A Gypsy in Scotland (MacCallan Clan Book 1)
Page 2
“Nay,” Honoria interrupted, stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest. Honestly, her brothers never gave her the benefit of the doubt. And while they fought over what to do, the poor fellow lay two feet away, bleeding to death.
“I am serious, Honoria. Look at the man. What trouble do you think he brings along with him? He might be dangerous.”
This again.
Don’t help the half-dead stranger, Honoria. He might be dangerous.
A pox on brothers!
And every last male in the highlands.
She glanced at the man on the floor. Unconscious men may be an exception. At least they were quiet.
“’Tis not the MacCallan way to refuse hospitality to an injured person, Hugh,” Isla murmured. “We must see to his injuries first before you cart him off to the village.”
“Aye, Hugh, ’tis not the MacCallan way to refuse hospitality to an injured person,” Honoria repeated in a mocking drawl.
“He might be a criminal, wanted by the law,” Hugh ground out.
“Och, then I suppose he will fit right in at MacCallan Castle,” Honoria replied.
His face mottled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Honoria arched her brow in challenge.
Hugh threw his hands up in an action unbefitting a brawny highlander and muttered an oath. He was outnumbered.
“Very well,” Hugh growled. “But once his injuries are tended to, he leaves.” He peered at them with solemn eyes. “And let whatever trouble he stirs be on your heads.”
Honoria gave a curt nod. She could live with that.
She motioned for the footmen to continue their efforts. But if hauling a giant down the hill had been hard enough, hefting him up the stairs proved more punishing. Hugh helped, grudgingly, though not without whining about unmanageable females.
Honoria didn’t say a word. She was still stunned her brother hadn’t threatened to send for Adair and the rest of her brothers. That certainly would have foiled her stubbornness on the matter, as her brothers would have returned the moment they received news that a stranger had been found injured on their grounds.
Honoria spared Hugh a sidelong glance.
Perhaps he too had something to prove.
A considerable amount of heaving and stumbling up the stairs later, the stranger was laid down on Callum’s bed, the first available chamber.
She peered down at the unconscious man, an arm and leg dangling off the side of the mattress. They had knocked the poor man’s head so many times that Honoria wouldn’t be surprised if he succumbed to those blows alone.
He was one menacing-looking beastie—the hard angular planes of his face not even softening in his sleep. His hair, black as the night sky, was damp with sweat as fever raged in his body, causing occasional shivers to shudder through him.
The blood worried her. She leaned over to pull back his torn shirt and winced. A deep gash, a knife wound by the looks of it, cut into his skin beneath his heart.
A wave of concern spilled over her.
“The wound looks fresh,” Hugh said over her shoulder. “No more than two hours would be my guess.”
Honoria grimaced.
“Then whoever did this might still be out there,” Isla voiced their fears. “On the castle grounds.”
The thought brought a chill to Honoria’s heart.
Hugh cursed and turned to a footman. “Have Ross gather abled men and search the property. Leave no stone unturned.”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman said and scurried off.
“No major artery is damaged or he’d have long bled out,” Honoria said, gathering the stranger’s shirt to press down on the wound. “But the cut is infected.” She turned to Isla. “I require warm water, a clean cloth, needle, thread, and some whisky. And ask Mrs. Shelton for the salve I mixed earlier this week; it ought to do the trick for this festering.”
Isla nodded and disappeared from the room.
“The blade used must have been unclean.” Hugh arrived at the same conclusion Honoria had. Lucky for this man, healing was within her repertoire.
Sort of.
If she hadn’t mixed up her plant species again.
Hugh leaned further over her shoulder. “Do you know what you are doing, lass?”
At his skepticism, she shot him a well-measured glare. This was why Honoria hadn’t wished to include him until it was absolutely necessary. Hugh was a grouch when it came to anything he did not approve of, as with all men, she supposed.
Another shudder jerked through the stranger’s body.
Honoria applied more pressure on the wound. She would not allow him to die.
A whisper of divinity beckoned her to this man, a pull she couldn’t put into words. No matter how illogical it might be, it felt as if their fates were intertwined.
How else to explain his arrival—albeit unfortunate—on the very day her brothers departed for Edinburgh, right after she’d wished for a sign of change? How could she not believe fate had a hand in sending him on her path—to the very hill she usually sulked on? For the moment, however, her contemplations on fate would have to wait. Cleaning his wound and breaking his fever would require all of her attention.
“Has he worsened?” Isla asked, entering the chamber with a basket of the requested items.
“Nay. Quick, pour whisky over the wound,” Honoria urged, lifting the material away to give her sister access.
“That’s bloody good whisky,” Hugh protested.
“Do shut up, Hugh,” Honoria snapped. “And help me remove his shirt.”
“Absolutely not.”
Honoria glared at her brother. “Would you rather stitch?”
Hugh grumbled something foul beneath his breath but moved alongside the bed to do her bidding. All eyes locked onto the man’s chest as the material fell away.
Honoria blinked.
And not because his chest rose and fell in sculpted perfection.
