The Raven's Moon (7 page)

Mairi pulled the warm linen folds over Rowan Scott's head and lifted his heavy, limp arms into the sleeves. Then she tucked her cloak up to his chin.

"He will not have my breeks," Christie said.

"He will not," she agreed. "Give me your nether stockings."

With a low growl, Christie sat and pulled off his boots, threw his knitted hose at her, and yanked his boots back on.

"My thanks," she said, as she and Christie drew the body-warmed hose over Scott's bare feet. "Go, now, to Jennet's house, and bring back whatever she will spare."

Christie stood. "Perhaps I should stay here while you ride out. I can fight him off if he wakes."

"He will not be fighting anyone soon," she said. "Go charm your sister—or see her temper if she learns why we want the supplies. Tell her how beautiful her new son is."

"Easy task," Christie said, smiling. "He's a fine laddie. Jennet says he looks like me when I was wee."

"Hurry then. I'll be safe here. This one will dream for a while yet. We'll tie his hands and feet before he ever wakes."

Christie nodded and left, closing the door behind him. She heard his footsteps scrape up the steps and fade. After that she heard only the muffled, steady rainfall.

Mairi looked down at the man stretched out on the stone floor, his head and shoulders resting against her thigh. Leaning back and shifting her hips to get comfortable, she watched him in the flickering light of the candle flame.

His features were lean and well-balanced, a blend of strength and softness, the jaw and chin firmly angled, the nose bold, the brow high and smooth. A delicate curve to his upper lip lent a vulnerability to such masculine features. He had, in short, a strong, interesting beauty.

Mairi could imagine stubbornness, temper, pride, intelligence in his supposedly notorious character. But she could sense hurt in his features too. Kindness as well, somehow—or perhaps she imagined that. Wanted that to be there, in such a fine looking man. A pity that he was a Scott, after all, and a man who might be out to ruin Iain.

Scanning the long, firm length of his body, she recalled the strong athletic grace he had when he had swung his sword in the bog. If not for the mud and the rain, and the lucky, wild swing of her pistol, she and Christie would be dead now.

Instead, he lay like a babe in her arms. She touched his cool cheek, feeling the rasp of his beard.

He breathed out a low groan.

Startled, she gasped, then relaxed. She gently touched his head, his damp curls like soft threads of black silk.

A Scott, and yet, for all the ill feeling she could bestow on him and his scoundrel of a brother, she felt compassion stir through her. He was injured because of her.

Nor did he look like a notorious reiver. There was a resemblance to his brother Alec, who was a dark, slim, well-favored young man. But Rowan Scott, beneath the mud and the bruising, was more than that—he had the stunning, powerful beauty of a dark angel.

Notoriousness—harsh and rough, clever and heartless—was surely in him, but all she knew now was that she had to help him, or he might die.

She stroked his cool brow and realized he needed warmth against the shock of his injury. The stone chamber was chilly, but it was at least shelter.

Shivering, her back and shoulders cold against the stone wall, she ran her fingers through Scott's hair in a slow, peaceful motion, and she began to hum softly in Gaelic. The gentle, lilting tune was one her mother had often sung while Mairi and her brothers had drifted off to sleep as children. She relaxed.

Suddenly the man lashed out his hand and gripped her arm.

Chapter 5

"O drowsy, drowsy as I was!

Dead sleep upon me fell;

The Queen of Fairies, she was there,

And took me to hersell. "

—"Tam Lin"

"Who are you?" Rowan asked. "Where am I?"

The woman did not answer, though her hand tensed on his head and she pulled against his grip. He tried to lift his head, but the agony that slammed through his skull decided him. Closing his eyes, he kept a taut grip on the slender wrist in his hand.

Then he looked at her again. Her face, blurred and shadowed, hovered above his. A candle flame sliced like a golden blade through the darkness. The brightness hurt his eyes.

The flame split into two wavering images. He glanced around, unable to focus at first. He felt a crushing ache in his skull—and a warm, comfortable cushion beneath his head.

The woman was one, then two, then one again, in his wretched vision. Sighing in exasperation and pain, he shut his eyes and let his hand slip from her arm.

"Rowan Scott." The whisper lured him back from the soporific fog that sucked at him. Again he looked at the vague blur of the woman. Now there was one of her—a pale face and a sweep of dark hair like braided silk.

He turned his head. Agony shot through his skull and then dulled to a fierce ache. The cushion beneath him, he realized, was her thigh. The heat felt soothing. Inhaling the sweet, earthy fragrances of woman and rain, and the sharpness of old, damp stone, he drifted in and out of a half-sleep.

"Rowan Scott," she said again. "How do you feel?"

He lifted a hand to his head. She pushed his fingers away from his brow, her touch cool.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Mairi." She pronounced it with a long, nasal "ah":
Mah-re.
The sound was breathy, velvety. Gaelic. Intrigued, he looked at her again.

An ethereal Madonna looked down at him, her oval face serene, softly blushed. Dark hair bronzed in the candlelight, eyes a tranquil gray, she was a restful sight for his bleary eyes.

And yet she was the same lass who had slammed the ball of a pistol butt against his head with the force of a cannon shot.

