Laird of Flint: A Forbidden Love Scottish Medieval Romance Adventure (The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloc

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Hew’s heart beat like the wings of a trapped falcon. Faster and harder than it ever had for Gormal, Anne, or any of his past lovers. It slammed painfully against his ribs as he turned to Carenza with purpose in his furrowed brows.

There was no time for tact.

He lunged toward her. Seized her about the waist. Heaved her up over one shoulder. And packed her off like his Viking forefathers packing off the spoils of war.

At a safe distance from the bonfire, he lowered her gently but swiftly to the damp sod.

She gazed up at him in startled shock, unaware of the peril.

But Hew had spotted it at once. Whipped up by the wind, the flames of the bonfire had leaped onto Carenza’s gown. They’d begun to greedily consume her leine and lap at the edges of her arisaid.

He started beating at the fiery fabric with his bare hands. Trying to extinguish the destructive flames. Scarcely noticing the heat.

From afar, the laird—seeing only a warrior attacking his daughter—cried out, “What the devil? Unhand her, sirrah!”

But those closer to Hew slowly realized what had happened. Gasps of concern rose around him.

Finally Carenza sat up, shrieking when she saw she was ablaze. She thrashed. Kicked. Tried to squirm away. Which would only make it worse.

“Nay!” he roared.

He forced her down with one hand and held her there. With his other sleeve, he fought to smother the fire.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the flames made one last sparking gasp of surrender and smoldered out.

With an exhausted sigh, he released her and rocked back on his heels.

She rose to her elbows, staring at him in wonder.

His heart still pounded. Panic continued to race through his veins. His body shuddered with residual fear.

Behind him, her father sobbed, “Carenza! Dear God, what hap—”

He cut himself off with a gasp when he saw the ragged edges of her leine, curled and blackened by fire, and the wisp of smoke rising from her scorched arisaid.

“I’m all right, Da. Just a bit singed.” Her grateful gaze settled on Hew. “Ye saved my…” Then she lowered her eyes. They widened in horror.

Hew followed her gaze. Below his shoulders, the sleeves of his leine were burned away. The flesh of his exposed arms, from shoulder to wrist, was bright red. The palm of his right hand was blistered.

“Ye’re hurt!” she said.

He didn’t want her to fret. “It looks worse than ’tis.” It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He could see there was damage. But at the moment, there such an intense current of residual terror flooding his body, he could feel no pain.

The laird crouched beside him with a worried frown. Then he turned and bellowed out over his shoulder, “Peris!”

Was the laird calling his physician on Hew’s behalf? Or for his own injuries? After all, Hew had walloped Dunlop with all the force of a battering ram in his effort to snatch Carenza from the blaze.

“Here,” the laird said when the physician arrived. “He’s been badly burned. Take him to my chamber.”

Hew scowled. Surely he wasn’t badly burned. Just a bit seared. He needed no special treatment. He was a battle-seasoned knight. The warriors of Rivenloch shrugged off injuries like a duck shedding water.

“That won’t be necessary, my laird,” he muttered.

The laird ignored him, adding, “Quickly, Peris.”

Carenza sat up and pressed a hand to her breast. “I pray ye do as he says,” she begged him. Her lips trembled. Her pale brow was etched with care. Her wide eyes were wet and full of fear.

Her urgent entreaty softened his frown. Melted his pride. How could he argue with an angel?

He gave her a reluctant nod.

And now that the excitement was over, now that the fire was out and Carenza was safe, Hew’s pulse could calm at last.

Carenza’s brow creased again as she perused his injuries. “They must be terribly painful.”

“I’ve had worse,” he said, giving her a wink.

This time it was a lie. Now that the danger was past and the tension flushed from his muscles, the pain seeped into his blood like swift poison.

He was accompanied to the castle by the three of them—the physician, the laird, and Lady Carenza.

By the time they reached the keep, Hew’s arms felt as if they were engulfed in liquid flame.

By the time they entered the laird’s chamber, he had to clench his jaw against the pain.

And by the time he sank down onto the laird’s pallet, sweat began to pop from his brow, chilling his fevered skin and making him shiver uncontrollably.

The physician performed with clean, quick efficiency. His manner was completely at odds with the nervousness he’d displayed when Hew had first questioned him. He opened his leather satchel, pulling forth vials with calm, collected expertise.

“I’ll need a bucket o’ cool water,” he said to the laird. “Butter. Honey. And a cup o’ wine.”

“Ye can have the bottle o’ Bordeaux on the table,” the laird said. He turned to Carenza before he left the chamber. “Stay with him?”

