Bride of Dunloch (Highland Loyalties) (5 page)

But then, she saw it, and at first she had to blink for she did not quite believe her eyes. A forest stream wended its way through the dense growth. On its banks, in a small clearing ... was a hut.

An abandoned hut, by the looks of it, but still in good enough repair that the wattle and daub walls would likely not collapse upon them. With as much haste as her wounded companion could allow, Jane guided him to the crude door of woven reeds. Inside, the rotting rushes which had been long ago laid gave off a rich, earthy smell. The thickness of the odour, though itself not entirely unpleasant, overwhelmed her nostrils, and instinctively she covered her face with her hand until she had grown accustomed to it.

A stone fireplace, still in very good condition unlike the walls and roof surrounding it, was built into the opposite wall from the door. Leading him to it, she helped the Scot lie down on the rotting rushes. He panted heavily from his effort to walk, and his entire body was slick with perspiration.

“I must remove your shirt, sir,” she warned first so that he would not instinctively fight her again.

When he made no move to stop her, Jane raised the hem, pulling it up his torso and over his head. He tried to assist her, but his weakness and his pain limited his movements. She managed nonetheless, and a more clear view of the wound confirmed what she already knew—that his fever and his infection would kill him.

She watched his face as he flinched and battled through his pain. His was a pleasant face—one that looked like it might light up with a laugh or grow tender at the sight of a babe. A handsome face, the eyes wide and a vivid green beneath dark brows and rugged, well-defined features. A sense of pity and of loss overcame her. It was a shame such a handsome young man would die.

She gave herself a stern mental shake, astonished that so ridiculous a thought would come to her at such a moment. Handsome or not, he was a savage Scot. A MacGillivray. An enemy to her husband’s people. Besides, his handsomeness was for naught, since she was fairly certain that she could do nothing for him.

Though she would try.

“I shall just step outside to the river,” she informed the man with a light touch to his hand. “That wound needs cleaning.”

When he did not answer, she took the only vessel she could find—the deerskin sporran fastened beside his belt to the wool of his kilt—and carried it out to the stream. The water was crisp and clear as she dipped the age-softened leather below the ripples. It really should be hot water, she thought to herself, but what were the odds that the MacGillivray man had brought a tinder box with flint and steel with him into battle? And besides, what would she boil the water in?

Bringing the full sporran back inside the hut, she sat down next to the man. Using his sgian-dubh to tear a strip of linen from his shirt, she dipped the strip into the water. Then, with a touch no lighter than a mayfly, she gingerly dabbed at the dried blood and dirt that had accumulated, clearing it from the wound. Even still, her feather-light touch was unbearable to him, and she winced sympathetically as she dabbed. She then re-wet the linen and dabbed at his face in an attempt to take some of the heat from his head.

Beyond this, there was not much she could do for the man—at least not unequipped as she was now. She felt powerless, and overcome by her sympathy for him, she placed her hand alongside his face. His features, she was sadly sure, would soon rest peacefully in death.

“Sir? Listen to me, sir,” she urged. “I must return now. I will be missed. Besides, if you have any chance of overcoming your fever and surviving this, I shall need a great deal of provisions.”

Though the Scot made no acknowledgement that he’d heard her, she continued. “I cannot come back until everyone has gone to bed. But I pray you can hold on to life for that long, sir, because I promise you that I will be back, and I will do all I can to help you.”

The urge to touch his face once more was powerful, and Jane yielded to it. Then she stood, convinced that she would not see the young man alive again.

“Now all I have to do is remember the path we took through the forest to get here,” she mumbled to herself.

“Turn to yer right and follow the brae,” answered the man in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

She snapped her head around to the prostrate form laid on the rotting rushes. His eyes remained closed, but his head was turned towards her.

“The brae will take ye back to the castle.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall,” she answered. And before she departed the dilapidated hut she added for good measure, “Try to stay alive.”

She followed the young Scot’s advice and turned right outside the hut, walking along the bank of the brook that bubbled and gurgled its way through the dense forest. The going this way was much easier than the route they’d taken from the valley—the river’s edge made a natural path upon which obstructive foliage did not encroach. In a fraction of the time it took to reach the hut, she found herself at the edge of the wood on the other side. Peering into the distance she could see that, indeed, Dunloch was a speck on the horizon, and to the west of it she could see the cluster of dwellings which made up the village.

She would have liked to visit the village, but now was not the time. She would need a proper escort if she were to do so—now that she knew the truth in Lord Reginald’s warning that MacGillivrays were out there lurking, many of whom were likely much more dangerous and vengeful than the poor, wounded wraith upon which she’d accidentally stumbled.

The sun, in her time away, had moved across the sky in its morning, noon and afternoon positions, and was now contemplating setting for the evening. Realizing that the hour was much later than she’d first thought, Jane quickened her pace, worried that her long absence would cause panic at the castle. But as she passed through the main gate into the bailey, no one seemed particularly concerned one way or the other that she had returned.

She was on the verge of breathing a sigh of relief as she made her way through the passageways and halls to her chamber, when a voice stopped her.

“My Lady?”

Jane turned warily. Standing behind her was Tearlach, the MacGillivray steward.

“Yes, Tearlach?” she answered casually despite the nerves that fluttered about in her belly.

“His Lordship were looking for ye. Ye’ve been gone a long while, if ye dinna mind me saying—only it were his Lordship that thought so.”

“Oh, I was only out walking and lost track of time,” she lied smoothly. “I’ve never been to Scotland before, and I confess I was quite taken by the landscape.”

There was a hint of scepticism in the elderly man’s countenance. Unnerved by his scrutiny, she added, “Shall I see his Lordship now then? Pray, tell me where he is.”

