A Promise in Midwinter (3 page)

Lachlan turned his
head towards her in response to her light touch.

Elizabeth jerked
her hand away, embarrassed by the small liberty that she had taken.   She
looked into Lachlan’s gray eyes for a moment longer than she deemed proper,
which heated the blood in her veins.

“I’ve brought you
something,” she said as a means to cover her blunder.  She reached into the
pocket of her gown and withdrew the small jug.  “Whiskey,” she said with a
mischievous smile as she popped out the cork.

“I do believe that
you are my guardian angel, lass,” Lachlan said, smiling weakly.  Speaking with Elizabeth lightened his dour spirits.

Elizabeth dangled
the jug of whiskey just beyond Lachlan’s lips.  He was helpless to reach for it
and he narrowed his eyes at her.

“It does come with
a bit of a catch,” she smiled sweetly.

“Aye?” Lachlan said guardedly as he arched an eyebrow warily.

“I’ve brought it
to numb you to the pain that I need to inflict…you see…” Elizabeth stammered,
feeling guilty for the torture that she was about to administer to poor Lachlan.  “The wound on your shoulder is not healing.  It must be sewn shut…I’ve tried to
get it to close.  I used a poultice of garlic and onion today, but the wound is
not knitting together.  “I’ll have to sew it shut or it will putrefy.  I’m
sorry, Lachlan.”

Lachlan laughed
softly.

“All that fuss
about sewing a wound closed?  Are ye Campbells such weaklings?  Fetch your wee
needle, pass me the whiskey and let’s get on with it!”

Elizabeth released
a sigh of relief.  She surmised that it would be best not to tell Lachlan that she had never performed such a treatment before.  She said a silent prayer for
strength.

She lifted the
whiskey to Lachlan’s lips.  He took deep dregs of the amber liquid, his gray
eyes never leaving hers as he drank.

“Thank ye, lass. 
Get on with it.  Please,” he added, having forgotten his manners.

Elizabeth’s hands
trembled as she unbuttoned Lachlan’s linen shirt.  She removed the poultice from
the wound and set it aside.    She blushed as she looked at Lachlan’s bare
chest.  He was a finely formed man, with a broad muscular chest.  His abdominal
muscles were well defined and Elizabeth found her eyes wandering to the waist
of his kilt.  Color flushed her cheeks again as she caught herself wondering
what was beneath the woolen fabric of Lachlan MacFarland’s kilt.  Truth be
told, admiring the man caused her heart to beat rapidly and made her forget to
breathe.

Lachlan took in a
shaky breath as Elizabeth’s fine boned fingers danced over his skin.  Her touch
was as light as a feather, so tender and careful.

Elizabeth tore her
eyes away from Lachlan’s chest.  She threaded the needle and took a deep breath
in preparation for the task ahead.

“Ye will do fine,
lass,” Lachlan assured her.  “Go ahead,” he invited as he closed his eyes and
savored the warm afterglow of the whiskey.

When the needle
pierced his skin, Lachlan did not even flinch.

Elizabeth noted
that his jaw was clenched slightly, but other than that, he appeared completely
unaffected by her stitchery.  She deftly closed the wound and tied off the
thread.  Only then did she allow herself to intake a full breath.

“All done,” she
whispered with relief.

Lachlan opened his
eyes. 

Elizabeth noticed
that they were a deep gray, a most startling and unusual color.

Lachlan watched
her with a concentrated focus, as if she was a stag and he was a hunter intent
on stalking his prey.

Elizabeth’s heart
beat faster.  She did not look away from Lachlan’s steel gray eyes.  She
watched as the corner of Lachlan’s mouth turned up into the slightest of
smiles.

“Are ye afraid of
me, lass?” he asked.

“Nay,” Elizabeth responded calmly.  Her heart still thundered in her chest.  “Why would I fear
you when you are tethered to the bed?” she challenged, her eyes flitted down to
the thick leather straps that bound Lachlan’s powerful arms.  Elizabeth somehow
knew that even if the restraints were removed, Lachlan would not dare to hurt
her. 

Her conscience
nagged at her.  From the earliest age, she had been taught to fear all
MacFarlands.  She
should
be fearful of Lachlan MacFarland, for he was a
powerful, fierce warrior that could kill her easily were his wrists unbound.

She
should
hate
him for the MacFarland blood that flowed through his veins.

Elizabeth had the
realization that some of that same blood, MacFarland blood, raced now through
her veins.  Her father was a MacFarland, a man not so unlike Lachlan.

Lachlan watched
her, his steel gray eyes never leaving hers.

Something in Lachlan’s gray eyes intrigued her.

Elizabeth had
tried to keep her distance from him.  She had tried to do her duty as ordered
by John Campbell and only nurse Lachlan MacFarland back to health.

Lachlan had drawn
her in like a moth was drawn towards a flame.

Elizabeth’s pulse
raced.

She hoped not to
get burnt by that flame.

“I never want you
to fear me,” Lachlan drawled.

Elizabeth smiled
shyly.

