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“Loose my hands that I may see all is intact.”
She scowled and clutched the purse to her heart. The action pulled her ugly brown gown tight across surprisingly full breasts. “We would not steal from you.”
“Why? You’ve no compunction about tying me up.”
She sighed. “Only to save you from harming yourself.”
“I have been looking out for myself since I was ten, and I will be the judge of what is right for me.”
Tears filled her eyes, magnifying their color. “You have no family,” she whispered.
He didn’t want her pity. “I have a cousin.”
“Surely he—or she—took you in. We’ve orphans aplenty in Edin, thanks to the scurvy MacGorys, but we look after our own.”
“Cousin Niall gave me a home,” Duncan said stiffly.
“He was mean to you.” She scampered over to the bed and plopped down again, enveloping him in a cloud of heather and woman. “Dinna worry. You have us, now.” She stroked his cheek.
Duncan set his teeth against the sudden tightness in his chest. ’Twas loathing, he told himself. “I do not want you.”
“Oh.”
She sat back, pain and confusion chasing across her expressive features. Did the girl hold nothing back?
“This is not at all the way it is supposed to be.”
“What do you mean?”
Before she could reply, the door opened and the ugliest man Duncan had ever beheld ducked into the low-ceiled chamber. His face was seamed with wrinkles, his nose mashed to one side. Worst of all was the long scar running from his forehead to his right ear. ’Twas a wonder he’d not lost his eye.
“Fergie.” The girl launched herself at the man, who enveloped her in a bear hug. “I missed you so.” She cupped his cheeks with her hands and gazed adoringly at the battered landscape of his ruined features.
How could she hold that smile? Hardened as he was to battle scars, Duncan could barely stand to look at the man.
“And I you, lass.” Fergie kissed the top of her head, then draped a mammoth arm over her shoulder and sauntered to the bed. “Eoin said as how you’d dragged in another stray,” he exclaimed, his voice harsh as gravel in a cup.
“He name is Duncan MacLellan. Duncan, this is my uncle Fergie, laird of Clan Gleanedin.”
“Why’s he trussed up?”
Duncan had had enough of lying about while others stared at him. “Because she’s a nasty, bossy little witch,” he snapped.
Fergie threw back his gray head and roared with laughter. “That she is.” He wiped tears from his eyes.
“I am not, and ’tis for his own good.”
“That’s what they all say when they want a man to do something he doesn’t want to.” Fergie winked.
Sensing an ally, Duncan focused his gaze on the man’s eyes, for looking at the scars was both impolite and unsettling. “She’s tied me up and forced noxious potions down my throat.”
“Mmm. Cured you, though, didn’t she?”
Duncan grunted.
“Sometimes it’s handy having a witch about the place,” the girl said airily.
Damn, was she truly a witch? “I’ve already thanked her for nursing me through the fever. But I really have to leave.”
“He’s an orphan, Fergie, with no place to go.”
Duncan noted she called her formidable uncle by his first name, an honor Cousin Niall had denied his unwanted burden. “My cousin is expecting me.” Another lie he’d have to confess. For a man who seldom sinned, he was amassing a large debt.
“His cousin resents him,” Kara said.
Duncan started. “How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
“Well.” Fergie rubbed a gnarled hand over the scar on his forehead. “I’ll admit another fighting man would be welcome.”
“I won’t fight for you,” Duncan insisted.
“He will.” Kara touched her uncle’s hand. “He’s the one,” she murmured. “The one I saw in the Beltane fires.”
“Really?” Fergie’s eyes widened, raking Duncan from head to bare feet and back. “Are you sure, lass?”
Kara nodded. “He was wearing the metal shirt and carrying the long dirk.” She pointed to the sword in the corner.
“See here,” Duncan shouted. “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”
“You’re the one the gods have sent to save us,” Kara said.
Blasphemy. “The hell I am.” Duncan jerked on the ropes. “You people are all mad.” He tugged again, barely feeling the hemp cut into his flesh. “Mad. Let me go or I’ll—”
“Are you sure about this, lass?” Fergie asked again.
“Have my visions ever been wrong?”
