The Warrior Page 19

  Sern frowned. “Quite odd, that was. Word was ye died in the same storm that took out the MacDonald’s newest galleon. Those that survived the shipwreck said they saw yer ship split clean in two and disappear into the sea.”

  “How did they know it was my ship?” By damned, he would discover the spy before he killed Sern. Their lives depended on it. Who was updating the MacDonald on their every move?

  Sern shrugged. “It matters not. Ye know well enough the MacDonald’s reach.” A chilling smile curled one side of his mouth. “Coin provides information and so do enemies. Suffice it to say, the MacDonald pays heed to his informants, especially if they involve someone he hates.”

  The bushes behind him rustled, pushing Duncan to action. In one move, he pulled his dagger from his boot and dove toward Sern.

  Sern fired both pistols.

  The bullet’s searing burn into his chest enraged him all the more. Sern had always been a lousy shot. Duncan had counted on it. He took Sern down with the momentum of his attack and buried the blade in the base of his throat. Knee buried in Sern’s gut, he ripped the knife sideways and opened the man’s gullet. “Ye were a good friend once, but no man threatens my wife.”

  Sern opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out. His kicking legs stilled. The hand clutching Duncan’s arm slid away.

  Duncan wiped the blood from his blade on Sern’s jacket, then labored to his feet. He shoved the dagger back in his boot, then pressed a hand to the throbbing left side of his chest. With a pained intake of breath, he pressed harder against the wound. He’d had worse. At least they didn’t have longer than a day to ride. There would be no rest tonight. Sern had spoken of others. They must make haste. They couldn’t reach Cape Wrath fast enough.

  Tilda appeared at his side. Face pale. Eyes round and wide. “How bad?” she whispered as she bent and ripped the hem from her chemise, folded it into a wad, then held it to his wound.

  “It hardly pains me,” he lied, pressing hard to staunch the bleeding. He cast a glance at the horses. “We need to leave. Can ye bear not stopping for the night?”

  “I can bear anything that needs bearing.” Her worried focus shifted back to his chest. “Are ye certain ye can ride?”

  “Aye.” Holding the wadded cloth in place, he nodded to her feet. “Tear me another strip to hold the bandage in place, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Tilda took his dagger and cut a long strip of linen free from her skirts. He flinched with a muffled grunt as she wrapped it tight around him and knotted it in place. “Wish ye a bit of water afore we ride?”

  “Whiskey.” The gritty ache burned a mite harder. Whiskey would quench the fire.

  Tilda hurried to his horse, located the flask in his saddlebag, and trotted back to him. “I’ll fetch the horses and get all the pistols,” she said as she folded his hands around the leather-bound container.

  Duncan helped himself to a long swig, then fumbled with the cap. His left arm was growing weak, and the fingers of his left hand were getting numb. He ignored the frailty. There was no time. He waited for Tilda to mount her horse, then climbed on his own. The movement stirred the gnashing ache in his chest and sent a blanket of stars across his vision for a brief moment. “Stay close, aye?”

  At Tilda’s nod, he spurred his mount forward, setting their pace to a bone-jarring trot. He’d keep to the speed as long the horses could bear it. The moon waxed close to full, sending its blue-white light across the landscape. Duncan kept them to the shadows of the taller trees running alongside a shallow ravine riddled with sedge and buckthorn. They rode for hours, Tilda shaking her head with a firm no when he asked if she needed to stop. The look of her worried him. She’d gone all tight around the mouth and deathly pale even in the moonlight. The entire left side of his body burned, pain shooting through him with every pound of the horse’s hooves. His mount jumped a small fissure and landed hard on the other side.

  “Christ Almighty!” The cry for mercy escaped him as the pain nearly unseated him. He pulled his horse to a stop and slumped over in the saddle.

  “Take heart, Duncan.” Tilda edged close and squeezed his arm. “We be on Mackenzie land now. We can slow down.”

  The news helped him more than she could know. He slipped down from the saddle, pausing for a moment to rest his forehead against the leather and breathe. Mackenzie land. Almost to the keep. Surely, they could stop for a little while. He forced himself up and rounded Tilda’s horse. Setting his right hand to her waist, he gave her an apologetic smile. “My left arm’s no use to me now. Lean forward, lass, and rest yer hands on my shoulders. I can still help ye with my right.”

