Chapter 2
A ngus immediately searched the area again looking for the woman’s husband, a guard. Finding none, his gaze returned to the lass.
Years of ingrained catechism demanded he cover his eyes and leave. Chivalry demanded he—a knight of girth and sword—at the very least rattle a bush and warn the fair lady of his presence, but he couldn’t do either. The blood had drained from his head and limbs only to surge in his groin.
As the woman shed water from her rose-tipped breasts and slender arms with long, tapered hands, he drank in the sight. Not usually a man taken to fancy, he found himself envying the water; would have given his sword arm to sluice as the water did down the woman’s glorious globes and across the flat planes of her stomach in such fashion.
He shifted his weight to accommodate the swelling beneath his kilt as she wrung water from her hair.
Black and glossy as a raven’s wing, her locks immediately started to curl across the gentle swell of her hips. His fingers curled in like fashion, palms itching, wanting to grab fistfuls, imagining her hair caressing his chest and stomach as she sat astride him, her long, tapered thighs spread wide across his. Aye, ‘twould surely be glorious.
She suddenly cocked her head, obviously listening. Not daring to breathe—much less move—he waited for her screech. When her gaze swept past him and she remained silent, he released his breath. The glare bouncing off the water had apparently masked him.
His eyes hungrily examined every inch of her as she waded to shore on long, slim legs and climbed the far bank. She then bent for something in the tall grass, and her bonnie round hurdies glistened in the sun like twin moons. He groaned aloud. The sight—more than any sane man could stare at without turning coddle-brained—made him bounce in response beneath his kilt.
Reluctantly, he dragged his gaze from her delicious bottom and looked about the glen once again. Where was her cur of a husband? How was it possible a wandering knight could stand and stare? Surely so lovely a lass had a husband. But then, mayhap she was widowed. The thought lightened his heart until he remembered upon whose land he stood. The Macarthur’s.
As he pondered the dilemma, the lady shook out a shift. When she raised it over her head, Angus felt hard pressed not to yell halt!
He then squinted, sure he couldn’t be seeing correctly. She held up not a gown of velvet or brocade with threads of silver and gold but a kirtle, course and dun. He blinked in disbelief as she pulled it over her head. The lass wasn’t apparently of high birth after all. “Humph.”
The possibilities for conquest—of a dalliance—yawned. He smiled, only to feel Rampage’s great head butt his back. The horse nickered softly.
“Quiet, ye damn pest.” He elbowed Rampage’s deep chest and the horse obediently backed. “Now, stay.” Larger than most cattle and white atop that, Rampage had frightened many a warrior into soiling himself. His mere presence in the glen would likely frighten the lovely lass to death. If not, then surely she’d flee, and he wouldn’t have a hope of catching her. He was on the far side of the pool and she kenned the forest at her back.
Deciding he had naught to lose and more than a handful to gain, he took a deep breath and stepped into the sunshine. To his utter surprise she smiled, quickly turned to her right, and said something he couldn’t hear. Her pace quickened as she walked along the opposite shore. His hopes soared. They would meet by the boulders, where the reeds were thickest.
He then spotted movement in the tall grass just feet before her and halted. Was it her man lying in wait? To her mate did she speak?
Nay. ‘Twas something gray that crept on lowered haunches in the tall grass toward the lass. Was it a lymer—a dog? Hers or her liege lord’s? And if so, why was it skulking about like a—?
My God, a wolf!
He wrenched his sgian dubh from its sheath beneath his left arm. It flew from his hand, his aim true. A heartbeat later and to his horror the lovely lady keened and dropped like a stone to her knees.
#
Birdi, her nose filled with the unaccountable scent of blood, crooned as she ran frantic hands over Wolf. Had he been fighting? Had he been caught in a villager’s snare? What ailed him? Why had he collapsed? Why did his chest heave so?
Then her hands found the handle of a blade.
