by Lynsay Sands
"The fever broke in the middle of the night," Morag told him, hurrying past him to open the chamber door.
"Aye. I know. Guin told me."
"Guin?"
"The serving wench who brought the broth," he rumbled, carrying Kyla into the bed chamber.
"What happened?" Morag asked as she closed the door behind them.
"She leaned on her back."
The old woman clucked over that. "Aye, the salve would be wearing off about now. I shall apply more."
Grunting, Galen eased Kyla onto the bed and set about undressing her again. He had removed her gown and had started on her under-tunic before he told the maid, "She didn't seem to recall what had happened. I think she remembered when she hurt her back, though."
"Hmm." Morag did not even peer up from her bag of potions at that. "'Tis not unusual to be confused on first awakening."
"Is she any worse than she was before the wound, do ye think?" Morag glanced up at his question, eyes sharp as she took in his concerned expression. She glanced at the woman on the bed. "I don't know," she said carefully after a moment. "She hardly spoke a word the first time she woke. I filled her with broth and meade and watched her back to sleep. We shall know more when she wakes again."
Galen nodded at that, but did not meet the old woman's eyes again as he finished slipping his bride's under-tunic off and dropped it to the floor. Reaching for the blankets, he drew them up to her waist, leaving only her back in view. A sigh slipping from his lips, he bent forward to brush her long, dark tresses away from her face, contemplating her peaceful expression.
There was still intelligence in that face, he assured himself grimly now. She would not be addled. And if she was? It made little difference, he supposed. He had already carried out half of his revenge by simply stealing and marrying her, and he could still beget an heir off her. The witch had said the males were not affected by the madness. Whether she was addled or not would affect nothing really. The servants had looked after things here since his first wife's death and could continue to do so.
Still, he thought, that would be a shame. She had shown herself to have a sharp wit. He had noted it when she had relived conversations and babbled to him in her fevers. Even out of her mind with illness, she had seemed keen and bright. He would regret losing that part of her.
"Here."
Turning away from his thoughts, Galen glanced at the salve the old woman was holding out to him.
"Rub it on her back," she instructed, moving to the door. "I needs must fetch fresh bandages and herbs."
Galen watched her go, then turned to peer down at the woman he had married. Had he made a mistake? Nay. As he had already pointed out to himself, addled or not, her fever would not have made her sterile. She could still bear him heirs. The problem was, that he wanted more than that from her now.
His hands slid across the angry wound on her back, rubbing in the salve, but his eyes were elsewhere. Those hungry orbs were sliding over the lily-white flesh surrounding the wound, trailing down to the base of her back, then taking in the beginnings of the upward slope of her behind that was just revealed before the blanket began.
The sight of her like this brought back vivid images to him. Pictures of the first day when he had brought her home. For a moment he was lost in the memory of the taste and scent of her, and it was not the first time that had happened since their arrival home a week ago. Her sweet face and heated moans had haunted him both in his waking hours and dreams, torturing him with their few shared moments of passion. Just as they were now, he thought with a sigh. He felt his body tighten with the beginnings of hunger.
A moan from Kyla brought his eyes back into focus to see that as he had sat lost in memory, his hands had caressed their way down her lower back, pushing the bedclothes before them until he now sat cupping the sweet curves of her behind.
Muttering under his breath, he pulled his hands away and quickly tugged the bedclothes back into place, then jumped guiltily to his feet when the door abruptly opened and the old woman re-entered the room.
Catching his guilt-flushed expression, Morag raised her eyebrows questioningly, but the MacDonald merely muttered an unintelligible excuse under his breath and hurried past her out of the room.
"Highlanders," Morag muttered, shaking her head as the door closed again.
"Morag?"
"Aye, loving?" The maid hurried to her side now. "How is yer back?"
"Numb," was the weary reply, then in a confused voice, "So is my bottom."
Morag stiffened at that, her gaze becoming worried. "I don't think I heard ye right, lass. What else is numb?" she asked, but received no answer. Kyla had already slipped back into sleep's gentle embrace.
Chapter Five
"What be yer name, child?"
