When a Laird Takes a Lady: A Claimed by the Highlander Novel (8 page)

Isabail clasped her hand over his. “If I discover anything worthy, I’ll bring it to your attention. I promise.”

“Lady Isabail.”

At the crisp address from MacCurran, Isabail jerked. Releasing Daniel’s hand, she hastily sought her feet and faced the fierce warrior. Was it her imagination, or did he seem especially forbidding at this moment? “Aye?”

His cold gaze examined her from head to boots in slow, impolite detail. What he was looking for, Isabail could only guess, but the intensity of his stare brought a hot flush to her cheeks.

“We located the hound,” he said finally.

Tears sprang to her eyes. Poor, brave Gorm. “May I look upon him one last time before you commit his body to the fire?”

“It lives.”

Isabail’s hands flew to her chest. “Truly?”

He nodded. “You may see it once its wounds are properly dressed.”

Relief and amazement drove her forward before she had time to think. MacCurran had rescued Gorm, just as he had once rescued Isabail and Muirne. Right from the jaws of death. She skipped across the room, rose to the tips of her
toes, and planted a grateful kiss upon his rocklike chin. “Thank you.”

A steely arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her tight against his chest. “You may thank me properly later.”

Then he was gone, leaving Isabail to deal with the wide-eyed reactions of Muirne and Daniel . . . and the madcap flutter of her heart.

* * *

Aiden stood over Ana’s shoulder and carefully watched her clean and dress the dog’s wounds. She seemed capable enough, but his knowledge of herbs was very limited. Only Master Tam could confirm the healing properties of the unguents she was using. Thankfully, the orchard keeper was nodding and smiling.

“Will the creature survive the day?” Aiden demanded of Ana.

She looked up from her efforts. “Not without a miracle. These wounds are severe, and the poor fellow is weak from blood loss.”

Aiden relived the blazing shine of gratitude in Isabail’s eyes. “Then perform a miracle.”

The healer grimaced. “You ask the impossible.”

“Niall has great faith in your abilities. He believed you could save the animal. Are you admitting that you cannot?”

Ana stood straight. “If you leave me alone with the animal—if you give me your complete and unwavering trust—I will do all in my power to save it. But in the end, it will be God who decides whether the dog lives or dies. Not I.”

Aiden’s gaze dropped to the animal on the table. Its breathing was shallow and labored. In his opinion, death was a certainty. But if it died, Isabail would be heartbroken. She clearly cared for the beast. He caught Tam’s eye and gave him the nod that excused him from the room. As the fur panel flapped shut behind him, Aiden delivered a fierce message to the healer.

“This dog will live, or you will face my wrath. Understand?”

Ana swept an errant lock of dark red hair from her face. She did not seem particularly fearful of his anger. No downward glances, no trembling hands—just a clean and absolute confidence in her actions. “Come back in an hour. God will have given His answer by then.”

“For your sake, I hope it is the right one.”

Giving her one last glare, he left her to the task.

* * *

Eager to see Gorm, Isabail went in search of MacCurran the moment Daniel’s wounds were tended to. Since John’s death, the hound had become a favored companion. Like her, Gorm lived for those moments when they escaped the castle walls and took to the hills on a hunt. She had added to the kitchen stew pot by way of her glossy winged merlin, while Gorm had run down rabbits with his long-legged pursuit.

She found the MacCurran chief in the lists—that section of the outer close dedicated to the warriors and their craft. He had entered into a mock duel with his brother, Niall, both men
wielding wooden swords but forsaking the heavy padded cotun worn as protection by the others.

Reluctant to interfere, she stood back from the fray and watched for a time.

The two men were evenly matched. Where the chief had the advantage of size and reach, his brother gained points with speed and agility. Both had clearly spent many an hour in the lists.

With the sleeves of their lèines rolled up past their elbows and the necks unlaced, Isabail was privy to an entrancing display of rippling muscles. Neither man carried any spare flesh. As the duel continued—each whack and glide of the wooden swords as swift and strong as the last—the sheen of sweat enhanced the view.

MacCurran was surely the finest example of the male form she had ever seen. He was both long of limb and solid of shape. His movements were spare and deliberate, each one supported by heavy sinews that bunched and flexed under his smooth, tawny skin. Truly, he was the epitome of power and grace.