Visions. Holy Mother, have mercy. Duncan’s heart was pounding so loudly he could scarcely hear. “Filthy pagans.”
“He doesn’t seem to like us much,” Fergie mused. “Hard to imagine him helping us.”
“He will.”
“I won’t.” Duncan seethed with rage and frustration.
“Leave it to me, Fergie.” Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his scarred cheek. “Was the hunting successful?”
“Aye. We took two roebuck. Dod and the others are skinning them in the courtyard. t should see they don’t make a hash of it, but if you need me to stay...”
“Nay. I’ll fetch his supper, then we’ll discuss things.” She gave her uncle a dazzling smile. “Men are always more reasonable on a full stomach.”
“Well...” Fergie scowled thoughtfully at Duncan, then shrugged. “You’ve never failed us yet.” He chucked her under the chin, then sauntered out.
Kara turned that brilliant smile on Duncan. “There’s fresh rabbit stew and boiled onions for supper. I’ll fetch you some.”
“I won’t stay...even if you ply me with roasted peacocks and almond paste.”
“I do not know what those things are, but you will stay.”
“You cannot make me stay,” Duncan snarled.
“I’ll wager I can,” said the little witch with a toss of her fiery curls. She walked from the room proud as a queen, her skirts swishing in time to the sway of her hips.
Despite his rage, the sight made an impression on the least discerning organ in Duncan’s body. Cursing it, and females in general, he went to work on the ropes. Imprisonment had been Cousin Niall’s favorite form of punishment, and Duncan had learned to rework knots at an early age.
He was determined he’d not be here when the witch returned.
Had she made a mistake? Was he not really the one?
Kara tapped a finger against her mouth.
He had not looked as large in her vision, nor as angry. In her vision, he’d smiled and laughed and looked on her with approval, not revulsion. But the clothes of silver metal and the long dirk were right. And the face...there was no way she could have mistaken it. Duncan had the rough-hewn features of a warrior and the eyes of a lonely child. Those troubled eyes called out to the healer in her. The rest of him, his big, muscular body, his ruggedly handsome face, awakened strong feelings of a different sort. Womanly feelings.
She’d never been drawn to a man before. Oh, she’d laughed and bantered with the men of the clan, and fluttered her lashes in fair imitation of her friend Brighde. But she’d never cared what any man thought of her.
Till now. She minded terribly that Duncan hated her.
Why did he? She’d risked her life to save his, nursed him through two days and nights, yet he sneered at her. Called her pagan and witch as though she were cursed.
Was he truly the one?
Kara stared at the leaping fire in the kitchen hearth. But no vision came.
“Here you are, then. There’s more if he can eat it,” added Black Rolly. He held out a tray set with a bowl of savory stew, brown bread and a cup of ale. The tray looked tiny in his big, warrior’s hands. He’d smashed his leg the same night Fergie had nearly lost his eye. She’d stitched them both up, not daring to hope they’d live. But they were strong and adaptable. With his fighting days over, Rolly had taking up something he liked. Cooking.
“It smells wonderful, but don’t be surprised if he can’t finish it all. He’s still recovering.” In his present state of rage, he might refuse to eat at all. She had to do something to change that. How were they to win against the MacGorys if their appointed savior refused to play his part?
She took the tray, then hesitated. In his youth, Rolly had left Edin to ride in Border raids against the English. He’d even been to King William’s court in Edinburgh and knew much of the outside world. “Rolly, do you know what a Cru...Crusader is?”
“Aye.” He leaned his bad hip against the worktable. “They’re knights who’ve sworn to free Jerusalem from the grip of the Infidels.”
“Are they bad people, these Infidels?”
“Worse than the MacGorys. They dinna believe in God.”
“Oh.”
“And they cut out the hearts of those who do.”
Kara gasped. “They must be fierce, indeed. He was wounded fighting them.”
“Duncan?”
Kara nodded. “He’s a strange man, full of pride and anger. For all he’s weak as a new colt, he hates having us do for him. I fear I had to tie him up to keep him from injuring himself, which only made things worse. He thinks we are pagans.”
