The Highlander's Secret Vow

by Eliza Knight

  Liam braced his feet, pressed both hands around her waist and hoisted her overhead. Tad took hold of her and pulled her out swiftly. He made ready to jump and grab hold of the ledge when another groan sounded from behind him.

  What the…?

  Liam whirled, warrior’s instinct on high alert, prepared for an attack. A body fell against his leg, limp, and would have fallen all the way to the ground if he’d not held on. The slight figure was that of another woman.

  “You came,” she murmured, her voice dry and cracked.

  “Cora?” If this were she, who the hell had he lifted out of the dungeon?

  But she didn’t answer.

  “Liam!” Tad shouted. “Ceiling’s collapsing!”

  “I’ve got another.” Mind reeling, Liam lifted her up over his shoulders until Tad took hold to get her out, too. Once she was clear of the opening, he jumped and grabbed hold of the ledge and used his strength to raise himself from the dungeon.

  Once he was out, he could see instantly what had Tad shouting—the roof of the great hall had caved in. Great heaping piles of cracking wood were melting under the intense heat. In fact, the temperature of this part of the castle versus the dungeon was markedly different. Tad was already running, the first woman over his shoulder. Liam lifted the second one, not bothering to look at her face, as he too made haste to follow. He leapt over a fallen beam, feeling the heat reach out to touch his legs with the threat of burning. He ducked beneath a falling tapestry that seemed intent on covering them both in wicked flames.

  The second before he was out, another loud crash sounded from behind, and a whoosh of heat thrust him forward as more of the roof crashed down. It was enough of a blast that Liam was propelled headlong out of the castle and down the steps. Somehow, his protective instincts managed to kick in, and he cradled the woman in his arms to protect her from hitting the stone steps as he fell, taking the brunt of the fall himself.

  Pain seared in his shoulder, and the wind was knocked out of him when their brutal descent ended on the soft earth of the bailey. Laying at the foot of the stairs, he was uninjured except for a few bruises, and a stabbing pain near his heart. Besides, all that mattered was the lass was safe, right?

  Liam drew in several steadying breaths, willing the ache in his chest to dull. He glanced down at the face of the woman cradled in his arms, seeing an older version of the lass she’d been years before. Cora. Still beautiful, achingly so. A large bruise marred her cheek, the same spot from thirteen years before, as though she’d never healed. Her eyes were closed; black sooty lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Her skin was pale. Soot and muck streaked her skin. Her gown was torn, covered in soot and singed in parts.

  An overwhelming urge to cradle her close, to protect her, crowded him.

  “Cora.” He touched the outline of the bruise on her cheek. “Wake.”

  But she didn’t obey his command. Stubborn as she’d been all those years before, she kept her eyes closed and curled in further toward him.

  From a few feet away, another woman, the one he’d first lifted from the depths of despair, crawled forward. She was an older version of the lass in his arms, her chestnut hair filled with gray, and eyes more the color of fall leaves than lichen, yet still the resemblance was undeniable. Her mother?

  “My lady,” Liam said to her.

  “You…saved…us.” A cough racked her body, and she collapsed beside him. She reached for her daughter’s hand, which caused Cora to scream and clutch her hands to herself.

  “’Tis all right, lass,” he crooned. Dear God, what had happened to her? “No one will hurt ye now.”

  Tears slipped from the corners of her closed eyes, and when her mother reached for her again, once more Cora pulled away.

  Liam narrowed his gaze, feeling the way her body trembled against his own. She tugged deep, ragged breaths into her lungs, and then blew them out raspily. This was much more than simple fear. She was injured.

  With some soothing and coaxing, Liam managed to pull one hand from her chest by delicately holding on to her forearm.

  Bloody hell.

  The skin of her palms and fingers were badly seared. Charred flesh surrounded gaping wounds. Liam had seen a lot of horrendous injuries in his day, but this was ghastly.

  He cringed, sucked in a breath through his teeth and let out a curse. “We need a healer,” he called out, hoping the fear in his voice didn’t scare her all the more.