“O’ course.” Carenza drew near, wringing her hands. “How can I help, Peris?”

He handed her a wee vial. “Pour out a cup o’ the wine. Then add three drops o’ this. No more. No less.”

While she fetched the wine, the physician carefully removed the remains of Hew’s leine.

“’Tisn’t too severe,” he proclaimed as he studied Hew’s damaged flesh. “The worst is your hand. Your arms should heal within a day or two. But ye won’t be able to wield an axe for a while.”

When Carenza returned with the wine, the sight of his injuries must have shocked her. She fumbled the cup in her hands and nearly dropped it.

“Does it look that bad?” Hew rasped out.

“Nay,” she rushed to say, turning as red as his arms. After that, she wouldn’t meet his gaze, though her eyes flitted frequently to his bare chest.

“Have him drink it down quick,” Peris said.

Hew hated the way he was shivering. Doubly hated that he wasn’t able to even hold his own cup.

But the compassion in her eyes, the light breeze of her sweet breath upon his face, and the touch of her delicate fingers on his chin as she tipped the cup up for him almost extinguished the fiery pain searing his arms.

The wine did the rest.

Whatever was in the vial, it worked quickly. Once he laid back on the pallet, his shudders subsided. The burning in his arms lessened. And lethargy drained the strength from him.

When Carenza drew near to mop his brow with a cool rag, he looked up at her with glazed eyes and smiled.

She was a mess. She was still clad in the blackened shreds of her leine and the scorched arisaid she’d adjusted for modesty. Strings of her dark hair, strewn with dead grass, had escaped her braid and now hung like a frayed mantle over her shoulders. Her hands were filthy. Her pendant was askew. Ash smudged her perfect nose and painted her rosy cheek.

But his last thought as he drifted off to a land of oblivious euphoria was that he had never seen a more beautiful woman.

Samhain had been cut short after Carenza’s accident. But before the clanfolk retired, they took the time to snatch branches from the bonfire to light their own hearths for good luck. The sacrifices from the harvest had worked to appease the dark spirits. No evil entity had dared to venture past the bright fire of the living to do harm. Unless you counted the wicked flames that had licked at Carenza’s gown.

Now, with Hew sleeping soundly, Peris and her father chatted quietly by the fire.

“O’ course he’ll stay at Dunlop to mend,” her father announced.

Carenza was afraid of that.

She could feel things happening in her heart that did not bode well for the future. Things like the way it had softened, knowing Hew had sacrificed his own safety to keep her from harm. Things like how it pounded when she beheld his bare chest, bold and magnificent. Things like the way it ached when she thought of the kind warrior wasting away in a monastery instead of taking a wife.

She sighed. She needed to listen to the voice of destiny. Hew’s fate was spoken for. By a higher power than she possessed.

It was hard to remember with temptation so close at hand.

“But he’ll miss All Saints Day,” she argued, “and All Souls Day.”

“Tis best not to move him in his condition,” her father said. “Besides, the physician is already here.”

“But they have an infirmary with beds at Kildunan,” she told him. “Ye can have your bedchamber back.”

She knew she was grasping at straws. Her father was perfectly content to sleep on the rushes in the great hall with his clanfolk.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said.

“He’s goin’ to need watchin’ o’er, day and night,” the physician warned. He held up the vial. “He’ll need drops o’ this every few hours.”

“Right,” Carenza agreed. “At Kildunan, they have dozens o’ monks who are up all night, prayin’. Surely they can—”

“I insist,” her father insisted. “’Tis the least we can do for the man who saved your life.” To the physician, he said, “Ye’ll o’ersee his care. And if ye’re called away, Lady Carenza can look after him.” He uttered the words with far more enthusiasm than Carenza deemed appropriate.

She clenched her teeth even as she curved her lips into a pleasant smile, as if that weren’t the worst idea in the world.

It was obvious what fueled his satisfaction. The laird schemed to make a match between her and her Samhain hero. A feat that would be so much easier with the prospective bridegroom sleeping in the laird’s chamber for several days. And Carenza serving as his nursemaid.

“’Tis settled then,” the laird decided.

She wished she could say the same thing about her heart.

An hour later, after she’d dressed for bed and given Twinkle a last treat for the night, a maidservant scratched at her door. As fate would have it—or perhaps as her father had arranged—a messenger from the monastery had come to Dunlop to summon the physician. A wealthy patron had arrived at Kildunan’s infirmary. He’d fallen from his mount in a hunting accident, and it was feared he might die.

