Revenge (Clan Fraser #2)

Chapter 5

Chapter

Five

H e ate. If he didn't, he would become some mewling, begging fool just as she'd called him, living on whatever scraps were tossed his way, or hovering outside a tavern in some village as he'd seen others, living off a coin tossed his way or stolen and scraps of food no one wanted.

If he wasn't going to die, he refused to live what was left of his life that way. But he was discovering that was easier said than done.

From birth his left hand had been his strong hand. No more now and he cursed the food at the metal trencher as it continually slipped off the spoon or scooted to the edge and threatened to end upon the floor as he tried to use his right hand. Frustrated, exhausted, he finally picked up the slender blade and skewered the piece of deer meat, gnawing on it until it was gone, then skewering summer vegetables, losing them several times, then beginning again.

He persisted. If he wasn't going to die from the wound, he sure as the devil wasn't going to die from starvation. Dressing himself was an entirely different matter.

Three times, in a constant stream of curses, he tried to manipulate the linen shirt over his head, finally succeeding, then cursed the walls blue as he tried for the dozenth time and failed to tie the laces of his shirt.

Leave it, he thought. Who was there to care whether his shirt was tied or not? It had taken him a good long time just to wrestle it over his head and shoulders, then thrust his arms into the sleeves, the left sleeve hanging empty. Then there were the leather brecs.

He was determined to leave the damned chamber, but knew it was unacceptable to his brother's wife to go about the tower hall with a naked arse, but he was half a mind to do it, if it didn't mean bringing down the wrath of that sweet woman, not to mention his brother.

He'd said it only once to James, the past days. "Let me die."

James, older by almost ten years, once war chief of clan Fraser, by fate now chieftain had no tolerance for it.

"That is not an option, brother," he said gently but with no doubt at his meaning.

"Dying is for old men and fools. Ye are neither, though some are given to wonder at it these past weeks. You have wounds, aye. So do we all."

His wounds had come at from the protection of the clan, the most serious in the war at the borderlands four years earlier while Ruari was gone and he still carried the lingering infirmity in the leg that had been wounded when his horse was cut from under him. Though he was but thirty and five years of age, there was grey in the dark hair worn long at his shoulders.

"Gabhran is no' a young man," he had gone on to explain. "There are those who would take his place, good men each."

When Ruari would have pointed out that he was not the same as the others, with two good legs and arms, James expression had stopped him.

"You are my blood. You will find a way." Not a choice he was given, but an order from his chieftain.

Now, Ruari cursed again in frustration as he sat at the chair and thrust his legs into the leather brecs. He stood then, attempting to pull them up one-handed while holding the tail of the shirt out of the way with the stump of his left arm pressed against his chest.

He was like a fish out of water, helplessly flapping about until he broke out in a sweat. He roared in frustration, then looked up at a startled sound. His nephew, young Alexander Fraser, stood at the open doorway, peering around the edge, eyes wide at the sight before him--a nine year old boy with both legs and arms, and at the moment a very dangerous curiosity.

"Lend a hand, or leave!" Ruari bellowed at the boy who abruptly disappeared, replaced by the curious stare of his greatest torment these past weeks, a glossy dark braid over one shoulder, a basket of herbs and bandages in her hands.

Alix ignored his curse, his bare arse with his brecs down around his knees, and set the basket at the table.

That blistering blue gaze narrowed, like a cat that sized up its prey. Ignoring the glaring cat, who had obviously frightened young Alexander, whom she passed at the stairs, she handed him a goblet of wine laced with healing herbs. When he took it, still glaring at her, she simply stepped in front of him and began tying the laces of his shirt.

The bones at the opening of his shirt were not as prominent as they had been when he first returned, but he was still painfully thin from being abed the past weeks. Two days before she learned that Alexander found him pacing his chamber back and forth, dozens of times, until he was forced to sit down from fatigue. Then it began again. It appeared that he had decided to live.

But who was he now? she couldn't help but wonder. A man filled with frustration at the body that had once been so strong and now required assistance with even the simplest task with anger at what had been taken from him... And that he was still alive?

She made a mental note to see what might be done to make dressing a simpler task for him, then angled a glance at the leather leggings he'd been struggling with. Without a word, she reached down, seized them by the waist and pulled them up just as she had with young Alexander and Connor countless times.

