Текст книги "Highland Daydreams"
Автор книги: April Holthaus
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 11 страниц)
Chapter 3
Bram’s head perked up when he heard the sound of a stick breaking under one’s foot. With pure instinct, he rose, ready to defend himself. As he stood with fists tightened, Lara entered the barn holding onto a trencher of food and drink. The tray was full of dried venison, bread, and a small-sized mug of whiskey. Bram silently thanked the heavens for the whiskey.
“I thought ye might be hungry,” she whispered keeping her head low as if she were a servant offering up a meal to a king.
“Aye, I am,” he answered.
As he reached out for the tray, her hands began to tremble.
“I’ll no’ hurt ye lass,” he whispered, hoping to ease her mind. Noticing that she continued to keep her head down, Bram wondered if she was afraid of him. She was not like the women that usually caught Bram’s eye. This lass was scrawny, small chested, and her skin was as pale as sheep’s wool. Her long black hair was a dull tangled mess.
Thinking back over the past two weeks, Bram had to admit that he had not paid much attention to her. The lass often hid in the dark corner of her cell and kept to herself. Bram knew that whatever her reason for imprisonment, it was none of his business. Only now did he begin to feel guilt and shame for not intervening on her behalf. After all, the lass had saved his life, and no woman he had ever known had shown such bravery as this daring lass had. But he accepted that he could not have saved her any more than he could have saved himself. Whatever the reason, she seemed more resilient and resourceful then he had given her credit for. And now with her cowering before him, he wondered if it was his appearance that frightened her so. Bram promised himself that before returning to his own homestead, he would safely see her home and back into the arms of her family.
Bram gently took the tray from her and set it near his pallet on the floor. He sat back down and ate every small morsel on the tray while Lara quietly stood motionless. It had been what seemed like forever since he’d had a real meal. His last food had been meat from a dead mouse the guards had given him, but it only resulted in the mouse coming back up along with the other contents of his stomach. With his belly full, and the slight relief he got from the whiskey, he looked back at Lara who was now looking at him wide-eyed as if she were witnessing a wild animal devouring its meal.
With her mouth agape, Lara stared at Bram. The moonlight shined through the barn door allowing her a better view. Hunched over on the ground, he ate as wildly as a starved animal. His eyes looked fierce yet his face displayed a look of pity. His cheeks and chin were covered by a thick tawny beard making it hard for Lara to see what he truly looked like under the mass of hair. He was bare chested wearing nothing but his kilt.
Lara did not recognize his clan because the colors were faded and worn. His bulky arms showed off his sculpted muscles and his chest had a small patch of hair that curled around over his sternum. Lara’s eyes trailed lower to his stomach. At the sight of it, Lara bit her bottom lip when she saw a scar across the side of his gut that looked as if it should have taken the life from him. It was deep, still showing some areas that hadn’t yet scabbed over, and would create a permanent scar. Across his shoulders were streaks of dried blood and specs of dirt and sand. She watched as he struggled to move freely.
“Ye are injured,” she said as she stepped closer to him, wanting to examine his wounds.
“I am fine,” he replied.
“Nay, ye are covered in blood and I am sure that yer wounds will become infected if they are not mended and washed properly,” Lara insisted.
Before he could protest, Lara grabbed a rag that hung on a rusty nail and dipped it inside a bucket containing rain water. Wringing it out, she walked back to Bram and cautiously sat down next to him. Sitting so close, she could feel the heat radiate off his skin. It caused her to worry that he may already have succumbed to fever.
It was only due to her concern for him that she made the bold move. She did not know what came over her or where she gained the courage to be so presumptuous. But she had seen a great deal of battle wounds before and what happened to them when not mended properly.
“Lie down on yer stomach,” she instructed.
Bram looked at her awkwardly, wondering where the quiet and shy lass had gone.
“Go on now,” she ordered.
Not wanting to argue, Bram rolled over and laid flat, resting his head on his arms. Without touching him, Lara examined his wounds. She was thankful that the welts and gashes were not as bad as she had imagined, for she had no salve to put on them. She lifted the cloth in her hand and gently dabbed it on his wounds. Bram winced.