“Actually, my Lady, it were only that the Lady D’Aubrey, the dowager baroness, were wishing to meet ye.”

“The dowager baroness?” Jane said, startled by the revelation. “I had no idea his mother had arrived at the castle. I wonder why she did not come yesterday for the wedding.”

Tearlach raised his eyebrows questioningly. “The Lady D’Aubrey lives here at Dunloch, my Lady. I am given to understand that she has lived wi’ his Lordship ever since the late Baron D’Aubrey passed. I believe her Ladyship is still in the solar, if ye dinna mind going to her.”

“I shall, yes,” she answered, feeling foolish that she had not known such a significant detail. “Thank you, Tearlach.”

She turned, glad to hurry away. But stopping suddenly, she turned back to the old man with a sheepish expression on her face. “I have forgotten myself ... how would one find the solar?”

“Follow this hallway to that wall yonder, and then turn ye right. Ye’ll be wanting to go up the stairs. When ye reach the top, turn ye right again. Ye’ll find the solar about half way down this wing of the castle.”

“Thank you,” she said again hastily, and dashed down the hallway.

She found the solar with little difficulty. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar, just wide enough that she could peer inside without being seen by whoever was within. The room was neither small nor large, but a moderate size—a comfortable place to where the reigning family could retreat from the hustle and bustle of the great hall. A long wooden table dominated the centre of the space around which armchairs, constructed of dark oak and fitted with heavy, red velvet padding, were placed. The windows were high and arched, and the stained glass set intermittently among them threw magnificent patterns and colours in the setting sunlight across all that lay below. Above the wide hearth with its wooden mantle, in which a cheerful fire blazed, the outline still remained of a crest recently removed.

The MacGillivray family crest, no doubt.

One of the chairs from the table had been turned towards the hearth, but because it faced away from the door Jane could not make out the figure seated within. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she stepped into the solar, expecting that the figure in the chair would be a woman of similar appearance to Lord Reginald. Quite to her surprise the lady, who sat with a blanket draped over her frail lap, was rather delicate looking, with a childlike face despite her advanced age. Her countenance was serene as she looked her son’s new bride up and down, and Jane could easily discern that the lady had once been a great beauty.

“My Lady,” she said, acknowledging the baroness. She curtseyed low in front of the lady with the respect that her station commanded.

“Please, stand up girl,” Lady D’Aubrey answered, encouraging her with a touch to the crown of her head. “It is you who is the reigning baroness now, not I. Please, sit with me a while.”

Jane did as Lady D’Aubrey bade. “I am truly sorry, my Lady. I fear I have been told little about my new situation. I was unaware of your residence at Dunloch, else I would have endeavoured to come to your sooner.”

The old lady laughed delicately. “Do not trouble yourself, child. It is as much my fault, for I was too ill to attend the ceremony yesterday.”

“I hope it is nothing serious,” Jane ventured.

“Oh, it is naught but age, girl,” the lady answered with a dismissive wave of her fragile hand. “Nothing you shall not experience yourself one day, I imagine. Now pray tell me, how are you liking Dunloch so far?”

“I like it very much, thank you.”

“Is that the truth?” Lady D’Aubrey pressed, sensing by the tone of her voice the lie that Jane could not hide.

“Perhaps not the entire truth,” she admitted. “Do not mistake me, my Lady, it is a magnificent fortress, and the rolling hills and emerald mountains hold a majesty I have never before seen equalled. It’s just ...”

“You are homesick,” Lady D’Aubrey finished for her when she fell silent. “I understand. We are very much the same, you and I. Our hands given away in marriage without our say, our lives uprooted, packed off to husbands far older than we, about whom we know very little ... and towards whom we feel very little attraction. I know that is a secret you harbour,” she added when Jane began to protest, wide-eyed. “And I can see by your countenance that you are a dutiful girl who is determined to keep that secret locked tight in your heart. It is just as well; things are the way they are for us women. We cannot rigidly resist the winds of our fate, else we shall break. We must bend if we are to withstand them.”

Jane recognized a great wisdom in the old woman’s words, and a tender respect for the dowager baroness rooted within her.

“It is not only that I long for home,” she said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Lady D’Aubrey’s assessment. “I confess I am also frightened of this land, for I have heard much about these vicious warrior Scots. I am beginning to realize how very close to the violent struggle I am here, and that is a terrifying thought.”

“Yes, that is a constant concern,” Lady D’Aubrey allowed.

“Even in the castle there are MacGillivrays about. Why, even the castle
steward
is a MacGillivray.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about Tearlach.”

Jane paused, and eyed Lady D’Aubrey curiously. “But his Lordship said he does not trust the man.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” she answered dismissively. “Just as it is
your
duty to obey your husband, it’s
his
duty to be mistrustful of everything—for the sake of his wife’s safety, and of the safety of the people he rules. But I am not obliged to make the difficult decisions that go along with holding power, so I can afford to be more lenient in my judgement of people. I do not believe Tearlach is a threat to our peace at Dunloch.”

“You believe, then, that he has truly changed his allegiance and now supports the king?”

Lady D’Aubrey eyed Jane critically. “Heavens no, child. I think he is very much a MacGillivray at heart. Even now that my son rules his ancestral home.”

“Then how can you be assured of his design? He has sworn allegiance to the Crown in order to be allowed to remain at Dunloch. He may very well intend to slaughter us as we sleep out of vengeance.”

“My dear girl, I very much doubt that. I believe Tearlach swore allegiance because he had no choice. He was only trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

“But it was a situation of his own making,” Jane countered. “These Scots have caused their own trouble by defying the king. Surely you can see that.”

Lady D’Aubrey gazed at Jane, saddened by her girlish naivety; a hint of disappointment creased the corners of her eyes.