Rogue Highlander: The King's Command

by Sondra Grey

  He bade her shift her seat, urging her to swing her legs across the horse’s withers. When she resisted, he slid his hand up her thigh and she gasped, her shock allowing him to juggle her into a position astride. Isla was glad she was facing away from him, for she could feel a hot flush rising up into her cheeks. She’d no chemise on and her skirt was pulled up to her knees.

  As they climbed higher, following the road as it led into the Red Hills, Isla sat rigidly against the Laird of Dundur, who seemed just as intent to forget she was there. When the early afternoon clouds covered the sky, casting the landscape in a drowsy haze of gray, Isla’s fatigue got the better of her, and she felt her spine melt against the Laird’s chest as she drifted slowly to sleep.

  Isla woke feeling wonderfully warm. Her cheek was pillowed against something both hard and soft, her plaid was wrapped cozily around her, and there was a gentle rocking. Someone held her close, like her father had when she was a young girl riding atop a horse with him, on their way to the Stewart’s castle. For a moment, she was eight again. Her mother and father were alive, she was safe, and care-free, and loved. She looked up, expecting to see her father’s patient eyes, his short-shorn black hair.

  Instead she gazed into the shadowed plains of a stranger’s face. She stifled a gasp, the events of the last few days coming back to her in a rush. She must have made some noise though, for the Wolf of Dundur looked down at her, quirked a dark, questioning brow, and then looked back to the path. Isla struggled to throw off the thick haze of sleep. She shifted, trying to sit up, but the Laird’s arm firmed around her and he said, “Be still, we’re nearly there.”

  Isla drifted for the next hour and came fully awake when the horse stopped. She sat up, expecting to be handed down, but the Laird hauled her into his arms and swung from the horse with her clutched to his chest. She realized that her hands were untied only when she automatically grasped his shoulders. When he planted her feet on the ground, he held her till she steadied.

  “You’re back a bit late, Calum,” said the man who’d come to take the horse. Isla blinked, looking off towards the dark, towering keep ahead of her. They were in the Red Hills, she realized. Then the name came to her. So Dundur was a Castle in the Red Hills. Calum the Black was Malcolm Grant, the Grant chieftain in the Red Hills. She’d heard his name spoken before but hadn’t connected Malcolm Grant to the Calum the Black of song. Just then, the song she’d been searching for came clearly into her head. It was about the battle between the Chattans and McPhersons. The Grants had fought with the McPhersons, but none as brawly as Calum the Black, The Wolf of Dundur. Isla was tired enough that when the tune floated through her head, she almost hummed it.

  “She was carrying two,” said Calum, patting the side of the horse, who snorted and swung its head. Malcolm was a nice name, Isla thought. There was a Malcolm in Elleric – the weaver’s apprentice.

  “…and my nephew?” Isla realized she was drifting, but word of her patient brought her mind back to the task at hand.

  “Feverish. I’m glad you were able to find the lass. Perhaps she can help him.”

  “Take her inside then, Allan. Tell Maggie to put her next to Hugh.”

  Allan nodded, and murmured that he’d return. As Isla watched him go, she realized he was same gentleman who’d found her in the woods. What was he? A retainer? A relative? A stable hand?

  “If he’s feverish, he needs Devil’s Bit,” Isla said suddenly. “Do you keep anything here?”

  “There’s a village an hours ride north,” said Dundur. “And Inverness isn’t far, should you need anything special. But there’s nothing in the keep.”

  It would have to wait until morning then.

  “Listen girl.” He reached down and grabbed her chin, and Isla resisted the urge to kick him. “No running. I will treat you as a guest here and offer you all the niceties that title affords. But if you run again, I’ll keep you in the cellar and hold you personally responsible for the well-being of my nephew. Do you understand?”

  Isla was too tired to fight him, to do anything but stare as he tugged her chin to bob her head up and down. “Good. Go with Allan.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A ngry as she was about being kidnapped, Isla had to admit that she’d never slept in a room so fine. After her father died, Isla and her mother had shared a bed in their small cottage just outside of the village square. This room was neat and rectangular, with a beautifully carved wooden bed and a feather mattress that was large enough to fit at least two people. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, side tables, a large armoire, and a basin for washing.