  But where would they find a healer in a burning castle that had been besieged? The servants had to have escaped long ago, either when the first man laid siege to them, when flames filled the castle, or when Liam and his men had arrived, and they’d seen no hope but a future in chains.

  They would have been wrong.

  But he’d come to this castle for one thing only—Cora.

  And their lady needed a healer. Liam let out another curse, his chest pounding.

  In the end, none of her people stepped forward, but one of his own did. Lucas, a warrior whose mother was a healer of their clan and who had studied with her since he was a child. He often traveled with Liam when they went on missions and into battle, just in case his expertise was needed. He was never more grateful than now that Lucas had insisted on coming.

  Lucas dropped to his knees beside them and gazed down at the angry, charred stripes.

  “How could she have been burned in such a way?” Lucas mused softly.

  Studying the wide stripes, Liam knew. “She must have tried to lift the grate to the dungeon.” Was it possible she had indeed lifted the heavy piece of iron?

  “Why would she do a thing like that?” Lucas asked.

  “And how?” Tad mumbled.

  “Saving me,” the woman lying beside him croaked, as one of the other Sutherland warriors knelt to give her a drink from his flask.

  Lips parted, the older woman greedily drank, her hands clutching on to the generous warrior for more.

  “She wasna in the dungeon with ye?” Liam asked.

  The woman shook her head, gripping the wineskin with two hands as she poured more of the contents down her throat.

  “Brave lass,” Liam said. And he wasn’t surprised at her bravery. He’d known when he met her there was a resilience in her that would make others cower with shame.

  But the strength she must possess to lift that iron was puzzling.

  Sheer force of determination had to have been what helped her lift that grate, else he had no idea how she could have done it. The bloody thing had to weigh as much as she did, and it was so hot it had literally burned the flesh from her hands. He’d heard men in battle had been able to lift horses off their dying comrades, to wrench up a heavy portcullis, or continue to fight even as they bled to death from heinous wounds. The body was an odd thing when the mind took control of it.

  “I need onions and salt!” Lucas ordered, then hurried to grab his supplies from his satchel and rush back over. “Let’s get her somewhere safer.”

  Liam tucked Cora in closer to his chest, lifted her up and carried her through the gate behind Tad, who quickly laid out a plaid for the lass to lie on. Several men stood close with torches lit to guide their way.

  “What are ye doing?” Liam asked, incredulous as Lucas crushed onion and salt together into a paste.

  “My mother showed me this. It will help tremendously with the healing. I swear it, sir. Please trust me.”

  “Aye. Whisky.” Liam grimaced, and one of the other men handed him a flask that he held to her lips. “Drink, lass. Lucas needs to put a salve on your hands. The whisky will help.”

  Her eyes slitted open hazily, but not all the way, and her lips parted as he poured a fair amount of whisky slowly into her mouth. Hopefully, the potency of the spirits would dull the pain she was about to feel. She swallowed with a shudder, trying once more to curl in on herself, but Lucas held her one arm while Liam murmured encouraging words.

  She cried out when Lucas daubed the first of her fingers with the strong-scented oni
on paste. Liam’s first instinct was to punch his fellow warrior in the face, but he reined in his temper, understanding the ministrations would be painful. That they would not go quickly.

  “’Tis all right,” Liam murmured, coming close enough to press a kiss to her brow but holding back. “We will nay let any more harm come to ye.”

  “Who are you?” came an angry shout from the center of the bailey.

  Liam jerked his gaze toward the spot, seeing the man Tad had captured and tied—the one responsible, he presumed.

  “Who the hell are you, you ugly buffoons!” the man shouted.

  In the chaos of falling down the stairs and finding Cora’s injuries, he’d completely forgotten about their prisoner. Anger speared him, and if he weren’t holding on to the injured lass, he would have marched right over there and dealt the bastard a blow between those insolent eyes.

  “Do not ignore me! I have powerful friends!”