Wrapping her arisaid around her, Carenza went to her father’s chamber, where Peris gave her hasty instructions for Hew’s care. He was to be given a cup of wine with three drops of the tincture—no more, no less—at each canonical hour. The dressing for his hand—a poultice of butter and honey—should be changed daily. And he should be watched for fever and signs of infection.

A pallet was brought in for her, though she could hardly sleep. Not with the magnificent warrior of Rivenloch slumbering so near. She crept close and gazed down at him.

He truly was a stunning figure of a man. Even in repose, there was a fierceness in his face that probably made his enemies quake. He had a few light scars—one on his brow, one high on his cheek, one along his jaw—where a blade had kissed his flesh. But they only added character.

His pulse throbbed in his throat. His ribs rose with each slow breath. As her gaze traced the smoothly sculpted muscle of his chest, she felt heat rise in her face.

This was not good.

Catching her lip under her teeth, she stealthily pulled up the coverlet to cover him. She told herself it was because he might be chilled. But she knew the truth. She found Hew attractive. Alluring. Irresistible. And she knew the fewer temptations she had to face, the better.

Perhaps she should invent a new history for him. One that would portray him as a repugnant villain instead of an irresistible hero.

Hew of Rivenloch probably ate kittens for breakfast, she decided. He wrestled with wolves to prepare for battle, killing them with his bare hands. And he drank the blood of his enemies.

After all, he and his clan had come from Viking parentage. They were probably berserkers who raped and pillaged their way through the countryside. Burning down churches. Sacking castles. Destroying villages. Stepping on spiders.

It was only right to despise the vicious son of Vikings, who wreaked havoc wherever he roamed. Any civil person would hate the hound-beating, horse-whipping, lamb-slaying savage who never traveled without his killing axe. It was natural to loath the deceitful and duplicitous monk who had invaded her home and deluded her father.

Then she made the mistake of glancing down at his face.

Lord, he was handsome. As handsome as the Devil.

A subtle furrow creased his brow. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids. A quick intake of breath parted his lips. He was stirring in his sleep.

And now she’d given herself a fright, endowing him with the traits of a wild Northman.

How long was it until matins? How long before she should give him another cup of wine? Should she rouse him when the time came? Or would he wake up, screaming in pain?

She gulped.

The physician had laced his wine with opium. What if he was not himself when he awoke? What if he was the berserker she imagined? What if he thought she meant to harm him? What if he tried to harm her?

Should she give him four drops? Five? More?

In the next moment, his brow eased. His breath calmed. His eyes went still.

She exhaled in relief. Then she realized she’d let her imagination get the best of her. Sir Hew was not a villain. He was an ordinary man. He’d shown her nothing but courtesy. Decency. Generosity.

With a self-mocking sigh, she gazed down at his peaceful face, framed by a shining golden mane.

His hair looked soft. She liked the way it curled around his ears and caressed his neck. She wondered, while he was safely asleep, if she might…

With a tentative hand, she reached out and lifted one lock from his throat. She rubbed it gently between her fingers. It was soft. Velvety. Silky. Like the fur of a kitten. Or the down of a duck. Or—

Before she could finish the thought, her wrist was seized in his iron grip.

She squeaked in surprise and then dragged in a loud gasp. But she couldn’t wrench free.

His eyes were half open. His brows collided. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Drink,” he croaked.

Then, his strength spent, he released her. His arm dropped back down to the bed.

“Och. Aye.”

The distant bells for matins rang out then.

“’Tis time for more wine anyway,” she told him.

She poured the Bordeaux and stirred in exactly three drops from the vial. Then she sat beside him on the bed to help him drink it down. As she lifted his head, she noted again the soft texture of his hair, at odds with the hardened muscle of his body.

But she wouldn’t think about that. Especially since he would shortly have it tonsured. Nor would she think about the way his mouth opened eagerly to receive the drink. The way his brow creased in concentration. And the way his lids lifted drowsily, revealing smoky, glittering eyes that pierced her very soul.

He finished off the wine. By the time she returned the bottle of Bordeaux to the table and added more peat to the fire, he was snoring beneath the thick fog of slumber.

It was a soothing sound. When at last she climbed between the linens of her own pallet, the rough, measured music of his breath lulled her to a dreamless sleep.

Hew awoke in the dark to the soft sawing sighs of a woman. He smiled. One of his favorite joys was rousing after a tryst to the peaceful sounds of his satisfied lover. He was too drowsy at the moment to recall who the lovely lady was or what they’d done. But he’d doubtless made her happy.

It was only when he rolled onto his side, brushing his arm against the linens, that pain brought him fully alert. He grimaced as his hand throbbed and memory came flooding back.