  Isla fell asleep in a matter of seconds and was awoken all too soon by someone shaking her shoulder.

  “Pardon!” she gasped, jerking away from the hand and looking up into the pinched face of a plain young woman.

  “The Laird says you’re to get up and see to your patient, healer.” The woman said. Her manner was curt, her tone only barely civil. Isla blinked and nodded. Sitting up, she shoved her hair out of her face. It had come loose on her travels, and she’d need a ribbon to tie it back.

  Isla slid out of bed, keeping her eye on the woman who buzzed about the room as though checking to see what Isla had ruined. Isla made a face at her back. “Tell me,” she said, adopting her most imperious, no-nonsense voice. “Did your laird find the ingredients I need?”

  The young woman stopped fussing and straightened. She turned and shot Isla a withering glance. “Do I look like the messenger?”

  Isla nearly retorted that yes, indeed, she’d brought a message from the Laird not a minute ago, but she didn’t need to be getting into a hen fight on her first day in a Laird’s keep. Instead, she turned to the door along the wall near the bed. If she guessed right, that door led to Hugh’s room. Without saying another word to the sour young chambermaid, Isla tested the doorknob and entered the adjoining room.

  Sure enough, the room was similarly outfitted but slightly richer in décor. There was a basin of steaming water on the wash stand and, on a small stool near the bed, a stack of stripped linen. Isla approached the bed carefully, taking stock of the patient who was sleeping without his shirt. Someone not unskilled – that man Geordie, perhaps – had rewrapped the wound.

  Isla took stock of young Hugh’s face. He was perhaps two years younger than she, but still had the look of a boy. His face was pale, his cheeks just slightly pink with flush. Isla sighed and pressed her hand against his brow. The boy moaned and shifted in bed, and the shifting must have hurt him for he gasped and opened his eyes.

  They were deep brown, like his uncle’s, and glazed with pain. He looked up and said, voice faint. “Am I dead, then?”

  Isla raised a brow at him and cocked her head to the side. “What makes you think that?”

  The boy was silent a moment, his gaze clearing and he blinked. “You’re not an angel?”

  Isla snorted. First a witch, now an angel. “No.” She said, not in the mood for a cleverer retort. “I highly doubt an angel would drag you to heaven with her hair uncombed.”

  The boy’s mouth twitched in a small, pained smile. “How would I know? I’ve never met one.”

  “Well and hopefully you won’t anytime soon,” said Isla. “I need to unwrap this.” She reached down and peeled the covers from the boy’s chest. He reached a hand to stop her and winced at the movement.

  “I’m a healer. No need for modesty,” said Isla, dropping into her best healer’s voice. “But this will be uncomfortable.” With gentle fingers she unwrapped the bindings, seeing, as she did, that whoever had re-dressed him had left on her poultice from the other day.

  Isla wet a cloth and pressed it to the poultice so that it would lift without hurting the boy. Hugh’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing through his nose.

  “How’d you get it then?” she asked to distract him as she worked to remove the poultice.

  “Bloody Cameron man with an axe,” said Hugh through gritted teeth.

  Isla murmured
in sympathy. Her stitches had held, but there was some bruising around the wound and the edges were slightly red. She’d need another poultice to fight the infection and she’d need something for the fever.

  “Why were you fighting the Camerons?” Isla asked politely, wetting a cloth to clean the nasty looking wound.

  “Complicated,” said Hugh, hissing.

  “Meaning you don’t know.”

  “Meaning nobody ever knows. An offense of some kind. The MacPhersons haven’t recovered the men they lost at Invernahoven and Inch. So, they call the Mackintoshes, who call on the Grants…”

  He trailed off breathing through his nose while Isla finished.

  “You’ll have a dashing scar,” she said, trying to smile down at him. He was being brave. Isla had tended wounded men who cursed and called her names and yowled like cats with their tails in the door. Not so this boy, and Isla felt herself smiling at him in reassurance.

  “Who are you?” the boy asked.

