The Highlander’s Heart

by Forester, Amanda

  “Archie, nay, ye must no’ do this,” said Andrew.

  “Dinna worrit yerself, I’ll handle everything,” said Archie.

  “That’s what he is afeared of,” snorted the man in the chair.

  Cait did a double take at the lounging figure. The voice, it wasn’t right. Looking again at the face, she realized the lad was really a woman.

  The woman glared at Cait. “Quit yer staring,” she snapped. “I dinna take disrespect from anyone, especially no’ servants.”

  Cait gasped at her harsh language. How dare she speak to her like that? Even if she mistook her for Alys, her maid was a lady-in-waiting from a respectable family, not a servant. She opened her mouth to tell her so, but was distracted by McNab’s younger brother.

  “Nay, we must give them back,” said Andrew to his older brother.

  “Too late for that now, they know who we are.”

  Cait’s eyes snapped back to McNab. That statement sounded ominous. He was regarding Alys, tapping his fingers together, looking eager to please… and desperate. Desperate enough to do what, she did not know.

  “Ye mean to ransom us, then?” Cait asked the leader.

  “Aye.”

  “Well then, I suggest ye provide my lady with suitable accommodations.”

  “Lady Cait will have every possible comfort.”

  “Which does not appear to be much,” said Cait, rising to the role as her own handmaiden. “Lady Cait requires a chamber now so she can rest. She is not accustomed to this type of treatment and has a weak constitution, ye ken how ladies are. I’m sure her humors have been put out of alignment.” Cait sighed dramatically, embracing her performance. “I only hope it will no’ be too late.”

  Andrew McNab turned from pale to green. Even Morrigan eyed her with caution. Cait felt she was on to something.

  “She may have my bedchamber immediately,” said McNab.

  “Nay,” said Cait, looking at each McNab with a critical eye. “Give us Andrew’s. He’s the cleanest o’ the lot o’ ye. I’ll need wine for m’lady and a pallet of fresh straw for myself.”

  “Ye can take what ye get,” said Morrigan with contempt.

  “Moldy straw will cause an inflammation o’ the lungs in m’lady,” said Cait, doing her best to sound imperious and succeeding dramatically. “Unless ye dinna care whether m’lady is still alive when Laird Campbell comes to claim her.”

  Cait had the satisfaction of seeing her three captors look ill at ease.

  ***

  Archie McNab leaned against the mantel in the dimly lit solar. After tearing his house apart to find suitable furnishings for his lady captive, he had finally gotten them fed and settled into Andrew’s chamber. The maid was right about one thing, it was the cleanest room in the tower.

  It was late, the light from a single tallow candle cast flickering shadows into the dark room. McNab took the folded parchment from his tunic. He was finally alone with the missive that had been the start of this tumultuous day. On the parchment was the telltale red seal of two knights riding a single horse, their shields emblazoned with a single cross. Around the edge of the circular seal were the words Sigillum Militum Xpisti followed by another cross. The Seal of the Soldiers of Christ.

  How he had ever gotten himself into so much trouble? He could only hope the Campbell captain had not had time to note the seal and realize it was the symbol of the Templar Knights.

  The man who sent him this message was ruthless without end. McNab held the parchment for a moment longer, almost afraid to open it. There must be another way to provide for his clan other than to work for this man. He closed his eyes and sat down in the chair beside the hearth. But his people… McNab sighed and broke the seal. If there was another way to feed his people, he was too dense to figure it out.

  McNab opened the parchment and held it up to the light of the single candle. On it was a single command written in the bold hand of the abbot.

  Kill the Bishop of Glasgow.

  McNab jerked forward in his chair and held the missive closer to the candle. The parchment glowed orange in the flickering light, but the message remained the same.

  “Hell and damnation,” McNab muttered, his pulse rising. He leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes.

  “What are our orders now?” asked Morrigan, entering the room.

  McNab bolted forward and held the corner of the parchment to the candle. The missive burst into flame and disappeared into ash.

