Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 25

Dermid moved silently through the MacAulay's woods. He had been this way before. Aye, many times. In fact, it had not been far from here that he'd first seen Eleanor Forbes and Owen MacAulay lying together in the heather.

He grinned, thinking of that time. Those had been good days. The couple had paid well for his silence, for Eleanor had been betrothed to another and well realized the scandal that would erupt should her sin become known.

Too bad she had refused to keep paying.

Dermid tightened his fists, remembering her threat to tell Leith the entire story—including Dermid's part in it. But she had never spoken.

He chuckled into the darkness, waiting, remembering how she had fought him, remembering how soft her throat had felt beneath his hands. She'd died quickly, and afterward he'd wished he had taken his time with her, had heard her whimper for mercy. As it was, he had been unable to keep her dead body close to hand as he had wished to do, for if his deed was found out, Leith would surely kill him.

It had been sheer inspiration to take her to the MacAulay's ridge and push her over the edge, watching as her body thudded to the jagged rocks below.

Owen's death had been neither so pleasant nor so simple.

"Dermid." Murial MacAulay's voice came clearly through the darkness.

"Aye." He stepped forward, squinting through the fog that lay heavy and thick in the valley.

"So ye have come again," she said, emerging from the mist, her slim body draped in a woolen tartan.

"Aye, me lady," he said with feigned respect. She could die as easily as Eleanor, he thought, despite her haughty ways, but for now she paid him well to spy on the Forbes. "I have come on this miserable night at yer request."

Murial remained silent, watching him, and he drew back a pace, hating the eerie way she stared at him. “'Twas said she could read a man's mind, and though he'd never believed such nonsense, she sometimes made his skin crawl.

"Did ye have need of me, me lady?" Dermid asked, eager to be paid and be off.

"Aye." She finally drew her gaze away and strode past him. "Have ye met the lass?"

So he was right. Murial had indeed called him there to discuss the laird's woman. "What lass might that be, me lady?" he asked, wanting to make her wait.

"The Forbes' lady," explained Murial irritably, coming to a quick halt. "The lass who claims to be the MacAulay's daughter."

"Ah, that lass." Dermid nodded, feeling some satisfaction at having riled her temper. "Aye, me lady, I have."

"As have I." Murial nodded. Her head was covered by the same plaid she had wrapped about her body. It shadowed her face, making it impossible for him to guess her thoughts. "But Dugald will na cross the auld laird, and already half-believes the witch is his daughter in truth," she whispered. "It must be done soon. Verra soon. Before all of MacAulay Hold believes in her. But I canna do the deed meself."

Dermid leaned closer, intrigued by her words. "What is that ye say?"

Murial abruptly drew her back into a straight line, as if he had disrupted her thoughts.

The night was silent, muffled by the fog.

"I want ye to kill her," Murial said.

Dermid drew back, forcing an expression of feigned shock to his face. "Kill the laird's lady? But surely ye must be—"

"Dunna pretend such shock with me, Dermid, for I know yer soul is black, though I dunna see what darkens it the most."

"Nay, me lady, I am—"

"Ye will kill her," Murial said quietly. "Just as Forbes kilt me brother."

Dermid remained silent. 'Twas a funny thing that he should now be paid to vindicate a death he himself had caused. "Aye," he said softly. "Owen's death must be avenged, but I canna do the deed, for I am a simple sheepherder who—"

"Yer refusal willna raise the price, Dermid. Ye hate the Forbes just as I do. 'Twill cause ye na loss of sleep to do him ill."

"Aye. Ye are right," admitted Dermid, raising his hands palms up, before him. "But to kill his bride-to-be ..." He shook his head, already anticipating the murder. "It will cost ye a great deal."

"Me brother's life was worth a great deal," whispered Murial.

"Me laird," said Alpin, standing before Leith's carved chair, "the lone wolf has attacked again."

Leith did his best to put aside the worries that besieged him. For two days he had struggled to learn the truth of Rose's accident by the brook. Had Harlow attempted to harm her, or had she simply imagined some evil, as she had said? And if she had truly imagined the danger, could it not be that the sight was forewarning her?