She gasped. How had this happened? Though her sight was pitiful, she was certain he’d been coming toward her with his bushy tail wagging, his pink tongue lolling, and the next…
How matters naught, fool! He’ll die if you dinna do something and quickly.
She gripped the blade’s handle with both hands and caused him to whimper. She leaned forward, a hair’s breadth from his magnificent pale ears. “Hush, sweet dautie, hush. Trust now as ye have in the past.” Blinking away the urge to keen for her friend, she rocked off her knees and into a squat, planting her feet wide to be sure she made firm contact with Mother. Holding her breath, she yanked the blade. It came loose; Wolf keened, and then fell silent. Blood, scarlet as any sunset, bubbled up through his gash like a sacred spring. She pressed crossed palms to the wound to stem the flow. Painfully aware of the furious rhythm of his heart beating beneath her hands, she reached out to the powers surrounding her.
When familiar heat surged through her quaking limbs, her own heart finally slowed. She took a deep settling breath…The power was again within her. All would now be well for her friend.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “Mother of All, I, Birdi, take upon myself this wound…
#
Chest heaving, Angus dropped to his knees beside the fallen, raven-haired woman. His bloodied sgian dubh lay in the grass at her side. His stomach turned.
How in God’s name could this have happened? He threw a blade as accurate as any man and had for more years than he could recall.
Hands shaking, he cradled the woman in his lap, surprised by her slight weight. As his free hand skimmed over her kirtle, seeking the sticky wetness of blood, his peripheral sight caught something moving at the tree line.
Angus growled deep in his throat. The blasted wolf.
The beast slowed, looked over his shoulder at him, flattened his ears, and then bolted into the woods, his tail between his legs.
“Ye damn well best run, ye miserable—”
The woman in his arms moaned.
The wolf forgotten, Angus quickly resumed his search for her wound. He pulled her kirtle up exposing her long slender thighs and rounded hips. What lay hidden within the dark curls at the apex of her thighs no longer held interest. He could only stare at the deep gash his knife had made at her waist.
Praying he hadn’t hit anything vital, he tore a strip from her kirtle hem—’twas cleaner than anything he had on —and wound the fabric about her waist to stem the blood’s flow.
His gaze raked the woods for her croft, any place to shelter her and properly tend her wound. Finding not so much as a path, he cursed. Then he remembered he’d skirted a village not long before he settled to wait out the day. He let out a piercing whistle.
Rampage whinnied as he crashed through the tree line. His thundering hooves quickly ate up the distance between them. The minute he came to a prancing halt, Angus tapped his shoulder. “Down.” The horse immediately obeyed, well used to his master being too weighted down in armor to vault.
Angus then scooped the lady into his arms. She groaned loudly and his heart leapt for joy. “Lass, can ye hear me? Can ye open yer eyes?”
The woman’s sweeping lashes slowly separated to reveal the most extraordinary eyes Angus had ever seen. The palest of blues, almost white, and outlined by dark rings, they reminded him of the ice mountains he’d once seen floating past the point of Cape Wrath. She blinked.
“Aaah…”
“Hush, lass, I will get ye to help.”
“Nay…” She then fainted again.
Cursing himself for an idiot, Angus clutched the pale lass to his heaving chest, tightened Rampage’s girth as best he could with one hand, and then slipped a foot into the now low-slung stirrup.
Mounted, he clucked, and the horse rose. Angus turned Rampage toward his enemy’s village.
Just minutes later and with the lady yet to reawaken, Angus pounded on the most outlying croft’s door.
It opened immediately. A shriveled man gazed out the portal, his eyes narrowed and cloudy as milk. “Aye, what do ye want?”
“A healer,” Angus boomed, “for the lady.”
“Go there.” The querulous man pointed a shaking finger toward the big croft across the road.
“The one with ivy?” He didn’t trust the blind man to know in which direction he pointed and had no time to go knocking door to door to find the right one.
“Aye, ‘tis.” With that the old man slammed his door shut.