  “There be no orders,” said McNab, speaking too quickly. “He says he’s pleased wi’ our work, ’tis all.”

  “Dinna speak me false, Brother. ’Tis insulting beyond words.”

  “How do our guests?” McNab changed the subject. He had done little to protect his sister, but he knew she would be safer if she did not know from whom their orders came.

  Morrigan snorted. “What a bonnie lot o’ spoiled brats they are. I canna stand to look at them. Why do we no’ just let them loose in the marshes and pretend we ne’er saw them?”

  “Nay!” McNab stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “They must be made comfortable. If Lady Cait could be persuaded to marry, her dowry could save the clan.”

  “’Tis ne’er going to happen as ye well ken.”

  “It must.” McNab’s voice was ragged. “It must work this time. How does a lady like to be wooed?” He looked over at Morrigan, then shook his head. “Why am I asking ye? I need to find a lass.” He quit the room, his eyes glazed, his shoulders hunched forward.

  His sister stared after him. “Aye, ye go do that now.”

  Sixteen

  It was entirely possible that sneaking out of Innis Chonnel in an old pickle barrel was not among her wisest decisions. Isabelle’s previous attempts to escape had proven unsuccessful, and she was running out of time and options. She had attempted to swim across, reasoning that if fish, not known for their overall intellectual capacity, could swim, then surely she could too. Her logic had failed her in a most wet and embarrassing way.

  So she had resorted to a more desperate plan, which unfortunately involved pickles. Campbell had proved to be an able jailer, but this morning he had left on a hunt, so she was free of his watchful eye to enact her escape.

  She had spent the past few days sneaking up to Cait’s tower and watching the comings and goings of the castle and noted how goods were transported back and forth in large barrels. The barrel in which she now sat in had once housed pickles, but was now empty and being sent back for another shipment.

  Not that the lack of pickles lessened the smell. She had half a mind to struggle out of the barrel for a breath of fresh air, but the recollection of the danger her people faced, should she fail, kept her still. She shifted around a bit, trying to reestablish circulation to her right leg and was determined to be patient. All she needed was to get across the loch.

  After some time her patience was rewarded. Her barrel was jolted sharply, and then swayed gently as it was ferried across the water on the raft. Excitement mounted as she was moved again, spun off the barge and presumably onto the dock. It was evening, and she had watched how barrels would be stacked and left overnight to be transported in the morning. All she needed to do now was to wait until dark. Faint light spilled through a small hole she had carved with her table knife in the top of the barrel for light and air. Suddenly, the light went out.

  Someone must have stacked a barrel on top of her. She took a slow breath, trying not to panic. She pushed gently on the lid of her prison, nothing happened. She pushed harder, but still, nothing moved. She was stuck in the barrel. Her heart pounded in her chest and the air started to get thin. She shoved hard at the lid with her shoulder. Again, the barrel lid was stuck tight. She took several rapid breaths. The briny stench was not enough to fill her lungs. She was going to suffocate in this barrel. She gasped for air, and wriggled around so she could push with her legs on the lid of the pickle barrel.

  Bracing herself, she shoved with all her might. The lid lifted but an
inch. She took a stifled breath and screamed, straining against the lid with her last ounce of strength. With a crash she broke free. The barrel above her smashed on the ground, and her own barrel tipped over and rolled until it hit something solid and she spilled out. Men shouted, a horse neighed, and more goods crashed to the ground as her actions caused several other barrels and caskets to go flying.

  Isabelle slowly sat up, her head still spinning. She was sitting in the middle of the road, covered in mud. She groaned, how could it get any worse? A black horse walked up and stopped in front of her. Sitting tall in the saddle was none other than David Campbell.

  “Lady Tynsdale!” Campbell stared at her like an apparition. Behind him, Dain, Gill, and Finn had equal expressions of disbelief.

  Isabelle struggled to extricate herself from the mud and the muck. She regained her feet, but not before she was covered in slimy black filth. Despite being caught, she was relieved to have air once more, but a deep breath made her reconsider.