  Lip curling angrily, Liam didn’t bother to answer the rotten Sassenach. The man wasn’t worth his time. He tore his gaze away and focused on Cora, whose brows were furrowed so deeply, she could have made a map of the Highland mountains and valleys.

  Tad pressed a hand to Liam’s shoulder. “I’ve a present for ye, sir.”

  Liam grunted. “I dinna want it,” he said, for he knew the present was the bastard squealing like a stuck pig.

  “Ye’ll never guess who the whoreson is.”

  Liam turned his gaze from where Lucas was wrapping linen bandages on Cora’s hand to the man who rolled around now on the bailey ground, as if doing so would somehow loosen his ties. The man had no honor, that much was clear.

  “I couldna care less who he is. Put him in the dungeon. Let him burn.”

  “Och, but he is just the man ye were looking for.” Tad smirked and nodded toward the idiot Sassenach, the straw now sticking up in his hair making him look beyond foolish.

  “Dinna tell me that is Ughtred.”

  “Aye. In the flesh.”

  This imbecile was the Englishman Ina Ross had married? Who the king wanted locked away in Stirling? More importantly—this bastard whelp was the one who’d besieged Cora, put her castle to flames and subsequently injured her.

  Liam let out a low growl. If he weren’t holding the lass right now, he’d be leaping to his feet and kicking the arsehole in the ribs. And worse. The bastard might not make it to Stirling.

  “So, it would seem. Good news, sir, ye completed the first part of your mission already.” Tad grinned and rocked back on his heels.

  Liam grunted. “So, it would seem.”

  “Proud I am to serve ye.”

  Liam glanced down at the pale and sooty visage of Cora Segrave and wondered how in the hell he’d been able to both rescue her and capture the man he’d been after. He didn’t believe in coincidences…

  So, what did all this mean?

  Chapter 5

  Cora’s hands hurt.

  Hell, her whole body ached. Pain radiated in waves up the length of her arms, leaving her in anguish.

  And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Some sort of binding wound around her fingers, and she held her hands close to her chest to keep them from hurting, not that it did any good. They burned with the power of a thousand suns. Her lungs felt charred. Her foot and hip ached and throbbed from where she’d landed in the dungeon. But the aches of her body were nothing compared to the searing agony in her hands.

  Cora tried to move, to sit up, but she felt as if the weight of a hundred stones were sitting on her chest, pressing her further down on the surface of wherever she was.

  And where was she?

  No longer was she in the dungeon. A flash of a memory tugged at her. She could have sworn it was the vision of Liam’s furious eyes. But she couldn’t make the rest of the image come into focus. Had he come for her? Nay, she would have remembered that. And how could he have arrived so early? Such a vision was only a dream, another of her fantasies about the man she wished would take her away.

  She blinked open her eyes, blinded momentarily by light. Was she back in the fire? Everything before her was a blur. A haze of movement and light. She couldn’t decipher it. Even her mind was fuzzy—likely the aftereffects of all the whisky she’d greedily swallowed in an effort to dull her pain. It had worked for a little while. At least, enough to help her drift into blackness and forget the whole thing.

  Her lips parted, and she tried to speak, but no sound came out, only a whoosh of breath. Her tongue was thick, dry, and no matter how she tried to move it, or make her throat form words, nothing happened. The effort was almost too much, as if she was swimming through a sticky-tar bog, with no chance of going anywhere but down.

  “She’s awake,” someone said. But their voice was muffled, as if her head was under water.

  Cora turned in the direction of the male voice, something very familiar about it. The last thing she remembered was tripping down the stairs of the castle. She’d crawled on her hands and knees to the iron grate that covered the dungeon, crying out for her mother. When she’d placed her hands on the iron, the metal had seared her skin, essentially binding it to the grate. She’d screamed in pain, yanked away from the grate and felt the flesh tear from her hands. Then she remembered someone shoving her aside, removing the grate with a resounding clang and kicking her into the hole. She’d tumbled into the darkness, landing hard on the compacted dirt floor. Looking up to see the grinning, vile face of her attacker. The same man who’d taken her father’s life.

