To Love A Highlander (Highland Warriors Book 1)

by Donna Fletcher

  Espy almost screamed with relief when her hand fell upon it and she threw it open and rushed out, taking deep breathes.

  “I knew you would try and—” Craven rushed over to her when he saw her fighting to breathe. “Slow breaths,” he ordered firmly, his one hand hurrying to rest low at her back and his other hand, pressed just beneath her breasts. “Easy, one breath at a time.”

  Espy focused on his voice, strong, confident, and soothing to her fears.

  “Slow and easy.”

  His voice chased her fright, it scurrying away to hide, but not to leave her entirely, never to leave her entirely. It would return again. It always returned. She had not realized that she had placed her hand on his arm. She had more than placed it there, she was gripping his arm so tight, she wondered if her hand would leave a mark.

  “What happened?” he asked when her breath turned slow and even.

  “I fear I am a coward when I am confined to a small space,” she admitted truthfully and without shame. It was a fear that too often she failed to combat.

  He did not believe her a coward. To return here of her own volition took courage, and she had to have had a great deal of strength to have survived whatever had caused her to get that scar on her face. No, she was far from a coward. Something had to have happened for her to fear small spaces and he was curious to know what, just as his curiosity was growing about her scar, though he would not ask her now.

  “As I said, it is either that room or a cell,” he reminded.

  “The room will suffice,” she assured him quickly. “I only ask that I not be confined to it all day and that I may leave the door open at night.”

  Her quiver ran through his hands that still rested on her and it sent a shiver of his own racing through him, stirring his loins to his annoyance. He took a hasty step away from her. “You have no right to ask anything, and I certainly have no wont to grant it.”

  Espy looked to the dark room, fear strangling almost as hard as Craven’s hand when at her neck.

  Craven knew fear when he saw it. There was not a Highlander alive, except for one he knew of, that did not taste fear one time or another. He had tasted it the day he had entered the birthing room and had seen his wife’s lifeless body on the bed. He had known the depths of true fear that day.

  Why then should Espy not suffer the same?

  Aubrey would not want it.

  The thought hit him like a punch to the face and he turned to go. “I will send a servant to set the fire.” He walked off, calling back to her after a few steps, “Leave your door open.”

  Espy had eaten little of what was sent her for supper, having no appetite. The servant lass who had set the fire and brought her food had said not a word to her. She had kept her eyes averted as well, as though she feared punishment if she engaged with Espy in anyway.

  She hoped and prayed that her stay here, while no doubt difficult, would eventually prove beneficial and in the end the truth about Aubrey’s death would be discovered. She wanted that more than anything.

  Though the fire burned brightly, a slight chill lingered and Espy tucked the blanket up around her. She was not able to sleep or was it that she feared sleep and the nightmares that followed. They had not been as frequent since returning home, but then her grandmother’s cottage had always been a safe haven for her, at least once it had been. Still, she had felt safe upon arriving there, knowing her grandmother would care for her, heal her, and love her.

  She let her thoughts wander to happier times when her da and mum were still alive. Her da and mum both had had adventurous souls, that and along with their thirst for knowledge, had had them carting their young daughter off on endless adventures. She had visited and lived in foreign lands, something that was inconceivable to most, and she cherished the memories.

  It was what, she believed, made her da an outsider to the physicians in Glasgow and Edinburgh. They were stubborn and steadfast when it came to their beliefs and practices and ignored or ridiculed the knowledge her da had gained in foreign lands, calling his different approaches ridiculous and barbaric.

  A yawn rose up, her eyes widening along with her mouth. She did not want to sleep. She did not want the nightmares. She fought against sleep as long as she could and it was not long after that the nightmare began.

  Chapter 8

  The agonizing screams echoed off the stone walls of the cell and the odor of burnt flesh permeated the dank air. She had to get away. She had to escape, but what of the other innocents? She could not leave them there to suffer endless torture until finally they had no recourse but to beg for death.

  She stared down at the heavy, iron keys in her hand. She only had so much time. If she hesitated a moment longer, all would be lost. She hurried along the narrow corridor, slipping now and again on the slimy stone floor. Three cells. Three women were all she needed to free. The others were beyond help and would not make it through the night.

  “Go! Hurry!” she whispered to the first one after freeing her.

  The second one she had to revive and get to her feet. “Hurry!” she urged once the woman gained her footing.

  The stench from the third cell had her gagging and she was afraid of what she would find… death. She was too late and her heart ached. She said a quick prayer over the woman and cautiously left the cell, closing it behind her as she had done with the others. She took careful steps along the barely lit corridor, her heart pounding with fear. A few more steps, just a few and she would be free of this nightmare.

  An arm suddenly coiled around her waist and dragged her back. Down. Down. Down. She felt herself being pulled farther and farther into the depths of hell, the flames burning at her flesh. She struggled to break free, but his arm was like an iron shackle around her waist. Still, she fought.

  Even when she was slammed down on the cold slab she fought, the odor of sickness, torture and death nearly suffocating her. When she looked upon the face of her captor, she screamed, for there was no face just darkness.

