Highland Jewel (Highland Heroes #1)

Chapter 26

The black wolf had been slain, and Leith rode now to MacMartin's cottage to find Rose, but suddenly a rider came racing around a corner. He recognized his brother almost immediately, noticed the limp body in his arms simultaneously.

"Dear Jesu!" Leith whispered, his legs clamped hard against his stallion's sides. "Dunna let it be. Please! ” he prayed, knowing with the bitter burn in his soul that Rose was hurt.

"Me liege," Roderic choked, pulling his mount to a halt before his brother. Rose’s body was flaccid, her face pale against his brother’s plaid. "I have failed ye."

For a moment weakness threatened to overcome Leith, but he drew himself up, fighting the numbing pain that crushed his heart. "Is she dead?" His tone was flat and as cold as stone. He made no attempt to touch her. Indeed, he did not even allow his gaze to drop to her.

Roderic's answer was no more than a whisper, his eyes frantic above the lady's bright head. "She yet lives."

Hope! Painful in its stinging intensity! "What has happened?"

"Outside John MacMartin's hut. An arrow struck her." Roderic swallowed hard. "It passed within a hand's breadth of her heart."

Leith's gaze fell to her, drawn there against his will. "Give her to me."

She passed from hands to hands, her shoulder and breast sticky with blood.

Leith turned Beinn smoothly then paused, not moving his gaze from her still form. "Who has done this?"

"I dunna ken," rasped Roderic, "but he will die."

"Come with me," Leith ordered.

"Me laird!" Roderic said, his tone harsh. "Ye would na let this crime go unpaid!"

"Hear me now," said Leith, his voice so low it was barely audible. "He who did this shall surely die a bloody death." His mouth twitched with the force of his emotion. "But for now we shall think only of saving me lady."

The drawbridge lowered on creaky pulleys. Their horses' hooves clattered across. The courtyard was nearly empty, but the hall was filled for the evening meal and the noise abounded.

The great door swung shut behind them. Faces turned, blearing in Leith's distress as he strode through the cavernous room, his grip tight about his small bundle.

"Me laird."

"Leith!"

Words and gasps accosted him, but he acknowledged none and stopped for nothing. His world lay wrapped in stillness in his arms.

He laid her upon the bed. Fresh blood seeped through the rend in her gown.

"She saved MacMartin's bairn," Roderic said softly. " 'Twas a miracle. A lad it is. Named Somerled."

"Ye got the arrow cleanly out?" Leith asked, ignoring his brother's words.

"Aye. It went straight through." Roderic said, seeming to draw himself from a trance. "I broke it off and pulled it free."

Leith felt the pain rip through his own flesh. Sweet Jesu, if she should die ... But nay. He gritted his teeth. He would not let it happen, even if he had to make a pact with the devil.

"Shall I fetch a priest, me laird?"

"Nay!" Leith bellowed, not knowing who asked the question or who answered in unison with him. "She willna die!" He rose like a towering mountain, his face contorted with rage. "Do ye hear? She willna!"

"Nay, Leith." Mabel's hands unclasped as she touched his rigid arm. "She willna. Judith, fetch warm water and clean cloths. The rest of ye, go out. She needs rest to heal."

Leith sank to the mattress beside Rose. They did not believe she would live, he knew, but he took her hand and gripped it in both of his. They thought she knocked even now at death's door, but she would not leave him. For he loved her.

Rose woke once during the night, speaking feverishly. Leith leaned close, wiping her brow with a wet cloth and whispering gentle words.

Dawn came in grim shades of gray. The day dragged toward noon and past, yet Leith sat, motionless and silent. A quiet rap sounded at the door, but he ignored it. He would not allow others to mourn her, for in truth, he could not bear their tears.

Sometime during the night he had slipped Rose's small wooden cross from about his neck and held it now, seeking solace from the rough-hewn symbol of forgiveness and peace.

His eyes felt dry and empty—as did his soul. There was the sound of shuffling in the hall and Leith gritted his teeth, knowing Roman had bedded there, waiting to be admitted. But that was the face he could least bear to look upon, with those round, frightened eyes that mirrored his own panic with such perfect clarity.

He was Scots. He was Highlander. He was laird—strong, invincible. But without her he was nothing, only a shadow of a man who cared not whether he lived or died.