Growling, “A welcomin’ bastard,” Angus strode a hundred yards to the next croft.
A child opened the door. Her smile of welcome faded and her eyes grew round as six-pence as her gaze ran up his body. When it settled on the woman in his arms she screamed, “ Maaaa! ”
A wizen-faced woman came out of the shadowed interior to stand in the doorway. “What can I do for—”
The woman’s gaze had locked on the lady in his arms and she immediately started shouting, “Away with ye! Out! Go!” She slammed the door in his face.
“What the…” He’d never met so unlikable a group in his life! His worry growing and his patience on a short leash, Angus strode to the next croft, the last before the road dropped down toward a valley and into the main village. When a man opened the door Angus growled, “This woman needs help. She’d been st—”
The door slammed in his face.
“Bloody hell!”
Angus raised a foot and kicked the door in. It crashed against the wall with such force the walls rattled and a chair fell over. He strode in. With his teeth bared, he glared at the occupants—a man, a frail woman, and two babes—all huddled in the far corner of the croft’s only room. “Will ye not help this lady?”
In answer the adults silently shook their heads.
What ailed these people that they couldn’t see the lass was in sore need? That she could die. “Dressing! Get me dressing and poultice before I lose what little patience I have left to me.”
The man waved frantically at his wife. She made the sign of the cross and with the wee lass clutching her skirts, bolted to a small chest. She pulled out a crock and strips of sheeting. The woman then pushed the lassie toward her husband and cautiously approached Angus, her hands held out. “Here, sir knight. Take these with our blessings and go.”
“Why will ye not help one of yer own?” He held out the woman in his arms. “She’s not but a wee lass.” Surely, this wife kenned that he—a man—couldn’t tend her? He had to leave her here.
“She isna a Macarthur and no one here will offer more than we,” the man growled from the corner, his hands gripping his son’s shoulders. “Take what my wife offers and go.”
“Man, are ye blind? She needs help.” Had Angus not been the cause of her injury, he would have dropped her on their rush pallet and walked out the door. But having been the cause, he snarled as he grabbed the offered dressings. “May ye receive as ye give.”
He stormed out. Spying an empty sheep pen at the far end of an adjacent field, Angus vaulted over the lowlying hedge with his mount following.
He kicked open the pen’s gate and laid the woman in the hay. Muttering, “Heathens,” he raised her skirt and removed the cloth he’d wrapped around her waist. He felt monumental relief finding no fresh blood. He’d expected gushes given the jarring speed with which he’d carried her to the village.
He applied the greasy herb poultice the Macarthur woman had given him to the lady’s gash, rewrapped her waist and then settled her skirt back about her legs. He then sat back on his haunches and pondered his dilemma. He studied her face. After a minute, he ran a gentle finger along one jet-black winged eyebrow. And then her lips, so wide and full, they could break any man’s heart. Ack.
“Who, lass, do ye belong to? Where will ye be safe?” He couldn’t leave her here. Not after the reception they’d received. And why was there terror in the querulous man’s eyes as he’d bidden him take the poultice and go? “Do ye belong to their enemy’s liege lord, lass? Were ye lost when I found ye?” He heaved a sigh. One thing was certain. They couldn’t tarry here. When word arrived at the Macarthur stronghold that a MacDougall rode among them, all hell would rain down on their heads.
Time to go.
He slipped both arms under his unwanted lady and stood. He’d been heading northwest, traveling through the upper lowlands toward Beal Castle and couldn’t change course. If he couldn’t find her people on the way, then mayhap the MacCloud would ken from whence the lass came, or at least take her in. Aye.
He mounted, settled the lady securely in his lap, and pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.
As they reached the last of the village’s fields the gangly lad he’d seen in the croft stepped out from behind a copse of pine. Sweating—his gaze darting along the road— the lad held out a cloth bundle. “Sir knight, ‘tis for the spae, tribute for the dolly.”
Angus scowled. What spae and what dolly? “Lad, out of my way.”