“Does it hurt? I am sorry. I am trying to be as gentle as I can,” Lara said, worried that the pressure she applied was too much for him to bear. She tried to press softly but perhaps he was in more pain than he would admit.
“Nay, lass. ‘Tis only cold.”
Lara let out a sigh of relief and continued to minister to his wounds while her other hand rested firmly on his shoulder.
“May I ask...why were ye imprisoned?” Lara whispered quietly.
She prayed it wasn’t because of some evil deed such as rape or murder. She waited several moments for him to answer.
“A month or so ago, I was in Falkirk battling the English alongside William Wallace when I was injured. I was knocked unconscious and unable to defend myself. When I woke, I was bound in irons. After a week they moved me to Cumberland where ye were.”
“William Wallace! Are ye a Highlander then?” she asked, though there was no doubt in her mind that he was. His muscular size, long hair, and plaid told her all she needed to know.
Her father had told her grand stories when she was young about the Highlanders; how they treated their women and favored their drinks. He said that Highlanders were selfish beasts and cared for their women like Englishmen would care for their cattle. Lara wondered if Bram would have treated her differently had she not saved him. She also wondered had she known he was a Highlander from the start whether she, too, would have made a different choice. Either way, for now all they had were each other.
“Aye, lass. I be a Highlander.”
Bram kept his eyes closed tight. It was not the pain or the coolness of the water that bothered him. It was Lara’s hand that had troubled him so. It was soothing and made his blood run hotter. With his head to the side he stared at her exposed legs, then to her waist, but dared not to look any higher. Bram sat up and took the cloth out of Lara’s hand.
“I havnae had a chance to thank ye, but I must ask, why did ye do it? Ye risked yer life, saving mine. Ye also took a man’s life, which couldnae have been easy on ye. If ye’d waited another moment or two, ye would have been caught.”
“I have prayed and repented to God many times for taking that guard’s life, but it was either his or mine. I saved ye because,” her voice trailed off as if she was uncertain herself why she had saved him.
“Aye?” he said encouraging her to finish.
“Because of yer fearlessness. Ye withstood every lashing and still stood proud. It was yer honor and strength that I admired and I couldnae let ye die there. It was worth the risk,” she replied hoping she did not sound too naïve.
“Then I owe ye my life, my lady,” he vowed.
Taking her hand in his, he lifted her hand to his lips, and placed a soft kiss on the back of it. Lara quivered at his touch and quickly snatched her hand back. She was shocked that he dared to touch her so intimately.
“I make a promise to ye lass. I will do all I can to see ye safely home.”
Lara smiled in return for his generous offer.
“Yer wounds are healing nicely and dinna show any sign of infection,” she informed him.
“Thank ye. Ye must have much experience to ken such things. Are ye the healer in yer clan?” he asked, hoping to learn more about her.
Lara softly giggled. “Nay, I am no’ a healer. My father would no’ allow it but I used to watch my mother tend my father’s battle wounds so I have seen much in the art of healing.”
“Used to?” he asked. “Does yer mother nay longer tend to him?”
Lara’s face went flat. The memory of her mother caused Lara to feel sad as if Mam had just died all over again.
“Me mother died when I was ten and two,” she explained.
Bram felt guilty for asking the question. He did not mean to bring up such bad memories. Her saddened expression pulled on his heartstrings. He wanted to comfort her but knew not how to proceed. He had no experience with comforting women in loss or matters of the heart. He wondered what else the poor lass had endured. Bram turned his head and looked at her for a moment.
Wanting to change the subject and the unpleasant atmosphere his question had caused, he asked, “And what crime did ye commit against the English?”
Lara’s throat constricted, causing her to swallow hard. She had hoped to avoid the question as it was too unbearable to talk about. Her lungs tightened as if the air had thinned.
In a stern voice, she replied, “I did nay such thing. My only crime was that I was powerless to stop it.”
Noticing the sorrow in her voice, he apologized.
“I did no’ mean to cause ye distress, my lady.”
