reason he’d found his two guardsmen and his dog in the deepest bowels of his dungeon, he was sure it had something to do with Kira.
“What’s happened?” he demanded, fixing the two guards with a fierce stare. “Where is she? Why aren’t you at her door, watching her?”
The two men exchanged glances, their misery palpable.
“Um,” Geordie tried again, sweat beading his brow.
Ross drew a deep breath. “We’re guarding you, sir. No’ the lass. She doesn’t-”
“Guarding me?” Aidan’s eyes flew wide.
“Aye, sir.” Ross bobbed his head. “She did something that proved our suspicions about her. We brought her down here for the good of the clan,” he added, speaking quickly now. “Her powers-”
“Have you lost your wits?” Aidan roared, blood thundering so loudly in his ears that he scarce heard himself shouting. “She’s here? In the dungeon?”
The two guardsmen nodded.
Or so Aidan thought, whirling away before he could be sure. He’d already wasted too much time, should have guessed the truth as soon as he’d spotted Ferlie and seen the fear in his guards’ faces.
Dread for his dream woman squeezing his chest, he shoved past Tavish and leapt over Ferlie, fumbling at the heavy drawbar of the nearest cell door with fingers that had gone impossibly cold
and clumsy.
“Kira!” He yanked at the drawbar. “Sweet lass, can you hear me?”
“The entire keep hears you.” Tavish grabbed the bar and helped him slide it aside. “Go fetch your lady,” he said, shoving Aidan into the cell. “I’ll see to Conan Dearg and the others.”
But his lady wasn’t anywhere to be fetched.
The cell was empty.
Then, peering into the darkness, he saw her standing in a corner, her shoulders straight and her hands clasped tightly before her, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Kee-rah!”
Her eyes snapped open. “Aidan!” She ran at him, her arms outstretched. “Thank God! I didn’t think you’d ever get back!”
“I’m here now.” He crossed the cell in two quick strides, catching her when she launched herself at him. “Shush, lass, I have you.”
He pressed her head against his shoulder, absorbed her shiver, then kissed her hair, not caring that Tavish and the others gawked through the door.
Ferlie barked and pushed past them, hurling himself at their legs, his tail wagging.
“He followed when they brought me here.” Kira reached down to pet the shaggy, tail-thumping beast. “He’s been outside the door the entire time.”
Aidan glanced at the aged dog, rubbed his ears. Only his pride and the knowledge that his cousin looked on, kept him from acknowledging that Ferlie had guarded Kira better than his own men.
There’d be time enough later to reward Ferlie and have words with Geordie and Ross.
To discover the reason they’d put her into the dungeon. What she’d done to give two burly Highlanders such a dreadful fright. Whatever their excuse, it wouldn’t be good enough to spare them his fury.
Chapter Eight
She’d made a grave mistake.
Sure of it, Kira felt disbelief beat through her, damning and unwelcome. How could she have lived her life, so certain she was better suited to a long ago, more quiet and distant time, yet feel so out of place in the very world she’d yearned for so powerfully?
It was a truth that cut her to the quick.
An unexpected revelation she didn’t like at all.
She took a deep, lung-filling breath, needing calm. The backs of her eyes stung, her misery reaching new heights as she stood near the hearth of Aidan’s ice-cold bedchamber and watched a parade of young, flush-faced boys carry pails of steaming water into the room. Careful not to look at her, each one tipped his burden into a wooden bathing tub that bore a strong resemblance to a sawed-in-half wine barrel.
A linen-lined wine barrel, praise God for small mercies.
The last thing she needed was a medieval splinter in her behind.
Her ordeal in Castle Wrath’s dungeon had been torture enough. She’d been treated to a side of medieval Scotland she’d never imagined when she’d fantasized about slipping back in time, even telling herself she’d been born in the wrong place and century.
Now she was no longer sure.
Being an old soul had lost some of its allure.
She winced just remembering her rescue. How Aidan had tossed her over his shoulder and charged out of the cell, pounding up the stairs with her and then flying through his great hall. He’d knocked over benches and sent people jumping out of their way. Poor Ferlie had loped after them, barking furiously at anyone who didn’t leap aside quickly enough.
It’d been a crazy scene. Pure chaos, causing her a humiliation she wasn’t sure she could swallow.
And not because he’d saved her.
Not even because he’d gone so caveman wild.
Far from it, she’d rather liked that part. His heroics had taken her breath, actually. Wind-torn and travel-stained as he’d been, with his sword clanking and eyes ablaze, he could’ve burst from the pages of a book about ancient clan warfare. He’d reminded her of the medieval Highland chieftains she’d always loved reading about. Better even, his rage made him fierce and magnificent.
But when he’d raced through the hall, cursing and shouting for a bath to be readied for her, his rubber-necked kinsmen all gaped at her, bug-eyed and slack-jawed. Every last one of them gawked as if Aidan had gone mad and she’d turned into a two-headed alien.
Now she was supposed to take a bath.