“Please, sir.” The lad hopped from foot to foot as he held out the bundle. “‘Tis only barley, sir, but all I have to offer.” His gaze again darted toward the village hidden behind a copse. “Sir, convey our thanks, mine and Margaret’s.” The lad tossed the bag up and ran.
Catching it, Angus called, “Ye name, lad?”
The lad turned. “Jamie, m’lord.”
“And this lady’s?” He tipped his head, indicating the woman in his arms.
The youth shrugged. “I dinna ken, m’lord. No one does.” He then disappeared.
Angus slipped the lad’s gift into the bag tied behind his saddle. Why had the lad asked him to give the bundle to a spae? He kenned none. “Humph! These Macarthurs are a breed apart. Aye, and I’ll be most relieved to be away.” He pressed his heels to Rampage’s flanks.
#
Laird Ian Macarthur glared at his ferrier Robbie Macarthur. “What the hell do ye mean he rode off with her? He who ?” He couldn’t believe someone had had the audacity to capture his bandrui, his personal spae.
Robbie spun his cap in nervous hands. “I dinna ken his name, sire. Just that he’s a knight.”
“Describe him.”
“Tall, brawn, dark-brown-haired, blue-eyed.”
Laird Macarthur stopped pacing before Dunbar Castle’s empty hearth. “Oh, for—. What banner? What colors did he wear? What horse did he ride, ye idiot?”
Robbie had the sense to pale before his wrath.
“He wore gules—the color of blood, sire. His shield was quartered and bore a raised gauntleted fist. He rode a white charger.”
Ian Macarthur’s blood immediately drained from his head. “Did he bear a scar above the eyes?”
Robbie nodded. “Do ye ken him, sire?”
“Oh, aye. ‘Tis I who put the scar on him.” Ian ground his teeth as a searing heat began throbbing below his wrist, phantom pain from a right hand no longer there, thanks to the bastard Angus the Blood. Only MacDougall would dare cross into Macarthur territory—alone—and take his spae. Foolhardy and proud was Angus MacDougall and now it would be the man’s downfall.
Reaching for his broadsword with the only hand left to him, he ground out, “Saddle the horses.”
#
Birdi yawned, wondering why the lovely rocking had ceased. It had been most pleasant, being cradled in warmth, listening to the slow steady heartbeat under her ear—
Her eyes flew open.
A man—the largest she’d ever beheld—hovered over her as she lay on the ground.
She screamed.
His large, calloused hand landed firmly on her mouth. “Hush, lass, I’ll not harm thee.” He then looked about.
In a deep, gravelly whisper he told her, “I am Angus MacDougall. I found thee in a Macarthur glen.”
Gael! He spoke not the language of her mother or the villagers but of them —the Canteran —the marauding Highlanders of which her mother had warned.
She clawed at his arms and tried to kick, to roll away, only to feel a fierce pain tear through her side. She gasped and froze in place. Stars! What had happened to her? She looked down, found her thighs bare and her kirtle up about her waist, a waist wrapped in white. Keening, she frantically tried to cover herself, the part—her mother had warned—where she would always be most vulnerable.
He pressed her shoulders to the soft earth. “The bleeding has stopped, my lady, but do not aggravate the wound with thrashing. Please.”
“What…?” Sunlight haloed the man hovering over her. She blinked eyes gritty from sleep in disbelief. He had shoulders thrice the width of hers and arms as thick as an elm’s trunk. She couldn’t discern his features, the sun keeping them in shadow, but could see the outline of shoulder length hair the hue of wet river rock, a few strands gleaming with a touch of amber. A chilling sweat broke out across her brow and her heart leapt as her ears strained, her gaze darted about. Her nose twitched in a futile effort to recognize where she was, who he might be. She took a deep, steadying breath and managed, “Where am I?”
“Ah, ye speak Scot.” Using the same he told her, “Where ye be, fair lass, can wait for later. What I need ken now is yer name and from whence ye hail. We need find yer sept so they can care for ye properly.”
