by Ruth Kaufman
The knock sounded again and Lia flinched away.
“A moment,” Ronan snapped at the fool on the other side of the door. “Lia?” he asked, his voice gentling. He suddenly worried he had offended her.
“I’m . . . all right.”
“Ronan,” Aidan said from the other side of the door. “’Tis urgent.”
Ronan sighed heavily; he had forgotten he had told his brother to come to the solar. “Enter.”
Aidan stepped through, holding a parchment in his hand.
Ronan realized his mistake as Lia bolted for the now open door. “Lia, please,” he said softly.
She hesitated, looking back at him. “I will prepare your medicant. I’m sure you will need it if the look on your brother’s face is anything to judge by.”
Ronan scowled, his gaze returning to Aidan, only just realizing she was right.
Lia headed straight for her room, trying to slow her step and still her shaking hands. But the turmoil of reliving her terrible childhood memory and then the comfort of Ronan’s strong arms around her, added with the wonderful sensation of his kiss, only made the confusion raging within her worse.
I would have ye by my side for the rest of my days.
What did that mean? Did he want her as a healer, concubine, or—dare she hope—wife?
Nay! She couldn’t think like that. She did not dare get her hopes up. It was too much that a handsome young laird would see anything in a gangly, awkward Sassenach healer.
She entered her room and stoked the hearth fire. She put one of the irons in the hot embers, then unlocked the cabinet for her herbs and hesitated, looking at the keys Ronan had given her. There were many more than just for the kitchen, the pantry, and the storage cabinet. In fact, she’d wager she possessed every key needed in the keep. Like . . . a chatelaine.
She blinked and swallowed hard, forcing herself to prepare Ronan’s medicant. Was it possible? Or was she misreading the signs entirely? She closed her eyes, feeling tears burning again, and prayed it wasn’t true. She finished mixing the herbs, withdrew the hot iron, and immersed it in the wine for a brief moment.
As Lia approached the still open door of the solar, she spotted Ronan and Aidan sitting at the table. Ronan faced the door but had his elbows propped on the table and his fingers rubbed his temples. She was immediately worried over the deepening lines on his face and the tension she sensed from him. Lia knocked softly on the open door.
Ronan looked at her and gave her that heart-stopping smile. Why did he have to be so bloody handsome?
“Let it cool a little,” she said, placing the cup before him.
“Aye. Thank ye.”
She frowned. In spite of her resolve, she gently combed her fingers through his hair at his temple. Every time, she marveled at how soft and silky it was. “Ronan?”
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seemingly enjoying her attentions. He gazed at the cup a long moment and lifted it. He sniffed it and curled his lip. “Does the taste ever improve?”
“I’m afraid not.” She could not resist the smile that pulled at her lips.
He sighed heavily, lifted the cup to his lips, and downed it, then he shivered violently, making a face that had Lia laughing.
He chuckled and handed the cup back to her then poured himself some regular wine. After quickly drinking, he sighed softly.
“I shall leave you to discuss—”
“Nay,” he said firmly. “I want yer thoughts on this, lass.”
“On what?”
“My birds be singing the same chorus,” Aidan said. “They say the English previously avoided our holdings because of the soldiers’ fear of the Demon Laird.”
Lia scowled at him. “Surely the nobility does not believe such a tale.”
“I dinna believe they do,” Ronan said. “But in a siege, ’tis the strength of the common soldier that must be depended upon.”
“Forgive me, but I know nothing about warfare; I only know how to tend to the wounds it causes.”
Ronan took her hand and tugged her into the chair next to him. “Worry not. In a siege, the engines do the initial work of damaging the defenses. After the defenses are breached, the men must attack. It willna do an army any good if their men flee in terror of the Demon Laird.”
“I don’t recommend doing anything to encourage this idea of the Demon Laird. That is wholly opposite from what we’ve been trying to accomplish.”
“Our goal is tae inform our people,” Aidan said. “We must use every advantage at our disposal.”
“Aye,” Ronan said nodding. “Our people ken that war must be waged both physically and in the mind of the enemy.”
