Book 2 > Return of the Highlanders
Prologue
1460
Dunstaffnage Castle, Scotland
He had to protect the lass.
Arrows whistled past Archibald Stewart as he clutched Margaret Stewart to his chest with one hand and urged his beast into an all-out gallop with the other.
“Want Mama!” Margaret cried, her chubby little toddler hand curling around his bicep as she pressed her wet face into his neck. “Want Mama. Want Mama.”
He didn’t know a blessed thing about calming crying bairns, but he cast his mind to the times he’d seen Lady Stewart do such a thing for one of her children. He wished he’d paid more heed, devil take it, but by the gods, he didn’t think there was any reasonable way he could have ever imagined he’d be in a position to soothe a wailing child. He was a lifelong stablemaster wed to the barn, not a wife. And he had liked it that way.
But now treachery had changed everything.
Now he had a new job, given to him by his laird this night, and he would give his life to see it to completion if need be. But he needed to stay alive long enough to get little Margaret away from her family’s besieged stronghold and safely hidden, as Laird Stewart had bid him to do.
Behind him, the thundering of horses’ hooves pounded in his ear, and even as he urged his destrier faster, toward the distant shores of Broadford and the inn where he planned to sleep, Archibald glanced over his shoulder to see how many enemy warriors were in pursuit. As he did, arrows struck him in the side of the neck and in his chest, right above his heart. Fiery pain shot through him and sent sparks of heat from his neck and chest, and through his veins, to every part of his body. He let out a grunt as he turned back around, and his grip on his horse’s reins loosened a bit as his hand went numb.
“God’s blood,” he muttered. He was in real trouble. He had to get the arrows out, but he couldn’t slow his destrier with four warriors chasing him. He needed to pull the arrows out as he rode. He glanced down at the fiery red hair on Margaret’s head. She had her face turned now so that her right cheek was pressed against his chest, and he could see her rubbing her nose, which was cute and upturned like her mama’s. Could a two-year-old bairn follow directions? He didn’t know, but he had to try.
He pulled air into his lungs, and the wheeze of his breath made him grimace. That wasn’t good. He’d been a warrior once, before he’d gotten older and Laird Stewart had kindly moved him to the position of stablemaster, but in all his years in the stables, he had not forgotten the sounds of dying men. They wheezed.
“Margaret,” he said, sounding like a raspy wench. When the little lass did not turn her face up to him, he took another breath to try again as he reached the edge of the woods where, with a little luck, he’d lose his pursuers in the thick canopy of trees. “Margaret,” he said again, the numbness in his hand inching its way up his arm. With a will he didn’t know he still possessed, he managed to keep his grip closed enough to maintain his hold of the reins. He scanned the shadowy trails as the trees flew by them, trying to decide which one provided the best hope of achieving his goal. Both trails to the left would lead him to Broadford, but the farthest one wound down by the river and was more overgrown. It was longer, but it offered the best cover. He pulled the reins far enough to lead the horse onto the trail, but he broke a sweat with his effort and his grip loosened even more. He had to remove the arrows from his body. He didn’t know if it was the one in his neck or chest that was causing him to go numb, but it didn’t rightly matter. He’d pull both out.
“Margaret!” he growled, and the lass started wailing once more. “Shh, lassie!” he hissed. Her crying would lead the enemies straight to them if they got close enough. What had her mama called her? He searched through his mind, which was a lot like walking through sludge, but then he recalled what he needed. “Mags,” he said, doing his best to make his tone soothing. “Mags, I need ye to be a good lassie and aid me,” he said, urging Lionheart up the hill by tapping the beast in his sides. “Mags, look at me, lassie,” he tried again as they crested the top and started around the winding path. He glanced down to find the child’s large gaze fixed curiously on him. He let out a sigh of relief that made him cough and caused Margaret to pucker her lips. “Old Archibald is in trouble, Mags.”
“Ye did a nay-nay?” she asked, sucking her cheeks in like he’d seen her do when she was at the stables watching her eldest brother Ross have his riding lessons.
He smiled at her question. “Aye. I turned around like a fool and got myself shot by the enemy.”
“Bad men. Mama says bad men. I want mama.” Her voice held a quiver, but he did not dare look down at the lass. They were nearing the section of the trail where it split, and he needed to ensure Lionheart galloped toward the right. Though if any animal was smart enough to choose correctly, it would be his faithful horse.