  Tilda’s mouth tightened, and she swallowed visibly hard. She pressed a hand to her middle. “I dinna feel well, Duncan. Please forgive me.”

  Alarm surged through Duncan. His own pain forgotten, he helped her down and led her to a downed tree lying alongside a spring. Easing her down to the trunk, he sat beside her, steadying her with an arm about her waist.

  Tilda jerked to the side and vomited, then sagged across the tree. Hand pressed to her middle, her face crumpled with tears. “Something is wrong. I feel it.”

  Panic filled Duncan. The bairn. He pushed himself to his feet. If she lost the bairn, out here with no one to help her, he could very well lose her, too. The bringing forth of life was just as lethal as doing battle. He had to get her to the keep. He pulled her up from the log and helped her to her feet. “We have to make it to the keep. Help awaits.”

  Tilda stumbled beside him. She held one arm wrapped about her middle. Her other hand clutched his waistcoat. “I canna ride.”

  “We must ride, love. We’ll ride together.” Duncan roared out his pain as he lifted her up into the saddle. “Hold tight, lass.”

  She pressed the back of a hand across her mouth to muffle her sobs.

  Duncan hefted himself up behind her. He secured a length of his kilt around her, knotting it to secure her to his body. Scooping up the reins, he urged the mount into a run. One of the Mackenzie’s men could round up the other horse.

  Urgency pounding through his veins, he paid no mind to the warm wetness streaming from the wound in his chest. It would have to wait. Tilda slumped back against him. Lord Almighty, her tears pained him, but her silence tortured him more.

  “Tilda!” he shouted over the thundering horse’s hooves.

  She stirred a bit and squeezed his hand.

  A flickering of light danced across the horizon. Thank God. “I see the keep’s torches love. Stay with me.” He blinked hard, praying the lights he saw were real and not his damned blood loss playing cruel tricks with his vision. “Nearly there,” he promised as they sped across a narrow valley dotted with crofts and sheep.

  Duncan gritted his teeth. The gate was sealed. Portcullis down and tall, solid doors barred. “Open the gate! I’ve the Mackenzie’s daughter! Open the gate! Now!”

  “Yer name!” came the shout from the skirting wall.

  “Duncan MacCoinnich!”

  “Open the damned gate! Now!” A voice boomed from the guard tower.

  Thank God Almighty. ’Twas the Mackenzie himself. Duncan blinked to focus his fading vision, urging the horse forward into the bailey.

  “Help her,” he managed to get out before everything went dark.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A cool touch pressed against her cheek. A crisp, clean scent wafted across her senses. Herbs. Bright acidic chamomile. Astringent cleansing mint. Soft soothing lavender. The unmistakable fragrances of Agnes Cafflecary.

  Tilda opened her eyes to the dear matron who had always treated her like a cherished daughter. Agnes peered down at her with a sympathetic smile that held no joy.

  “The bairn?” Tilda whispered. Sorrow and heartache suffocated her with the answer she already saw in Agnes’s face.

  Agnes shook her head. “I am sorry, dear child.” She scooped up Tilda’s hand and squeezed it as she lowered herself to sit on the side of the bed. “Not this time.”


  Tilda bit back the mournful keen she longed to wail. A stubborn sob shook her as she jerked away, pinning her glare to the wall beside the bed. What grievous sin had she committed to deserve such a life? So much loss. So much pain. What had she done to call down the wrath of Almighty God?

  She swallowed hard and squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to cry. Tears did no good in this life. If she took the time to weep for all she had lost, she would be on her knees for the rest of her days.

  Duncan’s injury pushed to the forefront of all the curses she had endured. Without pulling her gaze from the wall, she forced all emotion from her voice, struggling to speak. “Do I at least still have a husband, or did God take him from me, too?”

  “Duncan lies in the adjoining room. He’s more than a little weak from all the blood he lost, but I believe he will live.” Agnes tucked Tilda’s hand back atop the covers.

  “Ye believe,” Tilda repeated. “Ye canna say for certain?” She faced Agnes. “If he is dead or dying, I would know it now, ye ken?” She was in no mood for placating. If all she loved was dead and lost, then by damned, she wanted to know so she could end this pain now rather than suffer through this life any longer.

