Книга - Kara’s Gift

Kara's Gift
Suzanne Barclay






Kara’s Gift

Suzanne Barclay




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Title Page (#u19f97fb5-7c7a-5647-ae6d-cf3ebb4e02f3)

Chapter One (#u71c66cbc-2689-5599-b338-19bda321329d)Chapter Two (#u5053ac29-869a-5c06-826b-949f9da342cb)Chapter Three (#u335dad6d-0eef-5c3f-b264-73c122a7bdba)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Scottish Coast, October 1192

Icy rain fell in sheets from a leaden sky.

Duncan MacLellan didn’t think he’d ever felt anything so wonderful. Standing in the prow of the rowboat, he tilted his face upward and sighed. “Ah, there’s nothing like good, honest Scots rain to wash a man clean after all these years in the heathen desert.”

“By God’s toenail, it’s so cold my arse is freezing to the seat,” grumbled Angus MacDougal.

“Angus,” Duncan chided.

His companion in arms snorted. “I’m sure God will understand the extremities that cause me to use his name in vain. Damn, if you aren’t the only grown man I know who takes his faith so serious-like.”

“’Tis what kept me alive these past three years among the Infidels.” That and the determination to return to claim Janet Leslie for his bride, he reminded himself. By his own might and God’s will, he was only days away from doing just that...at long last.

“Pity more of those who took up the cross weren’t as honorable and unswerving in the loyalty to God as Duncan,” Father Simon chimed in from his seat in the back of the boat. In contrast to the two brawny knights, he was a thin man, his bald pate still peeling from the desert sun. “Our holy enterprise might not have been such a dismal failure.”

“We did not fail,” Angus exclaimed. “King Richard negotiated a treaty with that foul Saladin, granting Christian pilgrims safe use of the coastal ports.”

“The cost was too high on both sides,” Duncan muttered. The memory of the terrible massacre at Acre, the slaughter of the Infidel hostages by England’s Good King Richard still infuriated him. There was no excuse for such wanton savagery. Honorable men did not make war on unarmed folk.

“You’ve gone all queer about the mouth again, Duncan,” Angus muttered. He frowned at the thick bandage visible beneath Duncan’s mail. “Is your wound paining you again?”

“It aches a bit, nothing more.” The slicing scimitar that had cleaved open his shoulder might have ended his life but for the timely aid of the nursing brethren of the Knights of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem.

“You should have stayed abed another week as the Hospitallers suggested,” Angus said. “You’re pasty as the sails of that cog what brought us home. And none too steady on your legs.”

“I’m fine.” Mentally Duncan crossed himself and pledged to repent the lie as soon as he reached Threave Castle. “If I weave a bit, ’tis the motion of the ship. Not the lingering effects of the fever. Seeing my Janet again, knowing we can finally wed will restore me as none of the brothers’ potions could. Truth to tell, I was loath to tarry longer among strangers when I knew you two were leaving.” Instinctively his hand strayed to the pouch hidden beneath his thigh-length tunic. Stitched into it was a fortune in large rubies. The Templars had handled that transaction, exchanging the heavy plunder Duncan had amassed for the more portable gems.

Angus grunted. “I hope your lady appreciates the risks you took to come home to her a wealthy man.”

“She will.” Duncan looked toward the land. A fine mist shrouded the port of Carlisle. He recalled the jumble of docks and squalid buildings only vaguely from the day over three years ago when he’d set sail. But he knew right well the road from there to Threave Castle some eighty leagues distant. Threave Castle and Janet. “More important, her father will give his blessing to our marriage.”

“Three years is a long time for a woman to stay faithful. How do you know she’s not found another?”

“Because we are promised to each other. Janet would not go back on her word any more than I would. Even her father must respect the vow, for ’twas sworn on a holy relic.”

“Men do not always honor such things,” Angus said.

“Niall Leslie will.” Niall, laird of Threave and his father’s third cousin, was a man of his word. “Even though he considers me worthless, Janet is his fourth and last daughter. He promised her mother before she died that Janet could choose her own husband. She chose me.” The idea that someone as perfect as Janet wanted him still awed Duncan.

“Well, I hope you’re right,” Angus said, “else you’ve wasted three years of celibacy for naught.”

“She said she’d wait for me. Could I do any less?”

“Aye, well, ’tis different for men than it is for women. Men have urges. Or were you blind to those dark-eyed lasses.”

“Pagan women.” Duncan’s lip curled. Dark exotic creatures with sultry eyes and undulating hips. Many a Crusader had fallen prey to their seductive lures. Duncan had looked and lusted, but he’d not succumbed. He was made of sterner stuff, his self-control strong as tempered steel, thanks to the hard lessons beaten into him by Cousin Niall. Anxious as he was to see Janet, he was almost as anxious to watch Cousin Niall’s face when he beheld the fortune Duncan had garnered.