“Yer mama is right and braw. I need ye to be braw. And dunnae cry. I’ll get ye a treat at the inn, but only if ye stay braw, aye?” he finished, guiding Lionheart onto the right trail, which immediately swallowed them in shadows as the remaining twilight was blocked by the large overhanging tree limbs. He took a chance and stole a look over his shoulder once more. The surge of relief at the bare trail behind him made his skin tingle. He turned back around but did not slow. He dared not. He may have lost the enemy for now, but that didn’t mean it was for good. “I have to let go of ye, Mags, but I need ye to wrap yer arms around me and hold tight. Can ye do that?”
“Aye,” came an eager reply.
“Wrap yer arms around me now,” he instructed as Lionheart raced deeper into the shadows of the thickest part of the woods.
Margaret’s arms came around his waist, and then she surprised him by wrapping her legs around him, too. He released his hold on her but kept his hand close until he felt fairly certain she wouldn’t fall. When she didn’t, he brought his good hand up to his neck, and his fingers met with the slick warmth of his blood. He’d not worry now. He didn’t have the time or luxury to worry. He felt around the arrow, judging it wasn’t too deep, and, gripping it and clenching his teeth until they throbbed, he gave a mighty yank. White-hot pain shot though his neck and exploded in his head as the arrow dislodged from his flesh. Immediately, warm trails ran down his skin. The blood flowed fast and free.
Throwing the arrow into the darkness, he reached down to the edge of his plaid, jerked it clumsily off as Lionheart pounded over rough terrain, and then did his best to wind the plaid around his neck. He panted, and little specks of white light appeared in his vision. He blinked several times, and when he opened his eyes, he realized they’d exited the deep part of the woods for the river trail. The temperature dropped near the water, and even at the fast pace they were traveling, the loud buzz and chirps of the night creatures filled his ears along with the rapid thumping of hooves. It was an oddly soothing cacophony.
“I tired,” Mags said, drawing his attention to her. She was still gripping him tightly with her little arms and legs, and her cherub face was turned up to him. There was just enough moonlight that he could see her eyes had indeed drooped with her need for sleep.
“Ye can sleep soon, lass,” he said, and prayed it was true. He hoped removing the next arrow would bring the feeling in his hand back, so he could properly clutch the lass. “Hold tight just a minute longer, aye?”
“Aye, Papa,” the little lass said in a groggy voice.
Archibald’s heart squeezed. He knew little Mags was exhausted and confused, but hearing her call him Papa did something funny to him. If he’d ever had a daughter, he would have wanted her to be just like this pretty little lass. She was sweet-natured, though he had seen her stubborn side in her interactions with her family. No, not stubborn—independent. Her independent streak would likely serve her well, if her mama and papa were killed this night by the treacherous Lord of the Isle, a man who had turned out to be a wolf in disguise and not any sort of true friend to little Margaret’s father. If their deaths came to pass, she’d have to be kept hidden until things settled. She’d no longer have all the servants she was accustomed to as daughter of a great laird, and it could be a while before she ever did again.
Pain pushed the thought away, and Archibald realized he was having a hard time keeping his thoughts on the task at hand. He looked down at the arrow sticking out of his chest and his blood-soaked tunic. He tried to take a deep breath before pulling the arrow out, but it was like trying to get wine from an empty wine skin. Fear curled in his gut. He was dying. He didn’t know how he knew, but the truth of it settled in him. He had to get the lass out of these woods, and it was especially important to get her branded tonight as her papa had instructed. If the worst should happen and she was separated from Archibald, her family would know her by the L3 on her arm. L3. L3. He repeated it over and over, not remembering the exact meaning, and he gripped the arrow and pulled again. It resisted, but he didn’t quit. He couldn’t.
He tugged harder and groaned at the god-awful pain of it. The head of the arrow ripped his insides apart as he pulled it out. It finally released, and he grunted as a wave of black washed over him and sucked him under.
~ ~ ~
“Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa!”
The wailing woke him up. Archibald was utterly disoriented. It was dark, and he was being jostled, and everything seemed to burn with pain. Then he recalled where he was and what he’d been tasked with, and he glanced down, seeing a tear-streaked face in the moonlight turned up to him. Margaret’s lip trembled, and she was clutching him.