“Sept?” What was this? She craned her neck to see beyond his mountainous form and found nothing but a small square block close to them, no doubt a sheep crib, and the rest just broad splotches of gold in all directions. She inhaled deeply and this time caught the sent of ripening havers—oats. She was in a field. In the open! Oh Goddess, No! Did this man plan to do to her what the other had done to Minnie?
Goddess help me! I dinna want a babe! Goddess, please! Nay!
Horror sent blood roaring into her every limb. Keening between pants, she clawed. Finding herself suddenly free, she scrambled backward. Brittle shafts of grain dug deep into her palms and feet as she tried to place as much distance as possible between herself and the man who would do her immeasurable harm.
He caught her ankle.
Squeaking in tight-throated terror, she kicked her free leg at his head only to have it trapped by a heavily calloused hand, as well. Before she could scream he yanked her forward by the ankles and loomed over her on hands and knees, his long thick fingers managing to lace through hers and press her hands firmly into the earth by her head. His knees then locked onto her hips as he blocked out the sun. “Where,” he asked in a soft growl “do ye think ye’re goin’ without so much as a by-yer-leave?” He dipped his head and sniffed.
She managed a screamed this time but his mouth locked onto hers, smothering the sound. Her eyes flew wide in shock. What manner of predator was this? No weasel, no fox on the hunt did such. She stared into deep blue eyes and waited—her breath hitching, heart hammering at her ribs—waited for his mouth to slide from hers and settle on her throat. Waited for the pain, the crunch of bone, for her neck to snap.
Instead his lips soften, the pressure eased. She then felt the tip of his tongue stroke her bottom lip. Once. Twice. Just a lick, nothing more, yet a searing tingle raced down her spine. Her heart tripped. Was he tasting her? Testing her health and soundness as meat? Oh Goddess, please!
To her monumental relief he lifted his head. As he did, his hair swung around his face and the tips brushed her cheek. To her surprise his hair felt as soft as her own, mayhap more so. Yet she held her breath, didn’t dare release the last one she might ever take.
“Ye, fair lass, are as sweet as I feared.”
As he feared? She was the one about to be eaten alive! To be torn apart and then ground down between brilliant white teeth set in a menacingly square jaw. “Nay!”
In response, he released her hands and settled back on his haunches, his mountainous weight keeping her hips trapped. “Aye. Definitely too sweet to be running loose, lass.” He sighed heavily. “I mean ye no harm, though ‘twas I who felled ye and for that I humbly apologize; I meant only to save ye from the wolf.”
Wolf! She’d forgotten poor Wolf. Dreading the answer, she asked, “Is he dead?”
“Nay. My blade missed him and struck thee.” He ran agitated hands through his hair, pushing it off his face. “How I missed, I’ve yet to ken.”
Her relief in learning Wolf survived was sorely dampened by his admission that he’d been the one who brought Wolf down. Her breath caught in her chest. This man killed without thought.
Angus ground his teeth, seeing fear and fresh tears erupt from behind the lass’s heavily lashed, ice-blue eyes. Feeling the strong need for a stiff drink—a gallon of whiskey would do nicely—he brushed a calloused thumb across her delicate cheek. She jerked. Dear God above, she did look the hizzie with her face all scarlet, her brow furrowed, and her teeth bared. He’d have laughed but for knowing it would only terrify her more. Many a brawny man had soiled his sarks when Angus laughed—and without being sat upon, though he was usually holding a blade to the bastard’s throat…
“Lass, ye have nay reason to fight me. None. I promise. Hush now.” He moved to her side, but held tight to one hand. “There now. Better?”
“Aye.”
As she took a few shuddering breaths, he looked at her side. Finding no fresh blood, he blew out a breath in relief. Now, to the matter at hand: finding out who she was and to whom she belonged. “What, lass, is yer name?”
