Highland Hero

by Hannah Howell

  “I shall fetch you some food if you wish it,” she said quietly.

  “I think I would yet I wouldnae trouble yourself too much. I am no stranger to wounds and healing and I suspect I willnae eat very much the first few times food is set before me.”

  “Nay, ye willnae. Ye are right about that. The trick is to eat a little as often as ye can. I will fetch ye a little hearty broth, some bread, cheese and wine. Will that do?”

  “Aye, that is most kind.”

  The moment the woman left the room, Kenneth expelled a long, slow breath. He looked at his hand, still feeling the tingling warmth of her touch. He was not surprised that he wanted her for she was beautiful. Small and slender, she moved with the subtle invitation of a far more fulsome woman. Her thick, fair hair hung in long waves to her tiny waist. The most startling and alluring feature of her small face was a pair of wide, incredibly blue eyes rimmed by thick, long, pale brown lashes. Although her full mouth was sorely tempting, he always saw her eyes first. Each time she leaned close to him, he caught himself breathing deeply of her scent, the smell of clean skin touched with lavender.

  Kenneth inwardly groaned as he felt his desire stir. Despite his pain and weakness, she could stir his blood with the slightest of touches or a brief, sweet smile. He would sternly remind himself that she had saved his life and that lusting after her was a poor way to thank her for that, but it did little to stem the longing. It made him feel ashamed of himself but he knew he was going to try and bed her before he left to return to his family’s lands.

  Isbel returned, smiling shyly as she sat on the edge of the bed and set a tray of food before him. Wincing, and silently waving aside her attempt to assist him, Kenneth sat up straighter against the pillows she had set behind him. In his current state of near arousal, the last thing he needed was to feel those soft, small hands on his body.

  “You live here alone?” he asked before she filled his mouth with the warm, hearty broth.

  She only hesitated a moment before nodding. In his weakened state he could do her no harm. Neither could Isbel believe that the fates had brought them together just so that he could hurt her. She had already endured one cruel, frightening mate. She could not believe fate would be so cruel and push her into the arms of another like Patrick.

  “These are my husband’s lands,” she replied.

  “Ye are married?” Kenneth could not believe how deeply disappointed he was.

  “I was once, nearly a year ago. I am a MacLachlan from Loch Fyne and I married a Graeme and moved here. But months after Patrick brought me here, he drowned in the river just a mile north of here.”

  “Why did ye not return to your kinsmen?”

  “I wished to remain here. These are my lands now, small though they might be. There were also things at Loch Fyne that I wished to run away from. I was not fully successful in evading my heritage, but I prefer the fact that I am alone now.”

  “I think I have heard of the MacLachlans of Loch Fyne.” When she stuffed a large piece of bread in his mouth, stopping his words abruptly, Kenneth wondered if she was trying to veer him away from the subject of her family.

  “They are not without power and wealth. I havenae heard of the Davidsons of Glenmal, however.”

  “And ye willnae hear much from me if ye keep stuffing food in my mouth.” He tried to smile as he turned his head to the side, silently refusing another spoonful of broth.

  “Ah, I see. It was not much, but ’twill do for a start.”

  Kenneth opened his mouth to thank her for her trouble, then tensed. In the far corner of the room he was certain he saw someone, an older woman in a stained gray gown. Even as he looked straight at her, however, what he had thought was a woman became no more than a glimmer of light.

  “Now that was a wee bit odd,” he murmured, meekly allowing Isbel to help him lie back down.

  “What was odd, Sir Kenneth?” she asked, tucking the blankets over him and forcing herself to stop lingering over the chore.

  “I thought I saw a woman over there in the corner, near the chest.”

  “There is no one at Bandal save myself, Pullhair, and Slayer.”

  “But I am sure—”

  “ ’Twas just a flicker of the sun’s light,” she assured him as she stood up and collected together the remains of his small meal.

  “I suppose.”

