Not Mine to Give Page 3

  Duncan carried the mistress of Castle Kilgern up the next set of steps, then through the opening and laid her on the bed. Before he had time to peel the blood-soaked gown from her back, the door to the chamber opened and Angus Kilbride burst into the room. Like a roiling thundercloud that darkened the sky on a clear, spring day, he charged forward, scattering everyone in his path.

  He closed the distance in three easy strides and stopped in front of his laird, giving Duncan’s wounds an evaluative glance, then gazed down on the bed. Thick, bushy brows met to form a nearly solid line above dark gray eyes that had seen more than his share of wounds in his fifty-odd years. Harsh crevices deepened when a fearsome frown covered his face. He set his bag of salves on the edge of the bed and wiped his hand over his shaggy white beard. “Malcolm, get your laird a seat. I have better things to do with my time than pick the master’s large carcass up off the floor.”

  As if the order had been given by the laird himself, a stool suddenly appeared. Duncan sat while the white-haired giant lifted a frayed edge of the lady’s gown.

  “Do your knees hit the floor at the sight of blood, woman?” Angus asked Lady MacIntyre’s handmaiden.

  The servant shook her head.

  “Glad I am to hear it.” In a loud, booming voice, he issued his orders. He wanted plenty of warm water, plenty of clean cloths and a tankard of ale. A half dozen servants rushed from the room to do his bidding, then he turned and pointed a weathered finger at the door. “The rest of you leave us be and go about your business.”

  Everyone filed out of the room save Duncan and Malcolm and the mistress’ servant called Edith. When they were alone, Angus took his dagger and slit the lady’s gown and laid it open.

  The breath froze in Duncan’s throat and he tightened his fist around the Ferguson medallion.

  “Is the bastard who did this still alive?” Angus asked.

  “He is.”

  “Then I will be at your side when you ride after him and it will be my sword that opens him wide after you have run him through. I need to see what kind of heart beats inside such an animal.”

  Duncan nodded. He couldn’t lift his gaze from the lady’s back. He had seen enough open wounds and severed limbs in battle to become hardened to the sight of blood, but never had the flayed flesh been that of a woman. A woman who was close to death because of him.

  Angus dipped a cloth in the basin of warm water that had been placed on the table by her bed and touched it to her skin. Lady MacIntyre moaned softly. “Keep a hold on your mistress,” Angus ordered, then touched the cloth to her skin again.

  Duncan wiped the sweat from his face then rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Days of no food, or water, or sleep, plus the toll of his wounds on his body made him light-headed and unable to focus his eyes.

  Angus laid a clean wet cloth over her back, then opened his sack and placed three large jars on the table. No one knew the contents of the many jars he carried, and no one was allowed to get close enough while he mixed his potions to guess their ingredients. All anyone knew for certain was that the mixtures contained magic healing powers.

  “What think you?” Duncan pushed himself to the edge of his seat and tried to stand. He sank back down and lowered his head to his hands until the room stopped spinning.

  “I think the lass was either verra brave or verra foolish to try to save you by herself. I’m not sure you’re worth the price she paid.”

  Duncan rubbed his hand over his face. It was terribly warm in the lady’s room. The guilt eating at him made it feel warmer. He owed her. He owed an English.

  “’Twas not wise for you to ride to Kilgern Castle alone.”

  Duncan stiffened his shoulders and glared at the man who had been as a father to him. “I will na answer to you, Angus.”

  “Aye. You are the laird of clan Ferguson now. You do na need to answer to any man. But you should na have ridden out without your men at your side, and well you know it.”

  Duncan knew Angus was right.

  He should have taken Malcolm and his clansmen when he left Lochmore Castle, but the sight of his slain family and the destruction of his home caused something to snap deep inside him. The bastard Englishman had taken the Ferguson medallion from around his father’s neck, and Duncan had come to enlist Ian’s help in getting it back. As soon as he’d crossed onto MacIntyre land, he’d regretted his decision and wished to have Malcolm at his side.

  “Stop your talking, old man. My father granted you too many liberties with your mouth and now I suffer for it.”

  “Your father recognized my wise counsel,” Angus said, lifting the cloth from her back and touching the first deep cut with the smelly salve.

  Duncan rose from his stool when the lady moaned.

  “Put your backside down on that seat, milord,” Angus ordered Duncan. “There is nothing you can do to help. Malcolm, give your laird this tankard of ale. See that he drinks it all. It will help to soothe his bitter tongue.”

  Duncan took the tankard Malcolm handed him and drank. He did not care for the sweet taste of the ale, but he had such a thirst he drank it all to the bottom.

  “Malcolm, help me stand,” Duncan ordered when the lady moaned again in pain. He attempted to rise but was unable to gain his balance. The light in the room slowly dimmed and Duncan leaned back in his seat as a strange sensation washed over him. In a moment more the stiffness and pain eased from his body.

  “Malcolm,” Angus ordered without ceasing his ministrations. “Do na leave your laird’s side. ‘Tis time to call for Gregor and Balfour to help you.”