She eyed him like a cornered timber-wolf; her magnificent, icy eyes narrowed, her straight nose twitching and sniffing as her head cocked ever so slightly first this way, then that, as if listening for a rescuer. Or a means of escape. ‘Twas a futile effort. He was not called Angus the Blood for naught.
Finally she murmured, “Birdalane.”
Birdalane? Nay. She must have misunderstood him, for no mother with any sense would burden her bairn with such a sorrowful moniker, an endearment reserved for a babe without kith or kin. “Lass, I meant yer Christian name.” He had to have her surname—her clan—if he was to be free of her and on his way.
She hiccupped and whispered, “Birdi?”
She sounded none too sure. “Birdi it is then.” Obviously he need take another approach. “And yer sire?”
She pressed her lips into a hard line. “Shame.”
Shame? To his knowledge there wasn’t a clan of that name. And she certainly couldn’t mean nairich—debasement. Surely. He studied her for a moment then decided she’d coshed her head when she fell. She wasn’t, after all, a stout lass. Aye, ‘twas most likely a blow to the noggin that caused her current confusion. He resigned himself to being patient and asked, “Are ye in pain, Birdie?”
Her eyes grew round as an owl’s. Aha. Had their roles been reversed he wouldn’t have answered either, for fear of giving his enemy another tool to use against him. “I shall take that as an aye, but fear not. I shall take ye to yer people.”
If possible, she appeared more frightened and vehemently shook her head. “Nay! Please, sir, turn me loose.”
“Did ye run away from home?” No doubt, intent on thwarting a liege who wanted to marry her to someone she found distasteful.
Her mouth dropped open. “Nay, ye took me from home!”
“Humph!” Well, time was fleeing. He’d already lost a day and couldn’t very well go courting with the likes of her—an incredibly bewitching though thoroughly disheveled wench—at his side. Had he been closer to Blackstone he would have left her under Duncan’s protection, but that wasn’t an option. Staring at her lush lips once again, he heaved a resigned sigh for things that might have been.
She hiccupped as she nibbled her lower lip. “I have need of privacy.”
He frowned before realizing why. “Ah, but are ye sure ye can manage on yer own?”
She nodded like a sandpiper. He rose and offered his hand. She looked askance, and he couldn’t help but grin. “I promise I’ll not bite.”
Looking none too sure that he’d keep his word, she took his hand. He pulled her to her feet and pointed to the sheep crib. “Back there, lass, behind the hay. I’ll stand guard at the gate.”
She wobbled off, a hand clutched to her side. Mercy, even hobbling she was a sight for his travel-weary soul. Her hair billowed like gossamer jet about her hips and caused his hands to clench as they had when he’d first spied her by the pool.
He turned his back to her. With his gaze raking the valley for Macarthurs, his memory conjured up the image of her emerging like a mythical kelpie, dripping and glistening from the pool; recalled the delightful tilt of her rose-tipped breasts and the roundness of her very bonnie hurdies. Lord, she had the finest arse he’d ever seen, and he’d seen a good few in his nine-and-twenty years.
He fervently wished he could keep her.
And why couldn’t he?
He wasn’t yet promised to another. He had no idea what awaited him at Beal Castle. For all he kenned, the available MacCloud lass would be another sorry sight. Or wode, as crazed as the last lass offered to him. “Humph.”
Too, his family did have a long history of reeving brides. Wasn’t his own ma once a reluctant Border bride? And look how well that turned out—his da had been chasing her skirts the day he died. Aye, there was something to be said for keeping with family tradition.
But then he’d wagered he could bring home a lady, a chatelaine for Donaliegh. And Angus was a man of his word. Grunting, he decided the only right thing to do was to keep with his plan. He looked into the shadows of the crib. An inordinate amount of time had passed; more, certainly, than was needed for a wee lass to hike her skirts and piss. Fearing she might have fainted, he ducked under the rafters and called her name. Getting no response, he peeked behind the hay pile.
She was gone.