  Kenneth frowned as he watched Isbel scurry out of the room. Her leave-taking carried the strong scent of a hasty retreat. He looked all around the room but saw nothing. Sighing, he relaxed and closed his eyes. He wanted to believe her explanation but a small voice in his head told him there was a great deal Isbel MacLachlan Graeme was hiding. Kenneth vowed that, as soon as he had regained his strength, he would search out a few answers.

  “Curse that woman,” Isbel muttered as she scrubbed out the bowl that had held Kenneth’s broth.

  “What woman?” Pullhair asked as he set a pile of wood by the kitchen fireplace.

  “Mary, my late and little missed husband’s nursemaid.”

  “What has she done now?”

  “Appeared to Sir Kenneth. He caught a glimpse of the woman in the corner of his bedchamber.”

  “I suspect she just wished to take a closer look at the mon ye intend to replace her sweet Patrick with.” Pullhair sat on the stool in front of the huge stone fireplace and looked at Isbel.

  “Patrick Graeme ne’er had a sweet bone in his wretched body,” Isbel said as she sat on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. “Mary was just too blind to see the evil in him. I think she saw the wee boy she nursed whene’er she looked at him and ne’er really saw the angry, bitter mon he had become.”

  Pullhair nodded and poked at the fire with a large stick. “He treated the old woman most unkindly in her latter years, but she ne’er ceased to care for him. May-hap she feared that if she looked too closely, she might discover that she had had a hand in making him the wretched fool he was.”

  “Weel, next time I see her, I shall scold her soundly.”

  “I dinnae think that will do much good. The woman does as she pleases. What I find of interest is that Sir Kenneth saw her at all.”

  Isbel sighed and nodded. “He sees too clearly. Soon he may weel begin to believe in what he saw. Even if I twist my tongue into knots, I will not be able to change his mind about what he sees. I tried to be most clever in dismissing Mary as no more than a bit of sunlight dancing upon the wall.”

  “He will not long accept such explanations.”

  “I ken it.” She stood up and moved to scrub the heavy wooden table set in the middle of the room, needing the hard work to try and ease her agitated state of mind. “I always thought it would be nice to have a mon who kenned the things I do, who saw at least some of what I did. It would mean I could cease to be so careful. Now, howbeit, I see the difficulty it could cause. If he had been born with such gifts, it could have served me weel, but he was not, or the gifts set in his heart and mind quietly, ne’er troubling him. For him to suddenly discover such things is no good at all, for he will fear these revelations and will certainly blame me for their arrival.”

  “Dinnae fret so, lassie. If ye are fated to be with this mon, then ye shall be.”

  She smiled at Pullhair. “Thank ye kindly for that attempt to cheer me, but we both ken the truth of the matter. The fates may have chosen Kenneth as my mate, but I am the one who must win him. I dinnae believe that showing him that all the frightening tales he was told as a child are not tales at all, but the truth will do that. All I can do is pray that the fates have not brought the mon to me just to snatch him away. For all I complain about my gifts, I have really hated having them. If they cause Kenneth Davidson to run from me, however, I may weel begin to loathe what I am.”

  “Nay, lassie. Ye have proud blood in your veins. Ye cannae think of turning against your own heritage.”

  “Pride and a great heritage willnae warm my bed or give me the bairns I crave, Pullhair.”

  “And ye woul
d cast all that aside for that mon?”

  “Aye, in a heartbeat.”

  Chapter 4

  “What are ye doing out of bed? Are ye mad?”

  Kenneth wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand and, clinging tightly to the bedpost, glared at Isbel. She stood in the doorway of the bedchamber, her delicate hands on her shapely hips, and a chuckling Pullhair lurking behind her. Kenneth was not sure what annoyed him more, his own weakness, or the open delight the little man seemed to take in his helplessness.

  “I am weary of lying in that bed with naught to look at but the ceiling and your twice-cursed cat,” he snapped. “I have been stuck abed for a fortnight.”