Cousin Niall would not be calling him worthless scum or son of a harlot. Not when he beheld Duncan, wearing the Crusader’s cross on his chest, his hands filled with jewels.

The prow of the boat came to a grating halt on the rocky coast. The sailors tumbled out and began to haul it up. As Duncan stepped ashore, his legs nearly buckled.

“Here now...” Angus grabbed hold of his arm to steady him. “You best take a room at the inn and rest up a bit till you’ve got your strength back.”

Father Simon hurried over to prop up his other side. “I could delay my journey to the monastery if you like.”

“Nay.” Duncan straightened and gently pulled free of their well-meaning hands. He hated being weak, hated asking another for help. He’d been on his own, more or less, since his mother drank herself to death when he was ten and Cousin Niall had grudgingly taken him in.

“’Tis my Christian duty,” Cousin Niall had proclaimed. But he’d made it very clear that Duncan was a most unwelcome burden. And a tainted one at that. That his favorite daughter had championed Duncan had made Cousin Niall all the more mean and spiteful...when she wasn’t looking, of course.

“I’ll be fine, Angus,” Duncan said. “I’ve coin enough to buy a swift horse and a thick cloak to replace this rag.”

“You know where I’ll be,” Father Simon said. “Should you be in need of help, send word to me.”

“Or to me,” Angus added.

Duncan nodded, knowing he’d do neither. Though they had been to hell and back together in the past three years, he couldn’t let down his guard, even with them. He’d even hated being tended by the Hospitallers.

They parted company at the edge of town. A week or so, Duncan figured, and he’d be at Threave, basking in Janet’s gentle love and watching her father eat his nasty words.

The fever came on him two days later, sneaky as an Infidel warrior. At first, he thought the weather was growing warmer. So warm he threw back his cloak and let the damp air cool his body. His mind drifted, back to Janet and the day he’d left Threave. How beautiful she’d looked, neat and serene as a Madonna in a crisp blue gown that matched her eyes. Those eyes were red from weeping, but she’d done her grieving in private.

Bless Janet, his calm, sweet Janet, who never uttered a harsh word or a hasty. one. They’d deal well together. They’d not shout and storm as his parents had. Nor would she disgrace him with her wild ways as his mother had after his father’s death.

The land began to heave and buckle. He had trouble staying upright in the saddle. And it was hot; So hot he fancied he was camped at the gates of Jerusalem. Mayhap this was all a dream, and he was not back in Scotland.

Alarmed, he roused and glanced about. The terrain was rugged as the Highlands of his mother’s birth, mountain peaks leaping from the rolling hills like giant beasts braying at the sky. Damn, but they were green. This must be Scotland, for no other place had such rich color. He saw the river then, rushing by but a few yards from the road. If he stopped for a moment to bathe his face, he’d feel better.

Duncan swung down from the saddle. His feet touched the ground, his legs buckled. This time there was no strong right arm to catch him. He snagged hold of his horse’s stirrup, groaning as pain ripped through barely healed muscles. When the world stopped spinning, he crawled to the riverbank and splashed water over his burning face.

Cool. Cool as the chaste kiss he’d given Janet when he’d ridden off on Crusade. Over the frenzied rush of the river, he heard a low, feral growl.

Dogs, he thought idly.

Looking about, he spied a dozen dark shapes emerging from the woods a hundred yards away. Cousin Niall’s hounds come to greet him. He stretched a hand out and waited while the animals slowly worked their way toward him.

Not dogs, he saw as they drew closer.

Wolves!

Duncan tried to stand, but his feet slipped and he went down, striking his head. Darkness closed over him.

Wolves!

Kara Gleanedin stopped and turned in a circle.

The sun was just disappearing behind the ring of mountains that surrounded Edin Valley on all four sides. Steep and forbidding on the outside, the mountains gave way to lush, rolling slopes inside the long glen that had been her clan’s home for generations. From her vantage point atop the pass that guarded it, she glanced down the valley.

Long shadows crept out from beneath the trees that covered the mountains. But the only thing moving on the grassy hillsides were the folk of Clan Gleanedin, laughing and playing as they stacked wood for the Samhuinn fires that would be lit three nights hence.

“What is it?” Eoin drew his long knife.

“Wolves.”

“Inside Edin?” It wasn’t unheard-of. Though the outside cliffs were too steep for men to climb, an occasional wolf was known to venture within to raid the tasty flocks of sheep that grazed on the slopes.

“I’m not sure.” Kara looked into the small fire beside the hut where the guards sheltered in inclement weather. Her gift—the portents that sometimes came to her—could not be summoned at will. But the feeling was so strong.