  Isla opened her mouth to give him her name, remembering only at the last minute that she’d changed it. “Thomasina,” she said. “Your uncle happened upon me on the road and…” she paused before continuing, “persuaded me to come back to tend to you.”

  Hugh nodded, eyes shut – most likely to stave off nausea from the pain. “Bless you then. And God for sending you.”

  “Yes…” Isla stood. “I’ll have to find some things to make a poultice. You’re a bit feverish and we don’t want that wound to sour.”

  The boy said nothing, and Isla headed out the door to the hall. Closing it gently, she whirled and was face to face with two Grant men, standing close enough to startle her.

  “Pardon,” said one, taking a step back. It was the red head who’d found her in the woods with Allan. She scowled at him and looked over at the other. Geordie. The yellow-haired young man who knew his way around plants.

  “The Laird sent us,” said the redhead, too quickly for it to be entirely true. Isla must have looked doubtful, for Geordie spoke next, his voice calm and patient. “He asked us to show you around the keep.”

  “I don’t care about the keep. I need a basket and I need to know where to find the right plants and bulbs to help that poor boy in there.” She put on her best Deirdre voice and the two young men looked instantly ashamed.

  Geordie recovered first. “If you tell me the plants you want, and the ground they grow in, I can take you out to find them.”

  Isla, Geordie, and Balgair, whose name she learned when Geordie called him by it, spent the morning and early afternoon wandering the hills surrounding Dundur. The wildlife was rich here, despite the rocky terrain, and Isla was able to find what she needed, though it took her a few hours of searching.

  On their way back to the keep, Isla was able to get a good long look at the fortress. It was a small stone castle, just a bit smaller than the Stewarts at Appin. There was a four-story tower and a small guest wing, connected by a curtain wall which seemed to bend with the landscape and enclose a sizable courtyard. Like the Stewart’s castle, this one looked to be built for defense, but the walks along the wall were unguarded. The only guard presence was by the gatehouse itself.

  Isla had spent enough time with her father at The Stewart keep to know how keeps ran. And this one was no different. Where the keep had been quiet last night, it was bustling this morning. There was livestock in the courtyard and both men and women walking purposefully through.

  With the instincts of a mouse sensing a cat, Isla’s eyes leapt to the far corner of the yard, where the Laird of Dundur was striding purposefully towards them. His kilt swung with the force of his walk, and there was a seething impatience that Isla could sense, even from across the yard. She’d been feeling sleepy and strangely peaceful from her walk in the woods, and that sense of peacefulness evaporated. Never forget, she reminded herself grimly, she was here as a prisoner. Not a guest.

  “Where have you been,” snapped the Laird, voice sharp enough to tear.

  “Gathering supplies, Calum,” said Balgair quickly.

  The Laird seemed barely appeased and gave Isla a cursory once over. “You look terrible,” he said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Geordie turn pink.

  “Would you like to insult me more or would you like me to care for my patient?”

  The Laird’s lips thinned and Isla’s eyes fasten on his cheek where a dimple appeared. She realized she was not meeting his gaze and did so, challengingly.

  In the light, Calum was an impressive man. Her impressions of him in the dark had not been wrong. He was handsome in a way that would have given the girls in Elleric fits. He wasn’t as old as he’d seemed either. In fact, she’d place him less than ten years her senior.

  “Would you like to stare at me, or would you like to go care for your patient?” His voice was soft and mockingly sensual, and Isla suppressed a shiver of emotion she couldn’t name.

  Without saying another word, she swept past him only realizing when she was a few steps away that she didn’t know her way to Hugh’s room.

  Isla spent the rest of the afternoon with Hugh, setting herbs out to dry and crushing others so that she could poultice his wound again. She brewed him a tea of chamomile, dragons bit, and willow bark, hoping it would stave off fever and ease some of his pain.

  Hugh was in good spirits and explained to her that he’d been certain upon being sliced along the side, that his time on earth was limited. Isla agreed that he was lucky the axe hadn’t broken any of his ribs. The wound was deep but if they could keep it from festering, he’d be fine.