  “And ye shall remain stuck in that bed for a few days more if ye have any wits at all,” she scolded him as she helped him back into bed, Pullhair reluctantly moving to help her.

  “What I should be doing is trying to regain my strength. If I dinnae use my leg, ’twill stiffen. I cannae be left a cripple.”

  “A wee bit of stiffness in your leg willnae make ye a cripple. And using your leg too soon can be as harmful as not using it at all. Ye are healing weel but ye must nay rush things. Ye have been verra fortunate. Be pleased with that.” She briefly checked his wound, knowing that there was little chance he had opened any of his injuries, yet unable to quell her concern for him.

  “Ye dinnae need to fuss so o’er me,” he muttered. “I hurt nothing save for my pride, just made myself so cursed weak that I couldnae take another step, neither to the door nor back to this wretched bed.”

  He scowled at Isbel as she soaked a cloth in a bowl of cool water. When she gently bathed his face, he reluctantly admitted to himself that it felt very good. The brief attempt at walking had left him so weak that he was shaking. Even as he felt stirred by her tender ministrations, he was infuriated by his own helplessness.

  “I cannae abide this idleness.”

  “’Twill pass, sir. Endure this for but a wee while longer. The rewards are weel worth the price.”

  “Aye, mayhap.”

  “The fool accepts the truth with wondrous grace,” Pullhair murmured as he sat on the end of the bed.

  “My name is Kenneth,” he said through gritted teeth, weary of the little man’s constant insults.

  “Weel, pride begins to pinch ye, does it? Fine then, Kenneth, ye had best heed the lassie. The art of healing is but one of her many skills.”

  Kenneth caught sight of the cross look Isbel sent the little brown man. She did that each time Pullhair referred to her skills or her gifts. She clearly did not want them speaking about such things. After so many days within the walls of Bandal, Kenneth knew the reason for her reluctance to talk. Bandal was a very strange place, filled to the parapets with a multitude of spirits and creatures he would prefer to remain ignorant of.

  The moment Isbel hurried away to get him some food, Kenneth fixed his full attention upon Pullhair. Although he desperately wished to cling to his disbelief, he could no longer deny what the little brown man was. A brownie was not all that Bandal was cursed with either. He had fought hard to ignore it all, but that had proven to be impossible. Just because he could not see the spirits clearly did not mean that they were not there. At times he had overheard Isbel speaking to the ghosts who haunted her keep and at other times he had heard Isbel and Pullhair speaking of such things. It was far past time for someone to start telling him the truth, he decided.

  “The two of ye hold tight to a great many secrets,” he said, meeting Pullhair’s steady gaze and not flinching.

  “Now why would we be wishing to keep anything secret from such a brave knight of the realm?” asked Pullhair.

  “Your tongue is nearly as sharp as your teeth.” It pleased Kenneth a little when Pullhair scowled, revealing that the soft insult had struck home. “Let us cease to play these games. Aye, I have fought to deny what my wits and my eyes tell me so plainly, and ye make game of me because of it. Ye are a brownie. I dinnae understand why I should suddenly be able to see you, but that doesnae concern me just now. What troubles me is how much else I have been seeing. Either I have gone mad and dinnae ken it, or Bandal crawls with spirits of all shapes and sizes.”

  “And why should that concern you?”

  “Because I am stuck in the midst of it. So is Isbel.”

  “Isbel is safe. She is weel protected.”

  Kenneth wisely bit back a smile of amusement over the way the tiny man puffed out his chest and tried to appear intimidating. He had never heard of a brownie taking on the role of a mortal’s protector, but then he had ceased to heed the tales told of such creatures at a very young age. What little he could recall, however, told him that there were many things a brownie could not protect anyone from. His memories also warned him to be very careful not to anger or offend the tiny creature.

  “Come, let us talk as men who share a concern over a tiny woman,” he said gently. “Although I have ne’er glimpsed such things as brownies and ghosts before I met ye and Isbel, I cannae believe every place is as crowded with such beings as Bandal. Near to every corner of this tower house has something lurking in it. Why so many and are they a threat to Isbel?”