Wiping a tear away, she stood and brushed the dirt from her skirt, distracting her mind from the haunting images that crept within.
“Can I ask, why dinna yer clan or father no’ come fer ye?”
“I dinna think my father kens. I nay longer live wit me father,” she explained.
“Where is yer family?”
“My clan lives at Stearns Castle. My father is Laird of our clan.”
“And what clan be that?”
“Clan Fergusson.”
Bram began to feel uneasiness in his stomach by her revelation. The MacKinnons were not allies with the Fergusson clan nor were they allied with many of the Lowland clans. The Lowlanders had given their allegiance to the English King, Edward, Bram’s people’s greatest enemy.
“Who take cares of ye lass, if no’ yer father?”
Bram could see hurt in her eyes from whatever image his words brought to mind. And whatever it was, it frightened her. With his thumb, he wiped away a tear that had slowly crept down her cheek. Her skin was soft under his rough, calloused hands.
“What’s the matter, lass? What happened to ye?” he asked, but she gave him no reply.
Mayhap she was afraid to speak the truth. Or perhaps whoever her caregiver was, they were the one responsible for giving her over to the English. Bram silently cursed the person who had done any wrong by her.
With dread, he asked again, “Were they the ones who gave ye over to the English?”
“Aye. But I wish to no’ talk about it,” she said in a faint whisper.
Bram’s eyebrows furrowed and a deep scowl replaced the smile on his face. How could someone do that to such a sweet, young, and innocent lass? Surely they must have known what the English would have done to her. Had he known who the person was, he would make certain that they suffered the same fate tenfold.
“I promise ye lass that ye are safe wit me. No harm will come to ye while ye are under my protection. I will make sure ye make it safely home to yer clan.”
“And what of ye? Will ye return to yer family as well?”
“Aye.”
“Do ye live in the far north of the Highlands?”
“Aye. Dunakin Castle is along Loch Alsh just south of the Isle of Skye. My clan settled there more than a century ago.”
“And what of yer family? Yer father, yer mother?” Lara asked, curious to understand more about her docile warrior.
“My father is dead and my mother is still verra much alive. And my brother, Rory, is Laird of our clan.”
“Brother? Ye are the laird’s brother?” Lara asked thinking all this time that he walked the earth like a nomad, a warrior who fought for the freedom of others, never imagining that he had a family.
“Aye.”
Hesitantly, she bit her lip and asked, “And yer wife?”
Bram laughed at her question.
“I be no’ married lass and nay lass would want to marry me. But, I do have me two young lads, Connor and Colin.”
“I apologize, I assumed.”
“Tis alright.”
For some reason the thought of him not being married made Lara inwardly smile.
“Ye must miss them terribly.”
“Aye, I do.”
Looking out the doorway, Lara thought to return inside before their hostess thought they had run off.
“I think I should return to the croft... I trust ye can finish the rest?” she said, looking at the dried blood still staining his shoulders and chest.
“Aye. Thank ye” he replied.
“Yer welcome.”
Chapter 4
Hours passed. Bram lay upon his pallet trying to piece together Lara’s story about how she came to be in the hands of the English. It was not very often that the English would imprison a woman in the dungeons along with the men. Imprison them, yes, but they were usually held in private rooms or in cages to be put on public display. Bram thought that she must have committed some extraordinary crime that she was unwilling to admit to be treated as such. Perhaps she’d committed treason against the king or killed an Earl. She had taken one man’s life with no regard, was it conceivable that she had taken another?
It seemed impossible that she could have killed any man for that matter. If Bram had not witnessed it for himself he would never have believed it. She was a vexing and tricky wench, he thought, admiring her audacity.
With his mind racing, Bram tried to settle his thoughts. Looking around the small barn, the room was filled with hay, feed for the chickens, and four stalls; two of them had a horse in each quietly grazing on a pile of hay. He also noticed a long work table with a stack of blades of various sizes along the back wall in the other abandon stalls. He was not surprised; Rowena had mentioned that her husband worked as a blacksmith. Stroking his hand down his long thick beard, Bram stood up and walked over to the barrel of water Lara had used to tend his wounds.
