***
The next day Nicholas woke before the sun had crested the horizon, the sky outside the window a murky haze with thin faint streaks of pink crossing the velvety darkness. He stared at the ceiling, noting with approval the heavy wooden beam that supported the floor above him, the fresh whitewashed plaster on the walls. The room was well constructed, clean and tidy, kept well by the family owning it. Mary, what little he’d seen of the woman, seemed sure of herself. He sat up gingerly, ignoring the twinge in his ribs, the pull of flesh stitched tight but not healed. Nausea followed quickly but he forced that down as well, refusing to fall prey to the sickness. His breath came with difficulty, his chest burning at his attempts to breathe deeply. He cursed the horse and rider, knowing he should not be complaining, lying in a bed alive as he was.
He sighed and pushed himself up in order to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. Vertigo nearly made him lie back again but the returning bodily functions insisted he waste no time.
“Bloody hell,” Nicholas muttered, looking down where he knew the chamber pot should be only to find the space empty. Had he moved it yesterday? Kicked it? He could not remember, nor could he recall if any of the servants had removed it either. Sleep tended to take him fully, without the awareness he usually had to sense when someone was near. He blamed the Drummonds for that, sure they were giving him something to make him slumber in order to keep him in hand. He slid to the edge of the bed and set his feet on the floor, shivering at the chill of the stone and stood up. For a second, he felt fine and then his vision went gray then black. He grabbed for the blankets on the bed but they slid off as he collapsed to the floor, knocking over a small table set beside the bed.
He laid there for a moment, tangled in the blanket, his head throbbing, his bladder threatening to let go in a most embarrassing event, and then the door opened.
He resisted the impulse to swear, turned his head to see if the chamber pot sat under the bed and was disheartened to find it pushed under so far he could not reach it.
Mary, in a pale white shift with her hair bound in a long braid over one shoulder, appeared beside him. “Are ye all right?”
“Bloody well,” Nicholas muttered sarcastically.
“Ah,” she said, peering at him curiously. She held the candle she carried over his head. “Did ye have a nightmare?”
He gritted his teeth, squinting at the light. “No, just leave me in peace.”
“Well, I might if ye were in bed as ye should be. William said you were in no shape to be up and about.”
“I had a reason,” Nicholas gasped, rolling over to his side, “for getting up.”
“Ah,” Mary said again. She dragged the blankets out from under him when he pushed himself to his knees. Holding his head still, Nicholas waited for his temples to stop throbbing. Mary leaned down and looked under the bed and then frowned. “It would be simpler to go down the hall.”
Nicholas struggled to one knee, shocked at how weak he felt. “What is down the hall?”
“The garderobe.”
Nicholas lifted his head to look at the woman. She was leaning over him in concern, her hair coiled over her arm, her shift open at the throat beneath her shawl. The fluttering pulse mesmerized him and he licked his lips at the thought of how she might taste there. Mary straightened and gripped the neck of her gown, her cheeks suddenly pink, blue eyes wide.
“Ye shouldn’t look at me like that,” she said primly.
Nicholas used the bed to pull himself to his feet. He clutched the corner post. “How was I looking at you, Mary?” He smiled, amused by her sudden consternation.
“Like ye know what I look like without . . . with no clothes on.” She pressed her lips together and stared at him haughtily.
He had imagined quite often what lay beneath the thin cloth covering her nearly head to toe. The thought made him grin, which then made Mary’s cheeks grow even pinker. Cramps in his kidneys reminded him of necessity. “How far is it?”
“Not far at all, a few steps down the hall to the left.” She eyed him curiously. “Do ye need help?”
He would have said no under most circumstances, forced himself to control the forces of nature. It was nearly too late as it was. “Aye,” he admitted stiffly. “My head is a bit too fuzzy to be able to see well enough.” He would not admit it was more the fear he would never make it that far as weak as he was.
Mary gripped his arm to draw it over her shoulder. “Let me help ye then, I won’t tell.”