“Shh,” he said, the slur of his words clear to him in his ears. “I’m all better now.” He tried to reach for Lionheart’s reins. He must have let them go when he’d passed out, but they had hooked on the sheath of his dagger. He tested his fingers, flexing and curling them with effort, and found that he could use his hand a bit better than before. He reached for the reins, hissing with pain at the movement. He grasped them and wound them around his hand should he pass out a second time.
He glanced behind him, sure he was going to see the enemies closing in, but darkness greeted him and nothing more. When he faced forward again, he was surprised to see the break in the woods, which dumped them on the path leading straight to Broadford. Fighting against the urge to close his eyes and give in to sleep, which beckoned him away from the pain, he pulled Margaret more securely to him and gave Lionheart a sharp tap to the sides, signaling the beast to run with all his might.
Lionheart did not disappoint. He took off, grass and dirt flying up on either side of him as he raced down the path toward the sea village and safety. The horse had an instinct for night riding and was an excellent jumper, so Archibald had to do little more than hold the reins, which was a very good thing because after being jostled, his entire body pounded with excruciating pain and his breathing was so labored he felt as if someone were holding a plaid over his nose and mouth. He was hot but also cold, so he suspected he was feverish as sweat dampened his skin. He summoned the strength to sing a tune to the lassie, and he was pleased that she quieted. By the time the village of Broadford came into sight, Margaret was slumped against him, asleep.
He prayed he correctly remembered where the tavern was, and he turned Lionheart down the cobbled road that led to the edge of the sea. He smelled the water before he could see it. Tucked between a church and metalsmith shop sat the Boat of Garten Inn. He remembered it clearly from the last time he’d traveled through here to visit his sister five years prior.
As he led Lionheart to the inn, a new sort of heaviness overcame his limbs and deep coldness set in, as did an urgency to see to the lass’s welfare. A man holding a torch came toward him when he stopped in front of the inn. If Archibald had to guess, he’d say the man was younger than he was, but not fresh in years. He looked to be around thirty-five summers with a head still full of black hair, but a face lined around the eyes and forehead indicating he had seen many a day in the sun and likely a plate full of life’s troubles. His thick eyebrows turned down, giving him a look of wariness that matched that of his dark eyes.
He inclined his head and said, “I’m Dougray, the stablemaster.” His gaze travelled slowly over Archibald, eyes widening, Archibald assumed, at his blood-soaked tunic. Dougray’s attention fell to Margaret, and he smiled, then focused back on Archibald and frowned. “Trouble find ye and yer daughter upon the road?”
“Aye,” Archibald replied. “We were attacked.”
The man nodded and spit. “Damn thieves swarm those woods.”
“Aye,” Archibald agreed, because it was the truth, though not the particular truth of his plight this night. “Ye dunnae happen to have a healer in residence, do ye?”
“Nae a healer exactly, but Martha, the innkeeper’s wife, kens a thing or two about the arts, and she’s been working to learn more.”
Relief hit Archibald, and he went to dismount, but he didn’t have the strength to do so and hold the sleeping lassie. He was, in fact, dangerously close to succumbing to darkness, if the waves of heat, the sweat on his body, and the specks of light dancing in his vision were any indication. “Can ye take the lass from me while I dismount?” He didn’t want to give Margaret to a stranger, but he felt like he might drop to the ground, and he’d hate to fall while holding her.
“I’ll do ye one better than that, my lord. I’ll carry the wee lass into the inn for ye. Ye look as if ye’re about to drop off that horse.”
Archibald chuckled softly at that, but that little motion shot pain through his body. “I’m nae a lord,” he said, handing the sleeping Margaret to the man after Dougray had tied up Lionheart. Archibald watched as Dougray carefully took the little lady in his arms. He held her in a way that reminded Archibald of how his laird had held his daughter, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.
“Ye have children?” Archibald asked, more sliding off his horse than dismounting, but even that effort made the world tilt for a moment, so he leaned against Lionheart until the ground righted itself once more.
“Nay, but I have three sisters, all younger than me, and I did my share of holding the little lasses.” Those words eased Archibald immensely. “Can ye walk into the inn yerself?” Dougray asked.