  “There is always fear of infection. With the lead embedded so deep in his chest—even more so.” Agnes moved about the room, gathering bundles of herbs and jars of oils before returning to her makeshift healing table near the bed. She added a dollop from one of the glass vials to a cup, then filled it with steaming hot water and sprinkled in a pinch of a dried substance. With a slow stirring of the concoction, she sniffed it before handing it to Tilda. Her chin dipped in silent approval, then she held it out. “Drink this, child. It will help.”

  Tilda folded her hands across her now empty middle. “Nothing will help me. Drink it yerself.”

  Agnes’s jaw tightened. She turned and set the cup on the nightstand beside the head of the bed, then plumped the pillows around Tilda. She didn’t speak, just kept her mouth set in a determined line. After straightening from the task, she stood with hands fisted on her hips. “Do ye nay wish to heal so ye can sit at yer husband’s side whilst he struggles to mend? Give him reason to fight?” She took hold of the cup again and held it out. “I removed the lead from his body, but he still has much to overcome. He lost a fair amount of blood. Now, drink this.”

  “So, he is dying?” Tilda whispered, the very heart of her growing cold as a tomb.

  “Sit up and drink this tea. Now, Tilda.” Agnes gave her a stern look. “Yer husband is not dead yet, but he is grave ill and stands at death’s door. Ye must strengthen yerself and tend to him, child. Ye owe him that.”

  “Stop calling me child! How can I be a child when I just lost my own?” Tilda shoved the tea away. “Unless that tea can return my precious bairn to me, ye can dump it in the chamber pot.” Rage at the injustice of all that had happened took over. Heart-wrenching sobs shook her as the tears finally broke free.

  Agnes nodded, set the tea aside, and gathered Tilda to her bosom. She rocked her back and forth, rubbing and patting a hand across Tilda’s shoulders. “Let it out, lass. Mourn for yer wee bairn. Wail it from the rooftops, if ye wish. Let it out so ye can heal and move on.”

  “I dinna wish to heal,” Tilda cried into Agnes’s comforting embrace. “I wish to die.”

  Agnes took hold of her shoulders and held her at arm’s length, leveling her gaze with hers. “I know how keenly it hurts, girl, but ye will get through this. Ye are nay the only woman to ever feel this cruel pain.”

  A terrifying thought hit Tilda. What if destiny ruled she was to be just like her mother? Empty nursery. Babe after babe torn from her arms. “Please tell me I’m not fated to be like her,” she whispered. “Please tell me I didna inherit her cruel curse.”

  “Yer mother’s bairns were all stillborn after she had carried them to the end.” Agnes wiped a thumb across Tilda’s cheek, swiping the tears away. “Ye were early on, Tilda. Yer bairn had barely seeded in yer womb.”

  “But I still knew it was there.” Tilda hugged herself and bowed her head. “It was my sweet bairn, and I knew it was there,” she repeated.

  “I know, lass.” Agnes reached for the tea again. “Ye will drink this now, aye? Ye must.”

  “Aye.” Desolation and defeat dashed her will to fight any longer.

  The lightest knock sounded on the door.

  Almost choking on the sip of tea, Tilda shook her head. “Dinna let that woman in here, Agnes. I dinna possess the strength to fight with her today.”

  “Yer mother’s in Edinburgh.” Agnes rose and went to the door. Her disapproval obvious as she cast a look back at Tilda. “Left the same day yer da received the blessed news that ye lived and were nay lost to the sea as we had all feared.” Agnes growled out a disgusted huff. “Heartless woman, that one is. Left before seeing her only daughter. Said she had business in Edinburgh that she couldn’t delay.”

  The tapping came again. “More linens for ye, Mistress Cafflecary,” said a quiet voice from the other side.

  Agnes shooed away the words. “Set them on the chair beside the door. Mistress Tilda needs her rest, and none shall disturb her, or I’ll have their heads on a pike.”

  Tilda leaned back into the stack of pillows against the headboard. The more she sipped at the tea, the more her head cleared, but Agnes had lied. The drink had nay dulled the heartache splitting her in two. Aye, a fragile calm had settled across her, but pure sorrow still filled her soul. A heavy sigh left her. At least she didn’t have to deal with Mother. Thank goodness the woman had gone to Edinburgh. Tilda slid the teacup to the table. She prayed Fennella would stay gone. Tilda massaged her temples and frowned. “Ye say Da already knew we had nay drowned?”