That cat-like gaze narrowed as he took another swallow of wine, then suddenly widened as her fingers brushed bare flesh at his stomach.

She heard his sudden intake of air, followed by the curse low at his throat. He set the goblet down at the table so suddenly that it wobbled and would have gone over if she hadn't caught it.

"I can damned well do it myself!"

"Can ye now?" She fired back at him. She stood back and waited for him to 'damned well do it himself !

Once again the laces stopped him. He growled in frustration that it was almost impossible one-handed, or he could leave them untied and go about until they fell at his feet. He angled a look at her.

"Are ye going to just stand there and watch? Or send for one of the men?"

"There's no one else," she informed him. "Tis midday and all the men including our chieftain are far afield today to see to the cattle."

"Young Alexander," he suggested. "The lad should be good for something."

"Ye've scairt him away with yer bellowing like a scalded cat. He'll not come near ye."

It was just as he'd taught her long ago across a chess board, a stand-off, unless he was willing to sacrifice his pride. He took the goblet of wine from her, and took another healthy swallow.

"Well then, get on with it," he growled.

"I'll be more than glad to help ye, but not be ordered about or treated like the dirt on yer boots, Ruari Fraser." She headed for the door.

"Alix... "

The sound of her name stopped her, low, almost a whisper, a silent plea rather than a curse or an order.

"Will you please help me?"

It wasn't what he said, but he way he said it.

Please . She knew what that simple word cost him, once so strong, so cock-sure of himself, so bold.

"I wasn't certain you remembered who I am," she said turning back to him.

She took hold of the laces, avoiding that blue gaze that once had a way of seeing right through her.

"I remember." His voice was low, barely a whisper as he took another swallow of wine, inhaling sharply as her fingers brushed him again.

"Yer hair falling down your back, yer gown flapping in the wind as ye stood at the gate that last day, yer grandmother wondering where you were--a child, no older than Alexander."

She pulled the laces just tight enough across his belly then tied them off.

"I no' a child now," she reminded him.

"No... " he hesitated, and she looked up. "Yer not, and I thank ye kindly for yer care the past weeks, and now."

Tying the laces was the simplest task, yet almost intimate with the quiet of the tower hall around them, distant sounds through open windows, the sun pooling on the stones at the floor... She took a step back.

"That should keep ye from embarrassing yerself," she said without looking at him. She took another step back and gestured to the tray.

"I'll send one of the girls for it later." She turned to leave before he saw the color at her cheeks from that simple touch, when she had wanted more, wanted to feel the warmth of his skin so different now than when he first returned with that deathly pallor.

"Alix... "

She paused at the door.

"I'm told I have you to thank for my life, that I wouldna have lived past a few days without yer care."

He had made it clear those first days that he didn't want to live. And now?

"Why didna you let me die?"

Because I love you. she wanted to cry out. I've always loved you.

And if he had died, she had thought more than once, that she might die too. But she couldn't tell him that, not this man she hardly knew, who resented what she'd done. And still wished himself dead?

"Tis what the chieftain wanted." Not a lie, but not nearly the truth of it.

"Aye, what my brother wanted." he laughed softly then, a sound with little humor.

"For that, I thank ye, lass."

She nodded and then left, not trusting herself to face him, or have him see the tears that came too easily as she ran down the steps at just those few words that held no anger.

"Tis the way ye remember!" Gabhran shouted at him across the practice yard. "Ye must retrain yer muscles, strengthen them! Now, do it again."

Over and over Gabhran pushed him through each move with the short-bladed sword that had once been like an extension of his left hand. No more.

Now, he trained with his right arm and hand, through each move, each thrust, each parry and block, his severed left arm bound to his side against the instinct to use it... until he was dripping with sweat and Alix feared he might collapse. Instead, he pushed himself through it, driven by something inside him, that blue gaze fierce with it.

"What does he see when he is like that?" she had asked the old warrior after one long session when Ruari had gone to the stables instead of returning to the tower hall.

"Something only he sees, lass. But tis a fierce thing-- revenge for what was lost, and for other things."

"Revenge against who?"

"The English, but one in particular." He gave her a long look.

"Blackwood, the English king's war general."

She recognized the name from evenings when their chieftain met with his men after evening meal, the same man who was responsible for so many clansmen deaths and the wound James Fraser received in the battle at the border lands when the English had struck against several Scottish villages and towns, pushing farther north than ever before. And the young Scottish king had summoned his most powerful clan to lead the other clans to push them back. The price had been high. and she knew it was not the end of it.

It was said that the young English king under the direction of the regent, Hubert de Burgh, had promised land holdings in Scotland to those who would bring the Scottish clans to heel, and thereby under the authority of the English crown. Ruari had returned to a country that had gained its independence during the time he was gone, but it was a fragile independence at best.

Now, each day, it was the same as he gradually regained his strength. After morning meal he disappeared and she would catch glimpses of him at the practice yard, struggling to adapt, fighting his way through the clumsiness, struggling with the weaker strength in what had once been his off hand. In the first days, it was not uncommon for the claymore to tumble into the dirt at his feet, Gabhran pushing him to do a particular move again.

When he wasn't at the practice yard, he left Lechlede, riding into the hills, sometimes disappearing for several days, only to return to the keep with mud-caked his boots, and that sullen, silent demeanor.

"Where does he go?" she had asked Gabhran.

"The old place," he had replied. "Where there is only himself and the demons he fights."

He grew stronger, muscles that had all but disappeared during those first weeks while the poison of the wound ravaged his body, had grown strong at his shoulders, back, and legs. Long days spent in the hills, strengthened his endurance. But still there was the anger and frustration of the loss that had taken so much from him.

"I fear he will do himself harm," Brynna said late one afternoon, staring out the large doors that had been left open for the warm afternoon sun.

"His right arm is still not as strong as his left one was, and he grows frustrated with the slowness of it." She made a sudden sound, her hand covering her mouth.

"Saints alive!"

Alix followed the direction of her gaze and immediately caught sight of what had caused her distress.

Ruari had challenged James Fraser to a match at swords after morning meal. The sounds of it had followed from the yard as the two circled one another, blade clashing against blade, with shouts from their kinsmen in support of one or the other, wagers made as their chieftain met the younger warrior strike for strike.

Young Alexander ran past them out to the yard, in spite of the fact that he'd been banned earlier by his mother.

"They're both bleeding," he exclaimed with a mixture of horror and awe at the sight of two Scot warriors facing off against each other, and Alix had to admit it was a terrifying sight.

The brothers were both tall and of an even height, but James Fraser, older by ten years, outweighed his younger brother by several pounds, and he had the experience of many campaigns over many years. Perhaps slower than this younger brother, he had learned when to use strategy instead of muscle and it showed as he gradually wore Ruari down, refusing to strike at his left side, instead forcing counter after counter at his right side.

"I didn't ask for a match with a woman !" Ruari roared as his temper rose. "Come at me for the man ye are!" he demanded, leading from his right side.

"Are ye afraid, then? Come at me!"

James did go at him then, slicing at Ruari's right, then counter striking at his left side, slamming the flat of his claymore against Ruari's shoulder. Blood immediately appeared through the linen shirt. For his next move, James swept Ruari from his feet, dumping him on his arse in the dirt.

"And I suppose that is what I may expect from Alexander and Connor!" Brynna swore as they watched the two men, glaring at one another. Then James offered his hand to his brother. Ruari continued to glare at him.

"I can damned well do it myself," he snapped, then rolled to his knees and pushed to his feet.

Brynna shook her head.

"Best see to yer medicants and salves, girl, while I chase down my oldest son. It looks as if ye've a wounded fool bleedin' all over the place, as if it wasn't enough he was near dead but these weeks past."

"What of the chieftain?" Alix called after her.

"He's the bigger fool for taking on a wounded man, and one like a wolf with a thorn in its paw." Brynna shook her head.

"I'll see to him myself. He'll survive until then."

It was well after the evening meal when Ruari finally came into the kitchen. For the longest time, he simply stood in the arched doorway. A fire still burned at the kitchen hearth as she worked in the light of two oil lamps, grinding dried leaves into fine powders for simmering.

He hadn't eaten with the others but had taken himself off to the stables after the match with his brother. He'd ridden out then, like the devil was chasing after him, and hadn't been seen for hours. He smelled of horse, the night wind, and a good amount of wine. It was not the first time, and Gabhran had cautioned her against him.

"Be careful, lass. I have known him since he was a lad. He carries more scars than ye know and burns with a fire for revenge. I'll not see ye harmed for it. When he takes himself off, dinna follow or ask yer questions," he warned her. "Unless ye want to know the truth, painful as it might be."

She knew where he spent some of his nights when he did not return to the keep. It was whispered in the kitchens that he sought whatever comfort a few coins might purchase at the tavern in the village.

She laid a hand at the old warrior's arm that day. "I've seen his anger. I'm not afraid of him." She wasn't... she was afraid for him.

Not in what he would do to her or someone else, for she had seen his kindness toward others--Alexander and Connor, and others--and her. He had not raised a hand to her, even when she knew the anger was there. Anger at himself.

He had taken care of his own wounds, just as she had told him, and she was aware that he sought out clean bandages and the healing salve kept in the clay jars at the shelf in the small room off the kitchen. And then the day came that the wound at his arm was mostly healed and he had come to the small alcove where she kept her herbs and roots for medicines no more.

She was afraid what he would do to himself--that fierce, reckless temper that drove him to strike without thinking, as he had that afternoon at the practice yard.

As if he had a death wish.

Did he? she wondered now as he stood in the shadows of the doorway as if trying to decide if he should stay or leave. No smile softened his handsome features as they once had as a lad, but instead he glared at her.

"Sit by the fire so that I may see how bad it is," she said simply.

"If you'll just give me the salve, I'll do it myself."

She never missed a stroke with the pestle as she ground more leaves, didn't so much as look at him. She didn't dare, for Ruari Fraser, even wounded, angry, and sullen, was the most handsome man she had ever seen with that dark reddish brown hair that had grown longer, and those piercing blue eyes, like cat eyes over the high cheekbones.

"I canna know what ye might need without seeing the wound," she explained the obvious, continuing to work as if it was of little matter to her.

"Ye wouldna want me to give you the wrong remedy and have you swell up like a toad and break out in boils."

"Boils is it?" he said, stepping farther into the kitchen.

"Well, not of a purpose, but tis easy to make a mistake with the powders and potions if one doesna know what they're doing."

"A mistake?" His tone suggested he knew otherwise. "Would you have me bleed to death then for lack of care?"

She did look up then, the pestle in one hand, like a weapon.

"Tis a tempting thought. Although I doubt ye have anything left but cold water in yer veins."

"I don't remember ye being such a disagreeable chit!"

"And I don't remember ye being such a horses arse! If you have a wound, sit and I'll do my best to see ye live at least until morn."

The unspoken was there as well--or he could leave and suffer the consequences.

He sat at the stool beside the table. "I should have remembered what a cunning bastard my brother is."

"Aye, ye should have." She set the flat grinding stone aside. "Take off yer shirt." She caught the expression that suddenly changed, the flash of uncertainty.

"My arm... " he searched for the right words to explain. His mouth tightened. "It's not a pleasant thing to see. If ye give me the salve, I'll see to it."

"I've seen yer arm, Ruari Fraser," she reminded him. "I'm not frightened by it, and I must see this new wound at yer shoulder."

He nodded and reached for the laces at the front of the linen shirt. When he had pulled them loose, he shrugged out of the shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it down onto the bench at the long side of the table.

"That's the easy way of it," he said, shaking his head. "Most of the time I have Alexander or Connor tie the damned things for me. Alexander has the way of it but young Connor is all thumbs."

She nodded. "It's all he can do to loosen his breeches without pissing himself. I'm certain he'd much rather run around bare arse all day. That one is a wee hellion for Lady Brynna. She says he has too much red in his hair."

For the first time since returning to Lechlede, he laughed. "Is that the way of it? Too much red? It will stand the boy in good stead when he meets up with others who would cross him."

"Hmmm," she commented as she inspected his latest wound, a neat slice that had laid open the skin over the large muscle at his shoulder.

"This will take a bit more than salve. It needs to be closed, or there is danger it will fester."

That catlike gaze narrowed.

"Ye wouldna be paying me back for my foul temper these past weeks now, would ye?"

"If I did there are none at Lechlede who would speak against me for it."

"Was I that bad to ye?"

"We'll see now, won't we," she countered back. "This will hurt a bit."

"Go about yer task. I've felt a fair amount of pain before."

She could only imagine the pain of the blow that had taken his lower arm and hand, that had made her want to weep when she first saw him, bloodied, near helpless... near death from the poison of the wound.

She prepared the needle and thread, then cleaned the wound, bending near as she soaked away the dried blood with a wet cloth. The fire at the hearth was at his back, the flames glowing in the dark hair that hung to his shoulders, and glistened at the beard at his cheeks. It was said that he favored his father, the old chieftain.

She had been a child when she first came to Lechlede after the fever took her mother, and had no clear memory of the man, except a tall, imposing figure who ruled the hall with a solemn fierceness. It was said he was different before the loss of his wife years before--froze to death on the shores of the loch. She had been English, the Lady Gwyneth, an arranged marriage that had brought three children--Hugh the first born, followed by Linnea, then Ruari. James was the old chieftain's son by a young girl he was forbidden to wed who died in childbirth.

Lady Brynna had wed Hugh Fraser, another arranged marriage that was doomed from the beginning. After the tragic loss of the bairn she carried, she had gone into seclusion at Beauly Abbey. At the death of Hugh Fraser in a raid on the clan, she was then wed to James who was made the new chieftain of Clan Fraser. It was after they were wed that Ruari had first returned to Lechlede.

As a boy he had been sent north to study with the monks at Dunnottar. It was thought that vocation might tame the restless younger son of the old chieftain. But the wild, young man who had returned to Lechlede that long ago day and offered his sword in support of James Fraser was no docile servant of God.

There were some said that he had left the good brothers at Dunnottar under a cloud of suspicion. There were others who said that the men he rode with sold their services to other clans, that he rode with others who stole cattle and then sold them to the highest bidder. But the winter that followed, he rode with James Fraser against the enemy who had tried to destroy them and lay claim to the clan, and even as a young girl she understood that Ruari Fraser hid secrets behind that careless smile and easy laughter.

It was only after he left for France when she stood at the gates of Lechlede and watched him ride away, that she learned that he'd been outlawed by the Scottish king for murder.

"You smell of honey and sweet spices," he said, watching as she bent toward him, wiping the blood from his shoulder, her fingers slender, gentle, steady.

"Honey draws the poison and promotes healing," she explained, concentrating on cleaning the wound. "The stable master uses it on the horses when they get a scrape or cut."

"Horses?" he replied with amusement.

She nodded. "Or the hounds when they go to snapping at one another, or the goats."

"A goat."

In the shifting light from the fire she could have sworn she saw the flicker of a smile at his mouth.

"Or the pigs," she added, taking up the needle and coarse thread.

"Pigs." He flinched slightly as she took the first stitch.

"Aye, when they go wallowing about in the mud and then go at each other."

Her meaning wasn't lost on him. He watched the expression at her face as she took the next stitch, and the next, the delicate arch of dark brows, the thick dark lashes that hid those dark blue eyes as she concentrated, flawless skin over the angle of her cheekbones, the slight frown at her mouth. The chit of a girl he had once known and teased so unmercifully had grown into a beautiful young woman.

"You have a fine, gentle hand."

"Aye?" she tugged at the stitch, drawing it tight.

He said nothing, but she saw the way his eyes narrowed, heard the sudden, sharp breath he took. If she was to settle the score for the way Ruari Fraser had treated her the past weeks, it would have to be now when he was under her hand.

She took the next stitch, but quickly realized that any hope for revenge was a two-edged blade. The nearness of him, the thick muscle that lay under her hand, the heat of him so near, was her punishment. As Lady Brynna had warned, he was no longer that reckless young man she had once known, but one who had seen and done things that had changed him.

Still, she longed for a hint of that teasing smile, uncertain if any of the young man he had once been still remained within the man who sat quietly before her and gave no indication of the pain she caused with each stitch, except for the sudden breath he took.

She took the last stitch and tied it off. When she had cut the thread and would have returned everything to the basket she kept, he took her hand in his.

Her head came up, startled, a question in those dark blue eyes. So many times over the past ten years he had glimpsed those same eyes looking back at him--in the gaze of a young Arab girl in a remote village after they crossed into the Holy land, in the unflinching stare of a woman at the market at Cadiz, watching as the warriors sent by the King of France made their way to the coastal port, in the sultry gaze of a young woman at the house of his cousin in Anjou as she lay under him.

