In the Kingdom's Name (Guardian of Scotland Book 2)
Page 30
“Very well—” he said as she closed the door before he could utter another opinionated word.
At the top of the stairs, Charlotte stopped and drew in deep breaths as she turned full circle. Good, no one was about, as was usual in this part of the fort. Most everyone gave the surgery a wide berth, which she suspected was why her father allowed her to assist Doctor Munro. The physician wasn’t too terribly horrible. Though he was teaching her to be his assistant, he watched her with too much intensity beneath his beetle brows. Of course it was only natural for him to scrutinize her closely. He was even somewhat amenable, except when it came to ministering to prisoners. There, his manner was decidedly stiff and insensitive.
She ducked behind the wood stack and waited.
As she expected, it wasn’t long before the physician locked the infirmary and headed off. Doubtless, he hadn’t taken a second look at his fevered patient. Doctor Munro had the same opinion about the prisoners as everyone else in the Government Army. They were all but wild animals locked in chains where they ought to be.
But Charlotte vehemently disagreed with them. For the most part, she kept her opinions to herself, except when it came to her father. Inordinately shy, she hated the way the soldiers looked at her when she spoke at all, let alone expressed her unpopular beliefs. Of course with Papa she knew what she could and couldn’t say. The others? She shuddered. Merely speaking out came with great risk, and a charge of sedition would not only see her hanged, it would ruin her father’s prospects for advancement. With civil war an ever-present threat across England, Ireland and Scotland, no one knew what spies lurked at every turn.
Fishing the surgery key from the purse at her waist, she waited until Doctor Munro’s footsteps faded. On tiptoes she crept from behind the wood stack and peered in all directions to ensure she hadn’t been spotted. Then she lifted her skirts above her ankles, and as fast as a rabbit, pattered down to the surgery and slipped inside.
With the lamp snuffed, the light was dim, and Charlotte stood against the door keeping her hand on the latch while she waited for her eyes to adjust. The Highlander’s breathing wheezed. Her heart sped. Tightening her grip on the latch, she nearly fled. But the outline of the man became clearer. Lying on his back, she could see only his profile. A massive warrior, he didn’t have a hooked English nose, but his forehead angled to a proud Norse-shaped nose—straight, noble-looking. Like all of the other prisoners, his beard was rather unruly.
The unfortunate soul. By the saints, Papa will send this man to the gallows over my dead body—and I will see to it he survives.
Taking a deep breath to still her jittery nerves, Charlotte lit a candle and placed it on the table nearest the Highlander’s cot. She set the bowl she’d filled with water on the table and fetched a small cup of claret. Resting the back of her hand on the Highlander’s forehead, she tested his temperature. The patient was afire.
After dousing the cloth, she cleansed his face and neck with swirling strokes. Once she’d cleared the grime, she stood back for a moment. He had a handsome face—rugged as the Highlands. His dark hair was the color of well-oiled leather, and he’d braided his moustache hair into his beard—to keep it clean, she supposed.
How wretched for anyone to be housed in the bowels of Fort William.
At the age of twenty, Charlotte had grown weary of biting her tongue and blindly accepting the brutal treatment of prisoners of war. Goodness, she’d been at Fort William for a month. How much longer must she remain silent? As far as she knew, they had done nothing wrong but fight on the losing side of a battle. The men sharing the dank hold were not common murderers or thieves as Doctor Munro had accused this man of being. They were warriors.
She studied him while curiosity fluttered in her breast. Of course, her concern for his wellbeing is what had her insides flittering about. Unusually captivating, he had lines etched into the corners of his eyes like a man of perhaps thirty. Was he married? Did he have a family? Would she be in danger if he weren’t unconscious?
A colossal hand in repose atop his belly sported thin white scars. She’d seen such marks caused by nicks from the sparring ring. His fleshy fingers were long, artistic, but moreover, they looked so powerful, Charlotte had no doubt he could crush her much smaller hands without even a grimace.
Nonetheless, sick with fever and flat on his back, he did not appear too terribly dangerous. Is he a murderer? No. By the stirring of my blood, I do not believe him to be.
With an exhale Charlotte’s gaze trailed lower. His shirt laces were open, revealing tufts of mahogany curls. Licking her lips, her gaze meandered down the length of the loosened laces. His chest rose and fell with his breathing. She dunked the cloth in the basin and wrung it out. He smelled better already, but she would cleanse that which she could reach.
“I’ll run the cloth through your beard and over your chest,” she said as if he could hear. Heaven forbid he wake and startle.
Charlotte’s hand trembled a little after she moved from his beard to his chest. The Highlander’s flesh was nearly as hard as stone—far more muscular than she’d imagined a man would be—especially a prisoner.
