Super Summer Set of Historical Shorts

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Her gaze slipped to the enormous silver buckle. Not only did it fasten the man’s kilt in place, this was Lord Quinn’s belt—the most forbidden Highlander in Scotland. Groaning, she looked to the rafters. “Merciful fairies. I’ll do it.”

  Alice convinced herself she was impervious to the flesh of any Campbell. Until the cloth dropped away, revealing a pair of muscular thighs peppered with dark hair. She’d never imagined a man’s legs could be so powerful, so alluring. And aside from his shoes and hose, his only remaining garment was a long linen covering the tops of his thighs. The linen clung to his skin so tightly, she could see everything beneath. Around the hole at the left shoulder was stained with blood, but just beneath the muscles in his chest were thick and fleshy. At the tips were dark circles, nipples not much different than hers, but remarkably different at the same time. Her mouth grew dry as, unable to stop herself, her gaze drifted lower. His abdomen rippled with bands of sinew as if hewn from iron. And lower… Holy everlasting father, lower. A dark triangle of hair shadowed his sex and there was absolutely no question about his manhood. This was as virile a man as ever walked the Highlands of Scotland.

  Forcing her mouth to close, Alice wiped her eyes. “Ah…I suppose you may as well take off your shirt as well.”

  When he didn’t respond, she opted to remove his shoes and hose first. “Take off your shirt, Quinn!” she shouted.

  The man’s eyes flashed open. Shuddering, he whisked the garment over his head. “Arrgh!” he howled as the linen stuck to his wounded shoulder.

  Alice held up her hand to shade her eyes from his…him…that… Good Lord, are all men thus endowed? “I’ll finish.”

  She stripped away the shirt, leaving him completely nude. Trying not to ogle the poor injured soul, she urged him toward the pallet where she’d turned the blankets down. “I’ve made up a wee bed. I need you to shift yourself over there. Just a roll or two and you’ll be toasty warm.”

  Somehow, he managed to inch over, though as soon as his bum hit the comfort of the pallet, he dropped to his back, sprawled like a spider.

  Alice peeked at him through her fingers. “Ah…are you intending to stay in that position?”

  Evidently, he was because His Lordship didn’t bother to twitch.

  “Very well.” She picked up the blanket and dropped it over his unmentionables.

  After a healthy pat to her chest her heart returned to a somewhat normal cadence. She bent over his injured shoulder. It was angry red with traces of black powder around the puncture wound. Gingerly, she pressed her fingers around the flesh. Thankfully, the musket ball hadn’t hit bone, but even Alice knew Quinn would die if the piece of lead weren’t removed.

  She looked to the door. If only Gran would have rowed across the firth with them. But surely she’d be along soon.

  Alice puzzled for a moment. Why hadn’t her grandmother made the journey across the Clyde? There had been enough room in the skiff.

  Why had she stayed behind?

  ***

  After the sun rose on the next morn, Gran still hadn’t returned. Worse, Lord Quinn was sweating like a laborer in the hot sun.

  “Water,” he said, his voice nowhere as bold as it had been the previous day.

  Cup in hand, Alice hastened to his side. “How are you feeling?”

  He held his head up while she gave him a drink. “Like I’ve been shot.”

  “The ball needs to come out. It’ll make you very ill if it does not.”

  He rested his head on the pillow and let out a long breath. “Have you experience with such a surgery?”

  “I saw it done once.” Gran had removed a musket ball from a man’s knee, but he’d caught the fever all the same and died a month later. Alice bit her lip. No use telling Quinn his chances for survival were grim.

  The blanket slipped lower as he traced his fingers around the wound. “Then you’ll have to dig it out.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye.”

  “My grandmother would do better. She’s very skilled with the healing arts.”

  Quinn’s gaze swept across the cottage. “I haven’t seen her.”

  Alice offered him another sip. “I thought she would have come home by now.”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Aye. She’s been acting strangely as of late. I’m afraid she’s going senile.”

  He licked his parched lips, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “In that case, I’d rather have you perform the surgery. Then once I’m on my feet, we’ll set out to find her.”

