The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5)

by Rebecca Ruger

  And then they all burst out laughing and groaning at the same time, led by Duncan’s loud chortle.

  “Aye, lass,” cried out the captain, “You fit right in, you do!”

  “Just as dreadful as ours!” Daimh said, slapping his knee.

  Maggie turned to Iain McEwen, who was staring at her with something akin to horror, his mouth agape. Playfully, she leaned over and nudged her shoulder against the laird. “Aye now, it wasn’t so terrible.”

  He smiled finally, shaking his head at her. The crinkling of his eyes was now familiar to her. She decided she liked it very much.

  “Aye, it was a wee bit worse, lass. You’re making the lads look like regular mummers.”

  IAIN MCEWEN WATCHED her tease a grinning Hew that if he thought he could do better, he was welcome to try. Her laughter was decidedly infectious, but Iain didn’t know quite what to make of this lass.

  She had no fear, or none that wasn’t—or hadn’t been—swiftly tamped down. She amused herself with these men as if she’d known them forever. She was capable of putting out silly anecdotes and pretty blushes and inexplicable lies, while possessed of an enviable temperament and apparently an inherent ability to rather glide along with whatever life threw at her.

  She was...remarkable.

  Sometime later, after they’d eaten, when naught but bones remained of their tiny feast, he watched her use a sparse amount of water from the flask that Hew had been sharing with her to clean her fingers. Her hands were small and blue veined, but efficient in all their movements. She’d removed those silly gloves some time ago, mayhap before she’d taken the pieces of fish into her hands.

  He tried to remove his gaze, thought others made some effort not to stare as well here and there. Save for Hew, who unaccountably suffered no qualms about openly ogling her, though honest to God, Iain would swear the lass was either immune to it or oblivious. Maybe only polite, he considered, intent on stirring no fuss over the lad’s regular gawking. In his peripheral then, he saw her lift her hands to her wimple. He gave this not much thought, assuming the fabric must get bothersome after a while, rather expecting that she only meant to scratch her scalp a bit or adjust the many layers and folds of the piece.

  She did neither, only surprised more than him by completely removing the fabric from her head, revealing a tremendous mass of shiny hair, the shade somewhere between red and blonde. With one tug at the lone ribbon that held it, the entire length of it unfolded around her.

  “I said to the lad that we ought....” Archie was saying to Duncan, but his voice slowed and then completely stopped.

  Not a person moved. Even Maggie Bryce had gone still. Her gaze darted from one to the next at their sudden quiet, every eye set upon her. Her fingers, run through her hair with the intent of pushing it all back from her forehead, stopped in mid-motion. Her gaze finally landed on Iain.

  He gave up any pretense that he hadn’t been watching her.

  Her mouth fell open. And then clamped shut. Only her eyes moved for a moment, from his left to his right, before she said in a small voice, “I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think anyone would mind—”

  Several of them spoke at once.

  “Och, go on, lass.”

  “Aye, you get comfortable.”

  “No bother to me.”

  “That’s a powerful wealth of hair, lass.”

  This last came from Archie, whose tone possibly hinted at some concern for the weight and upkeep of it. He hadn’t misspoken, the mass of it fell in thick waves over her shoulders and tumbled carelessly down her back, the ends of it nearly touching the ground between Iain and her.

  Nervously, she fussed with the wimple, her freckled cheeks glowing pink by the light of the fire. Thinking she intended to return the wimple to her head, Iain placed his hand over the fabric and her hand, stilling her. She lifted her green eyes to his again, her worry sincere.

  “It’s fine, lass. More comfortable, aye?”

  “You only startled the lads,” Duncan chimed in. “Haven’t seen anything that bonny since the last time Archie smiled at us.”

  She laughed, still nervous, and sent Duncan a winning smile. Her hands stilled though, and she quipped, with a recovery that was quickly becoming endearing to Iain, “I don’t suppose any of you would have a comb?”

  “You’ll get your gawking, lass, but no’ a comb,” Duncan said cheerily.

