Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone) Read online

  Unless he truly planned to kill her for her father’s sins... and what true justice was there in that? Revenge, although he had certainly entertained those notions, were not the reason he had agreed to this union. It was not his duty to conquer. It was his duty to protect the stone, and the best way to accomplish that was to stay out of petty wars.

  He gazed across the fire at her companions, wondering if their treatment of Lìleas were somehow a trick, a scheme to pluck at his heartstrings... for despite his resolve not to be affected by the lass, he sensed her torment just the same. It weighed the air around them like a black cloud... invisible but there... like Una’s visions—things he could not see with his eyes, but he could certainly feel them.

  “Why did you agree to wed me?” he asked suddenly, needing to know.

  She peered up at him, her violet eyes reflecting the bonfire. Tiny flames danced in her gaze. “I could ask the same of you?” she countered. And once again, her chin lifted defiantly.

  She was a quick little temptress with a depth of knowing in her eyes that unsettled him. But verra well, he would play her game if he must. “And to your mind... what would be the acceptable reply?”

  “For peace,” she professed without hesitation.

  Aidan nodded, suddenly at a loss for words, for while he wished to say the same, he had not brought her here for that reason. Vengeance was never truly his motive, he reassured himself once more, but somewhere inside a fire cooled at her answer. And yet her presence here at Dubhtolargg was only assurance that her father would not bear arms against them, so long as he valued his daughter. If he did not value her, then they held no advantage at all. She was simply a viper in their midst, spying for her Da and for David mac Mhaoil Chaluim.

  Could he afford to trust her?

  If she spoke the truth… could he wipe the bitterness from his heart and take her at her word? After all, she was right; she was not her father.

  Aidan felt the scrutiny of his clansmen acutely. As his brother had done, they would treat his bride as he treated her, following his lead. Until he knew more, he could not condemn her to his people’s discrimination, but neither could he signal them to be off their guard. In spite of the fact that Una’s prophetic words had moved many to accept her with a wary eye, not all were so convinced the daughter of their enemy could, in truth, be the salvation of their clan. But that was exactly as it should be. He studied her in silence, aware that all eyes were upon them.

  Despite her lovely features, her face was drawn with fatigue. At the moment, she was staring across the fire. Aidan followed her gaze.

  It had completely escaped his notice earlier that the man who had seized her by the arm was also wearing MacLaren colors. Her husband’s brother—information he had gleaned from Una. Those two—the laird of Keppenach and Aveline—were colluding... but the question remained: Was his lovely bride a part of their scheme?

  Time alone would tell.

  “It seems to me that ye would draw more strength in numbers,” Aidan remarked, curious as to why she stood alone when her brother by law and his company were present.

  Lìleas straightened, wrapping her plaid more tightly about her shoulders, and eyed him meaningfully. “I draw my greatest strength from solitude.”

  Damn. But she would fit right in with his saucy sisters, he thought. Never in all his life had he been dismissed so thoroughly. Though, in truth, he wasn’t entirely certain that’s what she had done, it certainly felt like it. Had she been any other woman at any other given time, he would have obliged her at once. However, duty kept him rooted to the spot.

  The tension in the air crackled like the pinewood at the center of the flames. Across the fire, the pair in question turned to look at them, and discomfited by Aidan’s scrutiny, once again averted their gazes as though his attention made them uncomfortable.

  “Who is the woman?” Aidan asked.

  As nothing else had, the question seemed to deflate her. She sighed and peered down at her feet. “My lady’s maid. She is to tend me.”

  Aidan lifted a brow. “Seems to me she has her duties confused.”

  A tiny burst of surprised laughter escaped her lips, and she turned to look at him then.

  In that instant, there was no guile in her expression at all. Despite the tension in their discourse, she smiled softly and lifted her chin. “I am quite certain her duties are clear to her, my lord.”

  “Aidan,” he insisted. “Though if ye canna bring yourself to speak my name, at least use the Scots word. I can stomach it far better.”

  “Laird,” she replied, and in that moment, she appeared for all the world a martyred bride.