  She felt the tip of a blade catch high on her cheek and she screamed as the sharp blade was dragged slowly along her flesh. Her hand suddenly connected with a broken piece of slab and she grabbed it tight and swung with force at the blackness hovering over her, and she gave it a hard shove. It stumbled back and she rushed off the slab and ran, her feet pounding the slimy stones, but try as she might she could not escape the narrow corridor or the flames that rose up around her. She kept running and running, getting nowhere and behind her the pounding of footfalls grew ever closer, resonating in her head.

  Craven climbed the stairs, slipping his shirt off as he went and though he yawned, he had no desire to seek sleep. He hated climbing into bed without Aubrey there. He had slept well with her beside him, the nightmare of battles, death, and destruction having faded with her presence beside him. Now a different nightmare plagued him, his wife calling out to him for help, over and over and over.

  Please help me. Please.

  He had promised he would let nothing happen to her, that he would always protect her. He had failed her and for that he would never forgive himself.

  He gazed down the short corridor to the servant’s chamber he had secured Espy in as a temporary cell. He thought to go and see if she was still there, but where else would she be? The word had spread that she was his prisoner and was forbidden to venture anywhere without his permission. All would keep watch and none would dare go near her.

  His thoughts were mixed when it came to the pouch of herbs. Had it been a tale to prevent her torture and death? Or could there be truth to it? It was that question that haunted him and he wanted it answered.

  After entering his bedchamber, he tossed his shirt on a chair and was about to slip out of his plaid when he heard a noise that had him turning abruptly.

  “Let me go!”

  He hurried to the servant’s chamber, his anger mounting that anyone would dare come to his private floor and attack his prisoner. He stopped abruptly in the open doorway. Espy was
struggling frantically against the blanket that had wrapped itself tightly around her.

  “Let me go! Let me go!”

  Her cries grew louder as did her struggles and he went to her, wondering who she was battling in her nightmare. With her struggling, it was not easy to free her and when he finally caught the corner of the blanket, he yanked it hard, flipping her over as it unraveled.

  He dropped the blanket and hurried to catch her before she rolled off the bed and once he did, her arms clamped around him, clinging to him tightly.

  “Do not let him get me. Please, I beg you, do not let him get me.”

  Her eyes were wide as full moons, yet it was obvious she had yet to wake from her nightmare, and he sat on the bed, keeping tight hold of her.

  She pressed her cheek to his and her cries turned to a soft whimper. “Please help me.”

  Hearing the words his wife cried out to him nightly, he instinctively wrapped his arms around Espy, trying to shield her, keep her safe, though he had no idea who from.

  She raised her head and brought her mouth near his, her warm, whispered breath brushing his lips as she said, “Keep me safe. Please keep me safe.”

  All rationale thought left him or was it that he missed his wife’s lips so badly that he foolishly…

  His lips came down on hers in a hungry kiss and Espy responded with the same hunger. Craven’s hand went to the back of her head, holding it firm, keeping it from moving, from freeing herself of his kiss. But it mattered little since Espy’s arms shot up and around his neck, locking around him as if she had no intentions of ever letting him go.

  The more he tasted her, the more familiar she tasted, and the more he wanted to linger in the delicious kiss. His body felt the same, growing more aroused as the kiss deepened. With his hand to the back of her head and his other arm going around to rest at her back, he eased her down on the bed, following to stretch over her.

  He fed off the kiss, as if he had been starved for so long that he could not get enough. She responded in kind, her body pressing up against his in wont of more.

  Her firm breasts dug into his bare chest, her hard nipples stabbing at him and growing him hard. A hard that he had not felt since he had last made love with Aubrey.

  The sudden thought of his wife and who he was kissing shocked him so much that he tore his lips away from Espy and jumped up off her so roughly that she rolled off the bed onto the floor. This time he did not catch her.

  She got to her feet, shaking her head.

  “You had a nightmare,” he said as if that was explanation enough.

  She stared at him, nodding.

  Craven returned her stare, though his eyes rested on her plumped lips and her heated cheeks, and the way her chest heaved from her heavy breaths. He hated her at that moment more than ever, for she had made him forget—for a short while—his wife. Who was it his thoughts and desires had focused on? The woman who he blamed for his wife’s death.

  Craven’s anger spoke. “Keep your door shut and your nightmares to yourself.” He stormed out of the room, the door slamming with a thud behind him.

  Espy hurried to the bed, bracing herself in the corner and bringing her knees nearly up to her chin to circle her arms around them. Her nightmare had returned stronger than ever, only this time someone had rescued her from it, and she remembered clinging to him. His warmth had seeped into her chilled flesh along with the strength of his hard muscles. He would protect her, keep her safe, she could feel it. He had also kissed her with strength and that made her feel safer than ever.

  What had startled her though was when she had awakened to find Craven kissing her and she willingly returning his kiss and realizing that she did not want to stop kissing him. As maddeningly as it seemed, she had enjoyed his kiss.