He'd searched the hillock for some clue that might help him sort out the puzzle, but had found no evidence.

"Did ye hear me, me laird?" questioned Alpin.

"Nay," said Leith, clearing his mind to face his captain of the guard. "What did ye say?"

"I said the wolf has attacked again."

"The beast that ravaged Roman's hound?"

"Aye. Tis thought to be the same. A great black beast that shows no fear. Rory of Sengal Glen bears the proof of his boldness."

"He attacked Rory?" queried Leith, his grip tightening on the chair's arms.

"Aye, me laird," said Alpin. "He left the calves to challenge a man fully grown."

"Nay."

"Aye," countered the soldier, his feet braced far apart and his brow furrowed. "Some say he is more than a mere wolf."

Leith's expression hardened. "More?"

"Some say he is Owen MacAulay, come back from the dead to seek his revenge," he said, nodding slowly.

"Owen is dead," Leith reminded him darkly. "But not by me hand."

"Then mayhap it is his spirit wandering in darkness," suggested Alpin. "For it is said he took his own life."

Leith's knuckles were white from his grip on the chair. "Nay, Alpin," he murmured. "For he loved Eleanor. He would na punish her people."

The elder man paused a moment but nodded finally, his stance relaxing a bit. "It is sorry I am, me laird, to draw blood from an auld wound. But I thought ye'd wish to know what is being said."

Leith drew a hard breath. He had vowed to guard Rose carefully, but she was not one to stay safely inside the castle walls, and so he would see to the wolf himself, lest his failure to do so cause her harm. "Ye were right to tell me, Alpin," he said, "for I need to know the thoughts of me people. I also need to prove them wrong.

"Ready me horse," he commanded. "We shall bring home the hide of a black wolf this day."

"Me lady." Roderic strode across the hall and seated himself before Rose. "Leith has ridden on a hunt and did na wish to waken ye. He has asked me to see to yer needs in his absence."

"See to my needs?" she asked, grinning a little. She'd found herself as adept at teasing as these Scotsmen were. Who would have thought it? "What horrid crime did you commit that you have been kept from the hunt and shackled to my side like some poor lady's maid?"

Roderic sighed, reminding her vividly of his twin's roguish charm and somewhat of Leith's more overwhelming masculinity. "Tis true," he admitted. "Would that I could risk me hide, riding all day with a bunch of sweating men, rather than entertain the most bonny lass in all of Scotland. Indeed." He sighed again. "Life is na fair."

Rose laughed at his melodramatic performance, for it had taken her no time at all to realize the young rogue's silver tongue. "How is it, Roderic," she asked, "that some bright maid has not bound you to her long ago?"

"Had I found one like ye, sweet Lady Fiona, I would surely have-"

"Me lady!" Hannah fairly flew through the door of the hall, her hands caught in tight fists. "Tis Eve. Her bairn comes early."

Rose stood quickly, all amusement gone from her face. "Did she na stay abed as I ordered?"

"Aye, she did, me lady. But when she went to empty her bowels this morn, the cramping began. Her husband, John, came here straightaway."

"How early is she?"

"Many weeks," breathed Hannah. "And I fear what will become of her if she loses this bairn too."

"Roderic," Rose said.

"I go to ready the horses, me lady," he said simply. "Ye gather what ye need."

They were riding before the sun topped the highest tree. Maise's stride was long and smooth beneath Rose. Roderic rode ahead, a claymore at his side and his bow across his back. Behind him came Hannah, her riding skills not great, but her concern for her sister urging her along at their swift pace.

The cottage was a low, simple building made of stone and pebbles and held together with mud. The roof was thatched with heather. No windows interrupted the rough walls of rock and mortar. A horse, borrowed from Glen Creag's stables, grazed beside the hut, testimony that the woman's husband had arrived before them.

"Me lady." He turned quickly from his wife's bed as Rose entered the humble hut. “I fear it is much as it was before."

His face was drawn and pinched and his hands, Rose noticed, were not altogether steady.

"How long did the birthings take in the past?"

"Hardly na time," blurted John, his face turned from his young wife's pale features. "Some say the bairns were lost because she didna suffer long enough during the birthings."