  Something around her reeked. She looked around at the faces of the dockworkers and of Campbell’s brothers and clansmen sitting high in their saddles. They all were staring at her with faces of surprise, shock, and repulsion. What was that smell? Confirming suspicion, she took a whiff of herself only to fight her own gag reflex. She stank worse than a month-old mackerel lying in a cesspool.

  “Ye certainly have a way wi’ the ladies. See how she canna wait to welcome ye home,” said Finn, breaking into a mischievous grin.

  “Ride on,” said Campbell with a scowl.

  “If ye require any advice on how to keep a lady at yer side—” said Gill with a sly smile.

  “Ride on, I say!” commanded Campbell. The twins laughed but complied, Gill giving her a wink as they passed, of all the cheek.

  Isabelle straightened her back, fought the urge to cover her own nose, and said, “Good day Laird Campbell. It seems my plans have gone a bit awry.”

  Campbell’s eyes shone with the twinkle of amusement she had grown to loathe, especially since it set his countenance at its most pleasing. He dismounted and started to come to her, but stopped and blinked his eyes. “Saints above, lass, what have ye done?”

  Isabelle’s lip trembled, but only for a moment before she regained control of her emotions. It was fortunate she was not prone to large, emotional displays, because this situation called for one, if any did. She was wise enough to realize the only thing more pathetic than a briny lass covered in dung was a sobbing briny lass covered in dung. She was determined to persevere.

  “Will you teach me some curses?” Isabelle asked, her words dripping with false sweetness. She had the small satisfaction of seeing his smile fade and confusion fill his eyes.

  “I beg yer pardon?”

  “I haven’t the good fortune to know any curses and this seems an ideal time to express one.”

  Campbell’s mouth twitched and he broke into a genuine smile. He pressed his lips together, but then laughed loud and hard. Isabelle was mesmerized. His joyous laughter radiated warmth and good humor. For a moment, the worries that seemed to press on him vanished and he looked young and carefree. Isabelle had thought him handsome before, but when he laughed, David Campbell was gorgeous.

  Campbell stepped toward her and covered his mouth and nose with his hand, though whether to smother a smile or defend his nostrils she could not be sure. He motioned her to march forward and she walked back onto the dock, the workers giving her a wide berth. They stepped onto the ferry barge and found they had the raft all to themselves as none of the Campbell brothers chose to ride with them. Finn and Gill waved to her, laughing hysterically.

  When they reached the other side, Campbell took her elbow and steered her toward the castle as his clansmen jumped out of their way. Campbell took her down to a room on the first floor near the kitchens. Buckets of steaming water were being carried in by servants and Mairi approached them from the other end of the corridor.

  “Sorry, Mairi,” said Campbell, “I fear this be an emergency and we must insist on taking yer bath.”

  “Nay, Brother,” said Mairi with a frown. “I’ve waited all afternoon for my…” Whatever Mairi was going to say was lost as she froze quite suddenly in an unnatural position, her mouth open. One foot still in the air.

  “As I said, a most urgent situation, Sister.”

  Mairi put both hands over her mouth and nose and scurried back down the hall. “Please take the water with my blessing. And have it dumped in the loch when yer through,” she called from a safer distance.

  Servants finished their work, or dropped it undone, and hustled out of their way, leaving them in a dimly lit room with the large, wooden, barrel-like tub. It looked suspiciously to Isabelle like a giant pickle barrel, but she could not wait to scrub herself free of all the grime.

  “Thank ye, I can take it from here,” said Isabelle and watched in dismay as Campbell shut the door with himself still inside.

  “Sir, I… you have no need…” Isabelle backed farther into the small room. “This is hardly proper, I can see to myself.”

  Campbell arched one brow. “Ye smell worse than the time my hunters crossed a skunk. Ye need washing.”

  “I am perfectly capable—”

  “Ye are hardly capable or ye’d ne’er be in this… pickle.” Campbell pressed his lips together in a weak effort to avoid smiling at his own pun.

  “Ye mock me!”