  Then he’d left, and she’d lost consciousness, only to wake here in this strange place. Where was here?

  A cool compress touched her forehead, and a face loomed before her eyes.

  “Ye’re all right, lass.” This was a woman. An older one from the look of it. And not one she recognized.

  “Leave us,” the man said, the same one who’d spoken a moment before.

  Cora shifted her gaze from the woman’s face, searching out the room for the source of the voice and finding only the sharp angles of furniture, rafters, a door.

  There was a shuffling, and Cora tried to sit up, but sitting up proved difficult with her hands bound and in pain. She propped herself halfway up on her elbows as the room spun. Her vision still fuzzy, she watched the older woman exit the room, along with a few guards.

  The chamber she was in was small. How had they all crowded in there? The bed was sagging, and the air had faint scents of medicinal herbs, stale ale and sweat. Was that odor from her? Cora dragged in a long breath through her nose, unable to distinguish whether or not it was simply her scent, or a combination of many. She prayed it was the latter, for she took great pride in her hygiene, quite unusual she was in that respect she knew, so perhaps the heathen looming over her wouldn’t notice. Ack, but who cared about hygiene, when all she wanted to do was go back to sleep and forget the way her hands throbbed?

  Alas, sleep would not serve her now. She had to find out where she was. Who held her captive. Was it the same man who’d taken her castle? Where was her mother?

  “Who…who are you?” she managed to croak out from her dry, cracked throat.

  He drew closer. Loomed really. The man was massive. The size of a giant, if she had to guess. As tall as a tree and wide as a mountain. Or the other way around, she couldn’t really tell with the room spinning.

  “Liam, lass.” The thick brogue of his accent cut through the fog of her brain. His voice was marginally familiar. To be expected, given he’d aged. Deep and husky, the way his name rolled off his tongue sent a wash of relief over her, as though her brain had already determined it was her Liam.

  Not hers…truly.

  Her eyes widened, and she brought a bandaged hand to her face in an effort to rub away the blurriness. She realized they were all wrapped up in linen too late.

  “Liam? Liam Sutherland?” she managed.

  “Aye, my lady.”

  “Do you… How…?” She swallowed, choking on the dryness, and s
econds later, a cup was at her lips, held by Liam.

  Cora slurped the warm ale, wrinkling her nose at the sour taste. “What is that?”

  “Something the healer said to give ye.”

  Oh, but his voice was so smooth, sending tendrils of something unfamiliar over her limbs. “’Tis foul, sir.”

  He chuckled softly. “I’m sorry, lass. But it helps, aye? Are ye better now?”

  He took a cool linen and gently wiped at her eyes, seeming to know without her having to say just what she needed. She wasn’t certain if she liked that or not. In her mind she’d built up an unattainable fantasy where Liam Sutherland was concerned, and so far, the man was matching it. Maybe she should tell him to go away now so that she wouldn’t have to be disappointed when the haze of whisky and herbal remedies wore off. When she had to face her injury and how damaging it would be to the rest of her life.

  “Ye’ve been asleep for two days now.” He continued to wipe at her eyes, which she kept closed, and then moved to her brow.

  “Two days?” she whispered, still unable to look at him. Not wanting the spell to be broken, as it surely would be.

  “Mhmm.”

  Why did he have to be so soothing? “Where am I?”

  “Across the border.” He removed the cloth, and she listened as he dipped it in water, wrung it out and returned it to her brow. “Ye had a fever. Broke sooner than we thought.”

  “We’re in Scotland?”

  “Aye.”

  Cora felt lighter now. Unsure if it was from feeling safe or the herbs in the warm ale, she rushed to ask the rest of her questions. “And…my mother?”

  “She is also recovering.”

  “Where?”

  “In the chamber next door.”

  “I want her here with me.” She hated the pleading sound in her tone. Hoped he would not judge her for wanting her mother, for needing that familiarity.

  Liam took away the cloth and set it down. The air washed over her damp face, cooling her.