Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Through a haze of
pain Jamie watched as the warriors lowered their swords. For a
moment the room seemed to spin, and he had to struggle to maintain
his rigid stance. Despite the bone weariness that enveloped him and
the loss of blood from his newly inflicted wounds, it would not do
to show any sign of weakness.
“I am told that the Gordons are the most
respected swordsmen in all of Scotland.”
“You have heard correctly,” Murray said.
“Have you come to challenge us?” His lips curled into a sneer. “Or
do you only do your fighting with helpless women?”
“Helpless?” Lindsey turned blazing eyes on
her brother. “I’ll have you know it was my clever acting that
bought you enough time to draw your swords. Else this villain would
have caught you all unawares.”
Acting. So the lass had been pretending to be
weak and afraid while she was calmly searching for a way to save
her family. Jamie felt a grudging respect for the woman who had so
ably tricked him.
“Now he is a villain,” Neal called. “A moment
ago you begged Father to spare his miserable life so we could hear
what he had to say.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken.” Lindsey tore her
glance from the sight of the wounded giant who oddly tugged at her
heart. His blood-soaked clothes and ravaged face touched a chord
deep inside her. “Perhaps I should have let him die.”
“Silence, all of you,” the old man shouted.
Turning to Jamie he commanded, “Say what you came here to say. And
then I will decide whether or not you deserve to live.”
“I have need of a few brave men.” Jamie spoke
slowly, allowing his gaze to assess the circle of men. The youngest
one revealed a trace of fear in his eyes. The one beside him, a
handsome rebel, gave a cynical smile. The golden-haired lad seemed
puzzled. The bearded son could hardly contain his fury. Jamie
allowed his gaze to linger on the lass. What fire there was in her.
But her curiosity overcame anything else she might be feeling.
Despite her earlier misgivings, she pursed her lips and waited for
him to continue. Jamie tore his gaze from her and turned toward her
father. Only the old man watched without any show of emotion.
“And why would a famed warrior like Jamie
MacDonald have need of our swords?”
“I have need of not only your swords—” Jamie
gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to speak
slowly, evenly “—but of your ability to lead others, as well.”
“And where would we be leading others?”
Murray shot him a challenging look.
“To rally behind their queen.”
The old man took a menacing step closer.
“What news do you bring us regarding our beloved queen?”
“I have reason to believe Mary’s life is in
danger.” His words brought a sudden chilling silence. It was
Douglas Gordon who finally spoke.
“You will tell us all you know.”
“Aye. The queen’s secretary, Riccio, has been
murdered at Holyrood.”
The room erupted with muffled
exclamations.
“Brice Campbell lies gravely wounded after
subduing the swordsman. He believes the true intent of the attack
was to murder the queen.”
“God in heaven.” Upon hearing this, Douglas
Gordon’s look turned grim. “The rumors are true, then.” He glanced
at his sons and daughter.
Jamie pressed his fingers to the searing heat
at his shoulder and was surprised when his hand came away covered
with blood. He stared at it a moment without comprehending. The
front of his tunic was smeared with blood, as were his breeches,
yet he could feel nothing but the heat and a strange numbness.
His dazed expression was not lost on the old
man, who had seen such shock on many a warrior in battle. His tone
softened. “How long have you been without sleep, lad?”
Jamie felt the room sway a moment, then
forced himself to stiffen his spine. “I have been in the saddle two
nights and three days.” Or was it three nights and two days? He
could no longer recall.
“You will rest a while, and then we will
speak more of this.”
“There is no time for rest. I must put
together an army and lead them to their queen.”
“Aye. The need is most urgent. But now,” the
old man said with a trace of a smile in his tone, “you are bleeding
all over my floor, lad. And my daughter, Lindsey, will have my head
if I allow this abomination to continue.” He sheathed his sword and
motioned for his sons to do the same. To his daughter he said,
“Show our guest to a sleeping chamber, Lindsey.”
“But...”
“Immediately,” the old man bellowed. “And
summon a servant to see to his needs.”
“Aye, Father.”
Lindsey watched as Jamie bent and retrieved
his weapons. She saw him lean against the wall for a moment, then
straighten.
She would not feel any remorse for this
villain’s suffering. Had he not, after all, used her shamelessly to
gain entry to their fortress? He must have been aware of the risks
of invading the home of the Gordons.
Lifting her skirts, she led the way up a wide
staircase. Behind her Jamie staggered, swayed, then forced himself
to follow at a slower pace.
