The Highlander Who Loved Me

by Adrienne Basso

  Chapter Three

  When James next awoke it was pitch dark. Disoriented in the inky blackness that surrounded him, he pulled at his clouded mind, trying to orient himself. He let out an angry huff as his memory returned, along with the shame of failure.

  Davina! James’s breath caught. The need to see her consumed him. Grunting loudly, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Stars spun before his eyes at the tortured pain that seared every part of his body and he nearly fell back. ’Twas only by sheer force of will he remained upright.

  James waited a few moments, his breath coming in deep bellows, before reaching for the tunic that lay at the foot of the bed. It took three attempts before he was able to pull it over his head and four more before he was able to put his good arm through the left sleeve. He let the other arm dangle; the thick bandage on his shoulder prevented him from putting his arm through the other sleeve.

  Exhausted from the effort, James waited again, then pushed to a standing position. He felt himself start to sway, pitching toward the floor. He thrust his good arm forward. Thankfully, the bed was near enough to cushion the fall. He sprawled facedown on the mattress, his pulse thumping rapidly. Disgusted, James closed his eyes, yet refused to allow weakness to claim him.

  He lay there for a long time, with only the sound of his deep, even breaths for company. Feeling himself starting to drift off to sleep, James slammed his fist against the wooden headboard, letting the rage inside him wash away his weariness. As the rage grew, it fed his need and bolstered his strength. Clenching his fists, James pushed himself upright. Awkwardly, he pulled his brais over his bandaged legs, then thrust his feet into a pair of leather half boots. Searching in the darkness, he found his dirk and slipped that inside his footwear.

  On unsteady feet, James made his way through a darkened hallway. He saw no servants scurrying about, no men-at-arms or members of the household strolling the corridors, making him realize that the hour must be late and all in the castle were sleeping.

  His first week in residence, James had learned which bedchamber Davina occupied. Since there were but a few private chambers in the castle, it was simple to find it now, even in his weakened condition. He was momentarily annoyed to see there was no guard placed at her door, then chided himself for such foolishness.

  The danger was now past. She was safe within the walls of the Armstrong holding. James lifted his hand to knock, hesitated, then fearing he might be denied entrance, he turned the latch and slowly pushed at the door. It groaned open.

  The bedchamber was shrouded in darkness, with only a single candle illuminating the room. James stepped inside. The cool breeze fluttering through the room hit him square in the face, jolting his senses. Limping painfully, he approached the bed that was positioned at the far side of the chamber.

  The elderly maid sitting at Davina’s bedside jumped at the sound of his uneven footsteps. She leapt guilty out of her chair, then pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle her scream.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, ye scared the life out of me, sir. ’Tis the middle of the night. I expected no one at this hour.”

  “Beg pardon. I’ve come to see Davina.”

  “She’s sleeping, poor lamb.”

  “I’ll not disturb her.” Not waiting for permission, James carefully approached. There were dark shadows dancing about the room near the bed, but if he squinted, he could detect the shape of her body beneath the blanket. “Bring the candle.”

  The maid hesitated. He glowered at her, a near perfect imitation of his father. The maid seemed startled, but followed his order with no further protest.

  Yet when James gazed down at his dearest Davina, he almost wished the older woman had defied him. Everything inside him tightened with a sickening anger when he saw the condition of his beloved.

  She lay on her back, with a blanket covering her to the waist, her limp arms resting at her sides. Her face was ashen, the delicate skin bruised and swollen on one side. Scratches and cuts marred her cheeks, looking angry against the paleness of her flesh. A deep purple bruise, edged in red, ringed her neck, indicating that one of the brigands had tried to choke the life from her.

  Thank God he had not succeeded.

  “Why is she so still?” he croaked.

  “’Tis the medicine. They gave her a potion to help her sleep. She was near hysterical this evening when they examined her.”

  “Was she . . . did they . . .” James’s voice trailed off. The words were impossible to imagine, let alone say.