“Aye,” Archibald said. He wasn’t certain he could, but he had his pride. When Dougray turned toward the stairs, Archibald was relieved to find he felt steadier than he had a moment ago. In fact, he was suddenly full of energy once more, and that scared him. He’d seen enough men die to recall that many had a burst of energy before death. He unhooked his satchel from the horse, and then he turned to follow Dougray up the stairs. As he walked, he considered all he needed to do.
The inn was quiet, as the hour was late. There weren’t any patrons in the downstairs parlor, but a fire was crackling, and the inn smelled of citrus and bread, which made Archibald think suddenly upon the sweet treats his mama used to make him as a young lad. He was still reminiscing as he followed Dougray to a desk where a woman with pale blonde hair stood. As she looked up from what she’d been writing, her brown eyes went wide, and her lips parted. She fluttered a hand to her mouth, aghast at the blood on his tunic and neck. He was sure he looked close to meeting his maker, which he probably was and was why his next words were so important.
“My daughter and I were attacked by bandits.”
“Oh, my gracious!” the woman exclaimed and rushed around the desk to hold her arms out to Dougray. “If ye will let me take the lass, I’ll tend to her wounds.”
“She was luckily nae wounded,” Archibald whispered so that they would do the same. He didn’t want to wake Margaret. What he needed to do would cause her pain, and he’d rather her be asleep when it began.
“Thanks to the gods!” the woman exclaimed, shoving a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear before she took the lass from Dougray. “How can I aid ye?” the woman asked, even as she looked down at Margaret, who was still sound asleep.
“Do ye have a room to let for the night?” he asked.
“Aye,” she said. “I can take ye up directly. We’ll settle the details later when ye’re feeling better. If ye need my aid, I ken a bit of the healing arts.”
“I’d be grateful if ye could clean and bandage my wounds, and possibly bring up some food for the lass for when she wakes.”
“Aye,” she said, glancing down at Margaret once more. He could see a smile pulling at her lips. “I’ll take ye up to yer room and then go gather my supplies, as well as some food. Come on, then,” she said, and she turned, but as she did, he saw her lean down and smell Margaret. She grinned. “I just love the way little children smell like sunshine and goodness. I wish, well—” She gave a shake of her head. “It dunnae matter what I wish.” She turned on her heel with a glance back at him. “Follow me.”
“I’ll take good care of yer destrier,” Dougray said to Archibald’s back.
He paused and looked to Dougray for a moment. “Thank ye,” he said, meaning it, and because he was sure he’d not ever ride his faithful horse again, he said, “His name is Lionheart. He’s a verra loyal horse.” With that, he continued behind Martha, up the stairs and down a short hall, then through the door she’d opened while still holding Margaret.
He entered the sparsely lit room, and the first thing he saw was the burning fireplace. He would need to utilize that momentarily to brand Margaret. His stomach knotted at the thought of doing as her da instructed, but it had to be done, and better now than later. Though he was feeling surprisingly better, he didn’t trust it, and he could leave nothing to chance. As Martha settled Margaret on the center of the bed and pulled a coverlet up to her little chin, he sorted how to best ask for what he needed and decided to be direct. The woman seemed a kind sort, honest. He prayed he was judging correctly, given Margaret’s welfare could be in her hands for a time.
“If I wrote a message to my sister in the next town over, do ye have anyone who could take it to her? I could pay them coin and tell them exactly where to find her.”
“Aye, Dougray could do it,” she said, glancing from Margaret to him. “Is that where the two of ye were traveling when ye were attacked?”
“Aye,” he said, sitting down because suddenly his legs didn’t feel as strong as they had.
“And ye need yer sister to aid ye?”
He nodded. “With the lass until I’m stronger to travel.” That wasn’t a total lie. He wanted to know a message was going to his sister about Margaret, who she was, the circumstances of why she had to be hidden, and how she could not be brought out of hiding until it was safe. When her father was settled once more in his home as laird, she could return. Or, if her father had been killed, Archibald would discover if there were more enemies than the Lord of the Isles, and figure out where to send her until her older brother could rise up and one day reclaim the lairdship when he came of age. Archibald would write it and seal it. That was the best he could do.
“I’ll gather ye something to write with—”
“There’s nae a need,” he said. “I’ve some supplies.” His laird had insisted he bring a quill and parchment. It was as if Laird Stewart had known it might come to this when he’d had him bring the branding iron and the missive supplies.
“I’ll go collect the supplies to treat ye, and then I’ll return.”