Nicholas looked at her in surprise. He leaned on her for support and stumbled toward the door. “Not a soul?”
She laughed. “Not a soul, Nicholas Mackay, yer secret is safe with me.”
***
Mary carefully folded the tunic, admiring the workmanship. It was a simple garment that was much like the shift she wore, with long narrow sleeves to the wrist, pulled over the head with a slit for the neck, but shorter to fall only to a man’s knees. Nicholas had worn it beneath his mail, under a leather tunic that was still damp from washing. The shirt was embroidered with tiny stitching, leaves and ivy trailed along the neck opening and along the bottom edge of the sleeves. She placed it on top of his trousers, and then added the remains of his cloak, although clean, in serious disrepair and useless in her mind. His boots, unusual for a highland Scot, sat near the fire to dry.
Nicholas Mackay was a puzzle to her brothers. They could not help but be suspicious of the Highlander, even knowing who he was. His clothing suggested a man well used to fighting, the tunic in her hands of a quality and weave unfamiliar to her. He had clearly traveled far, the locket she’d taken and now had hidden in her room was strange, the details tiny and intricate. Mary knew she should give his things back now that he was awake, should return his clothes since they were clean and mended.
She was reluctant to do so, however, fearing he might then flee the keep before he was fully healed. Nicholas had coughed much in the night, the sound keeping her awake in her room a few doors down from his. Rory’s room, in fact, a guest room until her brother returned from Bannockburn. William had asked after the Highlander but had not gone to see him again, accepting Mary’s assurances that the man was doing better. She wondered sometimes, if that were true when she listened to his struggle to breathe. William had concluded Nicholas’s illness was due to an impact, likely from a horse, the blown severe and sharp enough it had affected one of his lungs. She could not help but worry at the efforts it took for him to breathe, certain he was hiding the pain she was sure he must be feeling.
Mary glanced at the basket on the table that held assorted herbs and vials. William had suggested an assortment of things to ease Nicholas’s symptoms, declaring he would need to be well enough to travel, which meant he would leave Drymen and she would never see him again. William refused to speak more of the man, had told her not to worry after him, that he’d be gone soon enough, something her brothers all seemed to look forward to. What was it about the man that unsettled them? She didn’t know.
Mary didn’t want him to go, not yet, not when she found she could hardly pass the day without going in to see him.
She did not stay long, fled sometimes after only a few minutes under his scrutiny.
Mary sighed and lifted the bundle of clothing into her arms, and then picked up the basket as well. She made her way up the stairs to the second floor and walked quietly down the wide hall. Tapestries graced the bare stone to warm the passageway and deflect any drafts. The third door sat closed as it had since Nicholas had joined them, but was unlocked. She pushed it open and then paused in the doorway.
He was sleeping, for once breathing quietly, his chest bare above the sheet draped over his waist. One of Rory’s nightshirts lay in a heap at her feet. Mary sniffed and kicked it aside. She shut the door and crossed the room on tiptoe to set the clothes on the seat near the fire. When she turned toward Nicholas, it was to find him awake, his green eyes once more locked on her person.
&nbs
p; “Ooh,” Mary said, flinching at the direct stare.
“Have you brought me my clothes finally?”
She turned away and refolded the tunic on top of the pile. “Aye, ye’ve been a good lad, considering.” She disliked the tremor in her voice, the breathlessness he could incite with that unwavering gaze.
He snorted rudely. Mary looked over her shoulder to find him sitting up, the sheet pushed indecently low. She swallowed and quickly turned back to his clothes. She cleared her throat of the lump suddenly lodged inside. “I’ve washed yer things and mended the tears. Perhaps in a few days ye will be well enough to sit in the garden for some fresh air. William says the air is good for what ails a man.”
“Where is your brother?”
She shrugged, smoothing the fabric under her hands. “Ah, he’s about. Rory is due home soon.”