  “But how do you comb your own hair?” She wondered.

  “With our hands, lass,” said Duncan.

  “Sometimes with Hew’s hands,” Donal added. “Much softer than my own.”

  This spawned more laughter, and conversation resumed, even as so many pairs of eyes kept on Maggie Bryce and her magnificent bounty of hair. While she listened to the talk around her, she very slowly and with bare motions braided the length of her hair, evidently wanting to draw no more attention to herself. A few minutes later, she stood, appearing at first to only need to stretch her legs, walking around the circle of men, and then pacing a bit at the deepest part of the cave. She returned and addressed all of them, “Whom might I trouble this time to escort me to the bothy further up the hill?”

  Hew leaned forward eagerly, which had Iain wondering if the lad, though proficient with a long blade, had the strength to carry her such a distance, and through the deep snow. But before Hew, or even Iain could claim the job, Daimh, who sat directly in front of where the lass stood, jumped up and offered himself.

  The lass smiled kindly at the twin and arranged her hood once again over her head as she and Daimh made their way to the entrance. The lad said something to her, Iain could not hear what, and she turned and grinned at him, returning some words that had Daimh chuckling in appreciation. Iain’s brows lowered over watchful eyes, and then more so when Daimh playfully made a generous bow to her and she answered this with a not-unimpressive curtsy before they laughed yet more and Daimh lifted her into his arms.

  Chewing the inside of his cheek, Iain kept his gaze on the opening while Archie and Duncan engaged in some heated debate over what Robert Bruce’s best chance at success might be in the near future. Duncan thought diplomacy was his only hope at this point, winning over the Scottish earls first, the church second, and the people after that; Archie scoffed at Duncan’s idea, saying that more battles, fought to take back from England what was rightfully theirs, was the only course of action that would keep the crown upon his head, and make him a true king.

  Iain lent only half an ear to this discussion. When it seemed more than enough time had passed for Daimh and the lass to have gone and returned, Iain rose and strode to the doorway. The earlier brightness had given way to a distressing gray, the sky and clouds heavier with still more snow, it seemed. He stepped out of the cave, further along the ledge, and glanced up toward the third hut. The pair was nowhere to be seen, must still be within that next bothy.

  Returning to the circle around the fire, Iain found Archie’s gaze settled upon him, his lieutenant’s brow lifted with a vague question, which Iain ignored. It was another ten minutes before Daimh and the lass returned. They all but bounded into the cave, as if Daimh had tripped in his last few steps. Maggie Bryce had her hands locked around the twin’s neck, much as she’d held onto Iain earlier, and the two of them were laughing again, seeming even cozier than they had when they’d left the cave. Even when Daimh set her down, they remained there at the entrance, standing face to face, sharing a quiet conversation.

  “Daimh,” Iain called out, “since you’re already wet and cold, might well hie down to check the horses, bring back more kindling as well.”

  Iain would have termed the look Daimh threw to him as disgruntled, but the lad did as he was bade and left the cave again. Thus, Maggie Bryce took her place once more between Iain and Duncan, laying the hood of her cloak down around her slim shoulders.

  “It’s not even true nightfall,” she commented, “and I’m exhausted.”

  “Aye, the less you do, the less you can do,” Dunca
n said sagely.

  “Just sitting here, getting weaker,” added Archie. “Too little food and no’ enough motion, and it’ll only get worse, you ken.”

  “But then we probably cannot do too much,” she supposed, “and sap what little energy we do have?”

  “Aye, that’s the right of it, lass,” Duncan agreed.

  She turned to Iain and said in a near whisper, “Is there any chance that we might go to sleep and not wake up, just freeze to death while we slumber?”

  The abnormal gloom of her query rather surprised him. But he answered truthfully, “The longer we are stuck, the greater becomes that possibility. But aye, we’ll force our way out and down well before it comes to that. You’ll no’ freeze to death, Maggie Bryce.”