After all this time, it seemed he understood his sister and her lover. Eleanor had risked her pride and the pride of her people to be with Owen. And those who did not believe that he himself had killed Owen, believed the young man had taken his own life to be with her.

"Sweet Jesu!" For the first time Leith could pray for the lad's soul, for surely he had suffered enough here on this earth. Losing the woman he loved had surely caused him more pain than one man should have to bear.

His prayers continued into the night, through the dark hours, interrupted now and then by Rose's moans.

Gray light seeped slowly into the room. The rain had stopped. The burning pain in Leith's heart did not.

He stood, ignoring the stiffness in his back as he went to push open the window shutter.

"Silken!" he said in surprise.

The cat rose warily from his spot on the broad window ledge.

They stared at each other—feline and human, mere inches apart.

"She willna die," Leith vowed, as if the cat's presence there challenged his words.

Silken hunched his back slightly, his ears shifting.

"Why do ye come?" Leith whispered. "Stalking about as if to take her spirit from this world." Silence echoed around him, mocking him for his one-sided conversation. "Ye shall na have her." He drew himself straighter. "She is mine."

The cat eased onto his belly, watching, waiting.

"Damn ye," swore Leith, feeling the torturing lump of fear rising hopelessly. "No one will take her from me, for she is ..." A strangled noise came from his throat. "Mine."

The single word slipped into the grayness of the morn, yet seemed to echo in his ears. Mine. Mine.

But she was not.

He covered his eyes with his hand, imagining the misery of a future without her.

Even now she was not truly his. Not by the words of a priest or a single vow from her lips.

But even if marriage vows had been spoken, would she belong to him alone?

Nay!

The truth came to him suddenly.

She was not his! She belonged to his people. To Roman and Roderic and Mabel. To wee Somerled just birthed, and Malcolm whom she had saved. And yes, perhaps she belonged even to Silken, who could not bear to be parted from her.

"Roman!" He yelled the name, startling Silken to his feet again, though he did not turn away. "Roman." Running to the door, Leith threw up the bar.

The boy was already there, camped at their door like a small, watchful angel, his narrow face shadowed below round eyes.

"Ye kept her safe before, lad." Leith gripped the boy's arms, lifting him from the floor and carrying him to Rose's bed. "Ye shall keep her safe again. Do ye hear me?" He shook Roman gently until the lad nodded. "Dunna let her leave us. Speak to her. Call her back, lad, as ye did with yer dog," he pleaded, and then he was gone, running down the stairs, already shouting for Hannah. The sun had come out!

The wagon rumbled along, bearing its precious burdens quickly toward Glen Creag. Again the drawbridge lowered. Again unshod hooves clattered across.

Leith threw his leg swiftly over Beinn's rump. "Here, John." He ran to where the man already lifted young Eve from the wagon. "Another blanket. Fiona Rose would never forgive me should yer bairn catch a chill."

"Aye, me laird." John nodded, but his face was strained, showing the same expression Leith had seen on the others.

They thought he had lost his sanity. But in fact, he had found it. And with it, Rose would live.

"Inside. Hurry now," he ordered and John went, carrying his wife who carried the tiny babe, still naked and clasped close to her breast beneath the blankets.

"Lass! Wee nun!" Leith called, taking the steps by threes. "Fiona!" For one horrendous, shuddering moment fear gripped him in dark hands and he stopped, his heart faltering as he stood immobile in the doorway.

"Me laird," Roman said, his round eyes catching Leith's. "I think—mayhap I saw her fingers move."

It was said with the blind, unquenchable faith of a child who has seen a lifetime's worth of pain, and yet dares to believe in the triumph of good.

Leith's heart thumped to life as he sped across the floor and clasped the boy to his chest in a crushing embrace. "Ye are surely sent from heaven, lad. Surely so.

"Come in. Come in," he called, setting the boy aside and motioning to John. "Put them under the blankets with me lady."

"Under..." John blanched at the words, terrified of placing his wife and son beside a woman who was surely dying, and abruptly shifting his gaze to the window ledge where Silken waited. But Leith only smiled and shook his head.