There, in the leaping flames, she saw them again. A pack of dark-furred beasts slinking across the field toward the river. Their quarry...

Kara’s eyes widened as the figure in the flames came clearer. A man lay on the bank of the river that flowed past the mouth of the valley. The sun glinted on his silver mail so he seemed to glow from within. His head was bare, black hair plastered to his skull. As she watched, he tried to rise, slipped and fell back, his fingers clutching the mud.

The wolves howled in glee, their faces...

Faces?

“Not wolves!” Kara exclaimed. “MacGorys in their wolf-skin capes.” She ran from the fire and the images she’d seen there. Her coarse woolen skirts swirled about her bare legs as she raced to the spot where they’d tied their horses.

Eoin kept pace beside her. “You’ve had a vision?”

“Aye. There’s a man on the flatlands beside the river. He’s hurt or wounded.” As she spoke, she swung onto her shaggy mount. “There’s a pack of MacGorys circling him.”

Eoin caught her reins. “It could be a trap.”

“Mayhap.” The MacGorys had tried most everything to conquer them, but the valley was protected from without by stout natural defenses. “Nay. He’s not one of them.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.” There was no logical explanation for her gift, except that all the women of her family had been special in some way. “Quick, gather the men.”

“Wait!” Eoin called.

“There’s no time.” Kara wheeled her horse toward the pass. Behind her, the others scrambled to catch up.

Heart in her mouth, Kara charged through the natural tunnel that bored through the mountain, the only way into the valley. A hundred frantic paces later, she emerged into the twilight on. a high cliff above the river. Looking below and to the left, she scanned the far bank.

Her eyes caught on a flash of silver and held.

“There! There he is!” Setting her bare heels into the mare’s ribs, she sent them careening down to the river in a hail of small stones. The ford lay just ahead. She splashed across it just as the MacGorys began to run. Hide capes flapping about them like great black wings, they hurtled toward the figure prone on the riverbank.

Too late. She was going to be too late.

An arrow whirred over Kara’s head, struck the lead MacGory in the throat and took him down. His fellow fiends turned, stared at Kara and her clansmen, then changed direction, coming toward them. Their obscene battle cry sent the birds screeching from the trees.

Eoin howled back a challenge of his own. “See to your stray, Kara,” he called. “We’ll carve up these—” The slur was lost in the pounding of hooves and the shouts of two score Gleanedins bent on revenge for the MacGorys’ first raid six months ago and the maiming of their laird.

Kara muttered a hasty prayer for their safety, then raced the short distance to the fallen man. He was stretched out facedown in the mud, a dirk clutched in one fist.

Was this some trap? Or did he cower in fear of the wolves?

“You can get up now, the wolves are but a pack of stinking MacGorys, and Eoin’s seeing to them.” When he didn’t respond, she gingerly nudged his hip with her bare foot. He didn’t twitch a muscle. Unconscious, she decided.

“Damn, you’re a big one.” He must be well over six feet tall, and weigh sixteen stone, at least.

Mayhap he’d hit his head and conked himself out.

Kara hunkered down beside him, staring at the blue-black waves of hair clinging to his neck. Warily she felt beneath his jaw to see if he lived. The jolt of his pulse against her flesh made her own heart stumble. She jerked her hand back, fingers tingling. “What the devil?”

The man remained silent, motionless. Had she imagined the odd sensation? Kara shook her head. Never mind. She had to get him away from here, and she’d not do it alone.

“Hello. Are you awake in there?” She tapped his back. The metal links of his shirt felt cold and slippery to the touch. What an odd garment. She prodded him again, harder.

“Argh! Are you trying to kill me?” He rolled over, coming to rest on his back, an arm flung over his face.

“Nay, I but wanted to make certain you were unhurt.”

“By poking me with hot pincers and leaving me in the desert to be eaten by wolves?”

“Wolves.” Kara whipped her head around, spotted the MacGorys fleeing across the grassy field with Eoin and her clansmen in swift, loud pursuit. “You need not worry about the wolves, they’ve been routed. What is your name?”

“Duncan. Hot...damn me, but it’s hot.”

Hot? A brisk October wind whistled down the mountain slopes, icing Kara’s skin beneath her simple skirt and tunic. “Are you sick?” she asked warily.

“Course not. Never sick.”

“Wounded, then?”

“Antioch.”

That must be a place, though not one around here. “Where on your body, Duncan.”

“Shoulder.”

She ran practiced hands over him and felt the thick bandage on the left one and pressed gently.

He groaned, a low, anguished sound.

“Does that hurt?”

“Nay. I will be fine. Just...just let me be.”

