by Temple Hogan
The distressed lowing of a cow came to her—Blarach, Thom Hardy’s favorite milk cow. The message had stated a neighbor from a croft below would tend the stock until relatives could come. Obviously he’d not made it this day. It was just as well. She’d soon have milk enough for them all.
She pulled the cart to a halt before the cottage door and let her shoulders sag. It had been a hard day for anybody to endure, and now, she must tend two wounded men, a bawling milk cow and a wee babe who’d lost its mother these two days past. No sound came from the back of the cart. She was of a mind to slump down on the hard wooden bench and rest her head a bit, but rain slashed at her and she knew she must go on. There was no one else to take the burden from her shoulders.
Wearily she climbed down and walked to the rear of the cart. Callum MacAlister made no move. Nor did his young guardsman, Toby. The boy lay unnaturally still. She checked his pulse and found none. Tears welled for an instant before she dashed them away and anger took over. More death. More innocent lives taken and for what purpose?
“M’laird,” she said shaking Callum’s shoulder, but he didn’t respond. “God’s tears, don’t tell me you’re dead, too!” she exclaimed and shook him harder.
He groaned and rolled his head. Rose woke and began to cry, a desperately weakened mewing. The cow bawled impatiently, the fine horses stamped in protest against the cart pole and rain pounded them all without let up. She held the baby against her shoulder and looked at the sky.
“I didn’t think you could make it worse,” she muttered. “But you have.” She lowered her gaze, considering what to do first. Best to get the bairn inside and start a fire. She opened the door and stepped inside the humble cottage.
Relief flooded her at the surcease of the rain pounding against her. In that moment, no castle, no matter how grand, could compare with the sense of warmth and security the sturdy croft offered. She held her breath, half expecting the dwelling to dissolve around her then hurried to put the baby down and light a lamp. Her gaze swept around the room, taking in the homemade plenishing then paused at the fireplace with its stack of peat. Shedding her shawl, she knelt on the hearth, feeling pleased with herself when she soon had a fire blazing cheerfully. She left the babe propped between two pillows and went out into the rain.
Callum lay as she’d left him. He was a big man, and she despaired at how she’d get him out of the cart, but he roused enough to climb over the sides, although he fell heavily against her slender form. She guided him into the croft and left him sprawled on the bed.
The guardsman was dead. Too weary to deal with him now, she covered his sightless eyes with her shawl and spread hay to protect him from the rain.
Unhitching the horses, she led them into the byre where she rubbed them down with hay and left them a small measure of oats she found. Finally, she turned her attention to the cow.
“Easy, now, Blarach,” she crooned.
Her hands were stiff and cold, and the cow sensed her inexperience, but need lent Lilli a resolution she might not otherwise have had, so she tugged on the swollen teats. Soon she sensed a rhythm and applied herself. A bucket was quickly filled. In a small, penned area, a calf bleated piteously and guessing it might belong to Blarach, Lilli let the eager calf come in to its mother.
When she made her way back to the cottage, she found that Callum had pulled Rose into his arms and given her the tip of his finger to suckle. Such subterfuge did little to satisfy the baby’s hunger, and she paused now and then to utter a frustrated cry. Quickly, Lilli heated milk and, using a clean rag, dribbled the warm liquid into the babe’s mouth. At first, Rose spat it out, wailing in distress, but soon her hunger won out, and she greedily suckled. When her belly was full, Lilli swaddled her in a blanket warmed by the fire and placed her well back on the bed where she slept peacefully.
Lilli stood gazing at her, worrying over the helpless creature. Edward’s daughter! All that remained of the passion between two headstrong nobility—a passion that had cost too many lives, including theirs. A passion that had sparked a feud that would claim still more lives before it was through. Only she could save her brother’s baby.
She stroked the silken hair and said a silent prayer. Warmth and milk had returned some color to the tiny face, but Lilli knew a babe without its mother was in danger. She sighed. She’d done all she could for now.
