by Rowan Keats
“Sweet Danu.”
A ruddy pattern of swirls and dots was growing like a mystical vine down both of Ana’s arms. Aiden had never seen anything like it, and as the vines crept over the backs of her hands, reaching her fingers, he took a step forward. They would soon be touching Isabail’s flesh.
Niall’s hand flattened against his chest, staying further movement. “Have faith.”
It took all of Aiden’s willpower to resist the urge to throw off Niall’s hand. His heart pounded in his chest with a fear like he’d never known before. But he trusted Niall. And he desperately needed Isabail to awaken.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, he subsided and allowed Ana to work her magic. And it was clearly magic. But if this was what it took to bring Isabail back from the brink of death, so be it.
Ana removed one hand from Isabail’s face and sank it into the bucket of water. A few minutes later, she switched hands. A wince flickered across her face, and she began to shiver uncontrollably.
Niall tensed.
Aiden could see that his brother wanted to go to Ana, to hold her, but he did not. He waited, as impatient as Aiden, for the healing to take its course.
Finally, after a long, unbearable length of time, Ana dropped both hands to her sides. She appeared utterly drained. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and Aiden swore she’d gotten thinner in the hour or so she’d taken to complete the healing.
Niall rushed forward and dropped a blanket over Ana’s shoulders. Displaying more tenderness than Aiden had ever seen, Niall scooped the redheaded healer into his lap and sat with her before the fire, her body cradled against his chest.
“Is it done?” Aiden asked hoarsely.
Isabail still had no color, and he feared the worst.
“Aye,” murmured Ana from the depths of Niall’s arms. “I’ve done all that I can do.”
“Will she awaken?” he asked brusquely.
“I believe so. Let her rest.”
The promise of a happy resolution seemed weak, but Aiden chose to believe in it. He gathered Isabail and her blankets into his arms and strode toward his chamber. Just before he left the close, he called back to his brother, “The door to the tomb is open. Seal it as soon as you’re able.”
* * *
Isabail awoke with a scream on her lips.
“Hush,” said a familiar deep voice that vibrated against her cheek. MacCurran. “You are safe.”
Midafternoon sunlight poured into the chamber through an open-shuttered window, creating a thick stream of golden air, which highlighted every mote of dust in the air. The dark void was gone, and the steady beat of MacCurran’s heart had replaced the unbearable silence.
Safe.
Cocooned in his embrace, supported by the well-stuffed contours of his down-filled mattress, Isabail could easily believe her hours in the tomb had simply been a dreadful nightmare. Except her throat was sore from screaming and her fingers throbbed from tearing at the granite slab.
“You found me,” she whispered.
“Aye.”
“How?”
“What possessed you to venture into the tunnels alone?” he asked.
Isabail’s cheeks flushed with guilt. How could she tell him she’d been seeking evidence that he was a liar and a murderer? True, she’d done it more for Daniel than to answer any of her lingering doubts, but it was still betrayal. “I was curious about the winch. I spied it while looking for spices and wondered what it was for.”
“Curiosity drove you from your bed in the middle of the night?”
Here at least, she could be honest. “I knew you would be angry if I ventured into the tunnels again, so I did it when I knew you were gone.”
“Foolish lass.”
Indeed. The last thing she remembered from her ordeal was the tight feeling of airlessness in her chest and a dizzy lightness in her head that made it difficult to think. She had been certain she was drawing her last breath.
“Who is buried in the tomb?”
“That’s not important.”
“A king or a prince of some sort, judging by the crown,” she guessed, unwilling to let the subject die. She’d spent a lot of time wondering whom she would be buried with. “A Pictish king, if the symbols on the door are to be believed.”
He tipped her head to look in her eyes. “What do you know of Pictish kings?”
“Lochurkie was once owned by the Picts. There are standing stones etched with their symbols all over the land.” She bit her lip. “John was curious about them and told me stories of the Painted Ones. Savages, he said, who once roamed the land, hunting and slaying the Gaels at will.”
He grunted. “Your brother knew naught of what he spoke.”
Isabail pushed at his chest, separating them. “He knew they were just tales. No one truly knows anything of the Picts. They are long gone.”
MacCurran released her and rolled from the pallet. “Barbarians do not build stone fortresses like this one,” he said, pointing to the walls. “Skilled craftsmen do.”
She looked around. “Surely the walls of this fort were built by Scots.”
“Nay,” he said. “The walls, like the rest of this broch, have stood here for hundreds of years, slowly crumbling away. The MacCurrans have occupied this glen for three hundred years, and it was here when we arrived.”
She frowned. “The walls are sturdy still. Why did you not claim it as your own, then? Why build a new keep?”
“Because for a very long time, a druid lived here,” he said, “and swore it was a hallowed ground deserving of respect.”
“He knew of the tomb,” she guessed.
MacCurran nodded. “In his own way, he guarded it.”
“Yet you now trample that hallowed ground without care,” she pointed out. “Why allow the palace to crumble and overgrow with weeds when you do not follow the druid’s beliefs?”
“Did I say we did not honor the druid’s beliefs?”