He’d been burned. The Samhain bonfire had ignited Carenza’s leine, and he’d extinguished the flames with his arms.

The recollection magnified the sting of his flesh. Heat emanated from his arms. His blistered palm pulsed like boiling lead with every beat of his heart.

He clamped his teeth against the pain as he recalled more.

He’d been brought to the laird’s chamber. The physician had given him wine. He’d drifted off shortly after that.

So who was in the room with him now?

The fire had gone out. It was too dark to see.

It must be either the laird or the physician.

He edged carefully onto his back again and closed his eyes, listening and willing the pain to subside.

That was definitely a woman’s breathing. He’d heard it enough times to know. He strained his ears, trying to detect more.

In the distance, muted bells rang, waking the breather.

“Prime,” she announced to no one.

He recognized her voice at once. Lady Carenza. But he wondered why the lass would care about monks’ hours. Unless she needed to pray several times a night to atone for stealing her father’s coo.

Not wishing to startle her, he feigned sleep as she scrambled out of the pallet and crossed the chamber.

He heard her poking at the hearth. The shadows on his closed eyes lifted as fresh firelight illuminated the room.

She poured something and approached him.

“Sir,” she whispered faintly.

Sir? Was she calling him sir? Surely they were on less formal terms. After all, she’d apparently spent the night in this chamber with him.

He ignored her.

“M’laird.”

M’laird was worse. They were practically accomplices in crime.

He didn’t move a muscle.

She softly cleared her throat. Twice.

He continued breathing evenly. Which was no easy task when she reached out and pressed a finger to his brow. Even more difficult when she tapped it twice.

She withdrew her finger and finally mumbled, “Hew. Hew. Wake up.”

Ah, there it was. The arousing allure of a woman murmuring his name. He pretended to stir and let his eyes flutter open.

His mind’s eye hadn’t done her justice. She was still disheveled and sooty, with red-rimmed eyes and tangled tresses. But the concern in her face and the kindness in her gaze made her as lovely as an angel.

“Drink this,” she said. “Peris said ’twill help with the pain.”

What helped with the pain was her heavenly presence. With her beside him, he almost forgot he felt like he was burning in Hell.

“Thank you,” he said, reaching for the cup before he remembered his injured hand.

“I’ll hold it.”

He took a sip. It tasted nasty. “’Tis bitter.”

“’Tis the opium. But it seems to work, aye?”

He nodded and forced it down.

She took the finished cup to the basin to rinse it.

“You stayed with me,” he called out to her. “Why?”

“’Twas the least I could do, considerin’ ye saved my life.”

He settled back onto the bed. “Well, you saved mine, so I suppose we’re even.”

“Nay. Ye saved Hamish’s life as well.”

“Right. But let’s not keep flirting with death just to even the score.”

“Agreed.”

To Hew, it seemed rather reckless for the laird to leave him alone with his daughter. But then maybe she’d told him Hew was bound for the church and therefore unassailable.

“Where is Peris?” he asked.

“He was called away to Kildunan.”

“Again? What was it this time?”

“Somethin’ about a wealthy patron and a huntin’ accident.”

That seemed curious. Rivenloch was a warrior clan, and they didn’t keep their physician as busy as did Kildunan. “Does the monastery infirmary usually have so many visitors?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But Peris is the one they call when someone arrives?”

She nodded.

“And how often does he visit Kildunan?”

“At least once a fortnight. Someone contracts a fever or twists an ankle or eats bad meat.” She narrowed her eyes. “But why so many questions about Peris? Has he done somethin’ wrong?”

“Nay. I just…” Hew could already feel the effects of the wine. It was loosening his tongue and wrecking his judgment. Perhaps it would be best to steer her aside before he revealed too much. “If I’m to stay at the monastery, I’d like to be of help. It seems like Kildunan could benefit from having their own physician.”

“Not you?” she asked, incredulous.

The idea of him as a physician made Hew chuckle. “Nay. I’m a warrior. I do all my bloodletting with an axe.”

She arched a brow and murmured, “Ye won’t be doing any bloodlettin’ at all if ye join the order.”

He sighed. For one morose opium-addled moment, he regretted his decision to quit his warrior ways to become a monk. Then he remembered that wasn’t true. It was just a story he’d made up.

“I hope ye’re not thinkin’ o’ stealin’ Dunlop’s physician,” she said. “We need him here.”

The wine was washing away his pain. Now he was feeling quite good. Giddy even. If he wasn’t careful, he might blurt out something inappropriate. Something dangerous.

“I don’t need Peris. Not with a beautiful angel like you by my side.”

Like that.