She turned to her patient. She’d been all too aware as she moved about the room that he watched her with an unfathomable gaze. She stood over him and thought any man should be diminished in such a helpless state, but she sensed the force of his powerful nature and the strength of his wounded body.
“Now, ‘tis your turn,” she said quietly and tugged off the soiled jacket and the blood stained shirt beneath.
When she’d removed his clothes she drew back, momentarily averting her eyes in modesty for his broad chest was bared to her view, its breadth grand to look upon. But then her gaze was drawn to the sculpted muscles and whorls of dark hair that matted his chest. The skin was smooth and supple across muscle and bone, burned brown where the sun had touched and the sun had touched most of him. The wound gaped ugly and vicious on such a splendid body as his.
Taking a breath, she gently probed the flesh around the hole, ignoring the satiny warmth of his skin beneath her hands. He winced, and she flushed, ashamed her thoughts had dwelled on such intimate things when he was so seriously wounded.
“You’ll need stitches,” she said, searching for sewing tools. She found a small box in one of the chests with a needle and thread carefully stored within.
“How’s the lad?” he asked although the effort was telling.
“He’s no longer in this world.” She threaded her needle and turned toward him in time to see a glint of moisture in his dark eyes. “Never fear, m’laird. You’ll find another guardsman when you return home. You’ve no call to grieve. His mother will do plenty of that.”
He cast her a sorrowful glance and wiped his cheek with a blood-encrusted hand. “No, there are none who could replace Toby. He came to our home when he was but a lad, nothing more than a changeling, but all who met him loved him. None more than me.” He glanced at her again, a quick appraisal of the girl and the instrument she held. “Let’s get on with it, lass.”
She settled on the edge of the bed, her head bowed, her gaze intent on the slender steel shaft she threaded through his flesh. He grunted with pain then clenched his jaw and made no further outcry while she pulled the jagged edges of skin together with her neat stitches.
“What am I to call you?” he asked, trying to distract himself from the pain.
“Lilli Hardy,” she said, raising her head to stare at him.
“Ca—” he began, but she cut him short.
“You told me your name already, and that’s more information than I wish to know,” she said.
“That may be, but I’ve a wish you remember my name. I would have you contact my family if I die.” He met her gaze fiercely. “My mother would want to know what happened to her son.”
Lilli looked at him in some surprise. “You’re the new laird that m-my father spoke about. Why would men be trying to kill you?”
“The king has rewarded me with the return of family lands, which a distant clansman claims as his own. I believe it was he who tried to kill me.”
To change the subject and keep his mind from the pain, Callum focused his attention on the girl. She was bonnier than he’d first noted, her ivory skin smooth and unblemished. Her golden hair had dried into a wispy halo around her heart-shaped face, the curling tendrils caught back impatiently with a plain ribbon. Her dress was of fine cloth, unusual for a country lass. Its pale green bodice edged with a lace collar, its full skirts flaring from the waist, hiding the litheness of her slight figure. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. That made him draw a breath and wait for her to glance his way again. They were as soft and rich in color as the moss growing on the backside of a rock, yet with a clarity that made him think
she could see all the way into his soul.
“‘Tis the best I can do, m’laird,” she said softly in that lilting voice.
He was surprised that she had neatly sewn his wound and with a greater skill than the butchers who plied their trade on the battlefields.
“Well done, lass,” he said gruffly. “You’ve a fine hand.”
“Aye,” she said, acknowledging his words but leaving little room for the conversation to continue. “Where were you bound?” She moved about the small cottage, putting away her sewing implements and crossing to the hearth to stir a small kettle of savory smelling food.
“I think I’ve told you more than you need to know. My road runs afoul with trouble, not of my own making I might add.” He drew a deep breath, feeling some ease from the burning pain in his shoulder. “I’d be obliged if you shared with me a wee bowl of what simmers in that kettle.”
“Aye, I don’t intend to leave you starving then. What manner of woman do you take me for?” she replied tartly, and he was sorry for his implied criticism. Had she not tended him well, seeing to his fine horses and young Toby? Had she not used her own precious needle and yarn to sew his wound? Her color was high by the time she brought a bowl of stew to him.