“I do not fear
you, MacFarland,” she said quietly as she busied herself with bringing the
quilt up to Lachlan’s shoulders.  She berated herself for wanting to look upon
his bare, muscled chest any further beyond the necessity of stitching up his
wound.

Elizabeth’s heart
thumped in her chest.

The careful words
that she had spoken had been a lie.

In truth, she
did
fear Lachlan MacFarland.  She feared him because never in her short life had a
man caused her to question everything that she had ever known.

The look in Lachlan’s gray eyes shook her to the core.

His desire for her
was right there, impossible for Elizabeth to deny.

Yes, Elizabeth feared Lachlan MacFarland.

Because in the
depths of her heart hid a secret.

She had the
undeniable urge to kiss Lachlan MacFarland.

And just the
idea of that kiss had sparked a new, dangerous feeling within her.

..oo  Chapter Four  oo..

Lachlan awoke from
a fitful slumber.

The chamber was
dark.

The fire had gone
out and a chill had settled over his body.

The fever was
back.  Sweat poured down his brow.  His muscles trembled from the cold room,
but Lachlan knew that his body was burning up.

He had dreamt of
his mother.  Her face still lingered in his mind as he struggled to separate
the dream from reality. 

Her words haunted
him.

He remembered the
conversation well.  He must have been about twelve.  He’d been chasing after
Mairi MacFarland, driving her so insane with his unwanted attentions that she
had tattled to his mother.

Lachlan chuckled
to himself, laughing at his own youthful incompetence of how to woo womenfolk.

He had been but a
boy.

His mother had sat
him down and fed him a biscuit with jam so that he might sit still.  She had
spoken to him lovingly, teaching her son the patience required for love.

Lachlan had asked
her how he would know the right woman to marry.

He remembered her
words still.

You cannot
choose when love finds you, son.

But find you,
it will. 

Search for the
lass that will sing to your soul.

Someday you
will find her, Lachlan.  And when you do find her, chase after her as if your
life depends upon claiming her, for in truth, it does.

It will require
patience to wait for her, but you will know when you’ve found her.

Lachlan relaxed
against the pillow.

“I’ve found her,
mother,” he whispered into the darkness, hoping that somewhere in the great
beyond, Elsie MacFarland might be listening.  “But I’m afraid that she will
most likely get away.”

He had felt Elizabeth’s fingers dance over his skin and he had seen a glimpse into her soul when her green
eyes had studied him so intensely.  And already, from their brief interactions,
he knew it to be true.

Perhaps she
felt it too?

Lachlan barely
knew Elizabeth Campbell.

But his mother had
been right.

He knew without a
doubt that he had found her.

He had found
the lass that would sing to his soul.

..ooOOoo..

Lachlan sneezed,
causing him to wince as the reflex hurt his still tender ribs.

The portly chamber
maid stopped her work and looked at him sourly.

Her name was
Edith.  Lachlan thought that it suited her perfectly.

She turned back to
tidying the chamber and ignored Lachlan as she always did.

His body was
beginning to mend and he longed to stretch his legs.

Edith opened the
heavy draperies and sunlight flooded the dank chamber.

Lachlan leaned
back against his pillow.

He wondered if he
would ever feel the simple joy of sunlight warming his skin again.  Having
always loved winter and the calm that blanketed the earth as the snow fell, Lachlan ached to be out of doors.  Days like this had always been his favorite.  He
relished crisp, chilly air stinging his lungs and the rare joy of winter
sunlight to warm his bones.

“The sunlight is
lovely,” Lachlan said, knowing that the maid would ignore his words.  It was
clear that she hated him and all things MacFarland.

He suddenly
sneezed again.

Damn his ribs
hurt.

“Twould seem as if
there are thistles hiding in here somewhere,” he joked softly.  Thistles always
caused Lachlan to sneeze.  He could hardly stand them.

Edith turned and
arched her eyebrow at him.

“No thistles in
here,” she said briskly as she yanked the curtains closed and left Lachlan alone in the dark room.

..ooOOoo..

The next morning, Lachlan awoke mid sneeze to a pitcher of water filled with a messy bouquet of thistles
sitting right on the bedside table.

“Saints!” he
cursed.  He couldn’t help but smile under his breath.  “Blast her,” he chuckled
as he thought of Edith.

The chamber maid
must have snuck in this unwanted gift in the dead of night.

Lachlan sneezed
again.

His eyes itched
like Hell.  Thistles had always been the death of him, causing his eyes to
water and his sneezes to come in uncontrollable fits.  The Campbells were
certainly succeeding at making his life a living Hell, all so that they could
kill him when they saw fit.

He looked at the
blossoms, if they could even be called blossoms.  Winter had killed most of the
prickly bastards, but a few of the smaller seed pods still had a purple cast to
them.

Lachlan shook his
head.  He sneezed again.

His heart beat
faster as the idea first crept into his mind.

He wanted to give Elizabeth something, some token of his gratitude.

He wanted to know
if she felt the same inexplicable feelings that he did.

As Elizabeth had nursed him back to health, he had caught her watching him several times. 
Her sparkling green eyes told him of her longing.  Lachlan had felt Elizabeth’s eyes upon his skin.  He had felt her gaze settle upon his mouth.