  This seemed to mollify her. “Very good.”

  Sometime later, whatever wind blew outside the cave must have shifted direction, that the smoke from the fire did not escape but clouded the whole of the interior, that they had no choice but to extinguish the small blaze.

  It was dusk now, not truly late enough to find their beds if these had been normal circumstances, but they were rather forced to do so to maintain warmth.

  “Tighten up, lads,” Duncan instructed, and each man shifted his pallet, shrinking the circle so that it resembled more of a horseshoe, as all their bodies were closer together.

  “We’ll rest now,” Iain said to Maggie.

  Duncan had already laid down, on his side with his back to Maggie. Iain waited, watched her assess their closer circumstance and choose to lie on her side facing him. He did likewise, arranging his fur over the both of them. Only their very close proximity allowed him to see her. Indeed, they were close enough, all of them, that he felt Archie’s rump at his back and the lass’s drawn up knees at the front of his thighs.

  “It’s close quarters, to be sure,” he said, by way of apology for this situation, “but we’ll be warmer for it.” He felt rather than saw her nod.

  Some did sleep immediately. He could hear Craig snoring, hear Donal’s normal nasal whine of slumber, and not much else. The lass slept, too, her hands held tightly at her chest between them.

  Chapter Seven

  THE NEXT DAY PASSED much as had the one before, with the seven of them seated around the fire most of the time. Some came and went, Donal and Hew taking turns seeing to the horses, scrounging up what feed they could; Archie and Craig tramped down to the loch, returned an hour later with the bad news that the trap had snared no fish, and Archie’s additional efforts brought only four small cod to the table, so to speak; Duncan disappeared for a while and did not return until Maggie had begun to worry about him, his arms filled with more chopped wood and kindling, his small axe then reunited with his belt; Iain McEwen left as well, giving notice that he would ride down off the hill once more and gauge the possibility of travel.

  Donal and Daimh played some game that served as entertainment for many. They sat facing each other, legs crossed, holding strict eye contact. Donal’s hands were raised, palms up, and Daimh set his hands onto them, palms down. While not looking away, Donal would try to swipe his hands out from under his brother’s and slap the top of them. Of course, it was frivolous, and then more so when it escalated into a wrestling match, after Donal moved his hand and slapped his brother’s face instead.

  They tried a fire again, but to no avail. The cave swelled with smoke and it was quickly extinguished. Another was built closer to the opening and kept alive only so long as necessary to cook the fish. Maggie initially declined her portion, sorry that she added an extra person to feed in their ranks. Both the laird and Hew scoffed at this.

  “It’s no’ one for each, and then we’re short a few,” Hew said. “Divided equally, seven people, seven parts.” He nodded to accent this.

  By early evening, having barely moved all day save for one span of time in which she purposefully rose and walked around the circle, again and again, to move the blood in her body, Maggie felt more sluggish than ever. She’d changed positions so many times today, she didn’t know of another that might give her some relief from the hard ground, and so lie on her back, hoping sleep might come soon.

  No sooner had she done this than Laird McEwen had come to tower over her.

  “One more time up to the next bothy, lass,” he said, “before you fall asleep.”

  “Likely by now, I can manage on my own.” Surely, the now thrice-taken path must be worn down that she could traverse it herself.

  “Aye, like as no’,” he agreed. “But it’s getting on dark now. C’mon.”

  Maggie sat up as he reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. In the next minute, they had tightened up their outerwear and then Iain McEwen, Laird of Berriedale, kin to Donald Mackay, defender of Scotland’s freedom, once more conveyed Maggie Bryce out of the cave and up the hill and into what she was now referring to inwardly as her own private piddle hut.

  She was deposited onto her feet in the bothy and Iain made himself scarce while she took care of business, returning at her call as he had yesterday, with rowan berries in hand. Maggie chewed slowly, savoring the sour berries while they stood just inside the opening and stared out over the landscape. Looking either left or right showed much the same, snow covered hills and glens and hundreds of pine trees, beautifully painted with the brush of God and snow, and now the gray evening.