"What?!" Kyla frowned at that question from Morag. She had awoken just moments before, this time to find her maid awake and sitting by the bed.
"Yer name. What is it? she repeated with quiet urgency.
Kyla grimaced with disgust and shifted to rise.
"What are ye doing?" The old woman moved forward at once, standing directly beside the bed and blocking her from standing.
"I am getting up."
"Nay. Yer too weak."
"Now, Morag--"
"Do not 'now Morag' me, young woman."
Kyla raised her chin defiantly. "I am your mistress. If I say I shall get up, then get up I shall." Shoving the bedclothes aside, she sat up and stared in amazement as the room suddenly swayed before her eyes.
"I told ye that ye were too weak to be getting up," Morag muttered triumphantly, urging her back into the bed and tugging the covers up about her.
"Aye, you did and you have told me little else since I woke up this morning," Kyla responded testily.
"I'll answer yer questions, soon as you answer mine."
They had a short war of glares, then Kyla slumped in defeat. "Fine. My name is Kyla."
"Kyla what?"
"Lady Kyla Forsythe."
"What was your mother's name?"
Kyla shifted impatiently. "Lady Iseabal Forsythe, nee Ferguson."
"Do ye recall what brought ye to be here?"
Kyla paused at that. Truly she had to think for a moment before any memories came back to her, then anxiety immediately covered her face. "Johnny!" She started to rise then and Morag immediately put out her good hand to hold her in place on the bed. Weak as she was, the one hand was all that was needed.
"All is well. Lord Shropshire is with him."
"Gilbert?"
"Aye. He's vowed to keep Catriona away from Johnny until he is well enough to hear what ye saw."
Kyla sagged back against the bed in relief, then her brows drew together in confusion. "But how did he...?"
"The MacDonald sent a message to him."
"The MacDonald?"
Morag frowned at her blank expression. "You don't recall how we got here? The trip in the wagon? The--"
"Attack!" Kyla sat up at that and this time even Morag was not able to keep her down. "We were on the way to..." She frowned, recalling Morag explaining something to her in the back of the wagon as they had traveled, but unsure what she had explained. "Where were we headed?"
The old woman frowned over the question. "Ye don't remember?"
"Nay." Biting her lip, she searched her mind desperately for the bits of information it seemed to be missing. She could vividly recall the picnic with her brother now, the attack, throwing herself forward to protect Johnny. But all of her memories after that seemed to be a jumble of pain and fever.
She vaguely recalled waking in her room as they had lain her brother beside her. Then she had some spotty recollections of waking in a wagon and Morag bent over her whispering about Scotland and someone called--"MacGregor," she murmured. "Are we in the MacGregor keep?"
Morag's brow puckered with worry. "Nay. We were on our way to him, but the MacDonald attacked the escort and brought us here to his home."
"The Mac
Donald?"
"Tall laddie? Well-built? Hair as red as fire?"
A sudden image of a man standing proud, the wind whipping his hair about and buffeting a rather minuscule loincloth about his hips popped into her mind.
"I see ye recall him at least," Morag muttered dryly, taking in her blush.
Kyla grimaced slightly. "Why did he interfere?"
Morag hesitated, then admitted, "The MacDonalds and the MacGregors are feuding; lucky for us."
Kyla's head tilted curiously. "Why is that lucky?"
"Because the MacGregor's a brutal bastard. I've heard some nasty tales about him liking to hurt women, lass. Ye'll not be wanting to go to him."
Kyla's eyes widened at that, a slight suspicion rising inside her. "Why was I going to him in the first place?"
Morag shook her head, worry furrowing deeper on her brows. "Ye were to be wedded to the scoundrel."
"Wedded?" Kyla stiffened at the word. "Me wed to some beastly Highlander who--Nay! Johnny would never arrange such a thing. Never! He--"
"Settle yerself," Morag soothed. "Catriona arranged the wedding. Johnny would never send ye to such a fate. 'Sides, it matters little what she planned, those plans are awry now. The MacDonald saw to that."
"Oh...aye." Kyla relaxed somewhat with a sigh. "He attacked our party."