  Because she is, he reminded himself.

  And still, unlike most men even, she held his gaze, her violet eyes haunted and beautiful. Not for the first time, they spoke to him in a way that made him feel wholly uncomfortable. Though, damn it, if he considered her plight, it would pull at his heartstrings and he could simply not allow that to happen.

  Arms crossed, his gaze was drawn again across the fire toward her companions. The reed played on, children laughed, and every knowing eye remained fixed upon them.

  Mayhap his heart was not so steeled against her as he’d thought and he felt a new peril rising, one that had little to do with the distant ring of battle swords.

  It was not too late to send her home, he told himself.

  It was the Highland custom to enact a trial marriage. A woman, or a man, could renounce a spouse at any time, but for the first year it was understood the marriage was provisional... to be certain, especially in the case of a chieftain, that his wife could bear him a son. But he was not obligated to hand fast with this maiden. He could send her home before they spoke the words, and right now, that was his inclination... except...

  His gaze scanned the gathering, searching for Una.

  As elusive as the old woman could be at times, she was always around when he needed her. However, tonight she was nowhere to be found, and his skin prickled with annoyance.

  Once again he considered the lass at his side, torn.

  She was beautiful standing there, her face awash with golden light, her dark hair bound in a healthy braid down her back. Her lashes were long and her lips looked soft and lush. He longed to see what she wore beneath the arisaid. The simple fact that she had changed out of that ridiculous gown she had arrived in pleased him immensely, for now she appeared the same as any of the women of his clan.

  She glanced up at him, her violet eyes speaking to him still, words his mind did not comprehend, but his heart seemed to understand nevertheless... and he felt disquieted. Despite everything he knew, he yearned to make her feel welcome, wanted to let his kinsmen know he accepted her—at least for the moment—but he found himself at a loss for words. And though his fingers itched to unclasp his own plaid from his shoulders and offer it to the lass instead of the one she wore, he held them fast at his side.

  She was his enemy’s daughter.

  Soon she would be his wife.

  Which of the two should he acknowledge when he looked into her eyes?

  Chapter Six

  “Aidan!”

  The voice belonged to Aidan’s youngest sister. Ill at ease with guests in their midst, Aidan’s hand flew to the hilt of his dagger, ready to leap to Sorcha’s defense. Alone, she ran toward him, sweat pasting her chestnut-colored hair to her face. Clutching her skirt in her hands to keep from tripping in her haste, her face was a mask of distress as she came to a breathless halt beside them, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

  Aidan drew the dirk from his belt, but Sorcha pushed it back. “Nay, Aidan!” she cried. “I went to see Dunc,” she explained before he could jump to conclusions. “To see if he was well enough to attend the celebration. He’ll no’ waken! His minny weeps at his side for fear of the sweating sickness. Now I canna find Una—what shall I do?”

  Aidan was about to set out toward the weaver’s hut, but Lìleas touched his sister upon the shoulder. “What ails
the child?”

  His sister’s cheeks were flushed with exertion and her face contorted with worry and fear, though she did not recoil from Lìleas’ touch—a fact that would have raised Aidan’s brow were he not contemplating young Duncan’s plight. Of all his sisters, Sorcha had been the most furious over Catrìona’s abduction, blaming David for stealing her elder sister from her bed. While Lael and Cailin were much closer in age to Cat, Sorcha had looked to Cat as a mother as well. Lael might be the eldest, but she was hardly maternal in nature.

  “I dunno,” Sorcha exclaimed, shaking her head. “Like the rest, the sickness came quickly. His fever began only this morn.”

  “Will you take me to him?” Lìleas asked, and Sorcha nodded without hesitation. Lìleas turned suddenly, meeting Aidan’s gaze directly. “May I?” Her hand automatically touched his bare arm and he felt her touch like a pulse of lightning.

  Aidan hid the shiver that coursed through him and fought the urge to move his arm out of her reach, as though her fingers burned his flesh. But his body reacted with a vengeance, hardening his shaft like a poppet on a string.