She felt her brow pleat. She didn’t want a half-barrel bath. She wanted to close her eyes and wake up in the medieval Scotland she’d mooned over. The romantic world she’d imagined while devouring books about the Highlands of old, or gazing awestruck at framed, second-hand Edinburgh castle tea-towels. She’d never have believed that her fantasy was nothing like the real thing.
Shivering, she rubbed her arms against the chill bumps rising along her skin.
She couldn’t do anything about the cold spreading across her heart.
It hurt to be so disillusioned.
Across the room, Aidan threw off his plaid and unlatched his sword belt, placing both atop the iron-bound chest at the foot of his bed. He ordered the last of the pink-cheeked water boys on their way, then closed and bolted the door behind them. Turning, he strode over to her, no longer looking angry, but not smiling either.
“Dinnae grieve, lass.” He gripped her shoulders lightly, looking down at her. “The horror is over and willnae happen again. My people will come to accept you. Wrath is no’ bad, you must believe me.
“This could be your home, Kee-rah.” His voice was soft and warm, his burr rich with a note of delicious enticement, tempting and wooing her. “I ken how much you love this place. That Scotland means as much to you as to those of us who have called the hills our own since before time. When you walk here, you see more than rock and heather and mist. Your heart recognizes the true spirit of the land.” He paused, studying her so intently that she caught her breath. “I know this from our shared dreams.”
Kira swallowed, not wanting to think about their dreams. Or her great passion for Scotland. Last she’d heard being a card-carrying Scotophile didn’t include half the things she’d endured since landing here.
Glancing down, she fussed at the folds of her skirts, still finding them as cumbersome and awkward as she had the moment she’d first slipped into them. Even worse, the bottom six inches or so were soiled with goop from the dungeon. As were her feet, since somewhere during the ordeal, she’d lost the blasted cuarans.
“Come lass, you cannae deny you belong here.” His words were persuasive, making her heart flutter. “I’ve seen you go misty-eyed just watching cloud shadows drift across the heathery moors.”
“Of course, such beauty gets to me.” She dug her toes into the floor rushes. “I’ve always loved Scotland.” She glanced up at him, her breath hitching. “It’s been my greatest wish to be here. I’ve yearned for that, in my time and, yes, in our dreams. The reality is different.
“It unsettles me.” She couldn’t lie.
“Ach, lass.” He smoothed the hair back from her face. “Surely you’ve seen that I willnae let aught happen to you? None of my men would dare touch you. Geordie and Ross….” He slid his knuckles down the side of her face, his touch sending ripples of pleasure through her. “Those fools willnae so much as look cross-eyed at you, ne’er again.”
She wanted to believe him. “Did you know they brought me food in the dungeon?”
When he only looked at her, his expression unreadable, she went on, “A bowl of slaked oats, I think you call it. Porridge. It didn’t look too bad, but I couldn’t eat, so I set it in a corner. Within minutes, three mice crawled out of the floor rushes and ate it.” She paused, her throat beginning to thicken. “Or rather, they would have, if the biggest rat I’ve ever seen hadn’t appeared to claim the porridge for himself.”
“Kee-rah….” He took her hand, twining their fingers. “The like will ne’er happen again. I promise you.”
She bit her lip. “How can you? It’s impossible for you to be at my side every minute and your men don’t like me. They’re afraid of me and think I’m a-”
“Then we shall change their minds
.” He drew her close, tightening his arms around her. “You already have a strong champion in Tavish and I’ve a promising young lad in mind to give duty as your personal guard.”
“If only it were that simple.”
“I will make it so.”
Kira tried to smile, but her smile muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder. “You are a medieval warrior chieftain,” she began, trying to ignore how good his arms felt around her. “You live in a world of clan feuding, sword fights, and cattle raids, a time when a mere bad tooth or ingrown toenail could kill someone, not to mention battle wounds and childbirth. You have enough to deal with without worrying about-”
“Do you not trust me to care for you?” He pulled back to look at her, his dark eyes narrowing. “I’ve dealt with the things you name since I drew my first breath, as has any other Highland chieftain worthy of the title. What I need-” he paused, holding her gaze – “-is for you to relax and then tell me what happened with Geordie and Ross. Only when I understand what frightened them enough to take you to the dungeon, can I dash the fear from their hearts. Your bath will-”
“Wash away dungeon goop.” She could feel the ick between her toes. “It won’t change-”
“It will soothe you,” he countered, the buttery richness of his accent almost letting her believe him.
Smooth, husky, and deep, his voice slid through her, its soft Highland beauty seducing her, making her forget her worries, lulling her into doing whatever he asked.
Almost.
Biting her lip again, her gaze slid to the half-barrel, its steaming water scented and waiting. Truth was, she did want a bath. Desperately. But taking one meant getting undressed and she was suddenly more aware than ever that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.
She didn’t need her sixth sense to know that even if Aidan turned his back, he’d peek before she could clamber into his wooden bathing tub.
He had that look about him tonight.
The dangerous, hot-eyed rogue look that could only mean one thing, no matter how hard he was trying to play the chivalry card.