  Duncan felt his head fall to his chest as if he’d lost all power to hold it up. His legs were weak as a babe’s and his arms as limp as a doll’s. He struggled to stay in the light, but darkness came at him from every side. “Angus!” he bellowed as the empty cup dropped to the floor. “What have you…”

  The laird of clan Ferguson slumped in his seat and Malcolm held him while he called for Gregor and Balfour to help carry their master to a bed. “You know there will be all forms of hell to pay when our laird wakes up, do you na, Angus?”

  “Aye, Malcolm. But the mistress is coming back to us. ‘Tis better he does na hear her screams.”

  Malcolm and Balfour and Gregor carried their laird to his room. It took the strength of all three. They stripped him of his boots and after Balfour and Gregor left, Malcolm washed the blood and grime from his laird’s body then covered him with the Ferguson plaid. Angus would tend him when he finished with the lady.

  Malcolm looked at his friend, deep in slumber, and breathed a heavy sigh. He had grown up with Duncan and loved him as a brother. He had been the first to kneel before him and swear fealty to his new laird when they rode back to Lochmore Castle and found Duncan’s father slain. On that day he had sworn to protect his laird with his life. He had almost failed.

  Instead, Duncan’s life had been saved by the lady. An English. They would wait to see how their laird abided his indebtedness to the enemy.

  …

  Light from dozens of candles lit the chamber as brightly as if it were day. She wasn’t awake, yet she knew the brightness wasn’t from the sun. Just as she knew he was with her. She could feel him beside her. Feel his flesh touch her flesh when he held her hand. Hear his soft voice whisper words that bound her to him.

  She wanted to die. The pain was so great she wanted to let go of the fragile web that trapped her in his world. But each time she came close to loosening her hold on life, he brought her back. His words pulled her out of the darkness and brought her closer to the light. Light that made the pain easier to bear. But she couldn’t stay in the light long before the darkness consumed her again.

  …

  She pried one eye open a small slit then let it fall shut again. She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but sensed it had been days. Maybe more. When she was able to keep her eyes open, she realized she was flat on her stomach. To lift her head without moving any other part of her body almo
st required more strength than she could find.

  She opened her eyes again and watched the flames as they flickered and danced against the stone wall. The movements cast eerie shadows in the silent confusion of her mind that she couldn’t comprehend.

  He was still here with her. She didn’t have to search to find him, she just knew her Scot was there. He’d put salve on her back and held a wet cloth to her lips so she could drink. He’d held her down when she’d thrashed from one side of the bed to the other to escape the pain.

  As if he was aware that she was awake, he knelt beside the bed to bring his face level with hers.

  He was close shaven now and his clothes were clean, but the bruises on his face still turned his cheeks and eyes a darkish tint of green.

  “Good day, milady.” He held a wet cloth to her dry lips and she sucked a small amount of moisture. “I’m glad you are awake.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come out.

  “Do na try to talk. It’s too soon.”

  He poured a small amount of ale into a metal goblet and an equal amount of broth into another. “It’s important that you have some nourishment. Angus said you must take this to get back your strength.”

  He moved the cups closer and sat on the edge of the bed. “I will lift your head so you can drink. There will be pain when I move you.”

  He lifted her shoulders and turned her enough so she could get the liquid into her mouth. His movements were tender and careful and though she tried to be brave, she couldn’t stop the moan that echoed in the chamber.

  He held the broth to her lips first, then the ale. She drank what she could, then turned her head and closed her eyes.

  “You’ve done well, lass. Go back to sleep now and rest.”

  He lowered her head and placed a light cover over her shoulders. The tips of his fingers brushed against her cheek.

  “Good night, milady,” he whispered.

  “My Scot,” she answered and slept.

  …

  She opened her eyes and looked around. It didn’t hurt to move nearly as much today as it had yesterday, and much less than the day before that. She held her breath and listened to the sounds around her.

  The chamber was empty. He no longer came to sit with her during the day. Only far into the middle of the night, when no one was about and she was deep in sleep did he enter her room. His presence always lingered until morning when she awoke.

  High, muffled giggles drifted to her from the anteroom. The young maid, Eloise, must have been assigned to sit with her this day. The Scottish lass had been hand picked by the Ferguson because she would follow the laird’s orders without question, and report every word and movement she made. For a few moments the girl must have sneaked out to be alone with her lover, Cory, while she believed her mistress to be sleeping.

  She tried to remember how long it had been since he’d carried her out of the dungeon, most of that time so weak she could barely lift her head. Days? A week? Maybe more. And in all that time she had not been left alone. She knew that had been the Ferguson’s order.

  She rolled to her side and pulled her legs to her chest. Her wounds were all closed, but when she wrapped her arms around her knees, the skin still stretched tight across her back. She sucked in her breath and held it until the pain went away. Thank God, though, it was nothing like before. More than once she’d prayed God would let her die so she could escape the pain.

  Now she had other problems with which to concern herself. She had to get to the place in the rocks.

  “Oh. You are awake, milady.” A startled Eloise closed the door behind her and straightened her mussed hair. The flush of her cheeks deepened when she neared her mistress. “Would you like me to bring you food? The women prepared an excellent stew for noon meal, and the Ferguson told them to keep some back for your repast.”