  He stared at her a moment too long, unsettled, and then peered down at the slim fingers resting upon his arm. She too must have peered down because their gazes lifted at once and the sincerity in her violet eyes took him by surprise.

  For a moment, his brain was too muddled to think clearly.

  She was asking him to allow her to go help Duncan.

  She was a noteworthy healer, he reminded himself. He didn’t trust her, but neither could he deny Duncan her healing prowess. When finally he was able to shake off his stupor, he nodded, bemused, and watched her hie away with Sorcha.

  Once she removed her fingers from his flesh, Aidan felt the separation acutely—like a man whose arm had been lopped off. The sensation startled him.

  “This way!” Sorcha demanded, and his lovely bride went chasing after his youngest sibling without sparing another word or glance for Aidan... as though she were completely unaware of the way her touch had affected him.

  Confused, Aidan held back only another instant, then followed, half expecting a Caimbeul spawn to continue where her father left off—only picking them off one by one, beginning with the children first.

  But she wouldn’t dare.

  Surely she wouldn’t dare.

  He picked up his pace, assuring himself that, woman or nay, if the damned enchantress dared to harm a single hair upon the boy’s head he would toss her, along with that siùrsach—whore lady’s maid—and her brother by marriage into the bonfire. Aye, and then they would turn the celebration into a funeral and burn them all upon a pyre.

  Lìli struggled to keep up.

  All she could think of in that instant was that a child lay ill and it could very well have been her son. She hoped to God someone would return the favor were Kellen in need and it filled her with grief to know that she would not be at his side if he called out for her in the middle of the night.

  Somehow, she must find her way back to him.

  As she hurried away from the bonfire, she tried to keep up without twisting her ankle. It was difficult to find her step without faltering along the rocky terrain. Hurrying behind Sorcha, she was blind to the glances Aidan’s kinsmen gave them as they hurried into the lowering night. In her concern for the child, she was oblivious, as well, to the fact that her betrothed was marching like a henchman at her heels.

  “What can you tell me of the illness?” she asked Sorcha.

  “No’ verra much. It begins with fever and shivers, and then I’m told, terrible sweats.”

  That description could be most anything, Lìli fretted.

  “So Duncan isna the first?” she asked, tripping over a small rock along her path.

  Far more surefooted and rushing up the hillside like a woodland sprite, Sorcha answered without looking back, “Nay.”

  “How many before?”

  “Three.”

  “How many recovered?”

  “None.” The girl peered back at Lìli with a sense of foreboding in her clear blue eyes, though she didn’t stop, and neither did Lìli, despite that it occurred to her suddenly to worry over contagion.

  “Is anyone else ill in this particular house, Sorcha?”

  “Nay,” the girl replied, and finally she stopped before a small cottage way up on the hillside and threw open the door.

  Inside, amidst a circle of flickering candles, a young woman with black hair sat upon her knees at the bedside of a young child, weeping softly. Lìli took in the boy’s appearance first. His hair was soaked and plastered to his face. He reminded her of Kellen, with his dark hair and long lashes that fell thickly upon high cheeks. His skin was ashy, but not gaunt, proof that his illness was not long and lingering. In spite of the pallor of his skin, he appeared to Lìli like a well-fed, healthy child. Sorcha claimed he’d fallen ill only this morn. What sort of illness came so quickly and spared no lives?

  The mother’s eyes lit first upon Sorcha, but now she peered at Lìli and her eyes widened with alarm. “Nay!” she cried, rising up to face them. “You stay away from my child!”

  “Glenna, she only wishes to help,” Sorcha pleaded in Lìli’s behalf. She stood between them to keep the woman at bay. “Remember, Una said she was a skilled healer?”

  The woman was lovely, but Lìli did not wish to anger her for she was quite tall and thickly built. “Nay!” the mother persisted, and then attempted to sidestep Sorcha to get at Lìli. “She will kill us all given the chance—just like her Da!”