“You occupy the fort.”
“We begged sanctuary, and it was granted.”
Isabail sat up. Her boots had been removed and placed neatly beside the mattress. She slid her feet into them and pushed to her feet. “Begged sanctuary? From whom? I thought the druid was dead.”
“Did I say that?”
She could not be certain if he was serious or making a jest. “The druid yet lives?”
“Enough. I must ask you never to speak of what you found in the tunnels,” he said. “Let us get some food. You’ve not eaten for nearly a day.”
Judging by the closed expression on his face, she would not be getting any further information. And he was right about the food—the ache in her belly was a persistent sign that she was hungry. Still, one question yet nagged her. As she tied the laces of her boots, she asked, “Can you not tell me the name of the tomb’s inhabitant? We very nearly shared the same final resting place.”
He turned to her, his eyes dark and serious. “If I told you, you would never again be permitted to leave the glen.”
It was such a preposterous statement that Isabail started to laugh, but MacCurran’s frank and completely humorless delivery froze the chuckle in her throat. Dear Lord. What kind of secret could this clan be hiding that prompted such coldhearted threats?
* * *
“You found her inside the tomb?” Niall repeated, eyes wide.
“Aye.”
“She saw the crown and the sword?”
Aiden sighed. Had he not already explained this? “Aye.”
“By the gods. You were right to fear her return to Lochurkie. She’ll reveal the location of the tomb.”
The risk was very real. Only one thing worked in their favor. “She does not realize the importance of what she found.”
“That might be worse,” Niall said with a groan. “She might casually change the
future of Scotland as she tells an amusing tale to her admiring beaus.”
The image of Isabail surrounding by admiring beaus proved surprisingly annoying. “I’ll make certain she tells no one of what she’s seen.”
“How? Once she’s returned to Lochurkie, she’ll be beyond your control.”
“Leave Isabail to me,” Aiden said firmly.
Chapter 10
Daniel was dozing when Isabail entered the bedchamber to check on his injuries. Most of the wounds were healing well—scabs had formed and the new flesh was pink and healthy. Even the deep slice on his biceps showed the early signs of knitting well. But one cut, a gnawing on his left wrist, was angry red and oozing yellow pus.
Isabail cut away the putrid bandage and carefully cleansed the wound with a fresh linen cloth. She was studying the wound with a frown when Daniel opened his eyes.
He lifted his arm and peered at the bite. “It needs an aggressive treating,” he pronounced calmly. “Soak strips of linen in vinegar or wine and wrap them around my wrist.”
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I am that if we do not do this, I will lose my hand,” he said with a faint smile.
When she returned with a bowl of vinegar, he was sitting up, his back against the stone wall.
“My apologies, Isabail.”
“For what?” she asked as she dipped the bandages in the bowl.
“I neglected to ask how you were. Muirne and I spent much of the night worried for your safety.”
“I am fine. A wee embarrassed perhaps, but otherwise unharmed.” She washed the wound with the wet linen.
“Would that I could have left my bed to go in search of you. You would not have spent long hours in despair.” He met her gaze. “Muirne informed me that you went into the tunnels alone.”
Isabail shrugged. “There is nothing more dangerous in the tunnels than a spider or two.”
He cocked his head. “But you got lost?”
“Nay, not lost,” she disputed. “Trapped.”
“Dear Lord. I truly did fail you,” he said. “Did a section of the tunnel collapse?”
“Nothing so dire,” she assured him.
Arching a brow, he waited for her to continue.
Isabail hesitated. Revealing her discovery of the crown did not feel right, even to Daniel, whom she trusted explicitly. “I stumbled upon a small room off the tunnel. Unfortunately, having found my way inside, I could not locate a way to exit.”
“You could not simply retrace your steps?”
She grimaced, reliving the terror she’d felt. “The door locked behind me.”
He took her hand and squeezed. “I should never have sent you looking for the necklace. Finding it is my cross to bear, not yours.”
Isabail agreed, but she did not have the heart to say so. Finding the necklace was important to Daniel—but not to her. She no longer believed MacCurran had the necklace. She smiled ruefully. “If only I had found the necklace, it would have made the ordeal worthwhile.”
“You saw no other evidence of a hidden cache? No locked chest? No shrouded repository?”
“I looked everywhere,” she said truthfully. “Searched every corner and crevasse. The necklace is not in the tunnels.”
“Forget the necklace. I’m just relieved that you were found.” He shook his head. “I would never have forgiven myself had anything befallen you. Promise me that you won’t take such risks again.”
“We cannot give up the search,” she said. As long as Daniel believed she was looking for the necklace, he would relax and let himself heal. “But now that I know how I triggered the door to lock, I will avoid decorative floor tiles if I ever see one again.”
His jaw dropped. “A floor tile caused the door to lock?”
She nodded. “The Picts were surprisingly skilled. The entrance to the room was a huge granite slab that pivots. Quite a feat.”
“I would enjoy seeing such a marvel,” Daniel said, as he watched her rebandage his arm. “Perhaps when I am on my feet again, you can show me.”