He had planned to do something bold and
outrageous to gain the attention of the Gordons. But it had not
been his intention to attack the beloved daughter of the leader.
The wild lass’s name was Lindsey. It gave him an odd sense of
pleasure to have that information, despite the buzzing in his brain
that disrupted his concentration.
Outside the doorway to a suite of rooms the
lass paused and turned to study the giant who walked behind her.
Though his eyes showed the effects of the wound, she had no doubt
that he could still outfight every man below stairs. There was such
strength in him. And a sense of nobility that oddly stirred
her.
She stepped inside. Jamie followed.
Several servants scurried around the rooms,
preparing the bed, stoking the fire.
“You will rest in here,” she said, leading
the way toward the sleeping chamber.
“You are most kind.” She heard the thread of
sarcasm in his tone and fought to ignore it.
“If you will lie down, I will see to your
wound.”
At a word from Lindsey, a serving girl turned
back the bed linens. As he made his way to the bed Jamie prayed he
would not disgrace himself by falling. He eased himself toward the
pallet and felt his knees buckle. He fell forward and managed to
roll over until he was lying on his back.
Jamie noted that a pitcher of water stood on
the table beside his bed. His throat was parched, and he recalled
idly that he had not eaten in days.
Seeing the direction of his gaze she asked,
“Do you thirst?”
“Aye.”
Through half-closed lids he watched as
Lindsey filled a goblet. Sitting on the edge of the pallet she
lifted his head to her lap and offered him the liquid. He drank
greedily.
When the goblet was empty, Lindsey lowered
his head and placed the goblet on the table. Working with
efficiency she removed his bloody tunic and shirt.
The wound to his shoulder was deep and
already beginning to fester.
“You have lost a fair amount of blood.”
Jamie struggled to stay awake. The cozy bed
linens, the warmth of the fire and the softness of this woman’s
touch were almost more than he could fight. Were this a dozen
Highlanders surrounding him in the frozen forest, he could have
called upon that well of strength within himself. But this... this
was the nearest thing to heaven he had encountered in his many
years upon this earth. He was drowning in comfort. And he had not
the strength to fight it.
He needed to cross swords with this female.
That would keep him alert.
“Your father’s mark is not true. A better
swordsman would have left me dead with his first thrust.”
That hit a nerve. Lindsey’s temper flared,
“Father is still a fine swordsman. ’Tis true, his eyesight is
failing somewhat. But had I not stopped him, his second thrust
would have found your heart. And,” she added in haughty tones, “you
did not even lift a sword in your own defense.”
“I came not to fight but to persuade.”
At that she said nothing. Dipping a piece of
cloth into a basin, she wrung it out and began mopping up the blood
that stained his chest and arm. Her touch was deliberately rough,
and it brought a smile of satisfaction to her lips when she saw her
patient flinch.
“Are you trying to finish the work your
father started?”
“Mayhap.” She continued to sponge the blood,
unaware that her touch had gentled. How muscled his arms. How flat
the planes of his stomach. How narrow his waist. His waist... She
saw the glint of a dirk tucked into his waistband and reminded
herself that this was the man who had attacked her and whose
chilling words had made her blood run cold.
“This will sting,” she said, pouring a
liberal amount of spirits over the open wound. “Such a waste of
fine whiskey.”
His sudden hiss of pain brought a smile of
satisfaction to her lips. “Did I not warn you of the pain, my
lord?”
“Aye.”
She felt his quick intake of breath as she
poured even more liquid on the wound.
“Enjoying yourself, my lady?”
“Aye. It has always given me satisfaction to
minister to the injured.”
“Have many of them lived?”
“A few.” With quick practiced movements she
began to wind clean linen strips around his shoulder and chest. As
she bent to him her hair swirled forward, tickling the flesh of his
naked chest.
Jamie inhaled the soft woman fragrance of her
and found himself swamped with feelings that had nothing to do with
battle. How easy it would be to pull her close and bury his lips in
her throat. Even in his weakened condition, she would be no match
for his strength. He struggled to dismiss such dangerous thoughts.
He had come here to seek her clan’s support. The last thing he
needed was to incur their wrath by soiling their woman. Besides,
she was not nearly the kind of woman who appealed to him. There was
nothing soft or sweet about her. So far she had shown him only an
acid tongue and an ungentle touch.
When Lindsey had completed dressing his
wounds, she lay him back against the bed linens. A servant hovered