  Just as the sky began to darken, a soft knock thudded against the door and a slim, older woman entered. From her elegant bearing and the fine quality of otherwise plain clothes, Isla guessed she was well-born, but not noble. She wore a beautiful wrap pinned with a simple silver pin and her dark hair, streaked with grey, was tied neatly up.

  “I’m Mrs. Allan,” she said, her voice pleasant but distant. “I’ve come with a few gowns for you on the Laird’s request. My daughter’s a tall lass and she’s living in Inverness now. She’s no need of these, and they are yours to keep.”

  Isla stood, back sore from sitting so long at Hugh’s bedside. “I’m Thomasina and that’s kind, thank you,” she said.

  The woman held the door to the rooms and Isla stepped in, grateful to see three simple dresses and undergarments laid out on the neatly made feather bed. There was a comb too, a black ribbon, and two wooden hairpins.

  “Those of us who live in the keep dine in the great hall,” said Mrs. Allan, patiently. “I’m to await you and show you down.”

  Another guard.

  Isla nodded and Mrs. Allan stepped out into the hallway. Not wanting to repay the woman’s generosity with rudeness, she hurried to get dressed. The gowns were a good fit and there was a plain leather belt that she cinched about her waist. Mrs. Allan had brought her an arasaid of light and dark grey wool, and Isla wrapped it about her shoulders. She combed out her long, dark hair and tied the ribbon into a headband to keep the hair from her face. Isla wasn’t proud of her vanity – her father had always cautioned her against the sin. But she knew she was pretty, and dressed in plain, but finely made clothes, she felt a bit more like herself.

  When she left the room, Mrs. Allan nodded in approval.

  Mrs. Allan, who Isla guessed was married to the older clansman, was handsome – with a long face, and a nose that was just a bit too large. She had a neutral, watchful gaze that made Isla want to earn her trust.

  As they descended into the great hall, Mrs. Allan asked her questions that were not questions. “You’re young to be a healer.”

  Isla understood the question she wasn’t asking. “I’m eighteen,” she answered. “Nineteen soon, and my mother was a healer. She passed a few months back, took sick with a fever that not even she could heal.”

  “You don’t sound as if you miss her.”

  Isla shrugged and smiled. “She’d be irked with me if I spent my time bemoaning her a
bsence. She’d tell me I’d better things to do.” Isla had been saddened when Deirdre passed but it was Deirdre who had always advised she not waste her time mourning (it was her father who’d allowed it).

  “She sounds like an unusual woman,” said Mrs. Allan. “My husband tells me they found you in the woods outside of Trinnafour.”

  Isla forced her face to remain neutral. “Your husband was uncomfortable letting me continue my travels alone.”

  “Where were you heading by yourself?”

  “Towards Gordon land. My aunt lives there.” This was true enough. Now that she was safe inside a keep, and there was little chance of the Stewarts riding up and accusing her of witchcraft, she didn’t have to be as careful.

  Isla could feel Mrs. Allan eyes on the side of her face, where the wound from the rock had scabbed over. Before the woman could ask about it, Isla demanded. “How old is your daughter?” As a healer, she’d learned to keep people distracted. Ask them questions. Make them talk.

  Mrs. Allan was a different person when she spoke about Catriona. The woman was rattling off the exploits of her young grandchildren as they entered the great hall.

  Isla wasn’t sure what to expect, but certainly not the lively atmosphere that awaited them. There were at least thirty people dining at a long table in the center of the hall. On a raised dais sat another table, which seated ten. The Stewart had a hall like this, thought Isla, only the Stewart sat up on the dais with his family. This particular raised table was empty.

  Isla followed Mrs. Allan wordlessly. She couldn’t help but stare as they passed the Laird. His hair was combed back, longer than most men wore theirs. He wore a clean shirt of fine fabric and a plaid of the same dark and light grey as her arasaid. His plaid was pinned to his shoulder with an ornate silver brooch.

  As if he felt her stare, he lifted his gaze and their eyes met a moment. Isla felt that strange sensation again, a strange and sudden heat, flooding her stomach. She looked away quickly.