  “Will we be able to get out tomorrow?” She wondered.

  “Mayhap,” he said. “Sun may have shrunk some of this today.”

  “Daimh said he’d never seen so much snow, save for when he was out on Skye,” she mused.

  “Aye, unusual.”

  A few seconds passed, while they ate and stared out, away from the bothy, before he said more.

  “You got on well with Daimh, it seemed.”

  Maggie jerked her gaze back to him. Did she detect some hesitation in his tone? She considered his query, offered with purposeful indifference, it seemed.

  “You must be very proud to call these men your own,” she said. “They are, each and every one of them, very fine gentlemen.”

  “Dinna think they’ve been called that too often,” he said, sending a wry grin her way. He tossed the branch, now devoid of fruit, out into the snow.

  She finished off her own berries, assuming they would return now. But Iain McEwen crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the edge of the doorway, contemplating her. She lifted a brow to him, but he said nothing, just pinned her with his piercing eyes.

  When it continued, she gave him a nervous grin. “If it is your intent to cause menace with that scowl, I must tell you it’s come a bit late.”

  His eyes narrowed while one brow lifted.

  “It’s just that you’ve been—as have all of your men—very kind to me, very solicitous. So I’m not sure what this scowl is for now, but—”

  “I’m only trying to figure you out, lass.”

  She said nothing to this but swallowed hard.

  “You still carry the bruise and I know well the mark of someone who’s been struck. You’re off and running in a storm, bereft of the proper fear you should possess, and would have me believe you’re destined for the convent. It’s no’ making sense, lass.”

  Boldly, Maggie responded with, “I suppose you’ll have to ask yourself how essential are the answers to what only you suggest should be questioned.” She gave further thought to his words—bereft of proper fear. ’Twas true, she considered herself quite safe right now. Well she might be deeply entrenched with six soldiers of a warring clan, and on the run from her own father and betrothed, but she had known little fear after her initial waking next to this man.

  He inclined his dark head, his lips pursed until he said, with more threat than she’d perceived from him as of yet, “But if what you hide will be a danger to my men, then I say to you, lass: aye, it is verra essential.”

  This gave her pause, as she hadn’t given much thought to any possible danger these McEwens might know simply because they’d
happened upon her. To him, she allowed, “The...mark on my cheek will see no danger brought to you. And I am committed to making my way to St. Edmund’s—by myself if needs must. That is truth.” She convinced herself she told no lie, forcing away any remorse for the niggling shame that she wasn’t being entirely honest with him. But as of two days ago, this was truth. Likewise, she convinced herself that the possibility of him learning the actual truth was so remote as to be non-existent; the storm would end, the snow would melt, and they would part company. She saw no reason to reveal to him that she was unhappily betrothed to a Sutherland, assuming it had no bearing on their present circumstance.

  He nodded now, content—if not with her answers, then at least with his own patience. Maggie released her breath and removed her gaze from him.

  “Aye, but there’s one more thing, lass,” he said, pushing away from the doorway.

  Maggie turned back to him. He moved at the same time, surprising her as he stood so close already and then more so when he lifted his hand and gently took hold of her cloak, wrapped his fingers around the edge, just under the closure near her neck. Her eyes widened as he pulled her near, at the same time taking one more step toward her. Some bit of panic caught her breath, sent her own hand to cover his and yank at it. How dastardly, to have lulled her so expertly, all of them, and then present this peril to her, whatever his objective now. And here, she’d thought him so gallant and beautiful.

  “It’s no’ to be helped, lass,” he murmured low. “I’ll be needing to kiss you.”

  His eyes were dark now, heated as he drew closer still, not entirely frightening, even as he lowered his head and very softly touched his lips to hers.

  Maggie went completely still, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, clamping her lips together.

  It took her a moment more to understand she was not being assaulted and was not a victim of this man’s evil ambition. His words finally registered.

  Good heavens, but she was being kissed!