  “Violate her?” The maid shook her head in sympathy. “It seems likely, though the midwife was unable to complete her examination. The poor lass screamed and thrashed, pushing the midwife and the healer away whenever they touched her.”

  “Merciful God!” James bowed his head, hardly believing the pain inside him could get any stronger—yet it did. His mouth filled with the acid taste of coppery blood as he bit the inside of his cheek.

  He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and took Davina’s hand into his own. ’Twas cold as ice. He noted her fingernails were torn and jagged, with bits of dried blood beneath them. She had fought fiercely to save herself. For that he was profoundly thankful.

  Yet failure and shame gnawed at his gut, the pain so deep it rooted him to the spot. This was his fault. He should have saved her, protected her. He could feel his throat closing tightly with emotion as his mind and heart filled with despair.

  Suddenly, Davina stiffened and gasped. Her eyes opened and shifted wildly about while deep, anguished moans spilled from her quivering, bruised lips. His blood ran cold, the sound tearing through him like a knife.

  “Hush,” he rasped, trying to soothe away the raw pain that seemed to be radiated from every pore of her bruised, battered body. “Be still, my love.”

  She turned her head toward him. James’s hand reached out to cup her chin, trying to offer some comfort. At his touch, her eyes widened in horror. James felt his heart sink to his knees when he realized she had just recognized him.

  Her trembling started as a small shudder, but quickly grew. Davina began whimpering, a pitiful, almost inhuman cry of pain. He tried moving closer, needing to soothe away her panic, but she held out her arm to push him away. He gazed into her eyes and clearly saw the fear and distress.

  It broke his heart.

  The maid pushed to the bed. “Ye’d best take yer leave,” she commanded. “Ye’re frightening her.”

  The truth of those words was nearly unbearable. It made him feel as low as the men who had beaten and abused her. Shaking, James stood and backed away from the bed. “I’ll return tomorrow. Hopefully, Davina will be more herself.”

  The maid cast him a doubtful, worried look, but James refused to be deterred. He would return in the morning.

  Limping slowly, he made his way back to his small chamber and fell into his bed, too exhausted to even groan in pain. Eventually, James slept, waking to a dull and gray morning, thick with clouds.

  The gloom fit his mood. An ominous foreshadowing of what was to come. His body ached even more this morning, the pain dull and deep in his bones. There were more people about the hallways as he made the long, agonizing walk to her bedchamber. None spoke to him; many averted their eyes.

  When he presented himself at Davina’s bedchamber door, he was told that she refused to see him. Lacking the strength to argue with the determined maid, James retreated, but stubbornly returned the next day. Where he was again given the same message—Davina wanted to be left alone.

  Disheartened, James respected her wishes. He returned to his small chamber and rested, allowing his body to heal. He ate the food he was brought, allowed the healer to change his dressings, drank the foul-tasting medical potions he was given.

  He had no visitors except for the servants who brought his meals and the healer who tended his wounds. Against her instructions, he gingerly walked the confines of his small bedchamber to regain his strength, determined to hasten his recovery. He was polite, co
ngenial to all he saw. But inwardly, he brooded.

  For the next seven days, every morning and every evening, he made the long, slow, painful walk to Davina’s chamber, each time receiving the same response from the stoic maid. But on the eighth day it was not the maid who stood watch at his beloved’s chamber door. Instead he found himself face to face with Davina’s cousin Joan.

  “Lady Joan.”

  He inclined his head in a respectful bow, then simply stared. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with expressive blue eyes, golden hair, and refined features. Yet he knew her loveliness was only skin-deep.

  “Good morning, Sir James,” Lady Joan replied. “I see that yer wounds are healing. Hopefully, ye will soon be fully recovered.”

  James flexed the hand of his sprained arm. His body was slowly improving, yet his mind would have no relief until he spoke with Davina. But Joan stood in his way.

  Not particularly caring that it seemed rude, he attempted to push past her, but she placed a restraining arm on his shoulder.

  “Davina has asked me to speak with ye. My cousin wishes to be left in peace and begs that ye stop insisting on seeing her. She finds it most unsettling.”