"Fear na, John. The lass willna die. For ye understand, she owes me a year, promised by her own lips, and she is a woman who will move heaven and earth to keep her vows." Putting his hand to his chest, he gripped the small cross beneath his shirt. "As God is me witness," he murmured huskily, "I willna be shortchanged."

Turning to the bed, his face stern, but his hands atremble, he reached out to shake the wounded girl.

"Fiona," he called, his tone harsh and loud. "Awake, lass."

She moaned once and turned her head, but he would not relent and shook her again.

"Awake, I say. Do ye think God has sent ye here for na purpose but to sleep? Think ye to wrest wee Somerled into this world then leave him with na care? Surely ye owe him more than that."

She moaned again, the sound anguished, and Roman reached out, grasping Leith's arm with both his small hands. "Nay!" he rasped, his lean face filled with terror. "Dunna hurt her."

"Quiet, lad," said Leith. "Dunna try to stop me, for I shall use any means to bring her back. Any means at all.

"Awake!" he ordered gruffly, shaking her again.

"Do ye na think Eve has suffered enough? Must she lose this bairn too because of yer lack of spirit?"

From midnight folds of deepest sleep, Rose saw a tiny face peering at her. It was wrinkled and reddened, with eyes of charcoal-blue and fists hugged close for comfort.

Somerled—that innocent babe, forced too soon into a world so wrought with hardships. He needed her. But she was tired. So very tired. She slipped back, called into the darkness.

But the voice came again and again, growing insistent and hoarse.

And there was crying—dry, heaving sobs from a child.

Roman.

She knew it suddenly. Roman—who had not shed a tear since coming to Glen Creag. Roman, with the unquenchable spirit and sunset-bright mop of hair, was crying. Weeping as if his heart would break. Dear Roman, who had suffered too much. She would comfort him, hold him until the tears stopped.

When her lids finally lifted, tiny dew-drops of empathy had already formed at the corners of her eyes.

"Roman." She lifted her right hand, touching the boy's bowed head. "Is it Dora?"

Roman's small, ginger-topped pate lifted slowly. His eyes were afloat with tears. "Me lady!" he choked, clutching her arm to his narrow chest as if he would hold her forever lest she escape again into a place where he could not follow. "Laird," he whispered, his liquid gaze not leaving her face, "she is returned."

"Indeed."

For the life of her, Rose could not read Leith's tone. It sounded husky and rather strained, as if he had been ill for a long while and had just now found the strength to speak.

"My laird?" She looked to him and noticed that his eyes too were moist. Indeed, she reasoned, he must have been very ill. Shame on her for leaving him to fend for himself. "Ye are well now?"

He took her left hand in his, lifting it ever so gently to his chest. "Verra well, wee lass," he said hoarsely. "Verra well now."

She relaxed somewhat, letting her gaze drift and seeing Dora scoot over the bed plaid toward her. The dog was well. Roman was fine. And it seemed Leith had recovered from his apparent illness.

Her lids fluttered downward. Darkness called.

"Nay!" Leith demanded, his tone so sharp it startled her to wakefulness. "Nay, lass." He gripped her hand harder, as if to hold her forever in his world. "Ye canna sleep. Wee Somerled is failing. And there is none other who can save him."

"Somerled?" Rose murmured.

"Aye. And ... and yer cat has been worried."

"Silken?" Rose breathed, and managed to turn toward the window, where Silken's whiskered face peered warily around the frame.

"Aye. Silken has been waiting on the window's sill."

Rose's lids fluttered down.

"Fiona," Leith called urgently, startling her awake once more. " 'Tis unseemly that the cat sit there. 'Twill make any passersby think this place is enchanted."

"Enchanted, my laird?" she said softly.

"Aye." Leith nodded, feeling relief and hope like the stab of a dagger. "Call the cat forth, Fiona. For he loves ye."

Rose slowly drew her gaze from Leith's. "Silken." She lifted her right hand. "Come."

The cat moved with lithe caution, but he came. Miraculously, Dora remained as she was, comfortably pressed against Roman as Silken moved to the bedside and warily sniffed Rose's wounded shoulder. His eyes, golden as the first rays of morning sun, lifted to Rose's. For a moment absolute stillness held the room, and then he licked the torn fabric near her wound—just one quick swipe of his abrasive tongue before he settled himself onto his haunches to await her recovery.