Lia sighed loudly.
“Aidan,” Ronan said. “Inform everyone that ye will manage the defenses by day. At night, the Demon Laird will rise in defense of the keep.” He paused and scowled. “In fact, I will be seen stalking the ramparts at night, but the men on duty are no’ tae react tae me. They are tae ignore me and pretend as if I wasna there.”
“But what if ye have tae give them orders?”
He gazed at Lia a long moment, his steel-gray eyes sparkling with mirth. “They will receive their orders through the Sassenach healer, for she is the only one who can tame the soul of the Demon Laird.”
Chapter Fourteen
The torches on the walls flickered violently in the night wind. A sennight had passed, and the enemy took their battle-set before the walls, well out of bow range. Ronan stood in a tower, staring at the enemy through a loophole. Torches also lined their camp, and noise rang out as they worked into the night to assemble the trebuchet and siege tower. For several days, no one would move. The defenders would stare at the enemy; the enemy would stare back. Only when the trebuchet was ready would the battle begin. Ronan hoped he could use that time to put the fear of the Demon Laird into the English.
Ronan lifted his head to look at the trapdoor above him. The towers and barbican had wooden stairs and landings where his men could stand before loopholes and fire their arrows. But a ladder led to a trapdoor that opened to the top of the tower ramparts and the wall walks along with the palisades. His gaze slid over the stairs and the tower door as he formed his plan. No one knew this keep better than he. His lips lifted as he remembered he and Aidan chasing each other through the towers and over the ramparts as lads. Much to his mother’s chagrin. She had been certain one of them would fall, but they never did. He would use that ability now to make the rumors of the Demon Laird credible in the eyes of the enemy.
Making sure his cloak covered him and the cowl was pulled low, he climbed the wooden ladder leading to the trapdoor at the top of the tower. Because of the embrasures surrounding the top, the enemy would not see him emerge from the trapdoor. He would just suddenly be there, standing on the tower. He flung back the trapdoor and lunged through. He knew he startled Robert, but the man didn’t overreact, he merely shot him a sideways glance. In an instant, Ronan stood atop the crenellations of the tower—another stunt that had terrified his mother. He made sure his cloak remained closed around him and his face was well hidden. He gazed upon the enemy, taking the opportunity to note the specifics of their battle-set.
A low murmur sounded, soft and subtle on the night wind. Robert remained vigilant and unmoving, not acknowledging the Demon Laird.
Perfect.
Ronan took a single step backward, disappearing from the embrasure, and lunged to the trapdoor. He leapt onto the ladder, his feet sliding down the sides of it as he rapidly lowered himself using only his hands. He hit the third floor, and did the same thing down the ladder to the second floor. He ran to the door leading to the barbican tower and sprinted through. In three long strides, he crossed to the second tower of the barbican, but instead of taking the ladder, he leapt, his fingers snagging the platform above. Using only the strength of his arms, he hauled himself up and again surged up the ladder to the trapdoor leading to the ramparts.
In an instant, he appeared with one foot braced on th
e crenellations and leaned precariously over the edge, staring down at the enemy.
The murmur whispering through the troops grew louder.
Once again, he disappeared in a blink of an eye, sprinting for the west tower. A third time he appeared on the crenellations, his dark cloak wrapped in the golden glow of the flickering torchlight, surrounded by the blackness of the night sky.
The murmur grew in power, carrying with it a note of hysteria.
A fourth time he disappeared and dropped two floors within the great tower. The appearances of the Demon Laird needed to be kept brief. But he could not deny his mirth as he leaned against the wall. His deep laugh sounded, echoing through the tower; it reverberated against the stone and escaped through the loopholes.
He heard voices shouting in fear, and his laughter faded as he glanced through a loophole. Men threw down their weapons and disappeared into the night. Their noble commanders moved in earnest, barking orders for them to hold, but the damage had been done, and several soldiers deserted in terror. If the nobility could not maintain control, the stream of deserters would turn into a flood. Upon the dawn, the sentries would report the numbers to Aidan.