  How could she even think that? He was out for revenge against her. He hated her. Why than had he kissed her?

  She had no answer and it would be wise of her not to question it any further, but it continued to haunt her even when her head fell to rest on her knees as sleep claimed her.

  Espy sat in the Great Hall, having finished the morning repast and eager to be about doing something, anything. She could not continue to sit idle. She would go insane and yet she had little choice, Craven having left her there with orders she was not to move. With the stares she got from the few warriors who lingered and the servants who tended the room, Craven would be alerted to any move she made.

  It was foolish of him not to take advantage of her skills while she was here. She was certain there were those in the clan that could use a healer. No doubt, though, Craven did not trust her to treat any in his clan.

  She sighed, her impatience growing at being idle and also at not being able to see what she could find out about Aubrey and who might want her dead.

  A young servant lass kept glancing her way as she cleaned off the tables from the morning meal. She looked as if she wanted to approach Espy, but seemed reluctant. Espy encouraged her with a smile and the young lass quickly turned her head away.

  It was when the lass got to the table next to her that Espy noticed the dirty cloth wrapped around her hand. She immediately got to her feet and went to her.

  “You injured your hand?” Espy asked softly.

  The lass backed away from her, a look of fright in her large round eyes.

  “I am a healer. I help, I do not cause harm,” Espy said and before the lass could run away in fright, she reached her hand out to her. “May I have a look?”

  The lass hesitated, glancing around the room, looking to see who watched them.

  Those in the hall were engaged in conversation, though glances strayed their way.

  Espy kept her voice low. “It will not take long.”

  The lass leaned in close to Espy. “My hand hurts.”

  “What are you called?” Espy asked with a soft smile.

  “Tula,” the lass said, a hesitant smile at her lips.

  “Let me tend the wound, Tula, so it no longer pains you,” Espy offered.

  Tula gave another glance around the room, then nodded.

  In no time, Espy had Tula’s hand cleaned and a fresh cloth wrapped around the minor abrasion.

  Espy barely finished knotting the cloth on the back of Tula’s hand to keep it in place when one of the warriors in the hall approached her, sticking his finger in her face and causing Tula to scurry around the table away from the large man.

  “Can you heal it?” the warrior asked gruffly.

  Espy took a close look at the red and swollen tip of his finger. “A splinter you have yet to remove?”

  He nodded. “I cannot find it, no matter how much I dig.”

  “Sit,” Espy said, seeing he had dug far too deeply. She turned to Tula and nodded at the two buckets of water on the table she had had the lass fetch. “I need these two filled with fresh water and I also need some wine.”

  “Thirsty are you?” the warrior asked with a laugh.

  “What shall I call you?” Espy asked, smiling at his teasing words.

  “Morta,” he said, his wide shoulders going back and his sharp chin rising a bit. His long beard and moustache were as red as his long hair.

  “This may hurt, Morta,” she said, holding up a slim bone needle she had retrieved from her healing pouch that she kept tied to a loop she had sown to her waistband.

  “I have suffered worse,” he said with a shrug.

  Tula returned and filled a goblet of wine for Espy while another servant placed two buckets of water on the table.

  Espy washed her hands in one, then took the goblet of wine and poured some on Morta’s swollen finger.

  “What are you doing wasting good wine, woman?” Morta protested and grabbed the goblet and tilted his head back, downing what was left.

  Espy did not wait for him to finish. She went to work on his finger. She found the splinter right where she suspected it to be from the swelling, embedded in the side of his finger right near the nail. A bit of probing with her needle and
a quick pinch of the skin and she was able to snatch the long sliver out.

  She poured more wine in the goblet and went to pour it on his finger again.

  He snatched the goblet from her hand. “You will not waste good wine.” He stuck his finger in the goblet, left it there until Espy nodded, then downed the remainder of it.

  “Do that a few times a day until the swelling is no more,” Espy advised him.

  Morta grinned. “Best healing I ever had.”

  Tula tapped Espy on the shoulder as Morta walked off, giving a nod in his direction.

  Espy turned to see a line of about five people waiting to approach her. She smiled, pleased to be doing what she loved and waved the first person in line toward her. She asked each one their names, committing them to memory, and spoke with them as if she were their friend and knew them well. Her smile never tired and her pleasant nature soon had smiles surfacing not only on the person she was tending, but those waiting, and even those working in the Great Hall.

  The line began to grow and Espy cheerfully tended everyone who sought her help, her smile never wavering nor her gentleness.

  Espy was surprised to see that the next person who stepped forward was a woman heavy with child. She helped her to sit on the bench.

  Tears pooled in her eyes as she spoke. “I have lost two bairns at birth. Please help me. Please do not let me lose this one.”

  “What are you doing?”

  The mighty roar had everyone cowering, too fearful to move as Craven came barreling down on them in rapid strides. Espy almost backed away herself, seeing his threatening scowl, but held her ground. When she saw the pregnant woman struggle to stand, she reached out to help her.