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Her tone equaled one of authority. Iain didn’t want to make her angry before he knew if she was human or faerie. His head ached, but after dozing on and off for what seemed like a long time, he felt well enough. However, his side throbbed, but he would have to look at it to know how badly Thomas had maimed him.
He recalled the battle and the final confrontation with Thomas. A smile twitched the corners of his mouth at the memory of slicing Thomas’s ear. The eejit let his anger take over, and his wrath impaired his aim as his sword sliced Iain’s side. He grimaced, but the cut wasn’t sufficient to fell him. His head pounded at another recollection. Someone, not Thomas because he’d had him in his sights at the time, had clubbed him over the skull, hard. If they suspected he lived, the English would search for him, especially Thomas. Even with his injury, he hoped he was still strong enough to fight if he needed to.
He closed his eyes for less than a minute before slitting them open again and watching the lass.
The angel, or witch, Iain wasn’t entirely sure, sat slumped in the chair, her heavy lashed lids half-covering her view as if she were about to fall asleep. But every now and then, her lids lifted a little when she glanced to the door as if she expected someone to walk in at any moment. Mayhap she wasn’t alone. Iain scoured his memory since he’d left the battlefield with her, but couldn’t remember anyone else, no voices or sounds other than his and hers.
He took in her form. She had a strange beauty about her. He found it almost impossible to pin down what color her irises were. They kept changing from the deep blue of the ocean to a soft sky azure. With her alabaster skin, he knew without a doubt that she didn’t work in the fields. His gaze locked on her lips, the hue of primrose petals and so plump, she appeared to be continually pouting. Would they taste as sweet as they looked?
He stared at her. The damp curly tendrils of dark red hair falling over her face made his fingers itch to push it back so he could see her more clearly. His gaze roamed down her braid she had brought over her shoulder, and his chest tightened.
She had disrobed and sat nearly naked, but she seemed so comfortable, as if she normally wore so little in front of a man. The snip of black lace bordering shiny material nowhere near covered her upper body.
She had bunched her skirt up, exposing long, shapely legs from the knee to her bare feet. Feet with perfectly pink-colored nails. His eyes snapped to her hands. How had he missed those nails?
Surely that was proof she must be a wood nymph. Only then would she have the power to harness the colors of the flowers.
Mayhap she wasn’t even there. Had he succumbed to the fever? Was he imagining the nymph?
Or was she sent to take me to the afterworld? What an exquisite guide. There was no way his imagination—and he judged he had a wonderful imagination—could have conjured up a beauty such as her.
Forcing his gaze away from her face, he noted her slender arms and smooth hands. She was no worker. But what sort of high-born lass dressed so immodestly?
He moved, and the shot of pain in his side reminded him none too politely of his injury. He groaned but ripped off the dressing and peered at the wound. It was superficial. The tenderness would go away with the healing.
She leapt up. “Keep still.”
He ignored her and cautiously shifted his legs off the bed and sat up. He pushed the dull ache out of his mind by focusing on his predicament. If he was indeed dead, he would already have gone to his maker.
She could not be an angel, this lass who spoke strangely. Mayhap from an English province he had not been acquainted with. She had to be Sassenach, which to Iain’s thinking, meant she was probably a spy. Why were they still in the croft? They should have moved from the area before that moment. Was she waiting for someone? Cumberland, perchance?
He glared at her, and her eyes widened in surprise as she stepped backward.
“Who are ye?”
“Who are you?”
“I asked first, witch.”
“I am not a witch, but if I was, you’d be a toad right now.”
Iain pulled the blanket around him and got to his feet. A flash of dizziness washed over him, but he shook it away. Food and exercise would get his strength back. He had to return to his homelands. The English would be routing out all Jacobites and any who had aided them.
She stood straight-backed before him, wearing only that lacy piece and the skirt. Her eyes took on a stormy hue.
“Are ye a follower of the English?”
Her large eyes rounded; the storm within sparked lightning. “I am not a whore of the English, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Iain blinked at the mention of the word whore. He wondered at her ease with the term.
“Ye speak like naw other. Who are ye? Have ye come to take me to the afterworld?”
“You’ll live.” She rolled her beautiful eyes to the roof and threw her graceful arms in the air. “Oh, don’t thank me. No, no, please, it was nothing.”
Iain knew sarcasm when he heard it. He smiled at the way her eyes flashed with anger and her nose wrinkled with her words.
As she gazed up at him, her eyes quietened to a calm sky, but narrowed. “You should be thanking me, you know, not finding reasons to distrust me.”
She smiled, showing perfect teeth. How could anyone have such perfect white teeth? Her whole face brightened with the movement.
His stomach knotted.
He didn’t have time for dalliances. He had to get back to his people, to Maeve, his sister.