Rowan frowned. He had seen her somewhere else—but his mind was too fogged to sort out the vague memory.

He grimaced and touched his head. Her fingers pushed his away. "You'll make the wound bleed again," she said.

He accepted that, glancing around the room. Dark. Stone walls, a window slit, a single torch on the wall. Empty of furniture. Prison, again?

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Safe here until you're able to leave," she said.

He tried to sit up, but his body felt too heavy to move. He leaned back against her, dimly and pleasantly aware of soft slopes and firmness and comfort.

He swallowed, tasting thick dryness. "How long—"

"A little while." She frowned. "I am concerned about your head wound."

He waved a hand, dismissing that. "Where is this place?" he asked, and saw that while the curve of her cheek was blushing cream, she did not answer.

Slowly Rowan sat, then leaned against the cold wall. He felt swamped in pain and dizziness. The blood rushed in his head and his stomach lurched and he wanted to puke. The lass waited quietly—and divided into two hazy images that merged and split and blended again.

"Stay still," she said.

"You stay still," he replied, touching his aching brow and a cloth wrapped there. "I should not have taken off my helmet. That rain—was not loud enough to merit this," he muttered.

"Leave your head be, Rowan Scott." Her voice was calm, with a magical warmth in that cold, dismal room.

He squinted until both of her became one again. "How do you know my name?"

"The paper in your—"

"You took it?" He realized that his leather jack was gone, his doublet as well. The shirt he wore was not his, too small; he still had his damp breeches, but the woolen hose were not his either. His boots were gone too. "What the devil. Where did you find the paper?"

"In your boot."

"Ah."
Good,
he thought. The thieving wench had not found the other document that he carried. "Where is my gear?"

"Wet, and drying now."

"And my horse?" Valentine was a valuable animal and a worthy prize for any Border reiver. He might never see his horse again. The thought infuriated him.

"Stabled and fed," she replied. "You will have him back."

He did not trust that. "And my weapons?"

She smiled a little. "Would I leave them in your reach? Your dirk and sword, pistol and lance are safely put away."

"Pouch? And coin?"

"Safe as well."

In your pocket,
he thought. He tried to absorb all this. Clearly the girl and her companion—he remembered two riders in the rain—had taken him for ransom, a money-making tactic common along the Border. He had been captured and imprisoned more than once, and ransomed in his youth. And he and his Scott kin had taken their share of prisoners, too, collecting coin or cattle in return for a bit of Blackdrummond hospitality.

"Which riding family are you?" he asked. He was puzzled, though, for the girl's speech was soft and precise, unlike the broad Border accent that was common here. Frowning, he struggled to make sense of his situation.

"My cousins are Kerrs." Her tone had a chill in it now.

"Godamercy," he muttered. The Kerrs here had feuded with the Blackdrummond Scotts for years. "So I am a hostage," he said. And physically incapable of doing much about it for the moment, he thought. "I assume you will ransom me."

"Ransom?" She frowned. "Not that."

Scowling against throbbing pain, Rowan tried to think. "What place is this?"

"An old tower," she said.

"Ah," he said. "Lincraig Castle?"

She did not answer, but looked away.

Lincraig, not far from Blackdrummond, belonged to his grandfather. Rowan had not been inside Lincraig for years, but he recognized it now. But why would Kerrs confine him on Scott property? If the lass found the letter in his boot—and if she could read it—then she knew that he was Blackdrummond.

He briefly considered what it would take to grab this Mairi Kerr, subdue her, and walk out. Even the thought exhausted him. He tilted his head back against the stone wall.

"Do not move. Your head is sore hurt."

He cocked a brow at her. "Aye, thanks to a wee lass with a great pistol. Why did you hit me?"

"You were attacking my friend."

"Ah." He pressed the bandage slightly and winced.

"Leave it be."

She stood then. She was not tall, though long-legged and slender beneath male clothing that was too large for her. The thick, tousled braid fell over her shoulder, sheened dark in the candlelight.

Her face was sweet, her eyes wide and honest. She puzzled him. He could not reconcile that delicate face with the vicious attack against him, and the theft of his gear.

"What riding family sends a lass to do their work?"

"No family sent me."

"You chased me like a highway thief. You gave me this head wound, and took everything but my breeks."

She opened her mouth to retort, but seemed to think better of it. "I will come back later, with food and drink," she said, and stepped toward the door.

Despite the pain when he moved, Rowan shot out a hand to grab at her ankle, yanking. She fell to her hands and knees with a smack and a grunt. He pulled her toward him best he could, though she seemed to be two girls, then one, and two again.

"Let go," she gasped. He did not.

"Tell me why you rode me down," he growled, keeping hold of her ankle in its leather boot. He did not want her to know that hanging onto her slender leg took all his strength.

She smacked at his arm, twisted, but he held firm.

"Who are you? Answer me true."

"My Border kinsmen will hang you if you harm me!"

"You are as much a Border lass as I am," he snapped, suddenly realizing why her voice was distinctive—he knew that accent. "Why does a Highland lass ride a Lowland road in the night, attacking a traveler for his coin and his horse!"

She stopped hitting him and stared. A strand of hair slipped across her eyes. She blew at it irritably.

"Horse? Highlander?" she asked almost innocently.