“Men, never wanting to admit you’re hurting,” Kara scoffed, on familiar turf now. She touched his cheek. “Well, you are burning up with fever and like to die if you stay here. Nor have you the strength to rise without help.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. In the gathering dimness, it was all stark planes and shadowy hollows, wide forehead, sunken eyes, straight nose and strong chin. “Don’t need help. Don’t want help.”

“Too bad, Duncan. We seldom get what we want.”

“Kara!” a voice called. Aindreas, captain of the night guard, was just coming on duty. “Hob says the lads are hunting MacGorys and ye’ve a hurt man. Do you need help?”

“Aye, bring torches and blankets,” she shouted back. “We’ll need to rig a litter to carry him.”

“Nay.” Her patient struggled to sit. She pushed him down with one finger and kept him there till the men came. As the torches closed in to bathe the area with golden light, she got her first good look at Duncan.

“Gods!” Kara exclaimed.

“Do you know him?” Aindreas drew his long knife and waved it in the stranger’s direction.

Only he was no stranger to her. “Put that away,” Kara said sharply. “We need no protection from him.”

“Who is he?”

“The man who will save us.”

“Really?” Aindreas leaned closer, looking appropriately impressed. “The one you saw in the Beltane fires this May?”

“The very same.” She sank down on her knees beside Duncan. “I am sorry I poked you.”

He glared up at them, his scowl deepening. “Heathens.”

Aindreas stiffened. “See here, now, no call to—”

“Pagan barbarians,” Duncan muttered. “Got to get away.” He surged to his feet with surprising strength for a man half-gone with fever.

“Duncan, let me help—”

He flung Kara’s hand off. “No help.” Wavering, he turned and started for his horse. “Got to get away.” What he got was two steps before his legs gave way.

Aindreas caught him and lowered him to the ground.

“Filthy pagans,” Duncan mumbled.

Aindreas glanced at Kara. “He’s an odd way about him for a man what’s come to save us.”

“Nevertheless, he has. The vision said so, and my visions never lie.” Kara rose with all the majesty she could muster, trying not to let on that Duncan’s vehemence had shaken her. “He will stay, and he will help us.”

Duncan was still protesting when Aindreas and the others carted him off.

It did not bode well for Kara’s plans.


Chapter Two

“Untie me,” Duncan ordered through clenched teeth.

“You are not well enough to be up and too stupid to realize it,” his captor said cheerily. She stood gazing out of the arrow slit that served as a window for the tiny wall chamber where they’d brought him two nights ago.

Duncan recalled little of it, his memories a jumble of wolves and torchlight and desert heat. Nay, that had been a fever dream. But he was recovered. “My fever has broken.”

“At dawn this morn,” she replied without moving. “But you are still so weak you fell when you tried to rise.”

“’Twas no reason to bind me to the bed,” he snarled. “I will not do so again.”

She turned and cocked her head in his direction. Bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, she resembled some pagan goddess. Her hair was wild and unruly, tumbling about her shoulders and down her back in a riot of dark curls. Where the sun struck them, her tresses glowed red as fine burgundy. Her face was more exotic than beautiful, golden cat’s eyes slanting above high cheekbones, a straight nose, full mouth and a stubborn chin that warned of her willful nature.

Even her name was strange and pagan. Kara Guenna, she’d told him she was called. Not Mary or Margaret after one of the saints. Or even a decent name like Jean or Janet. Janet, good Lord, she was as different from his cool, neat Janet as day from night. This Kara was not only dark and exotic, but immodest. Her coarse skirts came only to her calves, showing shapely legs.

Staring at her made Duncan’s skin grow warm again with a fever he knew too well. Desire. Deep inside him dwelt a bad seed Cousin Niall had not beaten into submission. Something in this wild girl called to the baser nature he’d inherited from his mother. Gritting his teeth, Duncan pulled on the ropes binding him to the bedposts. “Let me up.”

“You will get up when I say.”

A red mist obscured Duncan’s vision and he ceased struggling. “So, I’m a prisoner.”

“You are my patient.” Her voice was rich and low. Her hips moved in seductive swirls as she walked toward him.

Damn. Duncan shut his eyes.

“See, this argument has tired you.”

Ha. Duncan’s eyes flew open at the precise moment she stopped at his elbow. His nostrils filled with the scent of her. Not the sour stink of sweat and horses. That he’d have welcomed. Instead, she smelled of heather. Damn. He’d dreamed of heather when he lay fevered in the Hospitallers infirmary. Heather and home. It was almost obscene to smell it now, underlaid with the sweet muskiness of this pagan woman.

“I am not tired,” Duncan snapped. “I am outraged to think that you and your...your heathenish clan would waylay a Crusader knight returning from the Holy Lands.”

“What is a Crusader?” She sat on the bed beside him.

Her scent overwhelmed him. Duncan groaned.

“Did I jostle your wound?” she asked.