Ronan returned to the keep, feeling very pleased with himself.
As Ronan entered the keep, he removed his cloak. Lia had voiced very valid concerns. They needed to be cautious about provoking the fear of the Demon Laird, even though they had reassured their own people. Terror could be infectious, which is what Ronan counted on to use against the enemy, but he didn’t need it infecting his own people as well.
To his surprise, Aidan descended the stairs, grinning broadly.
“I thought ye would be abed.”
“I couldn’t resist watching this once. Praise the saints, Mum isna alive tae see that—ye would have vexed her greatly and Da would have thrashed ye within an inch of yer life for makin’ her worry so.”
Ronan laughed. “Aye, but then he would have allowed me an extra honey cake for using such folly tae terrify the enemy.”
Aidan’s laugh joined his. “Aye,” he said and winked.
“Brother, Robert stood guard on the east tower; I ken I scared the fire out of him when I appeared so suddenly through the trapdoor, but he did exactly as we asked and ignored me. See tae it he is rewarded.”
“I will,” Aidan said with a nod. “I admit I am most anxious tae hear the reports from the sentries in the morning.” He sighed softly, his humor fading. “I must be abed if I am tae rise at dawn.”
“Aye, brother.”
Aidan turned toward the stairs but hesitated. “Ronan?”
“Aye?”
“Ye need tae speak with the healer.”
“What’s wrong?”
He inclined his head toward the great hearth. “I fear because of her past, this siege has coiled her so tightly she’s ready tae snap.”
Ronan looked to the hearth and saw Lia sitting in a chair before it, staring into the flames. Her face was pallid and her hands were clenched together so tightly her knuckles were white.
“She has been over her medicants a hundred times while ye were on the ramparts,” Aidan said softly.
“Unfortunately, her memory of her youth is so tremulous she canna define exactly what happened, and that makes her fear all the more powerful.”
“I thought ye should ken of it.”
“Thank ye, Aidan, I will talk tae her. Get some sleep.”
“Aye,” he replied and ascended the stairs.
Ronan walked to the hearth. “Lia?” he called softly.
She blinked up at him, startled. “Ronan.”
He crouched beside her and unlocked her fingers, holding her hand tightly.
She studied him a long moment, then she gave him a faint smile. “You always get such a devilish spark in your eyes when you are up to mischief.”
He laughed softly. “Aye. ’Tis why I could ne’er lie tae my mother. She would ken what I was going tae do before I did.”
Lia’s smile grew and Ronan was glad to see it. “Come, lass,” he said as he rose and tugged on her hand. “I wish tae speak with ye.”
Her smile faded into a puzzled frown. “Is something amiss?”
“Aye,” he said, pulling her into his embrace. “The fear ye suffer vexes me greatly.”
She ducked her head and her shoulders slumped. “Forgive me.”
“Nay,” he said firmly. “The fault does not lie with ye.” His arms tightened around her and he once again settled his cheek atop her head. “I would free ye of this fear, if I could.”
She didn’t reply but clung to him and remained unmoving.
Ronan simply held her, wishing he could do something more. Movement caught his attention and he looked toward the kitchen. A handful of servants stood watching him. He scowled at their curiosity but then realized they had probably watched him on the ramparts as he terrorized the English enemy only to return to the keep to comfort an Englishwoman.
Did they know? Did they have any idea how special she had become to him? Her gentle compassion, her willingness to give so much of herself to help those she did not know, including a laird who had demonstrated only hatred toward her, had touched something deep inside him—something he had thought destroyed when the English broke his body. But somehow the healer had found it and brought it back to life.
Faith, he abruptly realized. Faith in humanity and in the kinsfolk around him. What le March had destroyed with his cruelty, Lia had resurrected with a kind word, her gentle touch, and, indeed, with her courage. Somewhere along the way, his passion for life and living had clawed its way back into his heart. Now Ronan believed that by working together, they would not only survive this war, but he would know a normal life despite his illness. He lifted his head and gazed down at the beautiful woman in his arms. It was also thanks to her that he embraced the hope that the future might hold something far greater.