He straightened to his full height. The lass would be enough of a distraction even without a bloody war raging outside the door. But, those captivating eyes . . . She was too . . . no suitable word came to mind . . . different.
He frowned. What would Maeve make of the lass, he wondered as his narrowed gaze traveled down the length of her and back up to her face. “Who are ye?”
***
Maeve stiffened and narrowed her eyes at Fiona, who had clasped a MacLaren server’s wrist and pointed to her plate. “Take this away now. I have never tasted a worse bannock in my life.”
Pink spots appeared on Leah’s cheeks, and she took the plate away.
Maeve glanced at her friend sitting at the table closest to the dais. Jannet was once Maeve and Iain’s nanny but was now a friend and confidant. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, and Maeve looked down at her plate and tightened her lips.
If Fiona berated one more of the MacLarens’ staff, Maeve would punch her in the face. She didn’t care that the woman was supposed to be the next lady of the MacLaren clan, didn’t care if she pushed the clan, Iain’s clan, into war with the MacKinnons. All she cared about was how good it would feel to bloody Fiona’s nose.
She silently apologized to her brother for her evil thoughts and wondered what Iain was doing at that moment. Was the battle over? Had it even begun? Please be safe, brother of mine.
Laird MacKinnon gulped the last of his ale and slammed the tankard down on the table. “More.”
Maeve widened her eyes at Jannet. and she gave Maeve a slight nod, closing her eyes as she did so to indicate Maeve should acquiesce.
Maeve sighed and raised her finger to one of the serving staff. “More ale for the laird.”
“And wine,” Fiona said, holding up her goblet.
Maeve nodded to the server. “And wine.”
Fiona gave the captain of MacKinnon’s guard a smile. “And more ale for the captain.”
He tipped his tankard to her in a salute.
Maeve frowned. If they kept drinking like that, they would empty the cellars.
“Why did MacLaren join the pretender’s army? He knew we were coming here. He knew he was to marry Fiona. He should be here, welcoming his future family.” MacKinnon pierced Maeve with his gaze.
“It was his duty.”
“His army is still here.”
“Iain would not take them. He wanted them here for my protection.”
MacKinnon’s face reddened. “Did he not trust the MacKinnons?”
“I’m sure he wasn’t meaning ye would put me in danger. He was thinking aboot the English.”
“The English have no quarrel with the people of Scotland—at least, those who don’t join the battles raging all over the land. We who prefer to live in peace are not in any danger, lassie.”
Maeve straightened her back at not being called “my lady.” He was an obnoxious man, and she hoped with all her heart Iain would refuse Fiona. However, she shrugged. “I do not follow politics, Laird MacKinnon. I am the lady of MacLaren, and to that end, I am our clan’s protector. If the English came here, I would offer our hospitality, but if they wanted a fight, I would offer one in return.”
“Be careful what you say. There are spies all over Scotland, and the Jacobites are all but done for. Bonnie Prince Charles will be no more, and we must all protect our clans, our people, the people of Scotland.”
“You have no argument from me, and as far as Iain is concerned, he wasn’t pleased to be dragged into this war, but he is a man of honor, and he believes all Scotland’s people should stand behind their prince.”
MacKinnon snorted but stopped talking as he watched one of his men stride into the great hall and stand before him. “A message, my lord.”
MacKinnon read it and held up the piece of paper. “The Jacobites are finished. The English have won the battle and the war. We are now under England’s rule.” He picked up his tankard. “To England.”
Everyone in the great hall stared at him and at one another, but none joined his toast.
His face turned bright red, and he stood up, pushing his chair back with such force, it fell with a crash. “Scotland is defeated. We can keep our holdings if we bow down to the English, but if we do not, we will be persecuted and stripped of our property. Now, raise your drinks. To England.”
MacKinnon’s men stood up. “To England.”
Callum, a trusted MacLaren guard, bent and whispered something into Jannet’s ear. She blinked slowly at Maeve and raised her glass. Maeve did the same, and once her clan followed, they all mumbled, “To England.”
The captain of MacLaren’s guard hurried down the aisle between the tables, followed by a thin, dirty young man Maeve recognized as Duncan.
“My lady, Duncan has news of our laird for ye.”
Duncan bowed low. “My lady.”
Maeve smiled, but her heart raced. Duncan looked grief-stricken. “What news do ye have?”
“First, I wanted to tell ye, Laird MacLaren saved me life. He was a brave man.”
Jannet rushed to Maeve’s side.
“Was? Are ye saying Iain is dead?” A large rock lodged in Maeve’s stomach, but she searched her mind, her soul, and the connection between her and her brother was still solid. She stood up on shaky legs and gazed at Jannet, who wrapped her arm around Maeve’s shoulders. “I don’t believe it. He isn’t dead. I would know if something happened to him.” She speared Duncan with a quelling look. “Did ye see him fall? Did ye see his life leave him?”