He was also devious.

Apparently tiring of the sport, he feinted to the left, waited until Niall was committed to that direction, then hooked a foot behind his opponent’s calf and tripped him. Niall attempted to recover, but MacCurran gave his chest a quick shove and the other warrior went down.

Niall hit the ground cursing his brother with a string of ribald words that brought a flush to Isabail’s cheeks.

MacCurran cut him off. “Mind your tongue, bratling. There’s a lady present.”

Until that point, Isabail was unaware that she’d been noticed. She advanced on the group, approaching the chief. His hair clung damply to his forehead and neck, and tiny droplets hung from his jaw.

“A word, if I may?” she asked the MacCurran. Her aim was polite nonchalance, but the words came out a tad breathless. Eyeing him from a distance never had the same effect as standing next to him. Even when Daniel’s warnings were fresh in her ear.

He took her elbow and led her a short distance away. “I may have misspoken earlier,” he said.

“How so?”

His blue eyes met hers. “The dog yet lives, but its injuries are very grave.”

“I would see him, if I may.” Gorm had given her so much comfort after John’s death; she owed him whatever solace she could provide.

“Nay.”

“But,” she protested, “he is mine.”

“If he survives the night, you can see him in the morn.”

“Why would you keep me from him?”

He pointed to the ruin. “You already have a patient. Since you insisted on tending him, go tend him. I will inform you of the hound’s progress.”

“Daniel is fine. I wish to see Gorm.”

“Go.” His already fierce face took on a darker cast. “Do not test my temper over this.”

The fear that had consumed her when she first met MacCurran resurfaced in a flash. Her heartbeat fluttered like a startled bird in her chest, and she had a very intense urge to run. But she did not. MacCurran had sworn that he would never strike her, or any woman, even in anger. And despite her renewed conviction that he was involved with her brother’s death, she still believed that to be true. She had no idea why she believed it, but she did.

“I do not wish him to die without a familiar face to comfort him,” she said quietly.

The grim look on his face eased a mite. “I understand, but I cannot allow you to see him now. To ease your fears, I will check on him. Now go.”

Isabail hesitated.

“Go,” he repeated.

Reluctantly, she went. She returned to the inner close, but did not give up her hope of seeing Gorm. There was no reason for MacCurran to refuse her request to comfort the dog in his last hour. He was simply being cruel. Punishing her for her bitter words of condemnation.

But he underestimated her determination.

MacCurran had promised to check on Gorm. That meant he would visit the dog, hopefully in short order. Isabail grabbed one multihued blanket from her bed and wrapped it about her waist, hiding the pale blue skirts of her gown. Then she took a second blanket and wrapped it about her head and shoulders. Anyone close to her would know immediately that it was she, but it was not
intended to be a perfect disguise. Just enough of a veil to encourage the MacCurran’s glance to slide past her.

Now toasty warm, she joined the other women in front of the central fire pit.

And waited for the MacCurran to enter the close.

* * *

As Aiden entered Ana’s hut, she looked up. The look on her face told him everything he needed to know. “The hound died,” he determined grimly.

“Nay,” she protested, pointing to the piled blankets in the corner. “But neither does he show signs of recovery. I’ve tended the wounds and healed his hurts, but he lies still and unmoving.”

Aiden crossed the room and stared down upon the animal. Blood still crusted the dog’s blue-gray coat in several spots, but he could no longer see any open gashes. Linen bandages covered sections of its belly and legs. “Its breaths are deeper.”

“Aye.”

“Surely it just needs to eat.”

Ana shook her head. “I’ve attempted to feed him, but he will not take food.”

“Water?”

“Nothing.” She handed Aiden a small wooden bowl and a spoon. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck.”

Aiden stared at the bowl of broth. He had far more pressing things to see to, like training the men, checking on the patrols, and solving disputes between members of his clan. But he did not
want to return to Isabail with the news that her hound had passed. Nor could he send her here to Ana, the woman who had been tried and convicted of poisoning her brother. She would be furious to discover he’d sought the healer’s help at all.

He crouched beside the dog.