“Rory? How many brothers do you have?” Nicholas’s tone sounded amused and Mary looked over her shoulder to find him scratching absently at his side, his gaze hooded as he watched her.
“Three. Rory was injured at Bannockburn and is on his way home now. Malcolm is here about, William,” she shrugged and turned to face Nicholas, holding the clothes tight to her chest. “He comes and goes as he wants.” The green eyes shifted, suddenly akin to a caress as they drifted over her. Mary quivered at the intensity of his gaze, wondering if she was a fool to have come again. “I have brought yer clothes, but ye are not to get out of bed until William agrees.”
She flinched at the low growl he offered in response. He swung his legs out from under the sheet and slid to the edge of the bed. Mary held her breath, unable to pull her eyes away as the blanket bunched around his hips. He had long legs. A scar ran along the top of his knee to nearly mid thigh, the color white against the dark, fine dark hair that covered his legs from ankle to thigh. His chest above the sheet was bare, a wide expanse of muscle that nearly stole Mary’s breath. Seeming unaware of her study, he shifted to look at her, planting his feet firmly on the floor and held out his hand.
“Give them to me,” he ordered, his voice cool and expectant.
Mary stared at him for a long moment, the sight of him holding her in place. She’d known he would want his clothes, annoyed as most men were at being abed for so long. She didn’t want him to go. She had few options to keep him there, and used the only advantage she had. “I will give them to ye, but first ye must promise to stay in bed, as William suggested.”
“And if I wish not to?”
Mary felt as if his eyes were willing her to come closer, challenging her. She resisted but with great effort. “Then I will keep them,” she declared, if a bit unsteadily, her voice reedy with nerves. She thought she saw a flash of amusement in his eyes before he lowered his chin, looking at her with lips tight in irritation.
“Then you leave me little choice in adornment,” Nicholas complained. He threw off the blanket and rose to his feet.
Mary, cheeks flaming instantly, turned around quickly, but not quickly enough. She closed her eyes to the vision behind her as well as inside her head and tried not to emit the gasp of pleasure the sight of him brought to her insides.
“I dislike sleeping in a gown,” Nicholas complained, his voice directly behind her. Mary squeezed her eyes tighter and clung to the clothes against her chest. “I dislike being held hostage by a wee lass,” he continued and his voice changed to something heated, like the blacksmith’s furnace ready to be stoked to flame. “And I dislike,” he added softly, his lips near her ear. “Most intensely, the fact that I cannot leave.”
The whisper reverberated with something she could not quite name. He sounded angry, yet beneath that was more, an underlying emotion that colored his tone, made her skin prickle with goose bumps. She felt him brush against her back and nearly squeaked in alarm when his arm appeared beside her to block her way left. His breath sent a chill down her spine as he dropped his hand to her shoulder to turn her around. She couldn’t help but glance down, relieved but yet disappointed that he had pulled the sheet with him and had it wrapped around his waist.
“Ye are not a prisoner,” Mary insisted, nearly undone when she looked into his green eyes. Nicholas stared at her with lids half closed, all emotion hidden from her except for a flicker of a smile curving his mouth. Naked beneath the blanket, he left her with little recourse to deny his request. She swallowed and glued her eyes to his chest. Her shaking knees threatened to send her to the floor while heat flooded from the top of her hair to her toes.
“You will give me my clothes, Mary.”
He issued the command in a soft voice, yet his tone held a certain amount of arrogance that she would obey it without question. She forced herself to meet his gaze, aware suddenly that here was the man Angus had warned her about. Dangerous with a sword in hand, Nicholas was far more terrifying when his self-assurance mixed with a potent male virility that spoke to her blood instinctively. Seductive when he wasn’t trying, when he was he was simply devastating. Mary shoved his clothes into his arms.
“Here, take them then, Nicholas Mackay. As to yer leaving, it will not be so easy or assured. We’ve given a promise to yer clan to keep you safe from harm and for no other reason.” She shrugged and moved back a step. “And a promise given is one kept.”