  “Aye. Now let’s see ye remove yer gown.”

  “I’ll do naught of the sort.” Isabelle was indignant. This day was bad enough without his insensitive puns and barely concealed mirth at her expense.

  “Ye need to get that gown off; ’tis ruined. I’ll no’ leave till I see ye can manage.”

  Isabelle opened her mouth to protest, but then remembered that while her surcoat was tied in the front, her gown was tied tightly in the back.

  “Send a maid to assist.”

  Campbell shook his head and stepped forward. “They’ll no’ come and I canna blame them. Let me do this and bathe ye, for yer stench is bringing tears to my eyes.”

  “Fine then. But I’ll only undress to my chemise, then you must leave!”

  “With pleasure, I assure ye.”

  Isabelle struggled with the slick ties of her surcoat and, after close inspection and a bit of a fight, she managed to remove it. Her gown, tied in the back, proved difficult. No matter how she twisted her arms, she was not able to untie the slick knot.

  “Come, let me help.” Campbell reached out but she backed away from him. In a flash he was upon her. She attempted unsuccessfully to bat him away, but he got his hands around her waist and struggled with the slick ties of her gown. Isabelle tried to wrestle from his grasp, but to little avail. The only thing she managed to accomplish with her struggle was to transfer a large amount of muck from her to him.

  When he finally pulled off the gown, leaving her gasping in her chemise, they were both rather filthy. In one easy movement he picked her up into his arms and dumped her into the tub. The warm water engulfed her, feeling achingly good. Her chemise clung to her, wet and protective. Campbell regarded her with deep lines of disapproval etched on his forehead, then pushed her head underwater. For an instant Isabelle thought he meant to drown her, but he let her come up for air soon enough.

  “Nay, still dirty.” Campbell pushed her under again. This process repeated several times until she was breathless and sputtering. She coughed a bit and pushed her wet hair out of her eyes. Campbell was inspecting his linen shirt and stripped it off with disgust. He dunked the shirt into the tub and started to scrub off the muck.

  Later, she would decide the appropriate response would have been to chastise him for washing his dirty laundry in her bathwater. In the moment, however, all she could do was stare across the steamy tub at his naked chest. She watched with fascination how his muscles moved, smooth as silk, under his skin. She struggled against the desire to put her hand against his muscular chest.

  He slowly raised his
head and gazed at her, his eyes dark in the dimly lit room. “Are ye always this much trouble?”

  Isabelle shook her head in denial, then shrugged her shoulders. “Only with you.”

  ***

  Campbell regarded Isabelle from across the tub, trying to understand her actions. Her eyes were large and black in the dim light. With her black hair slicked back, he noticed a small scar along her hairline he had never seen before. There was much of her in view that he had never seen before. Her white chemise clung to her breasts with transparent protection.

  Campbell gave himself a mental shake and walked around the tub to the back wall to hang his sopping shirt on a peg to dry. Water droplets splattered on the stone floor, the only sound in the warm, damp room.

  He tried to understand Isabelle’s actions with little success. Why would she endanger herself in a barrel of all things? She was not being mistreated. Campbell would see her safely returned to her husband. The thought of the man chilled Campbell. Why had she not been honest with him about being married? Why was she so determined to escape she would risk her life? It was none of his concern, but he could not abide the thought that a lady under his protection was risking her life to escape him.

  Campbell reviewed his last interaction with her with some displeasure. He prided himself on his ability to keep a cool head, but with Isabelle he had lost his temper. His reaction to her had surprised him. Perhaps his harsh words had frightened her. He sighed, but he knew he must make amends.

  He eased slowly back to the side of the wooden tub next to her. She busied herself with a cake of soap and did not turn around. Despite his chivalrous intentions, he took a good look down her cleavage. His fingers itched to touch her again. She was a passionate woman, one whom he greatly desired to have in his bed, yet the revelation of who she was made that impossible. The realization she was married had hit him hard. She had never been his to lose, so it should not hurt. But it did. He cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling.