The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5)

by Rebecca Ruger

  “Oh, my.”

  “Been carrying on for two years,” said Archie.

  Next to him, Duncan nodded thoughtfully, his gaze transfixed by the fire. “More devil than man,” he said. Very quietly, he told this tale: “Took twelve churchmen from the monastery up at Wick and nailed horseshoes to their feet. Made them sing and dance for the entertainment of his men. This went on for more than a day, so say some. Gelded a few, hung them all in the end. Burned the priory and the fields to the ground. Dinna even bother to justify this abhorrence with any robbing of the place. Took nothing, seemed he only wanted the amusement.”

  “Aye, a sick bastard, he is,” Archie said, his hands on his hips, staring likewise blindly into the fire.

  Maggie was overcome with the senseless brutality of the tale and knew from the somberness that invaded these men now, that they had witnessed some part of this, mayhap had come upon the wreckage of this Alpin’s horrid violence. How awful. She gave some brief thought to how fortunate she was, or had been, in her short life. She had ofttimes bemoaned the lack of true love from her sire and the dreariness of her little life in Torish, and even now, the fate that had been extended to her, marriage to Kenneth Sutherland; but she had never known a horror such as those poor souls did, had not ever been the victim of any true violence or injustice. She ought to remind herself more often of her own blessed circumstance.

  “There was more brutality,” Hew said. “Small village near Helmsdale, entirely wiped out. Came across them days later, bodies scattered everywhere—men, women, children. The slices in their throats were the least of the harm done to them.”

  “But he must be stopped,” Maggie said.

  “Aye, lass,” agreed Duncan. “And that’s what we’re about.”

  The laird and the twin named Donal returned shortly, looking like two snow monsters, the white precipitation clinging to almost every part of them, hair and fur, and breeches and boots. They both shook off much of this near the door, removing their furs and flapping them about to rid them of the moisture and the cold. They stomped their feet and ruffled their hands through their hair, until most of the snow had been removed and they once again looked human.

  The laird shook his head in answer to the probing glances thrown his way. He walked around the fire, saying, “We’ll go nowhere today. Maybe no’ for several days. Deep as a horse’s belly even at the bottom of the hill. And heavy.” He moved around the circle of the fire, behind the people sitting so close. When he stood behind Maggie, he flicked the fur once more, away from her and behind him, and then settled the whole thing over her shoulders. “No sign of clearing,” he said, as if he hadn’t just done the most kindhearted and remarkable thing, remarkable in that it was so casual an action, as if he regularly offered his cloak to cold women in need. “Sky looks the same in every direction.”

  “Winds have died down,” Donal added, plopping down next to his brother, “but that’ll no work in our favor.”

  Duncan nodded, understanding immediately. “Storm could hover for days, just over our heads.”

  “Aye,” said Iain, “and we’ll need to plan for just that. Need to hunt and heat more water, get the horses fed.”

  “I’ll get to the hunting,” said Archie, spitting into the fire. “I’ll go batty if I’ve to stay too long in this small space.” He looked around the group. “Come on then, Craig. I’ll no want to be aggrieved by the yapping of either of them.” He inclined his head to the twins. “And if we’re lost, I imagine you’re the one to get me back.”

  Craig nodded, possibly understanding only that he was expected to leave the cave with Archie, and stood and dressed as the old man did, bundling up for the cold and the hunt.

  There was some discussion between Duncan and Archie about whether they would actually be fishing or hunting, supposing if they could find a loch named Calder, and it wasn’t frozen, they might stand a greater chance of catching fish than trying to find any critter—or better, something larger—that wasn’t hunkered down in its own den or lair, same as the hunters were.

  Iain sat down, taking the blank spot next to Maggie. He inclined his head to her but said nothing directly, holding out his hands closer to the fire, chafing away the cold. Maggie noticed just now his plaid, which she hadn’t before as he’d mostly been covered by a fur. The thick woolen fabric was draped over one shoulder, the pleats and folds not so neat as a laird might normally wear them. The McEwen plaid was colored with earthen green and brown threads, altogether rather subtle and subdued in tone. The Sutherland tartan was of bold colors, green and blue and red; Maggie had seen it often, had always been struck by how vibrant the Sutherland colors were against the drab gray lives of Sutherland’s lesser folk.

  The laird caught her staring at his shoulder, his head turned to the right to consider her.

  “I feel rather useless, just sitting here,” she admitted. “Isn’t there something that I might do to be helpful?”

  Duncan answered before his laird did. “Aye, now, you just sit there being bonny, lass. That’s all we’ll ask of you.”

  While Maggie favored the captain with a smile for his politeness, Iain McEwen shrugged and said, “None of us will be doing much. And there’s no’ so much to do now but wait.” And then, with a tilt of his head and the barest hint of a grin, he added, “Aye, but you might be praying on us, lass, you being more devout than any of us regular heathens.”

  Something about his tone and the quirk of his lips suggested that he mocked her, but Maggie could not be sure, and so only replied with a nod.

  The morning stretched on, with the twins taking care of most of the conversation as they huddled around the fire. It was not hard to like those two; handsomeness aside, they showed no concern over their circumstance, proved extremely capable of entertaining themselves—and others by way of the close proximity—with their talk and their play. At one point, they both lie on their bellies, facing each other, their arms presented forward, their hands intertwined, while it seemed the goal was to send the back of the other man’s hand to the ground. Daimh proved victorious, and then ignored his brother’s demand of another try. After a while though, even the twins seemed to run out of energy and settle down.

  The day would be long, with naught to do but sit and wait. When she could stand it no more, towards late morning, Maggie leaned toward the McEwen laird and quietly asked of him where or how she might take care of her personal needs.

  “Aye,” he said, nodding and standing. “Sorry, lass, I should have thought of this earlier.” He stretched out his hand, into which Maggie put her own.

  She nearly gasped, the warmth of his fingers shocking her as he pulled her to her feet. She’d kept her fingerless gloves on, but her hands were still very cold, and his were absolutely not, that she did not at all resist when he squeezed her fingers and did not immediately release them.

  “We’re no’ used to having female company, lass,” he explained.

  Standing next to him now, his full size was revealed to her. He easily stood a head taller than her, and so much power was revealed in the breadth of his chest and shoulders. She thought he might be twice as wide as her and very little of this could be attributed to his clothing or gear, as he was garbed now in only his tunic and plaid. She was made almost breathless by his physical presence, by the aura of sheer strength that emanated from him.

  He glanced around the cave, causing Maggie some concern now, hoping he didn’t think she was going to relieve herself amidst these close quarters.

  Duncan must have heard Maggie’s request, that he advised, “Might want to hie up to the next hut there, lad.”

  “Aye,” agreed the laird. Iain McEwen lifted the fur again, the one he’d covered her with earlier, that she’d allowed to slide off her shoulders when she’d risen. “Wrap up, lass. I’ll have to carry you or you’ll be drenched in snow to your belly.”

  Oh, my. How awkward, she thought, embarrassed now for her need and for the nuisance it would cause him.

 
“I should wrap in my cloak, if it’s still available. And you make use of the fur, as it is your own.” She had some idea that being held in his arms, while awkward, would shield her from the cold.

  Hew jumped up and scurried over to a boulder that rather sat in the middle of the cave, collecting what must be her cloak from atop it. He presented this to her, favoring her with a now familiar expression, both eager and intense.

  “Thank you, Hew.” She shook out the cape and turned it around her shoulders, flipping the hood up over her wimple and latching the frog closures near her neck.

  The laird had moved away, strode over to the doorway. Maggie met him there. He’d been staring outside, but turned when she approached, giving her a grin. “All bundled up.”

  Clenching her fingers, she wondered how he might carry her, having some idea of climbing onto his back as she’d once seen a woman do. The woman, she recalled, had jumped quickly out of the way of a fast moving horse and cart, twisting her ankle in the process; when her husband had come to collect her, she’d been truly unable to put any weight on her foot so that the man had turned his back to his wife, crouching down so that the woman could wrap her arms around his neck; the man had straightened and carried his wife home that way.

  Her deliberations proved unnecessary, as the McEwen laird simply bent and scooped her up, one strong arm around her back, the other under her knees. Maggie gasped as he gathered her firmly against his chest and waded out into the snow. She squinted hard against the obscene brightness of the day, tucking her face against him, having not expected the light to hurt her head. Instinctively, she latched onto him, her fingers curled into the fur wrapped around him.

  Their progress was slow and plodding. Despite the man’s great size, he had to lift his leg up out of the depths of the snow with each step, tilting them left then right, again and again, as they trudged further up the side of the hill. Thankfully, at this elevation the hill was not so steep as it had proved at lower sections, but it was still a very slow progression. His steps were measured and careful, but the snow was deep enough that he lost his balance at one point, tipping precariously toward the ground. Maggie shrieked and grabbed on tighter, pinching her fingers around his neck, hoisting herself up against him when she thought they were going down.

  She felt his chuckle under her fingers and against her side and at his face as they were nearly cheek to cheek now. “I’ll no’ let you fall, Maggie Bryce.”

  And he did not. He recovered smoothly and carried on, though Maggie still clung fiercely to him, as she’d rather not be dropped or accidentally thrown into the cold and deep snow. Almost in the very next moment, her worry over this was overshadowed by her increasing awareness of their proximity. Maggie was suddenly conscious of the warmth and strength of his flesh under her fingers at his neck, became very aware of how solid and hard he was against her soft curves. Against her ribs, which were pressed firmly to one side of his chest, she felt every movement in the motion of his muscles, rippling heatedly against her. Cold and ice and snow seemed to be lost then, as Maggie could fathom no other sensation but that of his strong body moving. She might have relaxed then, at the sense of strength and security his steadiness offered, but that she was overcome by some other emotion, as yet unnamed, though she knew well it was some reaction to the feel of him.

  “You’ve gone as stiff as a dead steed, lass. Relax.”

  She tried, she really did, but could not. She could not now pretend she wasn’t aware, that she suffered no reaction at all—whatever it was—to being in his arms. But she did turn her face away from his cheek, looking forward, hoping their destination wasn’t too much further.

  “You’ve got freckles on your forehead and chin, too,” he said with some wonder, telling her that he was watching her and not his footfalls.

  This brought her gaze back to him. “They’re everywhere,” she said, before she thought better of it. Once said, she rather cringed inside, wondering that her statement sounded so intimate.

  He lifted a brow at her, one side of his mouth quirking upward.

  Perhaps when the ground was not covered by snow that reached to this man’s thigh, the trek from the cave to the next hill bothy might only take a minute, or two if made without a purposeful gait; just now, in these conditions, it took almost five minutes, Maggie feeling more and more like a nuisance to this man for the inconvenience.

  The third hut sat much like the first, in which the horses had been stashed, with three man-made walls closing in on the rock of the hill as its fourth wall. This one actually had a door, but the winds must have blown it open and the drifting snow then kept it that way, that the snow was blown into the first ten or so feet of the hut. Iain McEwen stepped further inside than the wind-blown snow and finally set Maggie down.

  She grimaced at him, sorry for the trouble she’d caused. He wasn’t panting from his exertion, but he was clearly breathing harder than when they’d started out.

  “I’ll step back outside lass. Call when you’re ready.”

  She groaned inwardly with more embarrassment. She wished there was some way to keep her personal business, well, personal. But with nothing else to be done about it, and with her need pressing, Maggie did the best she could in the deepest corner of the shelter. She gave up a length of her innermost linen undergarment, tearing off a good section of the hem and using that as needed, having a bit of a giggle at the thought of the kirtle being hacked away up to her waist if they were trapped out here for too many days.

  When she was done, she stepped carefully toward the front of the hut, keeping to the left side wall, where the snow there had not risen higher than her ankle. She called out to the McEwen laird and he appeared a moment later, looking again much as he had earlier, covered in snow almost head to toe. He stood in the light of the door, that she could well see that his hair was a very dark brown, not black as she imagined previously. It was cropped close but unruly, curling at its own discretion, one lock dangling with some charm over his forehead.

  She realized he was chewing just as he strode toward her, lifting his hand to show a cluster of bright red-orange berries. With the brilliant white of the snowy day shining into where she stood, Maggie recognized the beady little rowan berries. They were sour, and now likely frozen solid, but she hadn’t chewed on anything in more than a day and happily plucked some from the tiny branch he offered, plopping one then another into her mouth.

  Immediately, crunching down through the indeed frozen solid berry, she pulled a face at exactly how sour it was.

  Iain McEwen chuckled and advised, “Keep chewing, lass. It gets better.” He lifted his cupped hand to his mouth, tossing in a few more berries.

  He was right. While it didn’t get sweeter, the initial sourness definitely lessened with more chewing. While they snacked, he dragged his foot sideways along the ground, clearing a path in the snow to the doorway. Maggie followed his progress and stopped when he did at the opening, still under the canopy of the hut and able to see the entire north side of the hill. They stood there, side by side, watching the snow fall, quiet just now as was everything around them.

  He plucked three or four more berries from the vine and dropped them into her hand.

  “I suppose it would be lovely, if this were in fact a house—with all the blessed amenities—and not a hovel on the side of a hill,” she commented.

  “Very peaceful,” he said.

  “That seems like something a laird or soldier,” she turned and waved a hand, vaguely indicating his warrior’s breastplate and the mighty sword at his hip, “might often find lacking—peace.”

  “That is so, lass. Canna recall the last time there was peace,” he said with a bit of a shrug. “No’ in a decade or more, to my thinking.”

  “I’m sorry for that. Would that all people knew peace.”

  She stared again at the white blanketed scenery, disturbed only by this man’s footprints, and felt him tip his head toward her. “Will you pray for me, sister?”

 
Maggie turned her face and squinted up at him. He really was very large, standing so close. “Sir, you seem to find great humor in the fact that I will pledge myself to our Lord.”

  “’Tis no’ humor, lass,” he said, even as he spoke through a grin, “but a general lack of belief.”

  “What does that mean?” She frowned, nearly ready to slap her hands onto her hips at whatever he was having fun with.

  “It means, lass—or sister, or Maggie Bryce—that I dinna believe for one minute that you are meant to be a woman of the cloth, or that you were on your way to any convent, near or far.”

  Her frown deepened with his words. “What are you saying?”

  And now he laughed outright, and truly, did he have to be so handsome when he did so, marking his cheeks with long and deep brackets on either side of his mouth, brightening the blue of his eyes to near beauty? “Aye, lass, I said what I said—you’re lying to me. I’m no’ sure why. I dinna blame you. A lone female, lost in a storm, overtaken—so to speak—by a band of weary soldiers. Was a good play, to go that route, inject the safety of the Lord between yourself and any nefarious designs we Mackays might have on you.”

  “But I—”

  “Aye, it’s fine, lass. I dinna hold it against you.” He held up his hands, palms facing her, while the smile still played about his lips.

  Maggie clamped her lips together. Why, the impertinence! Never mind that he was right, that she lied to him, but to call her on it! And really, it was only partly a lie; she wouldn’t have been allowed to enter the convent, her father having greater plans for her, but it had been—just before the storm had come—her most recent intention. With a lift of her chin, she said with some snap, “Think what you will. I may not be the most pious person, but my plan suits me greatly and it is what I shall do.”

  He shrugged. “As you will, sister.”

  “You don’t believe me still?” She rather needed him to since she’d asked him for escort to the convent. “But you’ve said you would take me to St. Edmund’s.” She did now plant her fisted hands onto her hips.