  “Thank you, Eloise, but I’m not hungry. What I am, is tired of this bed. I would like for you to help me dress.”

  The little maid’s face paled. “I can na, milady. The Ferguson said you were nay to leave your bed until he gave the order.”

  She clenched her fist in the covers and silently prayed Ian would be home soon. Then the Ferguson laird could return to his own keep. The turmoil his nearness caused was too unsettling. He was the most domineering man she had ever met. If she did not get out of this bed soon, she had no doubt she would go mad.

  “The Ferguson is not master of Kilgern Castle. I will not let him tell me when I’m ready to leave my bed. He has already kept me prisoner far too long.”

  “Oh, no, milady. The Ferguson does na wish to make you a prisoner. He is only concerned for your welfare.”

  “Well, he need not concern himself any longer. My… Ian will be home any day now and everything will be fine.” Dear God, she prayed that were true. “Now, help me dress, Eloise.”

  “Pray, let me get you something to eat first, milady. Then I will help you dress.”

  She gave in with a sigh. “Very well. Bring me a tray and I will eat first.”

  The maid smiled and bobbed her head in relief.

  “Then I intend to dress and leave this room.”

  “Yes, milady.” With another nervous bob of her head, Eloise left the room.

  She struggled to remove the covers and it took her forever to work her way to the edge of the bed. She dangled her feet for a long while before she managed to stand on her own, but she could only remain upright if she gripped the tall poster with all her might.

  This was all his fault. She’d never in her life been so weak, and his endless bullying had made her so. He would not allow her to get out of bed so she could get stronger. Well, she could not allow him to keep her abed any longer. Her blood ran cold thinking of what could already have happened in her absence.

  The door opened behind her, then closed softly. She lowered her forehead to the smooth post of the bed and breathed a deep sigh. She did not have to turn around to know he was behind her, nor did she have to look to see the frown on his face. She waited for him to speak. The deep rumble of his voice and the burr of his speech were as familiar to her as her own voice.

  “You are nay to be out of bed, milady.”

  “I feel much better today.”

  “Not well enough, I’m thinking.”

  She clamped her hands tighter around the bedpost. “You cannot keep me in that bed forever, sir.”

  He took three steps across the room which brought him close enough for her to smell the scent of horses and leather. Eloise must have found him outside. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time coming to her.

  Dear God, but he was big. It would have taken an ordinary man five steps to cover the same area, and an ordinary man would not consume so much of the room as he did.

  “It’s too soon for you to be out of bed, Lady MacIntyre. If your husband were here, he would na let you rise, either.”

  She turned to face him and staggered when her knees buckled beneath her. Before she had time to reach for something solid, the Ferguson lifted her from her feet and placed her on the bed.

  She couldn’t breathe, and it had nothing to do with the weakness of her legs. He did that to her. Dear God, she couldn’t allow it. “I am only so weak because you’ve kept me in bed far longer than is necessary. Even Angus says so.”

  “Angus is as sensitive as a coat of your English chain mail and as delicate as a Highland winter. He’d have thrown you out of bed that first day if you’d opened your eyes for him.”

  She dropped her head against the pillow and sighed. “He would not have. You would not have allowed it.”

  “’Tis right, milady, as I will na now.”

  He stood beside her bed and looked down on her. She should be embarrassed by his nearness, but she wasn’t. He’d spent so many hours at her bedside when she’d been ill that for him to be near her now seemed right.

  But it wasn’t.

  “You don’t have to be so protective of me. You owe me nothing.”

&n
bsp; He fingered the medallion hanging from his neck. “I owe you for what you did. You paid a high price for your actions.”

  She lowered her gaze, unable to look at him. She’d paid a high price indeed. She’d failed. “I gave you only what was rightfully yours.”

  “Why did you come to the dungeon, milady. What favor did you want in exchange for my medallion?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It seemed so at the time.”

  “But it is no longer.” She closed her eyes to block the fear. “Have you found him yet?”

  One eyebrow on his darkened features raised. “I do na ken your meaning.”

  “William Bolton. I know you’ve gone out searching for him. Have you found him?”

  “Nay.”

  “Leave him be, Lord Ferguson. You don’t know how far his power reaches.”

  “I canna leave him be.“

  “He’s protected by the king.”

  “He is nay protected by my king.”

  A cavern of silence separated them, made more daunting by the fierce glare in his eyes. It worried her. “Many of your fellow Scotsmen will die if you go after him.”

  “Many men from Scotland have already died because of him, milady.”

  “But—”

  “Enough. Even though you are wed to the laird of clan MacIntyre for a year and more, I see you have na left your love for the English far behind. I think mayhaps you have put the MacIntyre plaid on your body but have not let the MacIntyre Scot into your heart.

  “How dare you! It’s not to your credit to assume all English are the same as Bolton. Could it be that your hatred lies in the fact that he took something that was yours? Or do you hate all English?”

  “If you have need to understand the cause of my hatred of the English, milady, I will show you the graves of my father and mother and two sisters. I found them slaughtered by Bolton and his men when I returned from battle.”