Needing to wash off the remaining dirt and dried blood, he dunked his head, shoulders and chest into the barrel until they were fully submerged in the water. The cool water offered some relief from the hot and humid summer night. Lifting out of the water, he tossed his long wet hair back over his shoulders. Drops of water cascaded down his beard and back, causing a prickling shiver down his spine. He then dipped his tunic into the water and rinsed off the blood and dirt though little would wash away. The stain had already begun to set in. Wringing the tunic out so that water was no longer dripping, he hung it over the wall of one of the stall doors to dry.
Snatching up one of the small blades and a whetstone which had been placed next to the stack, Bram carefully rubbed the stone along the blade’s edge to sharpen it. Once he was satisfied the blade was good and sharp, he ran the blade down his face to remove the unwanted hair. Next, he cut his hair so that it hung no longer than his shoulders.
Once he finished, Bram placed the blade down onto the table and laid his weary body back down onto the pallet, hoping for a few hours of sleep before the sun rose. Closing his eyes, he allowed sleep to take him and he drifted off into a heavy slumber.
It felt like only an hour since Bram had fallen asleep when the sounds of the horses awakened him. He looked towards them wondering what had caused them to become so riled, as they stirred in their stalls. As he looked around the barn, he spied a wee lad, no more than seven or eight, who had entered and had been watching him as he slept. Taking a step back, the lad looked at him cautiously.
“Why do ye look like that?” the lad asked as he teetered back and forth along wooden beam.
“How do I look?” Bram smirked wondering which the lad referred to, his size or his scars.
“Like ye were attacked by wolves. I saw a wolf once. I was no’ afraid of him though,” the lad replied puffing out his chest as if he was showing off his muscles. Immediately he continued, “He was big like ye are. He killed one of our sheep. Would have killed another if it were no’ fer my da. He bested him wit a shovel. Hit him over the head. If I’d had me a shovel, I would have hit him too,” he proclaimed, swinging his arm back and forth as if he had some imaginary shovel in his hand. “By the way, me name is Tavish. What’s yers?”
“Bram. Ye must be a brave warrior, Tavish,” Bram chuckled giving the young lad a sense of pride.
“No’ yet. But someday I will be a great warrior and I will kill all sorts of wolves. Are ye a warrior? Ye wear colors like one,” he said eyeing Bram’s kilt.
Bram looked down at his kilt. It no longer represented the brilliant colors of red and green that the MacKinnon Clan proudly wore but now displayed a dull hue of faded colors.
“I am,” he admitted.
The lad smiled at him as if he was proud just to be in Bram’s presence. Attacked by wolves? Bram chuckled at the lad’s imaginative assumption. Even though that was not what had happened, the brutal treatment he’d received in the dungeon was comparable in nature to those of vicious wolves.
Just then an older man entered the barn. Tavish jumped down from the beam and ran past him back outside as if he would have been scolded for being there. Dressed in a stained tunic and dusty trews, the man raised a brow to Bram.
“Good day, Lad. My wife tells me ye are here to work for that pallet she had offered ye and the lass,” the man said holding onto a small wooden bucket full of nails and a mallet.
“Aye,” Bram replied reaching for his tunic, which had dried in the warm night air, and still hung over the stable wall. Donning his tunic, he stood up to greet the man properly.
“Good. Ye can start by helping me mend this roof. A storm like the devil’s rage blew through here two nights ago; ripped it almost completely off. There are many planks that need replacing and I can no’ do it myself. Me name is Innes and that wee hellion that just ran out like a windstorm was me son, Tavish.”
“My name is Bram. And aye, yer son just introduced himself to me. For yer wife’s gracious offer, I am glad to help ye.”
Bram worked hard throughout the morning. He cut wood as instructed, of various shapes and sizes to fix the roof and the damaged fences. He then gathered bundles of reeds and thick straw, binding them together with rope and stacking each bundle high on top of wood beams erected to provide better shelter for the horses.
Sweat beaded across his forehead. Using the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his brow. The sun was high and not a cloud in the sky to offer him shade. Even if it had been a cooler or cloudier day, he would not be able to avoid the heat and his sore muscles.