"Aye."
Kyla began to frown as her memories dribbled back. "Our men were slain--"
"Nay. The men weren't killed. Just injured. Knocked unconscious for the most part is all."
Kyla calmed as images entered her head, supporting that claim. Men falling senseless from their mounts. Then she recalled the groups of half-naked men fighting on the ground around the wagon and she frowned. "We had Scots escorting us as well."
"Aye. Well. They didn't fare so well," Morag admitted reluctantly. "But then they were MacGregors."
Kyla shrugged, her mind already moving on to another memory. "I tried to take us away from there...I did stab that man!" she exclaimed with dismay as she remembered the mountainous warrior showing her his wound below stairs. Then she glanced sharply at Morag. "Are we prisoners here?"
"Nay," Morag assured her, but was unsure what else to say so said nothing.
"What of the MacGregor then? Am I to be ransomed to him?"
"Nay."
Kyla sighed in relief. So long as the MacDonald did not plan to hand her over, she was safe. Once Johnny recovered, he could deal with the illegal marriage contract. It had to be illegal. Catriona was not her guardian, therefore couldn't legally arrange anything. In the meantime, for whatever reason these MacDonalds had interfered. At least she thought that was who Morag had said were their attackers...or rescuers. She supposed it depended on how you looked at it.
"How does yer back feel?"
Kyla grimaced at that question. Her back was burning something fierce. It was what had woken her up and now that her immediate questions had been answered, the pain was becoming more unbearable by the moment.
Her expression was answer enough for Morag. Getting to her feet, she shuffled to the table beside the bed and set to work mixing the herbs she had left there. Within moments she was turning back to the bed.
Pushing the linens aside, Kyla sat up and started to unwrap the bandages, only to have Morag wave her hands away and tend to the job herself. Moments later her back was blessedly numb once more and a fresh swath of bandages had been wrapped around her. Still, Morag sat at the side of the bed. Kyla could almost hear her hesitation in the silence.
"What is it?" she asked at last.
"How be yer bum?"
"What?" Kyla stared at her in amazement.
"Never mind, I must have misheard ye," Morag muttered, getting to her feet. "Are ye hungry? Shall I fetch a tray up to ye?"
"Nay. I would get up." Kyla slid her legs off the bed even as she spoke.
"I feared as much." Shaking her head, she shuffled around the bed to fetch a gown and under-tunic for her. "The MacDonald won't be pleased."
Kyla's eyebrows rose at that, then disappeared under the tunic as Morag dropped it over her head.
"Why?" The question was muffled by the soft material as she took over tugging the gown on herself to prevent Morag from trying to use her broken arm.
"Because ye've been sore ill. He won't like ye being up and about so soon. Again."
Kyla grimaced over that. "I am perfectly fine now. A bit weak perhaps, but I shall be careful not to overdo it. Besides, I am curious."
"And curiosity has ever been yer worst attribute," Morag muttered dryly, handing her her gown.
Kyla shrugged at that. "My memories of this morn are fuzzy, but the MacDonalds seemed nice enough. Odd mayhap, but nice."
When Morag quirked one eyebrow up at her words, Kyla smiled crookedly and shrugged. "That fellow I stabbed--the one who jumped on the cart?"
Morag nodded to show she knew who she spoke of.
"Well, he reminded me that I had stabbed him. He actually seemed pleased at the announcement." Her bewilderment over that was obvious and Morag turned away to hide an amused smile as Kyla finally started to put her gown on.
"He thinks ye showed spunk."
Kyla blinked at that, then shook her head, unable to fathom the idea. Her feelings for the man that had injured her were directly opposite of Robbie's apparent pleasure at having been assaulted by her. She could not comprehend his reaction. Mayhap he was a mite slow in the head. Or a touch crazy. If that were the case it might be best to keep her distance from him. Come to that, who knew how the others would react. Mayhap his friends and kin would not be so good-humored over the injury. She actually had second thoughts about going downstairs as she considered that possibility, but then waved those thoughts away. She had ever been curious about Scotland--now that she was actually in a real Scottish castle, she had no intention of missing an opportunity to explore.