A large, scaled, wingless serpent spanned the upper right side of his body. The beast possessed four feet, each one flaunting three sharp talons, giving an impression of them clawing at the stranger’s flesh. Long tendrils extended from its face, the dragon-like beast’s nostril flaring in rage.
“That is . . .” Isla murmured.
Staggering.
Eye-catching.
Downright breathtaking.
Hugh lifted his head, his eyes snapping with fury. Almost like the dragon-serpent. “Was it not enough that you brought a man resembling a barbarian into our home? It had to be a tattooed barbarian.”
Honoria’s eyes slid over the creature on the stranger’s chest. An impressive work of art. The detail remarkable. For her, it only added to the mystery. “How about you reserve judgment until he wakes?” she suggested.
“It’s hard to imagine anyone gaining advantage over this man,” Isla murmured.
“Aye,” Honoria agreed, given his size and rough-hewn features.
Freeing her head of all intrigue, she beckoned Isla. Together they set out stitching the gaping flesh, meticulous in their efforts. There would be a scar, but it did not have to be jagged.
“Dampen his brows, Hugh,” Honoria ordered, eyes flicking to the cloth and water on the small table beside the bed.
“You cannot be serious.” Hugh scowled at the bowl. “I already touched the man’s bare chest with my fingers!”
“This is not the time to argue, Hugh,” Isla said, her soft voice stern.
He shot them both a filthy look but snatched up the cloth and dabbed at the stranger’s brow.
“Sit down and rest his head on your lap,” Honoria instructed. “And for mercy’s sake, dampen the cloth first.”
His horrified gaze flew to her. “Nay, I will not rest his head on my lap like some besotted lad caring for his ailing love.”
“Hugh!” Honoria admonished.
This time Hugh’s glare was both outraged and revolted as he cursed and dampened the cloth in the basin. He lifted the stranger�
��s head with two fingers and sank onto the bed, letting the man’s head drop onto his leg. None too gently, he jabbed the cloth at the man’s forehead.
“Softly, Hugh, like you’d stroke your lover’s wrist.”
Hugh’s features turned pained, but his strokes gentled over the stranger’s skin.
Satisfied, Honoria returned her attention to the wound. With the stitching done, she carefully applied the batch of salve she’d prepared from moneywort, catnip and—she sniffed the mixture—garlic—she had forgotten about that particular ingredient.
“I hate garlic,” she muttered, her lips pulling up.
“I hate this,” Hugh muttered in a low growl. “This man could be a dangerous criminal, and I’m stroking his head like a lovesick fool.”
“It’s not that bad.” Honoria suppressed a smile.
Hugh’s eyes took on a dangerous gleam. “If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, especially Lachlan, I will throw all your paint brushes into the loch.”
“You should not judge a man without proof of his character,” Honoria scolded. “I’d stake my life that he’s not a criminal or bad sort.”
“I pray for all our sakes you are right, lass. There is no telling the creative way Adair will punish us once he gets wind that we sheltered a stranger attacked on our property.”
“He will understand.” Honoria took the cloth from his hand. “That is enough. You are relieved from your duties.”
Hugh leaped from the bed and strode to the door. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“I think he’s terrified of what you will ask next of him,” Isla said with a chuckle, eyes bright with amusement. “He can be such a bairn at times.”
Honoria’s lips quirked. “’Tis like I asked him to touch a corpse.”
Isla rose to her feet. “I will have the cook prepare broth for when he wakes.”
Honoria gave a grateful nod, reaching for the rag to wash away the dried blood. His body shivered beneath her fingers as the damp cloth connected with his skin.
“Poor beastie,” she cooed.
He was hard beneath her hand, and again Honoria wondered how someone had gotten so close to such a formidable man to stab him. No additional bruises indicated a fight. And raised in a castle of brothers, Honoria had seen her fair share fights and bare chests. In all of them, both parties walked away with bruises.
Darting a glance at his face, she listened to his slow, deep breaths as she gingerly ran a finger over his tattoo. It was only when he shuddered beneath her touch once more that Honoria felt the slight draft in the air.
Och! She had been so busy caring for the man; she hadn’t given thought to the chill. Rising, she set out to light a fire in the hearth, somewhat ashamed she hadn’t thought to do so in the first place.
Once the room crackled with warmth, she crossed over to the bedside and covered the wound with a clean wrap.
“My name is Honoria,” she whispered, tugging a quilt over him. “I found you on the side of a hill not far from our castle.”
When he shivered, she leaned closer, her gaze traveling over his face for any sign of consciousness. He had a strong countenance. Nothing about him could be called refined.
“Can you hear me?” she asked in a whisper. There was no response to her words, not even a tick in a muscle. “I must be imagining things,” she muttered and pulled away from him.
“Maybe if I shared something about me, you might feel less like a stranger,” Honoria murmured aloud. “Let’s see, I prefer summer over winter, loathe tea and wished I was as tall as my brothers.”
She sank down on the mattress.
“I wonder if you are as dangerous as my brother fears and whether you believe in fate.” Honoria had never given fate much thought, to be honest. “Not until you appeared on the hill . . . If I accompanied my brothers, I’d not have found you. Fortune or fate? Predestined or coincidence? Perhaps they are the same.”