The lady had kind, worried eyes, and he knew she meant well, but he needed her away long enough for him to brand Margaret and write his missive. He tried to think of what to say to keep her gone long enough, but his thoughts were suddenly like slippery fish. He pushed his fingers to his temple and inhaled a long breath, catching the thought. “If ye’ll bring supper as well.”
“Ye’re certain ye dunnae wish me to treat ye first?” she asked, her gaze wandering slowly over him and stopping at his neck. He resisted the urge to touch it.
“Aye,” he replied.
“As ye wish,” she said, and with a parting glance at Margaret, she turned and exited the room.
The moment the dark wood door closed behind the lady, he took his satchel off his shoulder and plodded to the only chair in the bedchamber, where his heavy limbs fell to a seat. Was his breathing becoming more labored? It certainly felt like it. After digging around for a moment, he withdrew what he needed to write to his sister and set to penning the missive, explaining who Margaret was and what to do for her. As he was leaning over the parchment, a drop of blood dripped onto the paper and then another. He raised his hand to his neck, and his fingers met sodden material. He’d bled through the plaid he’d tied around his neck. That couldn’t be good. A sense of urgency filled him, so he quickly sealed the completed missive and set it on the tiny wooden desk in the room.
He then retrieved the branding iron from his satchel, heated it to the appropriate temperature in the fire, and went to the bed to kneel beside the sleeping lass. He carefully pulled the coverlet down and tugged her gown down to expose just her right shoulder. “Forgive me, lass,” he whispered and set the iron to her bare skin.
She awoke instantly, eyes wide as a shriek of fear and pain ripped from her. Sickness rose inside him. Never in all his years had he done harm to a woman or child, and though he knew the brand was necessary to ensure she could be identified should the worst occur, it made him ill. He finished the L and then the 3, as her wails filled the room, and then he gathered her, squirming and flailing, into his arms.
He was sweating and panting as he stumbled around the room, searching for a water basin. He finally found one and tripped his way toward it while the room tilted left and right. “Shh, Mags. Shh. I’ll wet the hurt, and it will start to feel better.” He found a rag in front of the basin, dipped it in, and pressed it to her injury. Her wails continued with high-pitched shrieks as he tried to soothe her. Whatever strength had come back to him seemed to be stolen by what he’d just done. He made his way to the bed, fearing he might fall while holding her, but he managed to sit and then lay back, bringing her with him.
His body pulsed to life with pain, and before him, images flashed as if they were real and touchable. His mama, who was long dead, and his papa appeared. Madge was next, and that made him sigh. He’d loved her as a lad, and she’d loved another. His old dog and the fastest destrier he’d ever owned, whom he’d lost in battle ten years prior, appeared. The images came and came, and he lay there, holding the lass and soothing her as best he could until his tunic was soaked with her tears. Her wailing finally gave way to soft, muffled crying, which eventually changed to babbling “mama, mama” and occasional sniffing.
She was going to be all right.
He’d done all he needed to. Dougray would get the missive to his sister, and she would come for Mags.
He was too tired to keep his eyes open a moment longer. He shut them and let the sweet dark oblivion take him.
~ ~ ~
“Dougray,” Martha said.
The stablemaster, feeding the injured stranger’s horse, stood upright. “Aye, mistress?”
“When ye finish with the horse, come up to the second floor, far corner room. The stranger has a missive for ye to take to his sister.”
“Aye, mistress,” Dougray said with his typical compliance. Of course, he could be no less than compliant. He was stuck here for life, just like she was. She’d foolishly chosen to wed her husband and give him all the power men were accorded over their wives and their property, and Dougray had once tried to steal food from the inn to feed his starving sisters. His sentence for the crime, from the crooked town leader, who was a friend of her husband’s, had been either hanging or a life service to her husband. Dougray had chosen life service, and she knew he sent most of the pitiful coin he received from kindly guests to his sisters who were now wed, but poor.
“I imagine he may give ye coin for yer troubles,” she added, eyeing the stranger’s beast. It looked to be a fine destrier, the sort that belonged to a man with plenty of coin. Mayhap the Highlander would give some coin to her as well in thanks for her care of him. She didn’t care what he had said, he needed tending immediately with that blood seeping from his neck. And the poor wee lassie needed a woman watching out for her tonight with her da injured so. With these things in mind, Martha hurried away without waiting for a reply from Dougray, and collected supplies, and quickly gathered some supper because the wee lassie might wake and be sore fussy if her belly was empty. Martha’s arms were so full that she couldn’t see in front of her, but that hardly mattered. She knew the way. She rushed up the old, narrow wooden steps, each one squeaking beneath her weight. The steps needed to be repaired just like everything else at the inn. If only her husband were not so lazy.