“My last farmhand did no’ work as hard as ye. Ye have me working to the bone and my body is in need of a break. Ye can stay here while I go fetch us some whisky. My mouth is as dry as the bark of a tree,” Innes cracked a smile and climbed down the ladder.
Bram continued mending the roof until Innes returned with the two mugs of whiskey. Taking the mug from Innes, he held it in both hands, drinking slowly, savoring every drop. It was not the best whiskey he had ever had, but it tasted like sweet nectar in this moment. He did not remove the cup from his lips until he had swallowed every last drop of .
As Bram and Innes returned to hammering the last few planks and beams on the roof, Innes spoke of his family, his work as a blacksmith, and the love he had for his wife. As for Bram, he mentioned little of himself.
Chapter 5
Lara awoke after the sun was already high in the sky. Sunlight filtered in through the open curtains like seams of gold. She could feel the daylight on her skin. Her eyes had not seen sunlight in weeks and they were stung by its brightness. Stretching out her arms, she rolled over her bed of blankets and sat upright.
Following a long-winded yawn, she wiped the sleep from her eyes and looked around the small living quarters. In the middle of the room stood a very tall and husky grey-haired man staring down at her with two mugs in his hands. Lara could feel her body stiffen with nervousness. Like a scared rabbit darting for cover, Lara grabbed onto the blanket and threw it over her shoulders like a shield hoping it would offer her some protection. Lara’s eyes darted back and forth between the man and Rowena who was sitting down at a table kneading dough at the far end of the room, unaware of their interaction. Nervously, her grip on the blanket tightened.
“Good afternoon to ye, lass,” the man cheerfully greeted.
“A...Afternoon?” Lara stuttered.
Lara knew that she had been completely exhausted but never would have dreamed that she would sleep so late in the day. Had they been watching her sleep? Lara could feel her cheeks heat and no doubt stain dark crimson in color.
The man smirked and let out a soft huff. Lara did not at all see the amusement in furthering her humiliation.
“Well my dearest wife, I will go check on the lad out in the barn while ye attend to the lassie,” the man said as he kissed Rowena on the cheek and walked out the front door.
“That be my husband, Innes. Well now that ye are finally awake, why dinna ye tell me why ye are so far from home?” Rowena asked, as she continued flattening and rolling the ball of dough in her hands.
“How do ye ken I am far from my home?” Lara shakily asked, worried that Rowena had recognized her or perhaps knew that she had escaped from the English dungeon.
“Because ye are here and no’ there,” she replied, looking at Lara from underneath her long lashes.
Lara could see the suspicion in Rowena’s eyes but pretended not to notice. As Lara stood up from the floor, she loosened the blanket around her, allowing it to drop to the floor. Rowena gasped.
“Good heavens child, what is that ye got on? Ye look like ye rolled around in the dirt wit’ the pigs.”
Lara rubbed her hands up and down her arms, not sure how to respond. She knew her appearance must look dreadful to the woman. The straps of her dress barely clung to her shoulders and the skirt was tattered. Her hair, which normally hung down in soft feathery layers was now disheveled, in knots, and coated in dirt.
Lara did not wish to lie to Rowena, but neither could she bring herself to tell the truth.
“I have been traveling for many days now and I lost my belongings along the way.”
“Dinna ye worry lass, I may have a gown ye can wear,” she said as she stood and walked over to Lara. “Follow me.”
Lara gratefully followed her into the next room. The small chamber had a bed barely big enough for two and a small wooden chest. The walls were bare other than cobwebs and a year’s worth of dust. In the corner, a roaring fire crackled in the fireplace. Murmuring to herself, Rowena dug through a pile of clothing and pulled out a brown wool dress and a white chemise.
“Ah, this will do. It is no’ a fancy dress but anything is better than what ye got on,” Rowena said as she laid it onto the bed. “I will go and fetch a few buckets of water I have heating so ye can wash.”