Eyes squeezed shut, jaw clamped so tight his teeth ached, Duncan nodded.

“I am sorry.” She slid to the stool she’d occupied when he’d awakened this morning. “What is a Crusader?”

“You’ve not heard of them?”

Wisps of curly hair flew about when she shook her head. She was so close he could see the freckles, sprinkled like cinnamon over her nose and cheeks, and the green flecks in her amber eyes. Witch’s eyes, he thought. Which explained a great deal but didn’t make him feel any easier about lying here.

“We Crusaders are knights who take the cross...”

“What cross? Where do you take it?”

“’Tis a figure of speech,” he grumbled. “We lay our hand on the cross, pledge ourselves to the glory of God and go to drive the Infidels from the Holy Lands.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “You are a priest?”

“At least you’ve heard of Christianity.”

She straightened. “Despite your slurs, we are not pagans, We...we just happen to follow the old ways, too.”

“You cannot be both pagan and Christian.”

“Father Luthais doesn’t mind, so why should you?”

“There is a priest here.” Relief washed through Duncan. “Fetch him to me.”

“Nay, I—”

“Fine, I will go to him.” He tugged on the ropes.

“He does not dwell among us, but in the priory in Kindo. And cease struggling, you will chafe your poor wrists.”

“Do not refer to me as poor.” Duncan sucked in air as her fingers grazed his inner wrist, brushing him with fire. It leapt along his veins like lightning igniting a summer sky. Every nerve in his body sizzled, every muscle contracted. Especially those over which it seemed he had no control at all. Thank the heavens for the thick blankets, else she’d have known.

“Stubborn man. I want only to help you.”

“Then let me go,” he growled.

“And most ungrateful. Father Luthais says we should give thanks to those who do us good.”

Lessons in civility from a little pagan. “I am grateful to you for saving me from...” He wasn’t exactly certain what.

“MacGorys.” She grinned. “Eoin and the lads killed four of the fiends and sent the others fleeing into the hills.”

He tried to imagine Janet, who fainted at the sight of blood, speaking of a battle with such relish. “Well, my thanks for your timely arrival. And for tending me through the fever, but I am expected elsewhere and cannot tarry here wi—” He suddenly recalled the pouch with the gemstones. “Where are my things?” he cried, raising his head and glancing about.

“There.” She pointed to the far corner, where his sword did indeed lean against the rough stone wall. “We are not robbers.”

“That remains to be seen. There was a bag hanging from my belt. It contained my papers and a few coins.”

The girl smiled and ran across the room, returning with the leather pouch. “Here is it.”

“Loose my hands that I may see all is intact.”

She scowled and clutched the purse to her heart. The action pulled her ugly brown gown tight across surprisingly full breasts. “We would not steal from you.”

“Why? You’ve no compunction about tying me up.”

She sighed. “Only to save you from harming yourself.”

“I have been looking out for myself since I was ten, and I will be the judge of what is right for me.”

Tears filled her eyes, magnifying their color. “You have no family,” she whispered.

He didn’t want her pity. “I have a cousin.”

“Surely he—or she—took you in. We’ve orphans aplenty in Edin, thanks to the scurvy MacGorys, but we look after our own.”

“Cousin Niall gave me a home,” Duncan said stiffly.

“He was mean to you.” She scampered over to the bed and plopped down again, enveloping him in a cloud of heather and woman. “Dinna worry. You have us, now.” She stroked his cheek.

Duncan set his teeth against the sudden tightness in his chest. ’Twas loathing, he told himself. “I do not want you.”

“Oh.”

She sat back, pain and confusion chasing across her expressive features. Did the girl hold nothing back?

“This is not at all the way it is supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Before she could reply, the door opened and the ugliest man Duncan had ever beheld ducked into the low-ceiled chamber. His face was seamed with wrinkles, his nose mashed to one side. Worst of all was the long scar running from his forehead to his right ear. ’Twas a wonder he’d not lost his eye.

“Fergie.” The girl launched herself at the man, who enveloped her in a bear hug. “I missed you so.” She cupped his cheeks with her hands and gazed adoringly at the battered landscape of his ruined features.

How could she hold that smile? Hardened as he was to battle scars, Duncan could barely stand to look at the man.

“And I you, lass.” Fergie kissed the top of her head, then draped a mammoth arm over her shoulder and sauntered to the bed. “Eoin said as how you’d dragged in another stray,” he exclaimed, his voice harsh as gravel in a cup.

“He name is Duncan MacLellan. Duncan, this is my uncle Fergie, laird of Clan Gleanedin.”

“Why’s he trussed up?”

Duncan had had enough of lying about while others stared at him. “Because she’s a nasty, bossy little witch,” he snapped.

Fergie threw back his gray head and roared with laughter. “That she is.” He wiped tears from his eyes.