“Some Crusaders have deep religious convictions.” Rolly told her briefly about the training a knight went through, and the vow he made before God when he was knighted. “They pledge to protect the weak and vanquish the oppressors.”
“That is good, we are being oppressed by the MacGorys. And we did save his life.” Kara repeated that as she trudged up the narrow stairs. If the one thing didn’t convince him to help, mayhap the other would.
She reached the second floor and found all was dark and shadowy. The torch at the near end of the corridor had burned out again. Poor Dod, Edin’s steward, was growing forgetful. When she’d finished with Duncan, she’d set one of Dod’s grandsons to replenishing the torches. Covertly, so Dod’s pride wasn’t hurt.
She nudged the door open with her hip, took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “Well, here we are....”
She stopped and gaped at the empty bed.
The savior of Edin Valley had slipped his bounds and fed.
Chapter Three
From his hiding place under the bed, Duncan listened with grim satisfaction to Kara Gleanedin’s gasp of dismay. The wood floor was cold on his bare chest and legs, but at least they’d left on his braies when they stripped him. He watched her stomp one foot, the ragged hem of her skirts twitching in agitation. The ripe oath that followed made him scowl. That a woman should know, much less utter such foul phrases.
“Damn and blast.” She stalked to the bed.
Had she seen him? Did she guess? He held his breath, wishing he’d had time to get to his sword, but her return had followed his escape by only moments.
Wood rattled on wood as she set a tray down on the stool where she’d sat vigil the past two nights. An unwelcome reminder of the debt he owed her. With one final curse, this time in Gaelic, she bolted from the room. He waited till her angry footfalls had faded away before he gingerly crawled out.
His shoulder throbbed, his legs were wobbly, his mind foggy, but he had no time to indulge such weaknesses. One hand on the rough, unpainted wall, he worked his way to his sword with the determination of a man pursuing the Holy Grail. Gripping the hilt made him feel better. He bent to retrieve the belt coiled neatly on the floor. The pouch was still attached to it.
Knowing he’d not rest easy till he saw the stones, Duncan took a few precious seconds to release the intricate metal clasp and open it. Inside were his few remaining silver coins. The silk lining of the pouch was intact. Then he saw that the stitches in one corner were made with black thread, not the red he’d closed it with when he’d hidden the gems behind the lining.
“Nay!”
He split the threads with the tip of his sword.
Empty!
He swore hoarsely, then tried to suck the words back.
Damn. Damn. Crushing the pouch in his fist, he glanced around the room. There was not much to see, an uncurtained bed with a chest at its foot, a table holding a fat candle and assorted small crocks. Crude woolen tapestries brightened the walls, but there was nothing concealed behind them. ’Twas a moment’s work to ransack the chest. It contained a few sets of woman’s clothes. Kara’s he supposed, for her scent clung to them. But she’d been smart enough not to hide her stolen loot there.
Likely she had it on her person.
Or she’d given it to her uncle.
Duncan spun toward the door, his hand tightening on the sword hilt. With the Gleanedins out beating the brush for him, he’d search their castle. But he needed clothes. Preferably his own. Anger fired his blood, but his skin was cold and pebbled. Snatching a blanket from the bed, he slung it around his waist and over the wounded shoulder like a toga.
The hallway beyond the door was gloomy as a crypt, with only a single torch burning at the far end. He scanned the length with an invader’s eye, noting the archway to his left where the stairwell came up, the pair of doors farther down the corridor. To search them, or escape while he could?
In the courtyard outside, he heard shouting and the excited trumpeting of horses. The sounds built to a wave of thunderous hoofbeats, then there was silence. They’d left.
Duncan grinned and headed for the next room.
Fergus Gleanedin, for this could only be his chamber, had few possessions, but what he had was well cared for. A polished claymore hung over the small hearth, where banked coals glowed. The bedside table held a candle and flask of fiery osquebae, the Scots breath of life.