Of course, she’d seen her father without his shirt, but at the age of two and sixty, Papa’s chest was—well, it wasn’t nearly as solid as this man’s.
Clearing her throat, she drew her hands away. That should suffice.
As she turned to the bowl, the Highlander coughed.
With a backward leap, the cloth flew from her hands, over her head, and landed on the poor man’s stomach. “A-are you awake?” Cringing, she tiptoed toward him and snatched the cloth away.
“Mm,” the Highlander’s deep voice rumbled, but his eyes remained closed.
“You’re terribly fevered.” Biting her knuckle, she glanced toward the door. She really ought to be dressing for the evening meal. Then she regarded the poor soul chained to the cot. It would be ever so cruel to leave without doing something to ease his suffering.
She picked up the cup of claret and placed one hand under the base of his skull. “You need to drink. I’ll lift your head now.” Goodness, merely his head weighed a stone. But she held him steady and moved the cup, tipping it up ever so slowly until the red liquid touched his lips. He opened his mouth just wide enough to take a small sip.
His Adam’s apple bobbed. “More.”
“How long have you been awake?” she asked, testing to see if he was well enough for conversation.
“Please,” he grunted.
“Yes, of course.” She offered another sip, and this time he took in a mouthful and swallowed it with a gulp. Charlotte eased his head back to the cot.
He sputtered and coughed. “Forgive me.”
“You needn’t apologize for being ill, sir.”
Before she could draw away, his eyes flashed open and those enormous fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing so forcibly her fingers went instantly numb. Holy Moses, it hurt but Charlotte clenched her teeth and froze.
“Help me,” he growled through his teeth.
“I-I’m trying to.” She attempted to pull away, but his grip held fast.
Then as if Satan possessed him, his hand dropped and his eyes rolled back, shuttering his haunting stare with inordinately long lashes. By the saints, the color of his eyes gave her pause—treacle brown like liquid pools of unfathomable depth. How on earth a man as fevered as he could be so expressive with a look, she had no idea. In that moment when their gazes connected, aside from her heart flying to her throat, she’d read so many things. Without a doubt this prisoner had suffered inconceivable pain and hardship. But he wasn’t a common crofter. Oh no, there was something special about this Highlander. If only Charlotte could put her finger on it.
***
Hugh’s head pounded like someone had taken an iron hammer and bludgeoned him to within an inch of his life. But God’s bones, after enduring one year and seven months in the bowels of hell, this woman’s voice soothed him as if she spoke with the sweet tenor o
f an angel. No red-blooded Scotsman could allow such temptation to pass without a mere glimpse even if he was close to death.
He willed his eyes to open. At first the fair-haired beauty posed a blur to him. With all the concentration his fevered head could muster, he forced himself to focus. His heart actually fluttered. Oh, Lord in heaven, such a gift he’d been given in these final moments of life. Her wide-eyed gaze expressed her surprise, almost as if she feared he’d do something ungentlemanly. No, no, no, never in his life would Hugh act out against a woman—especially one with bonny wisteria-blue eyes. He guessed with such an expressive countenance, she’d never be able to keep a secret—not with blues the size of silver coins.
If only he could enjoy such a morsel for himself. If only he could ask her to lie in his arms and succor him until he drew his last breath. Damn the unrelenting hammering against his skull. He smirked at the irony—Hugh may not trick death, but bloody Colonel Hill wouldn’t have the satisfaction of putting a noose around his neck. Hugh hadn’t heard much the physician had said, but the drivel about the false king not caring about a few miserable souls rotting in Fort William’s pit rang true. Christ, he’d known he was doomed all along.
Through his hazy vision, Hugh watched the bonny lass. Wasn’t a man entitled to a last request?
How long had it been since he’d held a woman in his arms? At two and thirty, he should be married with sons and daughters at his feet. But war had a way of stalling a man’s plans for his life.
“What is your name?” she asked with a gentle coo that sent a shiver along his fevered skin.
“Hugh MacLeod,” he replied with the same answer he’d given everyone else since his internment into Fort William’s hell. If anyone discovered he was the heir to the lands of Glencoe, the bastard dragoons wouldn’t wait to hang him. He’d lost count of all the sordid ways they could ensure he died within these walls. His entire body convulsed. Death be damned. He must fight to survive, not for himself but for his clan. Clenching his fists at his sides, he stilled his chattering teeth. “And you?”
“Miss Hill,” she whispered, as if ashamed.
Hugh’s eyes flew open. Hill? Blast his rotten, miserable, bloody luck. “The Colonel’s daughter?” he croaked, hanging on to a shred of hope that she was of no relation to the sadistic governor of this ill-fated prison.
“Yes.” She turned away and doused her cloth in the bowl.
A lump took up residence in his throat.