  ’Twas impossible to miss the gleam of satisfaction in Joan’s eyes as she delivered the message. It immediately made James suspicious. “I dinnae believe that Davina would say such a thing.”

  Joan lifted one eyebrow. “Refusing to accept the truth willnae change it,” she replied haughtily.

  “I’ll accept it if, and only if, I hear those words fall from Davina’s lips,” James answered. “Until then, I will continue to press my suit.”

  “What a rude, selfish reply! Yet I would expect nothing less from the likes of ye.” She favored him with a mocking scowl that set his blood to boiling.

  “Dinnae speak to me of selfishness, Lady Joan. I’ve been here long enough to see the truth of what lies beneath yer pretty face. Ye are jealous of Davina and the love I have fer her and will stop at nothing to keep us apart.”

  “That’s a lie,” Joan hissed. “I care nothing fer Davina’s childish devotion to ye. What does it matter to me? My father is besieged by men who desire me as their bride. Men who are great warriors and noble, wealthy leaders of their clans, not inconsequential second sons.”

  “The laird will have to provide a very substantial dowry in order to entice any man to have a viper like ye fer a wife,” James countered.

  Joan’s eyes narrowed with anger, but James was through talking. Gritting his teeth, he shook off Joan’s hand, opened the chamber door, and stepped inside.

  Davina was alone in the room. She was sitting in bed, resting against a pile of pillows. Her lips tightened when she spied him, then with knotted fists she pulled the blankets up to her chin, covering her body completely. His gut heaved at her obvious fear of him, yet he walked forward until he was standing nearer to the bed.

  “Did ye not get my message?” she whispered, sinking beneath the covers.

  “Joan said ye dinnae wish to see me, but I knew I cannae trust her word.” He took a few steps closer, needing to see her face. Her eye was still swollen, her face pale, but the bruises had started to fade. “Ye are my betrothed, Davina. ’Tis only right that we spend time together.”

  “Oh, James.” She brought her hand up to her mouth and shook her head. “I feared that yer nobility would force ye to honor yer proposal, but I shall not hold ye to it. I release ye from the pledge to wed me.”

  “Nay!” He touched her cheek with his knuckle and she began to tremble. “We shall be married. It need not happen soon—we both need time to heal.”

  She turned an uneasy gaze toward him. “I know in time my body shall mend, but the memories and fear of the attack will always remain. ’Tis unfair to saddle ye with such a broken woman fer a wife.”

  He shook his head vehemently. “I dinnae feel that way.”

  “But I do!” She shouted the words, but the effort drained her strength. Davina slumped against the pillows and he saw a tear slide down her check. “Why must ye torture me with visions of what can never happen? I can never be yer wife, James. I can never be any man’s wife.”

  “I love ye, Davina.” He curled his fingers gently over hers, but she wrenched her hand away. “We shall face this together, overcome it together.”

  Beneath her covers he saw her shiver. “The memories willnae leave me.”

  “Davina, they will eventually fade, if only—”

  “Dear Lord have mercy! Are ye not listening to me? ’Tis best this way, James.”

  “Ye cannae mean it, Davina.”

  “Aye, I do.” Sorrow and shame crowded into her eyes and he felt his heart shattering into a thousand pieces.

  “Ye must give it time, lass. Ye’ll feel differently in a few weeks.”

  “Nay. Time only makes the memories of the attack more vivid and hateful. ’Tis why I beg the healer to dose me with potions that make me sleep, that help me forget.” She made a sound deep in the back of her throat that was part frustration and shame. “Please, James, as soon as ye are able, take yer leave of Armstrong Castle. Return home and forget about me.”

  “Never!”

  Her eyes focused on him. “If ye ever had any true feelings fer me, ye will accept this and do as I ask. Leave and never return.”

  James was stunned. He grimaced, tortured emotions of anger taking control of him, spreading like a fever through his entire body. He lifted his arm, needing to smash something, but Davina’s sudden cry stopped him cold. Somehow mastering his crushing pain, James slowly lowered his arm.