Would he have perished if she hadn’t discovered him? No one else was prone to wander up that hill.
“I suppose that is a question only time can reveal.” She glanced at the pot of salve. “Granted, I may kill you yet.”
A soft moan drifted from his lips, drawing Honoria’s gaze to their fullness. The man had been sculpted to attract the attention of any woman, on death’s bed or not. But his wasn’t the sort of face that would have you swooning at his feet, not like her brother Callum. The stranger’s features were too harsh for that. They did not draw awareness but commanded attention. And this man had enslaved hers.
How would it feel if his lips brushed hers?
Gah! She shook her head, dislodging the sudden fantasy. He was unconscious and badly wounded. This was not the time to indulge in such musings.
Honoria smoothed a hand over his sudden puckered brow when he started to twitch restlessly. “Shall I cite you some poems?” she cooed. “I know quite a few.”
As the softly spoken words of her all favorite poems rolled off her tongue, Honoria noticed some of the harsher lines of his face softening. More of her favorite poems spilled from her lips until she was certain that he’d settled into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Chapter 3
Honoria tapped her paintbrush against her chin. Black eyebrows arched over the stranger’s closed eyes. Even with them closed, the man’s aura was herculean, lending him a presence that was as startling as it was powerful. There was no denying he was a compelling figure. And that was only with his eyes shut. How much more stirring would he be once he lifted those sinfully long lashes?
Deep cerulean. Mint green. Frosty gray. Coal-black.
Those were but some of the colors Honoria imagined for his eyes. Would they be as blue as the summer sky? Or the brazen green of Scotland’s pastures and beyond? Two days and two nights she was left to envision all the different colors they could be.
In fact, she had imagined a lot more than that.
What was his name? Where was he from? Did he have family searching for him? Who had stabbed him? Are they still nearby? Did his tattoo hurt? What meaning did it possess? What would her brothers do if she got one?
Left unanswered, her mind spun about the most bizarre possibilities, like him being the Greek God Poseidon—because that would be rather sensational—or a modest musician. In her most recent reflections, she imagined him to be a traveling writer hailing from the far corner of the world or a sculptor from the Mediterranean.
Would he ever wake up?
Lawd, but his nearness stirred something needful inside her.
In an attempt to draw her mind back from her woolgathering—and growing impatience—Honoria had decided to paint his face.
She bit down on her lower lip, gazing at her failed attempt so far. It seemed unlikely that she would catch any likeness to him at all.
Och, she ought to have known better than paint eyes she hadn’t seen before. Were they hooded or expressive? Were there flecks of gold sprinkled in their depth or not? Did they dance with mirth or were they shrouded in suspicion? It was impossible to tell.
For one heartbeat she’d even been tempted to open an eyelid and take a peek. But waking up to her looming over him, clutching one of his eyelids between her fingers, might traumatize the poor man for life. Besides, there was something unspeakably thrilling about waiting.
“We should summon a healer, Honoria.”
Honoria glanced over her shoulder to Isla, who entered the chamber looking regal in a soft blue day dress. “His fever has broken.”
“That doesn’t mean he is out of the woods,” Isla pointed out.
“His wound is healing,” Honoria countered. “And if we send for a healer we might as well light a fire on the hilltop to signal his whereabouts.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Isla murmured. “Hugh believes he is ready to be carted off to the village.”
Honoria scoffed. “Hugh can go to the devil. The man is staying here until he is well enough to walk through the castle doors on his own feet.”
What did it matter if Patrick had been a gardener? Honoria’s eyes flicked to the stranger on the bed. Or an eastern snake charmer? At least they were more interesting than a group of pompous, pampered Scottish lords. And her brothers were in no position to pass on judgment.
They were smugglers, for heaven’s sake!
Worse still, they were arrogant enough to believe that Honoria and Isla were unaware of their dealings.
Worst of all, they had to endure lectures from every single one of the MacCallan men, at length, on the merits of choosing a suitable husband, and would again once Adair learned of the man in Callum’s bed. All except for Hugh. He alone had always been their champion.
“I am serious, Honoria. The man is on his deathbed and you are painting his face. Do you not see how madcap that is? He could still succumb to his wound.”
“I prefer the term extraordinarily singular, and he is not on his deathbed—the worst is over.” Honoria spared a glance at the stranger again, merely to ensure he was still breathing.
“Och well, if that’s what you were aiming for you certainly succeeded,” Isla muttered. “You are aware you are not an accomplished healer to make such a call?”
Honoria scoffed. “I have cleaned and bandaged more than my share of scrapes and bruises. Besides, we cannot call for a healer. Word will spread and his attackers might return. Or God forbid, our brothers.”
“Adair will discover the truth upon his return anyway. He always does.”
“Aye, but that’s weeks away. And never mind Adair, ’tis Lachlan’s foul temper I’m concerned about. Ever since Rosanna Brodie chose Douglas MacFingal over him, his once mildly pleasant mood has deteriorated to grossly unpleasant.”
Isla’s soft laughter rang through the room. “How right you are, though I cannot drum up an ounce of sympathy. That woman is vile.”