“Where are ye going?”
Martha nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her husband’s curt tone above her. She had to adjust the armload of supplies even to see him. There he was, the usual scowl on his face, his tunic dirty, his hair unkempt, and his startling blue eyes—his best feature and the reason she’d fallen for him—narrowed at her. She wished to heaven she’d listened to her da and not wed Robbie, but it was far too late now. She’d gotten nothing for marrying him except heartache. No children and no love or kindness.
She gritted her teeth. “Why are ye out of bed?”
“I heard wailing. Did ye let a room to someone with a bairn whilst I was abed?”
God’s blood! She wanted to shove her husband out of the way to go see about the wee lassie, but she knew better than to do that. “Aye, a man came in injured, and he has his daughter with him.”
“Ye ken how I feel about wailing children,” he grumbled.
She did, and she barely resisted rolling her eyes. She vowed that the gods had denied her a bairn in her belly because her husband disliked children so.
“Why did ye rent to a man with a bairn?”
“He gave us double the price,” she lied, not feeling the slightest qualm about the deception. She wasn’t normally one to lie, but she wasn’t about to let her husband set the man and the lass out. It wasn’t about the Highlander; it was about the lassie. Martha couldn’t say how she knew, but her gut was telling her that the lass was going to need her.
A satisfied smirk twisted Robbie’s lips. “Double, eh?”
She nodded, even as she imagined smacking the smirk off her husband’s face. She’d stick a coin in the penance jar tonight for her thoughts, just in case her uncharitable thinking about her lazy, greedy husband was the thing keeping her from getting with child. “I s’pose they can stay, though ’tis nae natural for a man to travel with a child without the mama. ’Tis a woman’s job to care for a child, nae a man’s.”
If the man upstairs was anything like Robbie, the gods would see fit to end his life and then she could care for his lass. She blinked, surprised by the thought, but then excitement coursed through her. She didn’t wish for the man’s death, and she’d do all she could to see to his welfare, but if he did happen to die, wasn’t that fate bringing her the daughter she’d been praying for? Of course, she’d have to convince Robbie, which would unfortunately involve his hot mouth on her, sending a shudder of revulsion through her body, but she would do it willingly to keep the lass. Of course, she was way ahead of herself. The man was still alive, and she was a decent healer, so he’d likely stay that way. And then there was the missive he wanted to send to his sister, and that woman would no doubt want to take the lass if her brother did pass on.
“Why are ye still standing here?” Robbie demanded. “Go shut that wailing child’s mouth.”
She didn’t bother to remind him that he’d told her she was not to leave his presence unless dismissed. He’d shouted at her and threatened—with a shake of his fist—to teach her a lesson the next time. She didn’t need any such lesson. She was smart enough to stay put until her husband gave her leave to go. She’d seen beaten wives, and she didn’t care to be one of them. So she nodded, said nothing, and raced up the stairs two at a time, until she was at the Highlander’s door.
She knocked, but when he didn’t immediately answer, she threw it open and cried out. The lass was sitting on top of his chest, red-faced and wailing, and the man was lying there, arms spread wide and unmoving. Martha dropped everything she was holding and raced to the bed. One look at the Highlander told her he was dead. His eyes were open wide and rolled back, his mouth was agape, and a line of blood ran down the side toward his neck, which was also covered in blood. Just to be certain, she pressed her fingers to his neck to feel for life the way her mama had taught her. There was no faint beating there. A wave of sadness for the man washed over her, but then she looked to the little girl and hope filled her.
“Yer papa’s dead,” she said, “but I vow I’ll take care of ye.” She scooped up the child and went to give her a hug, but the lass squealed in pain. Frowning, Martha set her back on the bed to examine her, noticing her nightdress had been pulled down from one shoulder. She gasped at the fresh brand. Her gaze flew back to the bed, and there by the dead Highlander was the branding iron he’d used on his daughter. Horror nearly choked her, and whatever sorrow she’d felt disappeared. The man had been a monster, even though he’d seemed a good sort. She scooped the lass up and looked at the bonny little girl.