  There was silence in the chamber. Davina turned her head and pressed her face into the pillow. He could hear the soft sobs that she tried to muffle and his heart broke anew.

  Scowling, he left the chamber.

  Thankfully, the corridor was empty. Never in his life had he felt so completely alone. He steeled himself to courage as he stood there, knowing that somehow he must find the strength to do as Davina asked.

  ’Twas such a part of his nature to fight for what he wanted in life, but in this case James knew he was defeated. It was his fault that Davina was so frightened, so scarred, so broken. He had failed her. He had no right to expect her to still love him, though he knew his heart would forever belong to her.

  Even if she no longer wanted that heart.

  Sleep was impossible to achieve, but James forced himself to stay in his bed for the remainder of the day and through the long night. He arose as dawn was breaking, carefully dressed, and then packed his belongings. Having too much pride to sneak off like a thief in the night, he waited in the great hall until the household gathered to break their fast.

  He bid the laird and Lady Armstrong a polite farewell. The latter made an impassioned plea for him to remain until he was fully healed, but James could not abide staying within these walls another day. He also declined the laird’s lackluster offer of an escort, his stubborn McKenna pride refusing to acknowledge the need for assistance of any kind.

  He saddled his horse himself. After securing a dirk in each of his boots, James hoisted himself into the saddle. A sharp pain raced up his arm and his legs quivered, but he managed to settle himself.

  Moisture collected on his upper lip and brow, but he ignored the pain. Head held high, a brokenhearted James rode through the gates of Armstrong Castle, over the drawbridge, and through the village.

  Though sorely tempted, he never once looked back.

  The brigand arrived at the private glen well before the appointed meeting time. He kept his head lowered, to avoid the biting wind, though his ears were attune to the surrounding sounds. Dismounting gingerly from his horse, he placed his sore, bruised hand on his sword hilt and strode into the dense forest. A light, misty rain had started falling, but the trees still retained enough of their leaves to provide an adequate cover from the worst of it.

  Damp, aching, and miserable, he waited. A sudden noise warned him of a presence. The brigand spun around, then turned and peered ah
ead through the underbrush. He saw no one.

  Suddenly, a bolt of lightning cracked and sizzled about his head, illuminating the area in unnatural brightness. The wind picked up to a violent fury, spraying moisture in his face, the droplets of water clinging to his scraggly beard.

  A flock of birds scattered wildly in the sky. A second thunder crack brought another flash of intense light and, startled, he cried out, for a cloaked figure stood not ten feet away.

  “I dinnae hear ye approach,” he blustered.

  “Aye,’tis what I intended,” the figure answered. “Where is Drummond?”

  “Dead. His wounds festered. He told me where to meet ye before the fever turned him into a babbling half-wit.” The brigand sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Did ye bring the payment?”

  “I did.”

  He raised his arm and caught the leather purse that was tossed his way. Frowning, he weighed the pouch in his left hand. “It feels light.”

  “’Tis the price that was agreed upon.”

  “But the task was more complicated. We should be paid more to compensate fer the injuries and deaths.”

  The figure sighed with annoyance. “Ye are lucky to get what I give ye. I never instructed Drummond to be so brutal to them. I wanted Sir James driven away and the relationship between them ended. That’s all.”

  The brigand felt his jaw twist and set. “We did what ye hired us to do. I saw McKenna ride out two days ago.”

  “Aye, and no thanks to ye,” the figure accused. “He could barely sit upon his horse.”

  “Ye dinnae tell us that McKenna was such a wild one!” the brigand blustered. “Ye said it would be easy to surprise them, to frighten him off. But he fought like a man possessed, killing two of our men outright and badly wounding two others. Drummond has already gone to meet his maker and ’tis doubtful if Eudard will survive.”

  The cloaked figure regarded him with a penetrating stare. “Then ye’ve no cause to complain about the wages ye have earned. I have paid the price and now there are fewer to share it, leaving more fer each of ye.”