“I think you’ve done enough of that already,” Nicholas reminded her. He reached out and drew a length of her hair from her cheek. Mary trembled at the near touch, mouth open to breathe shallowly. “But know that when I am ready I will leave, whether the Drummonds want me to or not.”
He stood so tall she had to lean back to look at him. Mary had seen men scantily dressed before. Highland hospitality as it was, she’d often helped men to bathe, as did her mother. But the sight of a man had never made her tremble; she’d never wanted to lay a hand against a man’s skin to feel him, to know if his blood was as hot as hers. Mary blinked and then swallowed, lifting her eyes from his chest. Several days worth of stubble covered Nicholas’s jaw and only enhanced the aura of danger that surrounded him. She let loose a long breath when he turned away to toss his clothes on the table.
“Go away, Mary.”
Another command, but different this time, with a tone Mary decided was prudent to obey. She left the room quickly, her nerves quivering with the need to flee as well as the desire to return to his room and explore what lay beneath the sheet wrapped around his waist.
Chapter 4
It was nearly a week later that Nicholas finally felt well enough to venture out of his bed. The Drummonds had left him alone for the remainder of the week giving him ample time to plan his escape. He had been at Drymen for nearly three weeks, most of the time spent on his back, dizzy, far too weak and increasingly frustrated at his lack of energy and ill health.
It was not like him to be abed for so long. He should have left the keep days ago, yet something held him back, kept him at Drymen far longer than he would have stayed otherwise.
The reason had twinkling blue eyes and striking pale hair. A petite woman, he was sure Mary would fit nicely under his arm. He had lain in bed for days imagining her in many ways, a number of them without clothes as she had often accused him. He grinned briefly at the thought. She had courage. She had defiantly gone alone to Bannockburn to find her brothers. Pretty as she was, it was a wonder she had not fallen prey to some trouble. Such a woman would fit well into the Highlands had he anything to offer.
The idea was curiously unsettling considering his reasons for leaving Scotland in the first place.
Word had come that his family was on the way, not a good thing at all. Donald Mackay had had intentions for his son. Nicholas, always rebellious of his father’s control, had fled the Highlands to defy that intention - marriage to an ugly chieftain’s second daughter to secure allies for the clan.
Nicholas wouldn’t do it.
The Mackay clan’s power came from their military skill in combat, a reputation bolstered by fierce loyalties to both clan and country. Yet he ha
d denied that heritage and had avoided his family duty for nearly fifteen years by joining any fight he could find. Even had he wanted to go home, which at times he had, defiance had overruled the homesickness. Skirmishes, outright battles, hardship such as he had endured over those years were nothing compared to marrying a woman he did not want. It had seemed little price to pay.
All that effort was now in jeopardy if he could not rise from his bed to flee once again. He shuddered to think of what his father’s plans would be now that he had learned Nicholas was back. Yet, even with the urgency to leave, he found he could not, the motivation to stay wore her hair in a long braid down her back and had lips that made him want to haul her into his arms to kiss her soundly. He smiled at the thought of Mary and then sighed with a glance at the door. He was disappointed she had not been in at all today. Even though she said little, her presence was a bright spot in an otherwise dreary existence.
A commotion sounded from below him, most likely in the main hall. Dogs were barking, people shouting. Nicholas sat up and reached for his breeches. He dragged them on, cursing at how weak he felt. Tying the laces took longer than he liked, frustration mounting when his fingers didn’t seem to work correctly.
A voice echoed loudly down the hall, gravelly, laughing -- a voice he recognized with growing consternation.
“Damn,” Nicholas cursed and rolled off the bed to his feet, searching the room for any kind of weapon. There was little to be had, the room was nearly empty but for the big four-poster bed, a chest at the end, the seat and a few small tables. He looked at the bed, at the poles holding the heavy curtains drawn in winter for warmth. He climbed onto the mattress and heaved at the poles, nearly falling off in his haste as one came free.
Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay Page 3