Lia had struggled to get more than a couple hours of sleep, plagued with nightmares of terror and flame. The horrendous noise of the trebuchet still echoed in her ears. But just when it seemed she could no longer stand the terror, Ronan had appeared in her dreams, his strong arms holding her securely, his voice whispering soft reassurances. Her fear had faded with the touch of his lips against hers and the soft warmth of his kiss. In truth, it wasn’t terror that had awakened her, but the passion and desire she felt for a man she did not understand.
Try as she might, she could not strengthen herself against him. No matter her resolve, he punched through with a simple smile, the spark of mischief in his steel-gray eyes, his deep laugh, his resolve to win not only this battle but to defeat his illness.
That was the crux of it, she suddenly realized. She had witnessed his hatred of the English and what they had done to him. She had experienced and understood it. But he had defeated it, at least in regard to her, seeing her for who she was and what she was trying to accomplish. She had also witnessed his terror, the moments after his fits, as his awareness returned but he was still unable to move, uncertain of his surroundings, unknowing if this time was to be different and he would remain a prisoner of his own body, unable to ever move again.
Yet as his control returned, Ronan turned to her for solace, just as she did with him in the face of her own terror. Lia sighed heavily and scrubbed away the tears that had gathered on her lashes. How was it a foundling English healer and a tormented Scottish laird could find such common ground? Her resolve to resist him was as nebulous as her hope she would one day find love and acceptance, her hope to regain what had been stolen from her—a family and love.
A soft knock sounded on her door.
Lia sighed again. Probably a servant wanting to know why she had not yet been seen in the keep. “Enter.”
To her surprise, Ronan opened the door. “Are ye well, lass?” He crossed the room and sat on the edge of her bed, taking her hand.
“I am.”
“I was concerned when I awoke and learned ye have not been about the keep yet this day. ‘
The church bells should ring for Vespers soon.”
She blinked at him, startled. “Vespers? Forgive me, I did not realize it was so late.”
He reached up and stroked his fingers through her hair. “Nay. Dinna fash yerself.”
She tore her gaze from his beautiful eyes and stared at the floor. “Is there only one outcome to this siege?”
“One?” he asked softly.
“The castle destroyed, most dead, those who survive becoming prisoners of the English . . . and if they find me . . . I will hang as a traitor to the crown.” A huge tear welled in her eye and spilled down her cheek.
Ronan caught it on his finger. “Nay, lass,” he said, his fingers tightening on hers. “I willna let them touch ye.”
Her fingers tightened on his hand.
Ronan drew a deep breath. “By placing an army at our walls, we are forced tae close the gates. They effectively trap us within the castle, forcing us tae rely on our stores of food and the castle well. Technically, they dinna have tae do anything but simply wait for us tae run out of food. Then we will be forced tae open the gates. But soldiers dinna do well with nothing tae do. The longer it takes for us tae open our gates, the greater the risk of desertion. Also, it affects the entire war movement. Other armies canna effectively move unless this location comes under control. So they bring siege engines tae help things along. The men remain out of bow range while the trebuchet throws its missiles tae damage our defenses and injure our soldiers, thereby weakening us much more quickly. The siege tower will slowly approach, protecting the men inside from our archers. It will allow them tae gain the top of the ramparts.”
“It sounds like we have no chance.”
“Nay,” he said, his lips tugging upward. “’Tisna quite so dire. One of the reasons I am working tae make the English believe in the Demon Laird is because every soldier who flees in terror not only weakens the forces against us, they affect the mindset of those who remain. Men who are fearful dinna fight with courage and strength. If I can weaken their forces enough, we can send men and horses through the sally and counterattack, breaking the siege and forcing the enemy tae withdraw.” He paused and smiled. “And if I can destroy War Wolf, that will be even better, as it will affect Longshanks’s effort tae wage war against us for months tae come. Trebuchets are expensive and take a long time tae build. Plus, Longshanks will be enraged that le March lost such a valuable piece of equipment.”