“I expect you’ll be moving on come morning?” Though couched as a question, the meaning of her words was clear enough.
He paused in dipping his spoon into the stew and regarded her with surprise and some annoyance.
“Aye, if you’ve a wish to see me gone at morning light, I’ll ride on. I much appreciate the Highland hospitality so highly spoken of.” He lowered the bowl, his gaze still holding hers until she glanced away as if in embarrassment, but he sensed reluctance in her to speak frankly.
“It’s just that I’m fearful your presence will bring harm on our heads, and we’ve no one to protect us.”
“Where’s your man, woman?” he demanded, looking at her askance. “You don’t run this croft by yourself, do you?” Once again he dipped his spoon and gobbled down the stew while he regarded her solemnly.
“Whilst I was away, word came that my father passed but a few days ago.” She turned away just as a flush tinged her cheeks, but he’d seen it and something didn’t ring true to him. She did not lie well.
“What of your man, lass? The father of yon babe.”
“I-I…” She stammered to a halt.
She’d had no time to concoct a plausible tale, he guessed, and he wondered why she needed to make a story when the truth would surely be simpler.
“I can’t say,” she muttered, stalking back to the fire where she stood warming her hands. Her stiff back said plainly he had no call to question her when he himself had been evasive.
“Aye, we’re a pair,” he sighed and lay back against the soft heather stuffed mattress. His weary eyes studied the blackened beams above him as he imagined the security this humble dwelling offered its inhabitants. The lass seemed to have troubles of her own, and she was right to think first of her own family’s needs.
“Tomorrow, I’ll leave as you requested.” His voice faded away. He was safe here he thought, and he sank willingly into the dark warmth that claimed him. Vaguely, he heard the clatter of his bowl hitting the floor, but it no longer mattered to him.
The sound drew Lilli’s attention from her somber perusal of the fire. When she looked around, she saw that Callum MacAlister was sprawled in slumber, his heavy limbs burnished by the firelight, his dark mane falling across his wide brow. His lips had been narrowed with pain or grim with resolve, but now in slumber they were full and well molded, his jaw and nose strongly made. With his dark, intelligent eyes closed, his face held a gentleness he had not shown when awake. His demeanor was that of a warrior, but she sensed within him a possibility for tenderness.
Looking at him she thought again of Edward and Jane. How great their passion had been. She’d often wondered what brought a woman to such desire for a man that she’d give up her very life for him. Gazing at Callum, something stirred within her breast, and she looked away quickly. She had no understanding of the passions between a man and woman, and if she had the wish for such she would not choose a nobleman on which to place her heart and her life. She turned away and firmly dismissed such thoughts from her mind, but the strange fluttering of her heart continued.
Chapter Three
She was back in the hanging field, and Jane was weeping bitterly. The rain beat on their heads and drenched their woolen shawls. She had never been so cold. So cold she ached with it, and her body shivered as if with ague. She felt Jane’s frigid hands grasping hers in desperation, heard her strangled cries and knew they were in danger.
She must get them to safety, but where? Where was there protection for them now? Edward was dead, and Jane was clumsy in labor with his unborn child, weakened by shock and grief. Jane could not even mount a horse again. Half-crazed like some wounded animal, she could only stagger over the field stubble as if drunk or mad. They must not fall, she thought fearfully, for she’d never be able to get Jane on her feet again. They would lie here in this muddy field and die.
She could hear the creak of the hanging ropes straining against their burdens and the voices of men, hard and vengeful. Soon enough they would remember the women and search for them. Even now she could hear riders moving among the haystacks, coming closer. There was no time! No time!
Jane screamed—a sound filled with pain and despair. She hadn’t cried out like this when Edward was hanged. The high-pitched keening reverberated in Lilli’s head. A hand grasped her shoulder roughly.