Duncan took a moderate swallow, groaning as the liquid burned down his gullet and exploded into his belly. Ah, he’d missed that. It lent strength to his flagging muscles. False strength, but he’d take what he could get. Kneeling beside the trunk, he picked the lock with the tip of his dirk. Inside lay men’s garments, homespun but well made. He set them aside and probed lower, prying into a pouch containing less silver than he had and another with more personal treasures. A bit of waxed thread attached to a steel fishing hook. A ring bearing a crudely fashioned crest. A hunk of amber on a fine gold chain. One side of the ornament was jagged, as though it had been split asunder. Likely the reason it was in here and not about Fergus’s neck.
A private person by nature, Duncan found handling someone else’s goods put a bad taste in his mouth. But they’d stolen from him. Resolved, he lifted out the last item, a tiny casket. Inside were a few feminine bits of frippery, a small silver brooch. A set of bone hair comb. And the other half of the amber, likewise suspended on a chain. Fergus’s wife’s necklet? Was she dead, and that was why the laird no longer wore his?
Duncan dropped the necklace. Unease crawled through his belly, and he knew it wasn’t the whiskey.
“Enough of this sneaking about,” he muttered, replacing each item carefully despite his urgent desire to be free of them. Just because they were a dishonorable pack of thieves was no reason for him to lower his standards. He’d go below, find Fergus and demand the return of his rubies.
Filled with new resolve, and another swig of whiskey, Duncan marched to the door, opened it and stepped into the hall. After the sunlit chamber, it seemed even darker.
“Have you finished pawing through Fergie’s things?” drawled a familiar voice.
Duncan spun toward it, sword up, eyes narrowed.
A shadow moved, stepping into the spill of light from the room behind him. Kara, her chin up, her gaze scathing.
“Why aren’t you out looking for me?”
“Because I knew you’d never left.”
“How?”
“When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I recalled seeing your sword in the room. Only a fool would leave his sword behind, and you do not strike me as a fool. How did you get free?”
“I’m good with knots.” He locked his knees to counter a sudden wave of dizziness. “Clever girl. Now what have you done with my jewels?”
“Jewels?” Her alarmed gaze dropped to his crotch. “I didn’t know you were wounded there.”
“Where? Oh.” Duncan felt the heat crawl up his mostly bare chest. Suddenly he was aware of how close they stood, of the faint scent of heather swirling seductively in the air. “’Tis not proper for you to speak of such things.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
The word set off an alarming reaction in the very nether parts they were discussing. Duncan shifted and cleared his throat. “Aye, well, ’tis not what I meant and you know it.”
“I’m a witch, not a mind reader. Now my mother, Guenna, she always knew what a body was thinking. Very disconcerting.”
Duncan blinked. “Stop trying to change the subject. I want my rubies, and I want them—”
“I’ve not a single clue what they are. Rubies,” she added.
“Don’t be daft. Everyone knows what rubies are.”
“Well, I do not.” Her chin was up again, her eyes flashing. “And I’ll wager no one else does, either. We dinna see much of the outside world here.”
“But—”
“Kara, lass, have you found him?” Fergus’s voice echoed hollowly in the stairwell.
“Aye,” Kara called, looking back over her shoulder. “He’s up here—” The word ended with a squeak as Duncan snagged her and dragged her against him, one arm around her waist.
It was a mistake, for the lower swell of her breasts rested on his forearm and those sensuous hips he’d admired pressed into his. He tried to ignore those sweet curves, but his chilled body greedily savored the heat from hers. Before he could weaken, a herd of Gleanedins clattered up the stairs and crowded into the corridor, Fergus in the forefront.
“Stay back or I’ll run her through,” Duncan warned. He raised his sword, but kept it well clear of her slender neck, for his arm felt none too steady.
Fergus’s battered face went purple. “If you cut her—”
“He won’t harm me,” Kara said with absolute calm.
“And what is to stop me?”
“Aye, what?” Fergus asked, backed by a sea of white faces.
“His honor. He’s a Crusader knight, you know,” she said. “Black Roily says they are bound to show kindness and mercy to women and children. He’ll not harm me.”
Angered, Duncan spat, “Why should I show you mercy?”
“Well, aside from your knightly vows, I did save your life.”
Foiled by the shackles of honor. “So you could imprison me and steal from me?” Duncan watched Fergus’s face closely, but could detect no hint of guilt. One of the others, mayhap, but the crowd looked equally baffled.
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