“Nae. He told me to run and I did, but when I looked back, he lay motionless on the ground. The lowland traitor, an officer of the English army, was laughing as he and his men walked away from the laird.”
Maeve’s entire body shook. She fisted her hands. “Why dinnae ye go back? Why did ye leave him?”
“My lady, I tried, but the Scottish army had fled and the English were hunting them down like boars. My only thought was to survive so that I may tell you the news.”
“You did the right thing, Duncan,” Donal said, and looked at Maeve. “I have been receiving news all this day. The battle was over before it began. The prince’s army never stood a chance, my lady.” He glanced down at his boots and back up and whispered, “Iain would want you to be strong in this. Ye must lead by example.”
Jannet squeezed Maeve’s sinking shoulders so hard that without her, Maeve would have fallen to the ground. Gathering all her inner resources, Maeve forced her shaky legs to keep her upright. She gazed around the great hall where her people sat or stood graven-faced, some weeping openly.
Fiona held her cup up to the captain of MacKinnon’s guard as if in a toast before emptying it in one swallow. She tipped her cup at Leah, who was standing holding another plate of bannock. “More wine and ale.”
Leah’s tears rolled down her face unimpeded. She lifted her head, threw a knife-filled glare at the woman, and left the hall.
Maeve couldn’t help smiling inwardly at that. She wasn’t coming back.
Her heart told her Iain wasn’t dead, and without proof, she refused to believe it. Eyeing Fiona, Maeve noted her gaze locked with the guard’s. The woman was not to be trusted, and by all that was holy, when Iain came back, he would not be marrying her.
***
Abby noted the curiosity in the man’s expression. He wouldn’t swallow just any silly story even if she could come up with one. Although he was wounded—and wearing an old blanket—he stood before her in regal splendor. His eyes, dark as a moonless night, penetrated her soul. He would know the instant she lied.
She followed his gaze down her front. Darn. She should have put on her shirt and the vest, but she had been so busy and too tired to think about them . . . until now.
She plucked the shirt down from the rafter and quickly pulled it on, and stepping back, she slipped the white vest on, pinning it closed. She drew the skirt’s drawstring round her waist as tight as she could. She didn’t want it falling around her ankles anytime soon.
He’d been watching her the whole time with an expression she had no way of reading. “Who are you?”
He raised his brows. “I am Iain MacLaren, laird of the Dorpol MacLarens.”
Great, Abby thought. Why couldn’t you be a nobody?
She turned and collected the blanket of food, unfolded it, and broke off a piece of bread. She offered it to him. “Sit there and eat.”
He took it but didn’t put it into his mouth. “I want to know who ye are now.”
“I’m, um . . . Abigail Davis.”
“Abigail Davis. I dinnae know that name. Why were ye out on the moor?”
Abby didn’t usually like being called by her full name, but the way he said Abigail, she figured she could get used to it.
“Abigaiel?”
“Ah, I came from America and was supposed to meet my grandmother, but I became lost.”
“America is a far from here. How did ye get lost?”
Think, Abby. How did you get lost? She took a bit of bread and chewed as she tried to come up with a believable story.
“I had a seat in a coach, but when we stopped at an inn, I must have fallen asleep and the driver left without me. I walked the road the way we had been traveling, but when I heard shouting in the distance, I followed the sound, hoping to get help. I didn’t know there was a battle raging and I got scared. So, I kept my head down and hoped I wouldn’t be caught while I waited it out.”
He sat down on the bed and took a bite of the bread, and then another, and soon stuffed the lot in his mouth. After washing it down with water, he held out his hand. “More, and some of that cheese.”
“Please?”
He eyed Abby, and for a moment, she thought he was going to order her to give him the food, but he smirked. “Please.”
Once he’d finished eating, he said, “Why did ye save me?”
“The English chased their enemy off the moor, but I stayed hidden in case they came back and during that time, I saw you move. Once I knew you were alive, I couldn’t just leave you. That would have made me no better than a murderer.” She shrugged. “I had no choice but to drag you off the field.”
Iain frowned. “Others would have left me there.”
“I’m not others.”
“Naw, ye are not others.” He said the words slowly, gazing intently at her.
The way he said that had Abby worried. Did he really think she was some sort of witch? Once he regained his strength, what would he do?
She needed to change the subject. “You seem healthy enough now. Why were you unconscious for so long? Do you have another injury somewhere?”
“Naw.” He rubbed the back of his head. “Being struck on the skull with something extremely heavy probably had a lot to do with it.”
“Oh.” Abby stood up and felt his head. “You have quite a lump there but whatever hit you, it didn’t break the skin.” She stepped away. “You were lucky.”
“Aye.” His eyes grazed over her. “I was very fortunate.”
Standing up, he stomped his feet as if making sure his legs worked properly and flashed a smile. “And now it’s time for me to take my leave.”