“I think this was meant to be.”
“Want mama. Want mama,” the child said, tears filling her startling bright eyes.
“Shh,” Martha said and gave the lass a peck on her smooth forehead. “I’ll be yer mama now. I wager ye’re hungry.”
The child stopped crying and nodded. Martha walked with the lass in her arms to the door, scooped up the food, and carried her back to the bed to unwrap the sweetbread. She gave it to her, and as the child started to eat, Martha gathered her healing supplies and tended to the lass’s wound. When she was done, she rose from the bed. The child ate the meat Martha had given her, and Martha took a moment to glance around the room. She saw the missive on the desk, marched over, and picked it up. She broke the seal and slowly read it.
Each sentence made her heart pound harder in hope and dread. This child was a laird’s daughter, and he and his wife might well still be alive. Martha had to sit with the shock. She stared at Margaret Stewart with her fiery red hair and clear, silvery-blue eyes, and she knew what she was going to do. She also knew it was a sin, but she wanted a daughter more than she cared for her immortal soul. She would love her and keep her safe, and it didn’t seem to her that Margaret’s parents, if they were even still alive, could do that. Martha rose, took the letter to the fireplace and stared at the dancing flames.
“Mistress.”
Dougray’s voice behind her made her jerk. She folded the missive into her palm as she turned to face the stablemaster. With a wave of her hand to the stranger, she said, “he’s died.”
Dougray’s warm brown gaze immediately went to the lass, Margaret. “What of the little lassie?” he asked, as his gaze fell to Martha’s hand holding the missive. “Did the man say who he was, who the lassie was, or where the missive was to go?”
Blast Dougray! He had honor, and she appreciated that, but it was a problem. She didn’t want to be cruel to him, but she was keeping this lass no matter what. Her heart hammered in her ears as she curled the missive tighter in her fist. “I read the missive, and it did nae have any information in it of who his sister was or even where she lived.”
Dougray’s skeptical look made her grit her teeth. “Nay even the lassie’s name?”
“Sorcha,” Martha said, smiling as she looked at the lass. She would be Sorcha. That’s what Martha had planned to name her daughter if she’d been so blessed by the gods.
“Sorcha what?” Dougray asked, and Martha’s patience snapped.
She pointed a finger at Dougray. “Dunnae ye fash yerself over it. I dunnae ken,” she lied. “What ye need to fash yerself about is doing as I say, Dougray, because the moment ye dunnae, I’ll tell Robbie I caught ye stealing again, and he will see ye hanged this time.”
Dougray nodded slowly, but his gaze was upon her hand, damn the man. “I dunna ken who the lass is or who her family is, so I’m going to keep her.”
“Aye, mistress,” Dougray finally said, pulling his gaze to her face where their eyes met. That was more like it. She smiled at him, not caring at all for how mean she had just been. She was a good person. She would be a wonderful mother, and if Martha did find Archibald Stewart’s sister—who truly had not been named in the missive—taking the wee lassie to her would likely put her in danger. Of course Laird Stewart’s enemies would look there! Archibald Stewart had not been thinking properly, probably because he’d been in such pain.
“Do as I say, and I’ll see ye get extra coin for yer sisters each month.”
Dougray’s eyes lit bright. The man was a good brother. He lived for his sisters. “What would ye have me do?”
“Take this man and bury him,” she said, glancing at the dead Highlander before looking back to Dougray. “The rest, ye’ll ken when I do.”
“All right, mistress,” he said, moving toward the dead stranger on the bed. With a nod, she went to collect her new daughter, but paused long enough to toss the missive into the fire.
“Come on, Sorcha,” she said, hefting her up on her hip. “I’ll bathe ye gently and put ye in a nice soft bed. I’ll sing to ye and lie there ’til sleep takes ye.” And then, then she’d have to sell what was left of her soul to persuade her clot-heid of a husband to let her keep the lass. She looked back at the fireplace as she exited the room and saw the missive was gone. Good, it had already burned. “Ye need simply go along with whatever I say, Dougray,” she said.
“Of course, mistress,” he said without looking at her, so she turned on her heel with Sorcha in her arms and quit the room. Sorcha was hers now, and Martha was going to keep her.