“I am not, and ’tis for his own good.”

“That’s what they all say when they want a man to do something he doesn’t want to.” Fergie winked.

Sensing an ally, Duncan focused his gaze on the man’s eyes, for looking at the scars was both impolite and unsettling. “She’s tied me up and forced noxious potions down my throat.”

“Mmm. Cured you, though, didn’t she?”

Duncan grunted.

“Sometimes it’s handy having a witch about the place,” the girl said airily.

Damn, was she truly a witch? “I’ve already thanked her for nursing me through the fever. But I really have to leave.”

“He’s an orphan, Fergie, with no place to go.”

Duncan noted she called her formidable uncle by his first name, an honor Cousin Niall had denied his unwanted burden. “My cousin is expecting me.” Another lie he’d have to confess. For a man who seldom sinned, he was amassing a large debt.

“His cousin resents him,” Kara said.

Duncan started. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“Well.” Fergie rubbed a gnarled hand over the scar on his forehead. “I’ll admit another fighting man would be welcome.”

“I won’t fight for you,” Duncan insisted.

“He will.” Kara touched her uncle’s hand. “He’s the one,” she murmured. “The one I saw in the Beltane fires.”

“Really?” Fergie’s eyes widened, raking Duncan from head to bare feet and back. “Are you sure, lass?”

Kara nodded. “He was wearing the metal shirt and carrying the long dirk.” She pointed to the sword in the corner.

“See here,” Duncan shouted. “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

“You’re the one the gods have sent to save us,” Kara said.

Blasphemy. “The hell I am.” Duncan jerked on the ropes. “You people are all mad.” He tugged again, barely feeling the hemp cut into his flesh. “Mad. Let me go or I’ll—”

“Are you sure about this, lass?” Fergie asked again.

“Have my visions ever been wrong?”

Visions. Holy Mother, have mercy. Duncan’s heart was pounding so loudly he could scarcely hear. “Filthy pagans.”

“He doesn’t seem to like us much,” Fergie mused. “Hard to imagine him helping us.”

“He will.”

“I won’t.” Duncan seethed with rage and frustration.

“Leave it to me, Fergie.” Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his scarred cheek. “Was the hunting successful?”

“Aye. We took two roebuck. Dod and the others are skinning them in the courtyard. t should see they don’t make a hash of it, but if you need me to stay...”

“Nay. I’ll fetch his supper, then we’ll discuss things.” She gave her uncle a dazzling smile. “Men are always more reasonable on a full stomach.”

“Well...” Fergie scowled thoughtfully at Duncan, then shrugged. “You’ve never failed us yet.” He chucked her under the chin, then sauntered out.

Kara turned that brilliant smile on Duncan. “There’s fresh rabbit stew and boiled onions for supper. I’ll fetch you some.”

“I won’t stay...even if you ply me with roasted peacocks and almond paste.”

“I do not know what those things are, but you will stay.”

“You cannot make me stay,” Duncan snarled.

“I’ll wager I can,” said the little witch with a toss of her fiery curls. She walked from the room proud as a queen, her skirts swishing in time to the sway of her hips.

Despite his rage, the sight made an impression on the least discerning organ in Duncan’s body. Cursing it, and females in general, he went to work on the ropes. Imprisonment had been Cousin Niall’s favorite form of punishment, and Duncan had learned to rework knots at an early age.

He was determined he’d not be here when the witch returned.

Had she made a mistake? Was he not really the one?

Kara tapped a finger against her mouth.

He had not looked as large in her vision, nor as angry. In her vision, he’d smiled and laughed and looked on her with approval, not revulsion. But the clothes of silver metal and the long dirk were right. And the face...there was no way she could have mistaken it. Duncan had the rough-hewn features of a warrior and the eyes of a lonely child. Those troubled eyes called out to the healer in her. The rest of him, his big, muscular body, his ruggedly handsome face, awakened strong feelings of a different sort. Womanly feelings.

She’d never been drawn to a man before. Oh, she’d laughed and bantered with the men of the clan, and fluttered her lashes in fair imitation of her friend Brighde. But she’d never cared what any man thought of her.

Till now. She minded terribly that Duncan hated her.

Why did he? She’d risked her life to save his, nursed him through two days and nights, yet he sneered at her. Called her pagan and witch as though she were cursed.

Was he truly the one?

Kara stared at the leaping fire in the kitchen hearth. But no vision came.

“Here you are, then. There’s more if he can eat it,” added Black Rolly. He held out a tray set with a bowl of savory stew, brown bread and a cup of ale. The tray looked tiny in his big, warrior’s hands. He’d smashed his leg the same night Fergie had nearly lost his eye. She’d stitched them both up, not daring to hope they’d live. But they were strong and adaptable. With his fighting days over, Rolly had taking up something he liked. Cooking.

