A Highlander’s Heart (The Mackenzies of Castle Leod #3)

Chapter One

Castle Leod

Scottish Highlands

“I doona want ye to touch me! I want ye to send me back to my men!” The Gunn warrior glared at Emma, the Mackenzie healer, pushing her away as she attempted to assist him.

The man had been carried into her healing hut. The two Mackenzie warriors who had brought him to her said his horse had fallen on him and then, as it struggled to stand, the horse had sliced his leg with a hoof.

That sounded grave and Emma knew those types of injuries could be very serious with the lungs being so close to the heart. If the man was lucky, he had a bruise and hadn’t broken many of his ribs, but that she wouldn’t know until she examined him.

Yet one thing was certain. Whether he liked it or not, the warrior could not return to the battle, or for that matter even be transported, either by horse or wagon, back to the Gunn keep for quite a while.

If he was not held as a prisoner.

“I canno’ send ye back to the battle because with the way ye are breathing, I’m sure ye have an injury on your ribs and ye can’t take a chance on moving until ye have been examined. Ye also have a deep wound on the back of yer leg.”

He raised himself up on his elbows and glared at her, his face wincing with the pain of the movement. “Then I’ll crawl. I doona want anything to do with the Mackenzies. Ye will probably knife me in my sleep.”

Emma sighed. “I am a healer, no’ a warrior. I willna knife ye in yer sleep. But if ye doona stop screaming at me, I might bring one of our warriors in to knock ye out.”

She’d had difficult patients before, all of them warriors with arrogance and an idea that they were invincible, an idea she dismissed. She was sure this one would be trouble.

Her stomach tightened. As all Gunns were trouble.

Emma walked away from the bed where the warrior rested so she could gather linens, water, and pain medicants to deal with the leg injury.

At present, a battle was waging at the front of their castle between the Mackenzies and from what she’d learned, the Gunns and the Sinclairs together.

Apparently, from what she’d heard from those coming into her hut, the men wanted to abscond with Megan Mackenzie, the wife of the laird’s second in command, Gregory Mackenzie, and have their marriage annulled so she could be wed to the Gunn, who was decades older than Megan.

The claim had been that there was an Order from the King, which both Gregory Mackenzie, and their laird Daniel Mackenzie had dismissed.

Megan was helping tend to the wounded along with the laird’s wife, Beth. Emma had just sent her to the kitchen to get a few mugs and hot water to make tisanes for the patients.

Emma looked up as the door opened and a warrior walked through. She didn’t recognize him, but she didn’t know all the warriors either. “Did ye bring me more patients?” she asked, brushing the escaped wisps of hair from her forehead.

“Nay. I came to collect Lady Megan Mackenzie. Her husband wants her to join him for her safety.”

“He probably would feel safer if ye were right there by his side,” Emma said with a wink as Megan went to the water bucket and washed her hands. She smiled, then left with the warrior just as Beth returned.

“Who was that?” Beth said, watching the two of them leave.

“I doona ken. Gregory sent him for Megan.”

“Are ye going to chat all day, healer? I thought ye were supposed to fix up injured men.” The difficult Gunn patient groused from the bed where he lay, glaring at her. “And how is my horse? He stumbled and I want to make sure he is being looked at and treated.”

Emma took a deep breath, aware that the man was in pain and though he would most likely never admit it, concerned about his future.

Trained warhorses were a valuable commodity, never to be treated lightly.

“I will send someone to check for ye. But now I am going to fix ye up, after I see what, if any, bones are broken.”

For the first time fear showed on the arrogant warrior’s face. Then he recovered himself and snapped, “Well, get on wi’ it, then.”

She moved to the bed and touched his arm. “What is yer name?”

He frowned. “Why?”

Emma sighed and closed her eyes. “I just think it would be nice if I dinna have to keep calling ye ‘warrior.’”

He gritted his teeth. What an unpleasant man. “Warrior is who I am.” When she continued to stare at him as she would any difficult patient—or child—the warrior sighed, beaten.

