Chapter Three

The cave was cool and the lass even cooler, in body and in mood. She sat against the rough, curved wall. Alec draped a wool blanket around her wet shoulders. She ignored him. He bent to a small pile of brush and scraped flint into it. Sparks caught and soon a flame snapped upward. He blew gently, feeding the fire.

He glanced at Rachel. Even in her exhaustion she was bonny, her soft brown hair curling wildly as it dried around a heart-shaped face. A lovely English lass; smooth skin, long lashes, small, and delicate. He smiled. Delicate, but also able to escape Druim singlehandedly—and able to heal the mortal wound he’d taken earlier in the woods. His smile faltered.

When Alec had spotted the small group winding their way through Munro territory, he’d been surprised to see the two lasses riding with the English bastard who had been swindling his father for years. Hamish Munro had taken a fatal blow from a Macbain sword during a bloody battle at Loch Tuinn three months ago, leaving Alec, his remaining son, to lead the huge Munro clan.

His father had never allowed anyone to view the family accounts, and now Alec knew why. Alec would always remember his father as a mighty warrior, but the man had no accounting education. The books were a mess. Alec doubted that Hamish even realized that William Brindle was giving him far less than promised for Munro wool over the years.

He offered Rachel a crumbly oat cake. For a moment, Alec thought she’d refuse or even throw it at him, but she took it.

“Thank you,” she gritted out, and took a bite.

His eyebrow rose. Manners, even to one’s captor? He shook his head. He’d never understand the English.

Alec spitted a skinned hare he’d caught earlier over the fire. Wind and rain thrashed outside. Thunder rumbled and shook. There was no journeying to Munro Keep tonight. His horse was safe enough, tied farther down the mountainside in the shelter of another cave The three mountains, which ran behind Druim all the way to Munro Keep, held numerous caves and conduits. He’d explored them as a child and still didn’t know where they all led.

“We’ll wait out the storm here,” Alec said, though Rachel didn’t look his way. Alec ran a finger over the puckered skin across his heart. “So…” He watched Rachel closely. “I had a hole through my chest this noon.”

Rachel’s bannock dropped into her lap.

“Yet it is healed and I’m alive.” He paused, but she didn’t answer. “Not what I expected when that arrow took me down.”

“You hit your head.” Rachel met his eyes. “That is just one of many scars you seem to have received in the past.”

He shook his head. “A warrior knows each one of his marks.” He extended a leg and turned it so that his flexed calf showed, and ran a finger down a six-inch scar. “The winter of 1501, raid on the moor before Druim.” He traced the jagged line along his side. “Summer of 1503, Loch Tuinn.” Then he pushed his hair back from his forehead, revealing a small divot. “A rock from a Macbain slingshot, fall of 1508.”

“How about the one near your ear?” she asked, so soft he almost couldn’t hear her. He rubbed his thumb over the scratch that had been there since he was a boy, surprised that she even noticed it.

“A slice from a wee lass when I was a boy.”

“You remember?”

“Every single one,” he answered.

Rachel stared. He reached over his shoulder to touch the matching hole on his back. “Macbain arrow, Munro woods, noon today. It would have been my last mark if ye hadn’t…” He gestured toward her hands, which clenched in the folds of her green gown. “What exactly did ye do?”

She looked at her hands. “I prayed,” she whispered. “It’s a gift from God.” She looked up, her eyes intense. “I am no witch. I only do good.”

Alec nodded. He wasn’t superstitious, but understood her concern. Witch hunters reveled in finding anyone different, especially weak, unprotected lasses they could brutalize and eventually kill. “Praying is good,” he said, and watched her inhale slowly. “So this praying…it can heal injuries. Can it do anything else?”

Rachel shook her head, but then stopped. “Well, I can tell if someone is ailing.” Her voice lowered. “By touching them. So I know what to fix.” Her head was bent, but she watched him from under long lashes.

“A blessing.”

She smiled just a bit. Alec’s breath hitched in his throat at the gentle curve of her lips. She was stunning.

He cleared his throat and turned the hare. “I mean, beneficial. Ye could save a lot of lives.”

She nodded. “That’s what I do. I try not to let anyone see, but I must help people when they are ailing. It would be cruel not to.” The words tumbled out of her as if she’d held them back for a long time.

“Does anyone know about yer…praying?” Alec asked, and then wished he hadn’t. Her eager smile faded.

“My sister knows and cautions me. My father knows and commands me not to help people.”

“Yer mother?”

“She had the power, but she died. An accident. She fell from a horse and hit her head. She died before I could reach her.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank ye for your aid today.”

“I…I didn’t mean to distract you. It was my fault you were hit.”

Alec snorted. “It was my own bloody fault for letting a bonny lass pull my attention from battle.”

She looked confused. “Why, then, am I your prisoner?”

He poked at the fire. “Because yer father has been cheating my clan for the last ten years, making the Brindles enemies to the Munros.”

Her forehead furrowed. “The wool?”

“Aye, William Brindle has promised a fair price, but has not delivered.”

Rachel’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Mother was always Father’s conscience. When she died…” The woman rubbed at her forehead as if it pained her. “So, that’s why you came for me.”

A low moan sounded in the dark tunnel. Rachel’s head snapped around to stare into the darkness. Lightning splashed white light into the cave for a long moment, illuminating what looked like the long, ridged throat of a beast. She gasped as the thunder ebbed.

“’Tis just the wind, let in through a hole to the outside somewhere down the tunnel.”

Rachel nodded but hedged closer to him.

“Although some say,” he began, and her wide eyes swung his way. “That it’s the wretched sobbing of Lady Elspet as she weeps over the deaths of her two suitors, Jamie Macbain and Morgan Munro.”

“Macbain and Munro?”

“Aye, ’twas the start of our feud nearly a hundred years ago.”

Rachel looked incredulous. “You are battling over…a woman…dead a hundred years?”

Alec’s anger simmered, narrowing his eyes. What did this English woman know of loyalty and justice? “I battle to avenge my father, my brothers, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, all the way to Morgan Munro who died because he loved a little Englishwoman. We’ve fought ever since, and one day we will be victorious.”

Her lips were still tight. She shook her lovely head. “I’ll never understand men.” She snorted. “You create a tradition based on hate and death.”

“Of course ye doona understand,” he said. “Ye are a woman, an Englishwoman, and a healer. My ways are foreign to ye.” He shrugged to show he didn’t care about the condemnation in the set of her lips. Did he care? Bloody hell—no. He frowned and rose. The lightning had moved farther off but the rain continued to pelt in slants.

Alec was tired of smelling like blood and death. He grabbed a thin slice of soap from his satchel and headed out the mouth of the cave. “Doona try to escape through the caves. They are dangerous.” He spoke without looking back.

He pulled his kilt from his hips, dropping it at the edge of the dry cave, and walked out into the storm. The cool rain felt good against his heated body. Alec rubbed the soap over himself and through his hair, scrubbing his own blood from his chest and limbs.

His own blood. If he’d died today, would the Macbains consider it a final victory since he was the last of his father’s sons? He grimaced. A distraction had nearly cost him everything. He could easily blame the girl, and she seemed ready to take it on. But the truth was that she’d captured his usually unwavering attention simply with her presence.

She’d stared at him through the trees without a sound, without a hint of fear. Rachel Brindle might be English, might be the daughter of a swindler—might even be a witch—but she was no coward. Cunning and courage had delivered her from Druim. Alec rinsed the soap from his body and shook the heavy rainwater from his hair.

He turned just as Rachel’s scream shot out of the cave and straight into his heart.