Earlier, Hugh had been remotely aware of her gentle ministrations—her lithe fingers upon his chest. He’d come to consciousness enough to consider asking her not to stop—to keep kneading her magical fingers all the way down to… Boar’s ballocks. Now he knew her father was Colonel Hill, Hugh would immediately cease his errant thoughts. Absolutely nothing positive could come from befriending this lass.
He gasped when she placed the cold cloth on his forehead. She was the bloody daughter of Satan incarnate. Why the hell was she in the surgery? Had the devil put her there to tempt him in his last hours?
Damn, he would be far better off if he had no luck at all.
“Do you think you can take another sip of claret?” she asked. “Doctor Munro gives it to all the soldiers—says it will help them regain their strength.”
Jesus Christ, did she have to sound so bloody bonny? With a voice like that, he’d offer to gulp down a draught of nightshade. His mouth dry, Hugh only managed to nod. But this time he watched her while she held his head and offered the cup. The fruity wine slid over his tongue, down his gullet, and instantly swam in his head as if he’d guzzled a healthy tot of whisky. Holy Mary, it had to be the most flavorful ambrosia he’d tasted since his capture at the Battle of Dunkeld.
“Why…” He eyed her well-tailored gown, cinched tightly at the waist. Though petite, she was full-bosomed, yet wore a lace modesty panel to prevent him from stealing a glimpse of the velvety white flesh swelling above her bodice. Just as well. The last thing he needed was to be brought up on contrived charges for ogling the Colonel’s daughter’s breasts.
“Yes?” She regarded him, the expressive concern painted on her bonny face unwavering. Why on earth did the daughter of the devil have to have creamy porcelain skin and a smile that would melt the snow atop Ben Nevis in winter?
“Hmm?” was all he managed to utter as a wave of nausea clamped his gut.
“You were about to ask something?”
The pain eased. Ah yes, now he remembered. “Why does your father allow you in the surgery alone?” His voice sounded like he’d swallowed a rasp.
She glanced back toward the door. “He doesn’t really. Since my arrival, I’ve been assisting Doctor Munro with simple tasks—rolling bandages and tending ill soldiers whenever necessary.” She bit her bottom lip. Indeed, the lass shouldn’t be alone with Hugh at all.
“Why doesn’t he have a local woman assist him?” With his next shudder, chills fired across his skin.
High color blossomed in her cheeks. “Honestly, I needed something to occupy my time. One can only embroider and practice the violin so much in a day.”
“You’re a fiddler?” he asked through chattering teeth, willing himself to focus. Why couldn’t she have a hooked nose with a wart atop?
“Yes, of sorts.”
“I wish…” He shivered. “I could hear you play someday.” God, he was daft. Right. Ask the Sassenach lassie to come down to the pit and play a merry tune for the poor bastards as they wallow in their stench. Och, she could accompany the drummer beating the death knoll as he climbed the steps to her father’s gallows.
A bell rang in the distance. Miss Hill cringed and snapped her gaze toward the door. “I’m afraid I must go.” She wrung her hands. “Will you be all right?”
Honestly, this cot was the most comfortable thing Hugh had lain upon since his arrival at Fort William. He regarded the chain securing his leg irons to the footboard and the pounding in his head resumed. But still he eyed her. “How about giving a dying man a last request?”
Standing, she grimaced as she rubbed her wrist. “What would that be?”
Hugh squeezed his eyes shut to block the pain. “The key to these bloody manacles for starters.”
~End of excerpt from The Fearless Highlander
Other Books by Amy Jarecki:
Rise of a Legend, Guardian of Scotland Book 1
Highland Dynasty Series:
Knight in Highland Armor
A Highland Knight’s Desire
A Highland Knight to Remember
Highland Knight of Rapture
Highland Force Series:
Captured by the Pirate Laird
The Highland Henchman
Beauty and the Barbarian
Return of the Highland Laird (A Highland Force Novella)
Pict/Roman Romances:
Rescued by the Celtic Warrior
Celtic Maid
Coming Soon, Highland Defender Series:
The Fearless Highlander
The Valiant Highlander
The Highland Duke
If you enjoyed In the Kingdom’s Name, we would be honored if you would consider leaving a review. ~Thank you!
About the Author
A descendant of an ancient Lowland clan, Amy adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, she received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she found her niche in the genre of Scottish historical romance. Amy loves hearing from her readers and can be contacted through her website at www.amyjarecki.com.
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Table of Contents
IN THE KINGDOM’S NAME
Foreword
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
&nb
sp; Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
PART TWO
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Excerpt from Amy’s Next Book
Other Books by Amy Jarecki
About the Author
* * *
[1] Adapted from J. Russell’s translation of Documents Illustrative of Sir William Wallace, his Life and Times, ed. Joseph Stevenson, Maitland Club, 1841.