  “We?”

  “Mm.” He rubbed his arm right below the wound. “I’d reckon you’d want to go, would you not?”

  “A-aye,” Alice replied, none too convinced. She’d brought a Campbell into her home and now he was talking about taking her to search for Gran? Things were growing stranger by the moment.

  “I’ll fetch you something for the pain,” she said, heading for the shed where Gran kept her medicine bundle and hung the herbs to dry. Unfortunately, the dear woman had never seen fit to record any of her remedies with quill and parchment.

  Alice found the mortar and pestle and put it on the table while examining the stoppered pots. Let’s see…valerian, willow bark, a pinch of opium… She chewed her lip as she looked at the vial of nightshade. Only a few days past she had thought to poison the man with it and now she was trying to save his life.

  With a trembling hand, she pulled off the stopper and sprinkled in a tiny bit of the finely ground powder—any more and her remedy might be his undoing. Using the mortar, she mixed the tincture and then added a dram of whisky. Then she poured the lot into a cup and stirred it with her dagger for good measure. Alice had no idea why, but Gran always used her dagger to mix the tincture before she performed surgery, and now was no time to veer away from any matter of course.

  Back inside the cottage, His Lordship gave the concoction a dubious look. “What’s in it?”

  “Whisky…mayhap a few pinches of this and that.”

  He took the cup and held it aloft. “I can manage anything with a tot of spirit.”

  Alice said a silent prayer as she watched him drink.

  “Ah.” He wiped his mouth. “I wouldn’t mind a bit more of that whisky if you have it.”

  “Perhaps after.” She held up the dagger.

  He cringed. “Blast. I’d hoped you might have forgotten about the wee lead ball.”

  “The sooner we have it out, the faster you’ll heal.” Kneeling beside him, she examined the wound. “Do you need a stick?”

  “Nay. I’ll be right.”

  But he hissed when she pressed her fingers around his wound. “Perhaps we should wait for the tincture to take effect,” she suggested.

  “Do it now afore I lose my nerve.”

  “You do not seem like a man who would lose his nerve easily, m’lord.”

  He grimaced as she located the ball just beneath the puncture. “I’m not,” he grunted.

  Steeling her nerves to keep her hands from trembling, she threw back her shoulders. “Gird yourself.”

  His lips formed a white line as his entire body tensed.

  Alice clenched her teeth, levering the knife into the wound as she pressed hard against the lump.

  Quinn made a gurgling sound of agony as his body jolted.

  Alice flicked her wrist, but the ball didn’t come out. “Curses,” the word came out strained as she worked the shot left then right while her patient writhed, baring his teeth.

  “I nearly have it!” Pushing down, it took only one more dig with her blade until the ball popped out.

  “Satan’s ballocks, that bloody hurt!” Quinn bellowed, his face blanching.

  Holding up the round shot between her fingers, Alice couldn’t help but grin. “At least it looks as if my tincture isn’t going to kill you.”

  His fingers swathed a path through the blood oozing from his shoulder. “Aye, but I might bleed to death.”

  “Och, no!” Springing to her feet, Al
ice grabbed a clean cloth from the pile of linens and held it firm atop the wound.

  He strained upward, glaring like a madman. “Can you be a wee bit gentler, mind you?”

  “Sorry, but we must staunch the bleeding.”

  The big Highlander dropped his head to the pillow. “Where is it written a goddess had a kind heart?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Athena was no shrinking violet.”

  Alice tossed the bloodied cloth aside and applied a fresh one. “You’re making no sense at all.”

  Quinn closed his eyes. “Mayhap on account…”

  At his loud exhale, her heart lurched with the force of a thunderbolt. “M’lord?”

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn couldn’t decide which was worse, the pounding in his head or the stabbing pain in his shoulder. Both tortured him relentlessly. Though when something soft pressed against his hip, he had a mind to open his eyes. And for a blessed moment he felt not a twinge of pain.

  He inhaled deeply, the scent of wild berries soothed him. He opened one eye. Fully clothed, Alice lay on her side with her back to him, her silken hair draped in wisps across her body. Her head rested on the crook of her arm. Above, a feminine shoulder gave way to a steep slope ending in a narrow waist and flaring into the most glorious hip.

  “Are you real?” he whispered.

  With a soft moan, she shifted, a lock of her hair falling onto Quinn’s palm. He rubbed it between his fingers—so exquisitely soft. He drew the silken tress to his nose and inhaled heaven. “I think ye are a selkie, because you’re too bonny to be of this world.”

  “Mm,” her voice was rich and womanly, making him want to kiss her. But with another soft moan, she sat up and stretched. When she glanced his way, she smiled—her expression like a ray of sunshine. “Praises be, you’re awake!”

  “Was there any question?” he asked, his throat raspy and dry.

  “Ah…” Her gaze trailed aside.

  Quinn moved his toes. “How long have I been abed?”

  “Two days.”

  “Two days? My kin will be sick with worry.”

  “I was sick with worry—and Gran still hasn’t returned from Rothesay.”

  Draping his arm over his head, it all came back. Who the devil had shot him and why? And the old woman had insisted the scoundrels were after me.

  “How is your shoulder?”

  The damned thing seared with pain. “Hardly ken I’ve been shot.”

  “Truly? I’ve never seen a man recover so quickly.”

  He gave her a sheepish cringe. “Mayhap it’ll be awhile afore I’m wrestling a colt.”

  “I would think so.” She gestured to the table. “Are you hungry? Yesterday I made some bread and put a pot of mutton stew on the hob.”

  Quinn’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “I’m famished.”

  “Can you rise? I could bring a bowl and feed you here.”

  “I’ll not be mollycoddled,” he growled, trying to sound tougher than he felt. Honestly, having the lass spoon feed him while he reclined on the soft pillows was a far more enticing idea, but he’d never admit to it.

  The pallet grew suddenly cold when Alice rose. “I’ll dish up a couple of bowls.”

  “My thanks.” He winced as he sat up, the blankets falling to his hips. Och, he wore not a stich of clothing. Blast, his shirt and kilt were draped across a rocking chair on the other side of the chamber.

  As he stood, he pulled the blanket with him and tucked it around his waist. The room spun a bit. Worse, his legs barely withstood his weight. “Abed for two miserable days and I’m as weak as a bairn.”

  The lass glanced over her shoulder and blessed him with another smile—aye, with the way her grin gave him strength, she could keep at it. “I’m amazed to see you on your feet. After you spent the night moaning, I feared you’d never wake.”

  Quinn scratched the itchy stubble on his face. “’Tis not like me to moan.”

  “Everyone moans in the midst of a fever.”

  “I was fevered?”

  “Aye, and sweating something awful. I couldn’t replace the cloths on your forehead fast enough.”

  Deciding to forgo his shirt, he staggered to the bench and plopped on his arse, completely spent. “You mean to say you sat up with me all night, wiping my brow?”

  When the young lady turned, her gaze dropped to his bare chest. Her teeth grazed her bottom lip. “And ladling willow bark tea between your lips. I’ll say the reason you’re faring so well this morn is on account of the tea.” She gave a sheepish grin. “And a tot or two of watered whisky.”

  “Watered?” He grinned back, bless it he liked her. He especially liked having her eyes rake down his body. And by her expression, she liked him as well.

  She placed two bowls on the table. “I didn’t want to choke you.”

  “Not me. I was born swilling whisky.”

  “Is that what your ma told you?”

  “Regrettably I didn’t really know my mother. She passed away when Eachan was born.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sadness filled her eyes as she passed him a spoon—made of silver and embossed with a coat of arms. The piece didn’t fit with the shabbiness of the cottage but before he mentioned it, Alice continued, “My ma passed the day I was born. I blamed myself for years.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, lass. Childbearing has a way of taking too many young mothers from their bairns.” He took up the spoon and took a bite. “Mm. This is good.”

  “Thank you. ’Tis Gran’s—”

  “Recipe?” he asked. “I take it the woman has taught you a great deal.”

  “From herbs to facts to reading. She’s a wise woman.”

  And odd.