A lump settled in Isabail’s belly. She had not meant to say as much as she had. Showing Daniel the hidden room in the tunnels was impossible. “Perhaps,” she said, knotting the bandage snugly. “But frankly, I’m more eager to explore the rest of this ruin. There must be other places to hide a necklace.”
“Surely,” he agreed. “But you’ve already risked your life. I cannot ask you to do so again. Give me a day to two to heal, and I’ll take up the search.”
“You have a guard at your door,” she reminded him. “And even if they cease to guard you, they will watch you closely. There are fewer eyes upon me.”
His gaze met hers. “Do not take offense, Isabail, but it’s obvious you harbor doubts as to whether MacCurran stole the necklace.”
He did not add and poisoned John, but Isabail heard the echo of those words anyway. Her face flushed. “It’s true. I have every reason to believe the man is a blackguard, but if you could have seen his face as he told the tale of the man in black, you might have doubts too.”
“You have a tender heart, Isabail. I think sometimes you see what you prefer to see.”
She sat back. “Are you not angry with me?”
Daniel adjusted his position against the wall, wincing as he moved one hip. “I will not lie. I am disappointed that you do not seem as eager as I am to claim justice for John,” he admitted.
Guilt was a sharp stab in her chest.
“But,” he added, “I have known you too long to believe you disloyal. I know you will demand justice if the proof of his crimes is irrefutable. That’s another reason to find the necklace.”
“And if we never find it?”
He offered her a faint smile. “Do you ask if I can then accept that MacCurran is innocent?”
She nodded.
He looked away. “Failing to discover the necklace is not the same as proving he did not steal it. Nay, I will not easily be shaken from my belief that MacCurran killed John.”
A fair and honest response. And exactly what she had expected of Daniel. “I will continue to search for the necklace”—she caught his worried frown—“with great care. You must focus on healing. Is there anything I can bring you to help speed your recovery?”
“Some willow bark tea would not go amiss,” he admitted. “Just be sure to make it yourself. I do not trust any made by a MacCurran.”
“Or Ana Bisset.”
He smiled. “Indeed.”
* * *
An irrefutable sign that his clan had been in hiding too long was the volume of complaints that were brought before Aiden when he held court. Small issues, all. Accusations of hoarding, cheating, and idleness. Petty bickering that at its root lay lack of purpose. Hiding in the hills, there were no lands to tend, no pigs to feed, no tools to repair. And whose fault was that? His. The only cure for what ailed his kin was regaining Dunstoras.
Aiden ruled on the last of the grievances and ended the court session with a demand for tolerance.
Then he left the broch in search of a task to soothe his turbulent thoughts.
The horses were kept in the outer enclosure. The old stable master had been one of the casualties of their escape from Dunstoras, so the animals were now loosely assigned to younger lads for care. To the amazement of all, Jamie had taken a leadership role since returning to the camp with Niall. When Aiden approached, he was teaching several other lads how to coax a stubborn horse into offering up its hoof to be cleaned.
Aiden picked up a curry brush and wove through the other horses and across the snow to where his stallion was staked. A bay with two white stockings and a white blaze, the destrier had been a gift from his father upon his majority. Well trained and strong of heart, the horse had quickly proven to be Aiden’s most valuable tool in battle. Aiden ran a hand over the st
allion’s velvet-soft muzzle. The horse responded by pushing against his hand and giving an approving snort.
Using long, smooth strokes, he began to brush the beast.
“You’ve no need to do that, laird,” Jamie said, jogging to his side.
Aiden paused. The boy had matured a great deal in recent weeks, for which Niall deserved a great deal of credit. Aiden had left the boy in his brother’s care, hoping the two would fare well together, and it seemed it was the right decision.
“I value the service you provide to the horses,” he said to Jamie, “but a soldier must bond with his horse if he’s to demand great things of it in battle.” He resumed his brushstrokes. “For all he does for me, I owe this horse more than a brush or two.”
Jamie nodded. “My father is of a like mind.”
His father, Aiden’s cousin Wulf, had disappeared the night the necklace was stolen. The same night Jamie’s mother and younger brother had been poisoned. It was probably long past time the lad accepted that his father was gone, but Aiden didn’t have the heart to tell him so. The boy had lost too much already.
Locating Wulf’s dapple gray destrier among the small herd of horses, he asked, “Who rides your father’s horse to keep him in good form?”
“No one,” confessed Jamie. “He’s a tad difficult to handle.”
“He responds well to you, I suspect.”
The boy nodded. “He knows my voice.”
“Think you can mount him?”
Jamie’s eyes widened. “Aye.”
“See to his exercise, then. Not alone, mind. Take him out when the other Black Warriors take to the saddle.”
A grin broke across the boy’s face. “Aye, laird.” He started toward the horse, then stopped. “Thank you, laird.”
Aiden nodded. If that’s all it took to lighten the lad’s burden, he should have done it weeks ago.
“Chief?”
A glance over his shoulder confirmed that Cormac was standing behind him, a frown creasing his brow. “Aye?”
“The rescue of Hamish and the others was a worthy undertaking,” the bowman said, the tone of his voice serious.
“But . . . ?”