Lara rejoiced over the thought of washing her face and hair. She could barely contain her excitement, but managed to keep a guarded and calm demeanor. Shortly after, Rowena came back into the room with two buckets of steaming water and emptied them into a shallow tub.
“Unless ye have further need of me, I will leave ye to wash.”
“Nay, I need nothing else. Thank you, Rowena.”
Lara began removing her once beautiful green gown and let it fall to the floor. It would now serve well as a rag. Anxiously, Lara dipped her feet into the hot water, one by one, and sank down into the tub. Lara looked down at the bruises that stained her body; reminders of what she had endured. She scrubbed herself thoroughly, hoping and wishing she could scrub them away, but the dark purple and blue marks remained. Unwanted tears escaped her eyes. She swore to herself that once she reached home no man would ever lay a hand on her again. As for her husband, her mind went through various scenarios as to how she would get her revenge, each one ending with him taking his last breath.
As soon as she had finished washing her hair, Lara donned the dress Rowena had left on the bed. It hung awkwardly off her shoulders; several sizes too large. Finding a ball of twine on the floor, Lara began to unravel it and wrapped it around her thin waist. Biting off one end at the perfect length, she tied the dress in place. She sat down next to the fire and used the towel to dry her hair. She was quick about it, anxious to leave.
Stepping back into the room, Rowena smiled.
“Oh, ye look verra fine lass, now that yer washed. The dress is a wee bit big but I am no’ longer a young lass.”
“It will do just fine. Thank ye,” Lara replied, feeling renewed and refreshed.
“I best get a start on the day. When ye are done, come join me in the kitchen.”
Lara nodded her head. She was grateful for Rowena’s kindness, but would rather be on her way. But to where? She feared that if she returned home her father would send her back to her husband. If that happened, she was certain that Dermot would kill her, for he had no use for his defiant bride.
Lara knew that during the negotiations to unite their clans, Dermot had been furious that his father made the decision to unite the clans. After years of feuds, Dermot’s hatred for the Fergussons was well known, and he protested the marriage. He was in love with another and insisted that he would deny his birthright as future Laird of Castle Foley if necessary to avoid marriage to Lara. But after he learned of the Fergusson clan’s supposed “secret treasure”, he became eager to marry Lara; too eager for her liking. His sudden change of heart disturbed her, but he had been a very persuasive suitor.
She still felt fury deep in the pit of her stomach for allowing Dermot to seduce her with words of passion and promises. He had given her hope for the future of her clan, and promised a good marriage. It was not until after their vows were spoken and before they even shared the marital bed, that he unmasked his true nature and motives.
He told her he had learned of a treasure, supposedly acquired by her father, and hoped to claim this treasure once they were married. Lara had never believed such treasure truly existed for no one had ever laid eyes upon it and only few knew of it. She recalled a moment when she was young, eavesdropping on her father, she’d heard about how he came to acquire it, but the details now were fuzzy. All Lara remembered hearing was that the treasure was a gift from a Norse King.
Lara did all she could to convince Dermot that it was merely a rumor and that no treasure existed. But her husband called her a liar and accused her of deceit. He began avoiding her, for which she was grateful. She despised him and fought him every time he tried to touch her. She would rather die a thousand deaths or be beaten beyond recognition before succumbing to him. He may have been her husband, but she refused to give him her maidenhood willingly.
Lara’s mind wandered to a time when things were pleasant. When her mother, Elsa, was alive and her father was not the bitter man he became after Elsa’s death. Since the day her mother passed, her father had seemed to care little for Lara’s happiness and focused solely on her brother John. He’d pushed John into training longer and studying harder, obsessed with preparing John to one day be Laird of their clan. But grief alone did not explain her father’s sudden change in behavior.
Lara shook her head, bringing her thoughts back to the present. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. She needed to think towards the future and how to expose Dermot for the treacherous man he was.
Lara stared into the flames. Her thoughts returned to the past day, then to Bram. She was anxious to see how he fared this day. Mayhap it was his kindness for helping her find shelter for the night, or perhaps it was because they shared an unspeakable bond as prisoners of war, but her thoughts lingered on him. She would at least thank him for his generosity.