Its head lay at the far side, close to the wall, making spooning anything into its maw near impossible. Aiden placed the bowl on the floor and scooped up the dog, once again amazed by its size. “How did you get the beast from your table to the floor?”

“Niall,” she said, smiling.

Aiden repositioned the dog, then sat on the ground next to its large head. He reached for the bowl, then halted. The dog had lifted its head and laid it on Aiden’s thigh. All without opening an eye.

“Och,” said Ana softly. “That’s a good sign.”

Aiden put his hand on the dog’s snout, surprised to find the wiry fur was soft and smooth. “There’s a lad,” he said encouragingly. “You’ll eat now, or I’ll take you to task.”

He spooned a little broth into the animal’s mouth.

It swallowed, then licked its lips in a silent request for more.

Ana looked on, amazed. “I tried the very same thing only a few moments ago, to no avail.”

“He’s a wise dog. Knows better than to refuse his chief.”

She snorted. “Were you, perchance, the one who carried him here from the forest?”

“Aye.”

Ana nodded. “He remembers your scent. He knows it was you who saved him.”

For some reason that pleased Aiden. He spent the next while happily plying the beast with soup and talking to his brother’s chosen woman. When he had emptied the bowl and set it aside, he was rewarded by a damp lick on his hands and a contented rumble in the dog’s throat.

As he carefully shifted the dog and rose to his feet, he asked, “When will he be hunting rabbits again?”

The healer laughed. “One step at a time. Let’s get him on his feet first.”

“But he will recover?” he asked seriously.

She nodded. “Although, it would be best if you returned a few more times to encourage him to eat.”

He frowned.

“Do you wish him to heal swiftly?” Ana prompted.

“Of course.”

“Then spare him a few moments of your time.”

Strangely, Aiden was not insulted by the request. A stable boy or young Jamie would have been better choices, but the task had been oddly rewarding.

He nodded.

“You did well to heal him,” he acknowledged. “I will return.”

* * *

The instant MacCurran stood up and showed signs of leaving, Isabail scurried away from the door to Ana Bisset’s hut. She wasn’t quite sure what to think about what she’d just seen, but one thing was certain—she did not want to be caught spying.

Darting behind the other roundhouses, she kept to the shadows and circled the central fire to the door of MacCurran’s hut. Once inside, she tossed the blankets onto the mattress and ran a quick hand over her hair to flatten any hairs gone astray. Just in time, as it happened.

MacCurran entered the roundhouse a moment later.

Isabail watched him as he closed the door.

All of the anger and bitterness she had felt upon finding Ana Bisset in his camp was gone, replaced by two emotions she wasn’t entirely comfortable with: gratitude for the healer’s efforts to save her injured dog and amazement over MacCurran’s gentle feeding of that same beast. He’d actually coaxed Gorm to eat with softly spoken words.

The sting of impending tears forced her to turn away.

Damn him
.

He’d done it again. Confused her. Shaken her beliefs.

“You need not fear,” MacCurran said. “The dog will live.”

Isabail blinked hard, banishing her silly tears. Then she turned to face him. “May I see him?”

“In the morning,” he said. “He’s resting now.”

Even the urge to protest had vanished. She now knew why he was keeping her from Gorm—he feared she’d be upset to discover Ana Bisset in charge of his care. And truth be told, if she hadn’t seen the dog safe and secure in the healer’s hut herself, she likely would have been just as distressed as he imagined.

So, how could she resent his decision?

She nodded. “I look forward to it.”

“Are you feeling well?” he asked, frowning.

“Aye.” As well as could be expected, given the tumultuous bend of her thoughts.

He crossed the room to stand before her. “I thought you’d be pleased to hear the dog was well.”

“I am,” she said. To avoid his piercing gaze, she looked at her feet. “But I was anticipating the worst and this good news has . . . disconcerted me.”

His hand cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

The rub of his callused palm on her skin stole her breath away. She suddenly craved a repeat of the intimate kiss they’d shared the night before. The press, the passion, the need. Oh aye, the need. She knew the facts pointed to him having a hand in her brother’s murder, but at this moment, those facts felt vague and unfounded. The man who cradled injured dogs was real.