Still, he rolled his eyes. “My name is Morgan Gunn, Second-in-Command, and nephew to the Gunn. Does that make my healing quicker?”

Ignoring his comment, she said, “This would go much easier on ye if ye calmed down and let me give ye a tisane which will make ye drowsy and help with the pain.”

Morgan waved her off. “I am a warrior. I doona need yer woman’s medicine.” He pointed to his ribs. “Just do what ye need to do so I can return to the battle.”

“The battle’s over, Emma, so this should be yer last patient.” Two of the Mackenzie men carried in another of the clan’s warriors and deposited him onto another bed. Emma’s healing hut was now full, and she hoped that the battle ending would keep out any more injured men.

“Who is the victor?” Morgan asked.

The two Mackenzie warriors who had just brought in the injured man looked at each other and laughed. “Yer laird dinna make a real effort. I have no idea what was on his mind, but it certainly was no’ winning.”

Morgan scowled then looked around the hut with narrowed eyes. “Where’s my horse? And my sword! I donnae want some Mackenzie using either one of them, especially against my own clan!”

Emma looked at the men for an answer.

They shrugged and shifted on their feet. “The blacksmith is looking yer beast over for injuries. If it doesn’t need to be put down, we’ll stable it with the rest of our horses until our laird tells us what to do wi’ it. And yer sword is also wi’ th’ blacksmith.

Morgan frowned. “Take good care of ’im. His name is Demon. An’ I’ll be up and out of here shortly. I want ma sword. Don’t be thinkin’ any of you Mackenzies will take it fer their own.”

Stubborn mon.

Then he looked up at Emma. “Get on with it, lass. I want to leave with my men.”

“They’ve already retreated and are on their way,” one of the Mackenzie men said. “They’ve left ye behind, mon. Yer the last Gunn here.”

Morgan made to get up, and Emma laid her forearm lightly against his neck. “Do. Not. Even. Try.”

He slumped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. “I am a Gunn. Ye cannot tell me what to do.”

“Aye, I can. Ye are in my healing hut, and I will tell ye what to do.”

“Just do what ye need to do, then.”’

“I doona ken why ye are so anxious to think ye can meet up with yer clan. Ye do realize ye are Laird Mackenzie’s prisoner?”

Although not happy with her statement, ’twas obvious he couldn’t dispute it, being familiar with the rules of war.

Emma began her perusal of his injuries. Without a doubt, when his horse landed on him there had been damage done to his ribs. Hopefully it was only bruising and not a break.

She gently placed her fingers on his chest, applying slight pressure. Still, he sucked in a deep breath at her touch, and turned quite pale.

“I suspect you have some, or at least one, broken rib.”

“Nay. Warriors don’t break bones.”

She sighed. “Well, maybe they doona break bones when their giant horse falls on their smaller bodies, but you do at least have a serious bruise on yer chest and there’s that gash on yer leg. ’Twill require stitching more like.”

He turned his head and faced the wall. As a warrior, he probably knew it would be a long time before he could comfortably swing a sword, and that didn’t even include how well the gash on his leg healed.

“Are ye sure you don’t want that tonic?” she said with a touch of sympathy even though he hadn’t done anything to deserve her compassion.

“I doona have any pain that I canno’ handle. I’m a warrior.” He thumped his chest with his thumb and immediately turned so pale that Emma feared he would pass out.

“Ye’re a stubborn mon is what you are.” She shook her head. “Warrior or no, hitting your chest is no’ a good idea. I will need cold cloths to ease the swelling on yer ribs, but I have to go to the kitchen to send someone to the creek to get water that cold.”

He grunted and lay still then, eyes closed.

While she waited for the water, she turned her attention to other warriors whose injuries were easily taken care of with stitching and a tisane or two. Once they had been seen to and bandaged, she sent them on their way.

The bucket of cold creek water arrived along with a few linens, and she turned back to the unpleasant warrior, carrying them to his bed.

“I asked the men to look for snow or ice, but with the warming weather, they were unable to find any. Still we do have some nice cold water.”

*

Morgan would have shrugged his indifference, but didn’t want to cause that sharp pain again when he moved.