“It smells wonderful, but don’t be surprised if he can’t finish it all. He’s still recovering.” In his present state of rage, he might refuse to eat at all. She had to do something to change that. How were they to win against the MacGorys if their appointed savior refused to play his part?

She took the tray, then hesitated. In his youth, Rolly had left Edin to ride in Border raids against the English. He’d even been to King William’s court in Edinburgh and knew much of the outside world. “Rolly, do you know what a Cru...Crusader is?”

“Aye.” He leaned his bad hip against the worktable. “They’re knights who’ve sworn to free Jerusalem from the grip of the Infidels.”

“Are they bad people, these Infidels?”

“Worse than the MacGorys. They dinna believe in God.”

“Oh.”

“And they cut out the hearts of those who do.”

Kara gasped. “They must be fierce, indeed. He was wounded fighting them.”

“Duncan?”

Kara nodded. “He’s a strange man, full of pride and anger. For all he’s weak as a new colt, he hates having us do for him. I fear I had to tie him up to keep him from injuring himself, which only made things worse. He thinks we are pagans.”

“Some Crusaders have deep religious convictions.” Rolly told her briefly about the training a knight went through, and the vow he made before God when he was knighted. “They pledge to protect the weak and vanquish the oppressors.”

“That is good, we are being oppressed by the MacGorys. And we did save his life.” Kara repeated that as she trudged up the narrow stairs. If the one thing didn’t convince him to help, mayhap the other would.

She reached the second floor and found all was dark and shadowy. The torch at the near end of the corridor had burned out again. Poor Dod, Edin’s steward, was growing forgetful. When she’d finished with Duncan, she’d set one of Dod’s grandsons to replenishing the torches. Covertly, so Dod’s pride wasn’t hurt.

She nudged the door open with her hip, took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “Well, here we are....”

She stopped and gaped at the empty bed.

The savior of Edin Valley had slipped his bounds and fed.


Chapter Three

From his hiding place under the bed, Duncan listened with grim satisfaction to Kara Gleanedin’s gasp of dismay. The wood floor was cold on his bare chest and legs, but at least they’d left on his braies when they stripped him. He watched her stomp one foot, the ragged hem of her skirts twitching in agitation. The ripe oath that followed made him scowl. That a woman should know, much less utter such foul phrases.

“Damn and blast.” She stalked to the bed.

Had she seen him? Did she guess? He held his breath, wishing he’d had time to get to his sword, but her return had followed his escape by only moments.

Wood rattled on wood as she set a tray down on the stool where she’d sat vigil the past two nights. An unwelcome reminder of the debt he owed her. With one final curse, this time in Gaelic, she bolted from the room. He waited till her angry footfalls had faded away before he gingerly crawled out.

His shoulder throbbed, his legs were wobbly, his mind foggy, but he had no time to indulge such weaknesses. One hand on the rough, unpainted wall, he worked his way to his sword with the determination of a man pursuing the Holy Grail. Gripping the hilt made him feel better. He bent to retrieve the belt coiled neatly on the floor. The pouch was still attached to it.

Knowing he’d not rest easy till he saw the stones, Duncan took a few precious seconds to release the intricate metal clasp and open it. Inside were his few remaining silver coins. The silk lining of the pouch was intact. Then he saw that the stitches in one corner were made with black thread, not the red he’d closed it with when he’d hidden the gems behind the lining.

“Nay!”

He split the threads with the tip of his sword.

Empty!

He swore hoarsely, then tried to suck the words back.

Damn. Damn. Crushing the pouch in his fist, he glanced around the room. There was not much to see, an uncurtained bed with a chest at its foot, a table holding a fat candle and assorted small crocks. Crude woolen tapestries brightened the walls, but there was nothing concealed behind them. ’Twas a moment’s work to ransack the chest. It contained a few sets of woman’s clothes. Kara’s he supposed, for her scent clung to them. But she’d been smart enough not to hide her stolen loot there.

Likely she had it on her person.

Or she’d given it to her uncle.

Duncan spun toward the door, his hand tightening on the sword hilt. With the Gleanedins out beating the brush for him, he’d search their castle. But he needed clothes. Preferably his own. Anger fired his blood, but his skin was cold and pebbled. Snatching a blanket from the bed, he slung it around his waist and over the wounded shoulder like a toga.

The hallway beyond the door was gloomy as a crypt, with only a single torch burning at the far end. He scanned the length with an invader’s eye, noting the archway to his left where the stairwell came up, the pair of doors farther down the corridor. To search them, or escape while he could?

In the courtyard outside, he heard shouting and the excited trumpeting of horses. The sounds built to a wave of thunderous hoofbeats, then there was silence. They’d left.