  “I think Bandal is a place of passage,” Pullhair said, glancing at the doorway to be sure Isbel had not come back and caught him being so forthright.

  “Passage? To where?”

  “To the land of the dead. Many mortals who have died find their way here. Most of them journey on, either right away or after but a short stay. And Bandal is a sacred place for my kind and others of the netherworld. There are several faerie mounds but a short walk from here.”

  “Faerie mounds?” Kenneth sat up straighter, tense and wary. “They could take Isbel away. That is what they do, is it not? They carry off mortals.”

  “Not as often as your kind would believe. They willnae touch Isbel, however. Oh, aye, there is a faerie or two who would love to do her ill, but she has too much protection, and I dinnae mean me or the things she carries about with her such as that cross pounded out of iron.”

  Kenneth winced slightly and rubbed his temples. “I begin to think I erred in beginning this talk. Ye are telling me more than I can fully understand.”

  “Foolish mon,” Pullhair said in a gruff, faintly angry voice as he moved to stand at the side of the bed. “Ye weary what few wits ye have worrying o’er things that dinnae matter. Ye shouldnae concern yourself o’er why ye can suddenly see me and the ghosts that roam the halls. For some reason ye have suddenly been granted the gift of sight. ’Twould seem to me that ye are meant to do something with it. That is what ye should be trying to understand.”

  “If Isbel is in no danger, then there is no reason.”

  “There is always a reason for things that happen. There is also always some price to be paid for the gift ye now have.”

  “I must pay for something I didnae ask for and dinnae really want?”

  “Aye. That is the way the game is played out, my pretty knight. Ye may just have the gift because ye are close to Isbel, bonded by a debt of blood. Howbeit, I repeat that ye may have been given it because ye are meant to do something.”

  Kenneth shook his head. “If I am meant to do something, I think I should have been given some hint of what that is when I was given these strange gifts.”

  Pullhair shrugged and started for the door. “That would be far too easy.”

  “Just tell me this then. I am not mad?”

  “Nay, not in any way I have yet kenned.”

  “Then I am truly seeing ghosts and the like.”

  “Aye.”

  Before he could discuss the matter any more, Pullhair slipped away. Kenneth slumped against his pillows. He had not really found out much. In truth, he could not really depend upon Pullhair’s assurances that he was not mad, that he was truly seeing what he thought he was seeing. After all, that brief talk to Pullhair could easily have been some delusion born of madness.

  “Ye dinnae look to be very happy,” Isbel said as
she entered the room and shyly approached the bed. “Would ye like to play some chess?”

  “Aye, that would pass the time nicely,” he replied.

  Isbel set the chessboard between them on the bed and carefully placed the small, hand-carved wooden pieces in position. It was going to be hard to keep her mind on the intricate game while sitting so close to Kenneth, but she knew she had to try and hide her deep attraction for the man. In all the time he had been at her keep, Kenneth had not revealed any hint of desire for her. Until he did, she intended to keep her longing for him as hidden as possible.

  His agitation and ill temper had stirred her sympathies, however. She had occasionally been tied to her bed by illness or injury and knew well how maddening it could be. Although she could not spend that much time with him for she had chores to do, Isbel decided that she needed to make more of an effort to keep him occupied.

  It did not take long before Isbel realized that she was outmatched. She had enough skill at the game to give him a reasonable challenge, but she doubted she would beat him, certainly not until she had had a great deal of practice. Reluctant to just give up, however, she struggled to do better than she ever had before. It did not really surprise her, however, to be checkmated by him.

  “Ye need not look so proud,” she murmured, smiling faintly as he set the pieces back in place, clearly intending to have another game. “One should try and win with a little more grace and humility than ye are showing.”

  “I shall endeavor to do so the next time I win.”

  “Of course. That would sound a more honest promise of improvement if your voice had not held the conviction that you will beat me this time too.”