But always the same in the memory of that dark blue gaze that he took with him when he left Lechlede--innocent, defiant, and at the same time with a sadness that had slipped deep inside him, that he was leaving a part of himself that day as he rode away, a memory that was always there of a spirited young lass who boldly sassed him, put nettle under his saddle blanket that had once caused his horse to unseat him, and then beat him soundly at chess.

He turned her hand in his, wondering how she had done that at the age of less than ten years--bold, showing no mercy as she claimed one piece after another at the chess board until she had soundly thrashed him and taken the game.

This was no soft maiden's hand cradled in his, but strong with a faint ridge of calluses that spoke of hard work tending to the needs of so many at Lechlede as Maisel had once done, taking over for the old woman more and more as blindness slowly took her sight.

It was said that she had even performed difficult surgeries, cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing wounds, packing other wounds with possibly the same remedy she had used on him, sitting up with an injured man for days until the fevers and poison were gone, or easing the pain of those she could not heal. It was all there in that slender hand and in that dark blue gaze that met his. He rubbed his thumb across the ridge of the callous.

He had no illusion about who or what he was. He had killed, ridden against other men in exchange for silver, lain with women to take his ease with no thought beyond the moment, had sinned in ways that had made their mark on his soul, and had died on that beach at Normandy.

His soul was lost long ago. He had taken a path and there was no road back to the past that he might change it. And yet as he sat there with her hand in his, he saw a shadow of himself in the dark blue of her eyes--the young man he had once been in the look she angled at him that was as bold, defiant, and spirited as that long ago day when she had stood at the gate of Lechlede and watched him leave.

And she still had that high spirit in the way she refused to coddle or pity him. It was like having nettles under his saddle once more, a good memory in spite of the way that had ended with his arse in the mud of the practice yard. In spite of their words, in spite of that dead hollow feeling deep inside him, he knew that he owed his life, what was left of it, to her fine skill. He pressed her hand against his chest.

"Merci, jolie fille ."

Suddenly unnerved by words she had no way of understanding, Alix tried to pull her hand away. He refused to let her go, reminding her that one-handed, he was as strong as any man. But it was his smile that trapped her.

"I don't understand... " she tried again to pull her hand back, his skin warm beneath her hand, the beat of his heart that seemed to slip through her fingers, deep inside her.

He smiled again, wanting to hold onto the moment, her hand, the warmth of it when there had been so little warmth of any kind the last years. Gentleness purchased with coin was only momentary and never freely given.

"Thank you for your care, pretty girl."

She pulled on her hand again and he finally released it.

Pretty girl?

No one had ever said that of her and she had never given it much thought. Except for Eben McGinley with his unwanted attentions. No one else dared while she was a part of the chieftain's household. He had made it known to all their kinsmen including Eben McGinley though he paid little attention to it especially when he was out of sight of the chieftain.

On rare occasions she caught her reflection in the metal plate in the Lady Brynna's chamber when she assisted with some ailment or injury to one of the children, or at the water barrel in the practice yard. What she saw was an angular face, too large eyes, and what her grandmother called her stubborn mouth.

Yet Morna had bemoaned more than once that her strong features resembled her mother, and the most she would say with a softening of her expression, was that her father lost himself when he first set eyes on her mother.

Pretty?

She had thought that of Ruari Fraser more than once, for he was handsome enough to take her breath away even as a young lass of ten years, and the reason on more than one occasion that she had refused to take his teasing and taunting, and simply thrown it back at him. She supposed that it was childish, but she wasn't about to be a giggling, twittering chit like the other young girls, and give him the satisfaction of thinking that she mooned over him.

And now? He was no longer the pretty, carefree lad who had ridden away from Lechlede. The years since, the things he had seen and done, the loss, were there in the faint lines at the corner of his mouth, his eyes, the sunken line at his cheek beneath the slight grown of beard, and the line of his jaw that she wanted to touch, to lay her hand against, to ease the pain and memory of those years. But she did not.

He was a man, haunted by those years, those memories, and there was nothing of the young man he had once been. Except for that half smile as he saw her confusion.

She pulled a folded piece of linen from the bottom of her basket.

"You might need this now that ye've ruined the other." She handed him the folded linen shirt.

"And ye should wait before you use it again, give yer shoulder a few days to heal so not to re-open the wound."