Duncan grinned and headed for the next room.

Fergus Gleanedin, for this could only be his chamber, had few possessions, but what he had was well cared for. A polished claymore hung over the small hearth, where banked coals glowed. The bedside table held a candle and flask of fiery osquebae, the Scots breath of life.

Duncan took a moderate swallow, groaning as the liquid burned down his gullet and exploded into his belly. Ah, he’d missed that. It lent strength to his flagging muscles. False strength, but he’d take what he could get. Kneeling beside the trunk, he picked the lock with the tip of his dirk. Inside lay men’s garments, homespun but well made. He set them aside and probed lower, prying into a pouch containing less silver than he had and another with more personal treasures. A bit of waxed thread attached to a steel fishing hook. A ring bearing a crudely fashioned crest. A hunk of amber on a fine gold chain. One side of the ornament was jagged, as though it had been split asunder. Likely the reason it was in here and not about Fergus’s neck.

A private person by nature, Duncan found handling someone else’s goods put a bad taste in his mouth. But they’d stolen from him. Resolved, he lifted out the last item, a tiny casket. Inside were a few feminine bits of frippery, a small silver brooch. A set of bone hair comb. And the other half of the amber, likewise suspended on a chain. Fergus’s wife’s necklet? Was she dead, and that was why the laird no longer wore his?

Duncan dropped the necklace. Unease crawled through his belly, and he knew it wasn’t the whiskey.

“Enough of this sneaking about,” he muttered, replacing each item carefully despite his urgent desire to be free of them. Just because they were a dishonorable pack of thieves was no reason for him to lower his standards. He’d go below, find Fergus and demand the return of his rubies.

Filled with new resolve, and another swig of whiskey, Duncan marched to the door, opened it and stepped into the hall. After the sunlit chamber, it seemed even darker.

“Have you finished pawing through Fergie’s things?” drawled a familiar voice.

Duncan spun toward it, sword up, eyes narrowed.

A shadow moved, stepping into the spill of light from the room behind him. Kara, her chin up, her gaze scathing.

“Why aren’t you out looking for me?”

“Because I knew you’d never left.”

“How?”

“When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I recalled seeing your sword in the room. Only a fool would leave his sword behind, and you do not strike me as a fool. How did you get free?”

“I’m good with knots.” He locked his knees to counter a sudden wave of dizziness. “Clever girl. Now what have you done with my jewels?”

“Jewels?” Her alarmed gaze dropped to his crotch. “I didn’t know you were wounded there.”

“Where? Oh.” Duncan felt the heat crawl up his mostly bare chest. Suddenly he was aware of how close they stood, of the faint scent of heather swirling seductively in the air. “’Tis not proper for you to speak of such things.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

The word set off an alarming reaction in the very nether parts they were discussing. Duncan shifted and cleared his throat. “Aye, well, ’tis not what I meant and you know it.”

“I’m a witch, not a mind reader. Now my mother, Guenna, she always knew what a body was thinking. Very disconcerting.”

Duncan blinked. “Stop trying to change the subject. I want my rubies, and I want them—”

“I’ve not a single clue what they are. Rubies,” she added.

“Don’t be daft. Everyone knows what rubies are.”

“Well, I do not.” Her chin was up again, her eyes flashing. “And I’ll wager no one else does, either. We dinna see much of the outside world here.”

“But—”

“Kara, lass, have you found him?” Fergus’s voice echoed hollowly in the stairwell.

“Aye,” Kara called, looking back over her shoulder. “He’s up here—” The word ended with a squeak as Duncan snagged her and dragged her against him, one arm around her waist.

It was a mistake, for the lower swell of her breasts rested on his forearm and those sensuous hips he’d admired pressed into his. He tried to ignore those sweet curves, but his chilled body greedily savored the heat from hers. Before he could weaken, a herd of Gleanedins clattered up the stairs and crowded into the corridor, Fergus in the forefront.

“Stay back or I’ll run her through,” Duncan warned. He raised his sword, but kept it well clear of her slender neck, for his arm felt none too steady.

Fergus’s battered face went purple. “If you cut her—”

“He won’t harm me,” Kara said with absolute calm.

“And what is to stop me?”

“Aye, what?” Fergus asked, backed by a sea of white faces.

“His honor. He’s a Crusader knight, you know,” she said. “Black Roily says they are bound to show kindness and mercy to women and children. He’ll not harm me.”

Angered, Duncan spat, “Why should I show you mercy?”

“Well, aside from your knightly vows, I did save your life.”

Foiled by the shackles of honor. “So you could imprison me and steal from me?” Duncan watched Fergus’s face closely, but could detect no hint of guilt. One of the others, mayhap, but the crowd looked equally baffled.





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