"Some would believe our Maker is a cruel God," rejoined Rose brusquely. "I prefer to believe He is a God of kindness." She stepped quickly forward, taking the woman's hand in her own. "A God who does not glory in our pain. How fare you, Eve?" she asked, lowering her eyes to the expectant mother's.

"I fear for the babe," gasped Eve, her lips parched, yet her brow damp. "I canna bear to bury another wee..." Her voice broke and Rose touched her cool palm to the woman's brow.

"Do not think of it," she crooned softly. 'Think of..." In her mind she heard a child's laughter, high-pitched and filled with glee. "A son," she said distantly. "With your husband's dark hair and your father's name." She lowered her gaze to Eve's, her own wide from the clarity of her vision. "Somerled," she whispered. " Tis a fine name for a strong lad."

Eve's face paled even more. "I've told no one of the name," she whispered hoarsely.

Rose's eyes held Eve's gaze. "The Lord can do many things. I believe He can grant you a healthy babe."

"Aye." Eve nodded, her lips lifting in a tremulous smile of painful hope. "Aye." She gripped Rose's hand firmly. "I also believe."

The hours passed slowly, for in truth there was little to be done but pray and wait. Rose had given her patient a tea brewed from valerian and birch leaves. It had done much to help her relax and slow her contractions, and while Rose worried now that it might delay the birthing too much, she brewed another pot and gave a mug to John and Roderic.

Men, she observed, were never good at waiting during the birthing process. Thus she had laced their tea with mild sedatives and tried to keep them busy gathering supplies that might be needed—extra blankets, a knife, wood for the fire, and as many other things as she could think of.

Meanwhile, Hannah sat at her sister's side, gripping her hand and crooning soft words of encouragement.

It was mid afternoon when the pains began in earnest. Rose redoubled her prayers, ordered a fire built, and with all the knowledge and practical sense in her keeping, eased the new life into the world.

It was a lad, wizened and red with a mop of slick black hair and miniscule fists clutched to his bony chest. Rose, however, took only a fleeting second to notice these things, for the babe was so small and fragile that it could barely squeeze out a raspy whimper in protest to its rough welcome into such a harsh world.

Cradling it against her bosom, she hurried the tiny life to his mother's bare chest, leaving the pulsing cord intact and covering the pair quickly with multiple blankets.

Warmth, comfort, and prayers. There was little else they could give it. And yet...

Rose sucked in her lower and worried. "Fetch a reed from the swamp," she ordered suddenly. "It must be green and hollow, yea long, and as narrow as ye can find."

"Aye, me lady," agreed the men, and hurried to do her bidding.

She heated water and prayed during their absence. Only once had she seen this process done, and then the babe had died. But she had seen others die too, passing on from the sheer exhaustion of living, of trying to take enough nourishment to sustain life. For suckling took great energy—energy such a tiny infant often did not possess.

But if they could express the mother's milk and feed the babe through the reed ...

Evening had come. Though the little hut felt hot as an oven to Rose, the warmth seemed to comfort the babe, for he slept like a minute angel against his mother's breast.

"Thank ye, me lady." Eve's voice was husky, her eyes moist, but Rose shook her head.

"Do not thank me," she said softly, worry etched on her brow. "Thank the Lord. But I fear there is still danger. He is so tiny." She could not see the little bundle beneath the covers but remembered with clarity the deep wisdom on the infant's scrunched face. If he could but continue to take nourishment through the reed until he was strong enough to suckle, he would yet survive his early entry into the world. "I must gather some things from Glen Creag," she said finally, "but I will return this eventide if you do not mind my staying with you."

"Nay, lady," said John from behind her, his face earnest with gratitude. "Ye would do us great honor to stay, but I fear we already owe ye more than we can ever repay."

Rose opened the door and stepped out. The two men followed. "I ask no payment, John," she said as they closed the door behind them to hold the heat within the cottage. "I only ask that you keep the babe as warm as—"

From the sky came a soft whistle. A sickening thud echoed through the glen as steel pierced Rose's flesh. She gasped in shock and fell, the reverberating wooden shaft of an arrow embedded deep within her chest.