“Wake up, lass,” a voice said urgently and she opened her eyes to stare into Callum MacAlister’s flushed face. His black eyes were shiny with fever. “You’ve wakened the babe,” he mumbled and fell back against the bed.
Only then did she hear Rose’s cries. She sat up and blinked. She’d fallen asleep at the foot of the bed where Callum and Rose slept. It had been a dream! She and Rose were safe. Safe!
But Edward and Jane were dead! Dead in the hanging fields among the haystacks. Lilli felt the wetness of her tears and sighed wearily.
“‘Tis all right, lass. We’re safe enough for now,” Callum mumbled.
Lilli pushed herself upright. She’d only closed her eyes for a moment or so she’d thought, but beyond the window the gray blur of dawn lay on the distant slope. Wearily she rose and shook out her skirts. They were still damp and wrinkled, but she paid no heed.
Crossing to the fireplace, she stirred the coals and placed peat on them then fetched a pail and some of the milk from the night before. Patiently, she tended the baby’s needs, dribbling milk into the tiny mouth until finally Rose slept in her arms, warm and content. She placed the small bundle on the bed beside Callum.
He lay silent, his feverish eyes studying her movements. Automatically she placed a cool hand against his brow and drew it away quickly.
“I can’t leave you this day, lass,” he said regretfully. “I’m at your mercy.” His voice was weak and the effort of talking made him shiver.
“Aye, you are.” She dipped a cloth into water and placed it over his feverish brow. “You’ll have to stay until you’re better.” She watched him move restlessly with chills. Crossing to a chest, she searched among its contents and pulled out an old woolen tartan and spread it across him.
Callum opened his eyes, and a thin smile curved his lips. “The MacAlister plaid.” Lovingly he rubbed his hands across the rough wool. “Many a battle I’ve fought under this tartan.”
“I’ve heard you were a brave warrior.”
His dark gaze studied her face. “You’ll let me stay then?”
“Aye, I’d not turn out any creature needing help, even a nobleman.”
He smiled weakly. “You’ve a good heart, lass.”
“Not so good, for as soon as you’re able you must ride on. I’ll not have your troubles brought to my door. I’ve plenty of my own.”
“Fair enough.” He closed his eyes then opened them again. �
�You must hide the horses. If anyone comes, the horses will give you away.”
Lilli nodded in agreement. “I’ll take them up the mountain. There’re shieling huts and pastures. No one will be there at this time of the year. They’ll be safe enough.”
She glanced at Callum, but he’d already closed his eyes. His breathing was labored, coming in harsh gasps. Rose slept like the angel she was.
“I’ll go now while Rose sleeps. Can you tend her if she cries out?” Lilli demanded urgently and watched him struggle to remain alert.
“Aye, lass, I’ll keep her safe while you’re gone. The sooner the horses are hidden, the better.” He rolled his head toward her. “And the lad. He must not be found here, or they’ll know. You must bury him. When you return, I’ll help dig a grave…” His voice trailed away.
“Humph, little good you’ll be to help with anything.” She gathered up an old shawl that had been carefully preserved in the chest and went outdoors. The horses tossed their heads in greeting, stamping their feet to show their displeasure at being closed inside such a small space.
“Don’t you get uppity with me,” she scolded them while she gave them each a portion of grain, then slipped a rope over each proud head and led them out into the morning sunlight.
Mounting the sleek white stallion Laird MacAlister had ridden, she took up the lead rope for the other and nudged the stallion’s belly with her booted heel. They headed up the mountain, and she took care to stay on rocky soil as much as possible, so they left no prints. When she returned, she’d have to brush out the signs left in the barnyard.
The rain had stopped, and the rising sun stained the distant ridge with the promise of warmth, but she had no time to admire the mountainous scenery or draw in the pure Highland air as she might have on another day. Her thoughts were on the two people she’d left in the croft below, both helpless babes at this moment, dependent on her strength and skill to protect them. When the horses were safely pastured, she started the long journey downhill, stumbling in her haste. The urgency of her dream stayed with her.