Kyla finished with the lacings of her dress, then stood, only to pause and grab at her throat with dismay as she recalled the man presenting her locket to her.
"Here." Seeing her actions, Morag picked up the locket she had set on the bedside and handed it to Kyla.
"Oh." Kyla took the necklace with relief and quickly fastened it, then pressed the locket to her chest with one hand. "That man..."
"Duncan," Morag supplied.
"Aye. He had it. He said something about bringing it back safely?"
Morag nodded. "The MacDonald needed something of yours that Shropshire would recognize so that he would ken the message he sent was true."
"What message?" Kyla asked and Morag frowned at the question, sure they had discussed this already. Mayhap there had been some damage done by the fever after all, she worried. Morag pushed the thought away and answered her question when her ward shifted impatiently and stood to move toward the door.
"Of the trouble that had befallen ye. The MacDonald sent a message telling him of it, and yer claims and a request that he go to yer brother and see him safe."
"Oh." Kyla nodded, surprise evident on her face. "'Twas kind of him."
Morag nodded. "He seems a fair and honorable man. A much better choice for husband than the MacGregor."
"Why, Morag," she teased, moving toward the door again. "I never thought to see the day that you would start acting the matchmaker. He must indeed be a fine man. I shall have to consider him carefully. Mayhap I could trade in one Highlander for another."
"The chances are better than ye think," Morag muttered under her breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing," she murmured, opening the door for her and offering her arm should she need support. It was not her place to inform the girl of her marriage. As far as Galen knew, Morag herself was not even aware of it. Let him explain what he had done, she thought as they traversed the hallway to the stairs.
"'Tis dinner time," Kyla murmured with surprise as they started down the stairs and the hall came into view.
"Aye."
Frowning at Morag's easy agreement, Kyla paused
and turned toward her to say, "But when last I was awake it was only nooning time."
Morag shrugged as she watched an angry-looking Lord MacDonald stride toward them. "Ye've been ill. Ye needed the rest."
"I suppose," Kyla murmured, then gasped in surprise as she was suddenly swept off her feet to rest cradled against a very large, wide, strong-looking chest.
"Her back?" Galen asked grimly.
"I put some salve on. Though mind ye don't rip her stitches swinging her about like that."
Nodding, Galen turned and started back up the steps.
Kyla gaped from her unconcerned maid to the man carrying her, shocked that Morag would allow anyone to behave so without raising a protest, then quickly began to protest herself. "Nay. Put me down. I would join the table."
"Ye need yer rest," came the implacable response.
"I needs must eat, too!" He paused at that, hesitating halfway up the stairs and she added, "I am very hungry."
Galen peered down at the pitiful expression she was giving him and sighed. "All right. But ye'll not be walking about. I'll not have ye falling over and hurting yerself some more," he told her sternly. Turning to retrace his steps to the table, he added, "Ye shouldn't even be up. So don't plan on gallivanting about. Once yer sitting, yer sitting and no argument about it. When ye grow weary, yer to tell me and I'll see ye back to yer room. Understood?"
Kyla briefly considered telling the man to go stuff himself. After all, he really had no right to tell her what she could or could not do. As grateful as she was for his preventing her from having to marry the MacGregor, not to mention his sending Lord Shropshire to her brother, that did not give him the right to control her life or her behavior, and she almost told him so, but then thought better of it and merely nodded. This was his home. She supposed that gave him some rights. Enough that she would simply bite her tongue and accept his orders until she was well enough to travel again and could return home.
Although that could be a problem in itself, she realized now. She would need an escort home. Unfortunately, that meant she either had to wait for her brother to recover and send another escort for her, or she would have to rely on the kindness of her benefactor and hope he would supply her with one.
Truthfully, she supposed she would feel safer with a MacDonald escort. After all, they had made short work of her other escort. Doubtless they would be able to give her the protection she needed to arrive home safely. But she didn't relish being further indebted to the burly Scot carrying her. That meant she would most likely be stuck here until her brother could send his men...which would just indebt her further, since she would have to rely on MacDonald's hospitality.