  Lìli started at the accusation. Until this instant, she had not precisely placed herself in these people’s shoes. All her life she had felt persecuted by these folk, despite having never known them. Their curse had followed her like a devil’s hound. But for once, she considered what her father might have done to earn such hatred—a hatred so impassioned that they would curse a man’s firstborn child. Until this instant, she had considered herself a casualty of men’s politics, and whatever her father had done only typical for men playing at war. But like Rogan, her father could be cruel. She realized that better than anyone. However... war brought out the worst in both sides, did it not? She was as much a victim as any other.

  The young mother glared at her, and Lìli resisted the urge to shrink back out of the cottage door, somehow sensing it would gain her little respect among these folk.

  In her hysteria, the woman shoved Sorcha aside. “I said nay!”

  Lìli swallowed. She would not fight this woman, but neither did she intend to leave if she could help the poor boy. Her gaze fell to the child lying abed, examining him from afar while the mother railed at her, saying what Lìli had no clue for her attention was now on the son.

  A rush of cold air blew in as the door opened once again and a deep voice boomed from the doorway. “Enough!” The woman hushed at once. “Allow her to tend the child,” Aidan demanded.

  “Nay, Aidan!”

  His tone brooked no argument. “If she can help, Glenna, allow her to do so.”

  To some degree, Lìli was accustomed to that ambivalent look, for so often her patients were torn, needing help, yet fearing her nonetheless. Very often, if she could speak with them alone, they soon came to realize that she was simply a woman, nothing more. Trading kindness for animosity had always served her well. No matter what their differences, they were both ultimately the same—mothers who worried for their children.

  Reluctantly, Glenna stepped aside.

  Grateful for Aidan’s interference, Lìli moved past the worried mother and bent at once, putting her hand to the boy’s forehead. His fever raged, burning his flesh. Forsooth, but she could have baked an egg upon his cheek so hot was his skin to the touch! She peered up at the mother, looking beyond the hatred to the terrified woman behind the dove gray eyes. “Did his belly trouble him at all?”

  The woman wrung her hands, peering at Aidan for reassurance. She turned to look at Lìli and for a long moment simply gazed at her. She must have
read the truth in Lìli’s gaze—that she simply wished to help—because she shook her head at long last.

  “Could he have eaten something sour?” Lìli persisted.

  The woman shook her head again, and then came forward to stand beside Lìli, her motherly concern outweighing her enmity. “Nay,” she said. “He was fine. He simply said he felt cold. Then the fever followed. There was no vomiting, nor did he move his bowels, but he has been shivering just so for hours.”

  Lìli nodded, lifting the boy’s shirt, inspecting his belly.

  “No rashes,” the mother offered quickly, understanding instinctively what it was that Lìli was searching for. Lìli glanced at his hands, and then his feet, and then felt the area beneath his arms and about his neck. There were no telltale bulbous, but his skin was damp and the bedclothes were soaked with this sweat.

  “No bites either?” she asked the mother.

  Glenna shook her head no, her eyes full of anguish, and then she knelt beside Lìli, grasping her son’s hands into her own. “He’s my only son. His Da is gone. He’s all I have. Please,” she begged.

  The child slept the sleep of the dead, as though he were already gone. But his breathing, though quick and shallow, was steady, Lìli noted. “How long has he been this way?”

  The mother sniffed back a sob. “Hours now. I have not left his side.” She peered up at Lìli. “I wanted to go for help, but dared not leave him alone.” She peered back at her son. “Thank God for Sorcha!”

  Counting the woman’s cooperation as a small victory, Lìli asked, “Has he eaten or had anything to drink since he became ill?” While many believed it was best to sweat out impurities and not to introduce the possibility of more, Lìli knew through experience that the sick craved water, and she believed God would not allow a body to crave something it should not have.

  “Nay,” the mother replied.

  No doubt, that was a good part of his exhaustion, Lìli was certain. “Have you any vin aigre?” she asked. Lìli used the bitter concoction for many things, but it seemed to help rid the body of infections at times like this. Indeed, if she held any sort of magic at all it was the knowledge of the vin aigre potion, for it cured all manner of ills.