He was sure that Elizabeth felt the same way that he did.

There was an
inexplicable pull between them.  It was as if an energy flowed between them,
almost palpable in its realness.

She was a beacon
of light into his dark existence.

Would she
accept such a token from him?

The Highland custom dated back centuries.

Give a lass a
thistle and promise her your heart.

Hell, Elizabeth
Campbell had already stolen Lachlan’s heart.  She had been so gentle and kind. 
Her daily visits were the only thing that Lachlan looked forward to.  He was
consumed by her.  Her feminine, graceful movements delighted him.  She had
overtaken even his dreams.

Could he dare hope
that perhaps she would acknowledge the energy between them and accept his gift
of a thistle?

Lachlan eyed the
dead flowers again, seeing them now in a completely different light.  The
prickly exterior of each seed pod was golden, a hue that he suddenly found
quite beautiful.  And the scant dusting of purple threads that crowned the few
living pods reminded him of the gown that Elizabeth had worn this morning.

He reached out,
thanking his lucky stars that Elizabeth had been able to get the length of his
bed shackles extended.  His fingers made contact with the prickly head of a
thistle.  He could just reach it.  Breaking off the flower, he sneezed again as
he enclosed the charm within his fist.

Lachlan kept the
thistle in his hand, a hopeful secret that caused his heart to beat at a
swifter cadence.

Could Elizabeth possibly share the same feelings that had taken root within Lachlan’s heart?  He
had watched her closely, studying her mesmerizing green eyes.  When her fingers
had danced over his bare skin, he had sworn that he had seen something in the
green depths of her eyes.

What had it been? 
Longing?  Perhaps desire? 

Had it been hope? 
Did Elizabeth hope for a future that held more than a marriage of duty to
strengthen an alliance for John Campbell?

The thorns of the
thistle itched Lachlan’s hand, but he did not loosen his grip, for what he possessed
was precious.

Pray that Elizabeth would accept his gift, for the prickly thistle nestled in his palm meant so
much.  It was more than just the gift of a token of gratitude, the thistle
represented the gift of his heart to the woman that he desired above all else.

..ooOOoo..

The scout dashed
through the gates that guarded the castle, his lathered horse kicking up the muddy
snow that covered the road.  He had pushed the animal near death in an effort
to reach MacFarland keep in time.

Lord willing,
he was not too late!

The young man
leapt from his horse and raced up the steps, taking them two at a time.  He
took a quick glance over his shoulder.  The stallion’s sides heaved from
exertion.  His breath came in billowy puffs of white against the midnight sky.

He pounded on the
door to the keep.  Due to the late hour, it was not guarded and had been
barricaded for the night. 

“Open up, damn
ye!” he bellowed into the darkness as his fist pounded desperately against the
giant wooden door.  “I’ve news of the Laird’s son!”

Metal drug over
metal as the bar was removed hastily from the inside of the door.

The steward opened
the massive doors and stepped aside as the young man pushed his way roughly
inside.

“I’ll see the
Laird.  Now.  He will want to hear this as soon as he may.”

“Aye?  I’ll take
ye to him,” the steward said sleepily.  His hair was a snarled mess of curls
and he wore a hastily pulled on night coat.  He rubbed his eyes, trying to wake
up and grasp what was happening.

“Hurry man!” the
scout insisted as he ran up the stairs towards the Laird’s bed chamber.

Not waiting for
the steward, he raced up the stone steps and pounded against the Laird’s door. 
Nervous anticipation filled him.

Pray that he
had ridden fast enough.  Pray that there was still time!

Laird Angus
MacFarland opened the door.

He wore only his
kilt.  That and a deep set angry scowl.

“Why do ye wake me
in the middle of the night, Malcolm?” the Laird asked with irritation.

“It’s Lachlan!” Malcolm said breathlessly.  “He’s alive!”

MacFarland’s eyes
lit up.

He had been
mourning the death of his only son.

“Do not toy with
me, Lad!” the Laird thundered, praying that this was not a misunderstanding,
not some sort of cruel trick.  His grizzled heart had broken at the loss of his
only child.  It began to beat faster, the slow and steady rhythm of building
hope.

“The Campbells have taken him.  But he lives still…I can assure you that he lives still!”
Malcolm said enthusiastically.

“And you are sure
of this?” MacFarland gritted through clenched teeth.  The idea of his son being
a prisoner of the ruthless John Campbell made his stomach churn.  Lachlan would be better off dead than in the hands of the enemy.

“I saw it myself! 
Rode like the devil was at my heels to get here and tell you.  He was injured badly…they
carried him away on a pallet.  But I assure you, my Laird, he lives!”

“Thank you, Lad. 
Your bravery will be rewarded,” MacFarland vowed sincerely as he reached out
and placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Tell Liam to ready the men.  We
leave as soon as the men have been mustered and the beasts readied.  Be my son
dead or alive, nothing will prepare the Campbell bastards for the fury of Hell
that is about to rain down upon them!”