  “Aye.” Agnes fetched the empty cup and returned it to the medicine table. “A fortnight afore ye planned to leave the abbey. A Father Wesley wrote to him. The man apprised him of all ye had been through and when we could expect ye here at Cape Wrath.” She tossed a glance toward Tilda’s feet. “Even told us of yer foot, but I must say, I expected a simple peg. Not some fanciness such as that.”

  “Duncan found a craftsman to make it for me.”

  He’d taken such good care of her. She looked at the door connecting their rooms. Her sweet Duncan, threatened by death again. All because of her. She pulled in a deep breath, struggling to find a shred of strength. It was her turn to care for him.

  She turned back to Agnes. “So, ye’re here rather than Inverness because Da sent for ye?” It all made sense now. When she had first awakened, she had thought she was back at The White Lion since Agnes was at her side. This was the first time she could ever remember Agnes Cafflecary visiting Wrath Keep. Mother must have been livid.

  “Aye.” Agnes glanced around the room, a faint air of amusement about her. “Quite the place. I fail to see why yer mother isna happy here.”

  “She isna happy anywhere.” But Tilda sympathized a bit more with the woman now. Who wouldn’t be miserable after losing so many children?

  An unsteady thumping hit the door connecting Tilda’s bedchamber to the rooms that had once been occupied by nannies, governesses, then tutors—depending on Mother’s whim to mold Tilda into something she would never be.

  “If he be out of that bed, I shall fair skin him.” Agnes rushed to the door and opened it wide.

  Face ashen, one hand pressed to the blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his chest and left shoulder, Duncan stood propped against the doorway, a sheen of sweat covering his entire body. “Is she awake yet?” he asked in a raw, rasping whisper.

  “Help him over here.” Tilda hitched her way over to the left, tossing the covers back from the layers of linens padding the feather ticking. She patted the spot beside her.

  Agnes shoved her ample shoulder up under Duncan’s good side and helped him to the bed. With a serious scowl at the both of them, she eased Duncan down onto the mattress beside Tilda. “Now do ye understand what I was telling ye? I told ye true about his need f
or ye. Every waking moment, he’s asked for ye. Death’s door still shadows the man, yet he worries for nothing but ye.” She shook a finger at Duncan. “Ye’ve set it to bleeding again. Are ye hellbent on dying?”

  Duncan ignored Agnes. Instead, he turned to Tilda. “My love,” he whispered, reaching up to cup her face in his hand. Sorrow filled his gaze. Their mutual pain cast a pall across them, binding them together.

  Tilda’s tears flowed anew. “I am so verra sorry.” She closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear his pain as well as her own. “I’m so verra sorry I failed ye.”

  Duncan pulled her close and brushed a tender kiss across her closed eyes. “The only way ye could ever fail me is to leave me alone in this cold, cruel world.” He settled her down beside him and took her hand in his. “We shall overcome this beastly pain together, beloved. I swear it.”

  A rapid pounding shook the bedchamber door.

  “I shall kill whoever that is.” Agnes balled up her hands, stomped to the door, and yanked it open. “How dare ye raise such a ruckus! I shall see the Mackenzie hears of this if I dinna wring yer neck m’self!”

  “’Twas the Mackenzie what sent me, mistress. Please forgive.”

  Tilda scooted tighter against Duncan. She propped herself higher to better hear the conversation at the door. The voice belonged to young Marta, the newest housemaid to join Fennella Mackenzie’s stronghold of servants.

  “Speak yer piece then,” Agnes ordered, still barring the maid’s entry. Poor tiny Marta was no match for the likes of Agnes Cafflecary.

  “Himself says none of ye are to leave Mistress Tilda’s suite under any circumstances, and be sure to keep the doors locked and barred with furniture even.”

  “Why?” Tilda couldn’t restrain herself any longer. Why would Da give such an order? Were they under attack?

  “The British are here, Mistress Tilda,” Marta said, ducking to peer at her from under Agnes’s extended arm.

  “God’s beard.” Duncan scrubbed a hand down his face and blew out a dismal sigh. “Who keeps betraying us?”