  A rose in full bloom sat in a crystal vase in the center of the table. “Is that the same bud you gave me?”

  “It is.” Alice cupped her hands around it and inhaled. “The fragrance is more potent than any rose I’ve ever smelled.”

  “’Tis not like any I’ve ever seen either. What sort of rose blooms violet?”

  “A damask rose. Gran says they’re…special.”

  Quinn’s gaze traveled to the brooch he’d seen Alice wearing with the four emeralds. “How do you mean?” he asked, noticing the motto encircling a hand Ne Parcas nec Spernas. In his thoughts he translated the Latin, “Neither Spare nor Despise”.

  Alice ran her finger down the crystal vase. “I’m sure it is only myth.”

  “I’ve nowhere to go.” He looked her in the eye. “Tell me.”

  “Och, if you must know, Gran says it makes enemies become—”

  “What?”

  She rolled her hand through the air. “You ken.”

  “Lovers?” he asked, praying it were true.

  A glowing blush rose in Alice’s cheeks. “That’s what Gran says. She’s not right about everything, though.”

  Chuckling, Quinn tapped the brooch. “But you just boasted about her wisdom.”

  “I may have.”

  “Tell me, bonny Alice, why were you at the high table wearing this?”

  She stirred her pottage as if hesitant. “I’m the last of my clan.”

  “Which is?”

  Her face flushed as red as hot coals. “Lamont.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Alice spoke her clan name, the pain in Quinn’s shoulder burned. He gaped at her in utter disbelief.

  “Lamont?” he asked, his voice hard as he raked his fingers through his hair. “Good Lord, woman, you held my life in the palm of your hands.”

  As she set down her spoon and squared her shoulders, the woman’s gaze grew defiant. “Do not think that fact escaped me—not for one minute.”

  Quinn’s mind raced. Damnation, why had she taken him in? Why hadn’t she left him in Rothesay?

  He looked to the long sword by the door. Would he need to fight? Hell, he could overpower the lass with his hands, injured shoulder or nay. “And yet you tended me as if I were kin.”

/>   “Same as I would any living soul.”

  “But—”

  Shaking her head, Alice held up a palm. “The day you rode onto my lands—”

  “Your lands?”

  “Aye, my lands!” She pounded a fist onto the table. “That day I raced back to Gran ready to poison the burn—to kill Argyll’s grandson and heir.”

  “But instead you brought me the rose.”

  “Gran’s idea, mind you. But she…” Alice pushed back the bench and stood.

  Quinn tried to follow, but when his knees buckled, he decided to remain where he sat. “But she what?”

  Alice busied herself tending the fire. “Obviously she had different ideas. Which…which, were completely misguided.”

  “Hmm.” Quinn again scratched his stubble as he studied the damned rose. The old woman might have had good intentions, but most likely for the wrong reasons. Even if he wanted to court the lass, in his weakened state bending his knee would cause him to lose balance and fall on his face.

  He needed to think. He needed to breathe. And with the air in the wee cottage growing tenser by the moment, the only thing that made sense was to hasten outside. “Is there a well out the back? It appears I’m in need of a shave.”

  And a healthy dousing in cold water.

  ***

  “Merciful fairies, I’m daft.” Alice had collected a razor, soap and drying cloth for Quinn, but now he’d gone outside, he’d left his clothes still draped across the back of Gran’s rocking chair. Surely he’d want to don his shirt and kilt after his shave. Tiptoeing to the garments, she smoothed her fingers down the wool of her skirts. No, it hadn’t escaped her notice that the Highlander had gone outdoors with a blanket tied around his waist. Who wouldn’t have noticed such well-muscled chest brawn?

  Although, it wasn’t as if Alice hadn’t already seen his chest. She’d spent the past few days trying to cover him up, only to have the man shove the bedclothes back down.

  Making up her mind, she collected the clothing and marched outside. At the corner of the cottage, modesty made her stop. “Lord Quinn?” she called.

  When he didn’t respond, visions of the man collapsed and unconscious came to mind. I knew he was up and about too soon.

  But as she darted around the corner, the last thing she expected to see was…