Instead, he continued to stare at the wall next to his bed while the healer gently cleaned the gash on his leg, sewed it up, and, once he turned onto his back, laid very cold linens on his chest.

Emma.

He’d heard the warrior who had announced that the battle was over speak her name.

Why did it have to be Emma? He’d tried for years to forget the lass named Emma who had stomped on his heart like his horse did to his chest. But just when he thought he could forget her and move on, her memory popped up.

Not that he still cared for her, but the anger for her betrayal always managed to rise again for one reason or another.

This time the memory was resurrected because of the comely lass with the same name who was supposed to heal him. Same first name. Her last name also belonged to an enemy clan.

Emma Mackenzie looked nothing like Emma Gunn.

While Emma Gunn had been tall and slender, Emma Mackenzie was short, with an extremely appealing, curvy body.

A great deal of curves. Her light-brown hair with golden streaks, pulled up into a knot at the top of her head but with strands falling around her face added to her appeal.

He smiled to himself, thinking of her standing up to him. Warriors three or four times her size paled when he groused at them. As Second-in-Command to the Gunn, as well as the laird’s nephew and heir, he held a great deal of power over the warriors.

So, what was the Second-in-Command to the Gunn doing lying in the Mackenzie castle’s healing hut while the rest of his men had begun their retreat?

He knew from the start that the Gunn, along with the Sinclair, were not making a serious attempt to attack the Mackenzies. What they’d planned had to be a distraction for some reason. But he had not been told why. It wasn’t his place to question orders. He’d just done his job.

And ended up stranded at Castle Leod for how long he, or even the mouthy bonny lass, didn’t know.

Once she’d finished cleaning up his gash and sewing it together, fatigue from the battle and the injury took over and before he even thought about it, he was fast asleep.

When he awoke, it was dark and the hut quiet.

His bossy healer wasn’t there, but there was a plate of food on a table alongside his bed.

He lifted the cloth and, despite the meal being cold, his stomach growled at the sight and scent of mutton stew, bread, cheese, and a mug of ale, along with a second mug filled with something that smelled suspiciously herbal.

He reached over and grabbed the bread, along with a chunk of cheese.

“’Tis glad I am to see ye eating.”

The comely healer from hell sat across the room from him in the darkness. She leaned forward, closer to a candle at her side and smiled. Despite his dislike for the lass, something inside him shifted.

Something he didn’t like. He had to remember that she was the enemy.

“Are ye in much pain?” She had moved closer to him and the glow from the candle she carried lit up her face in such a manner that he had to look away to keep the something shifting in him away.

“Aye, I have pain. As ye pointed out, I have a bruised chest and a wounded leg. I think a healer would ken that.” He was both disappointed and glad when her smile vanished and she stood up straight.

“Verra well, then. I will leave ye for the night. The tisane right next to yer food can help ye sleep. It will ease the pain somewhat.”

“I told ye before I dinna want any of yer pain drinks that are for weak men and lasses.” He swung at the mug with the back of his hand and knocked it to the floor; the liquid splashed all over, mostly landing on her.

Emma took in a deep breath and stepped back. “That was unnecessary, warrior.” She brushed her skirts and glared at him. “I wish ye good night.”

He watched her move quickly out the door, closing it with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary.

Ye are an arse, Morgan Gunn.

Aside from his disaster with the other Emma, he had quite a bit of luck with the lasses. He never had trouble finding one to warm his bed. The maids flirted and offered their favors to him all the time.

He always made sure they knew he had no intention of marrying any of them. What they did was all for fun. He was kind, caring, and made sure they received their pleasure as well as he. But he never made any offer of marriage or commitment.

Until now. Despite Emma Mackenzie’s bonnie looks and body that his fingers itched to explore, he had to stay away from any flirtation with her. She was the clan enemy, and she had Emma’s name.

He finished his meal and tried to sleep in spite of his throbbing leg and aching ribs, cursing himself for swatting at the mug of liquid that would have helped ease his pain.

Aye, ye are an arse, Morgan Gunn.