Lady and the Scot, Moriag Series, Book 3, Page 2

  The words made her want to cry. They would not help her. Not that she blamed them. They didn't know her. Probably thought her petulant and spoiled.

  In a small room beside the great room, they were able to drink tea and keep an eye on the men who sat around a long table and talked. The more ale Robertson drank, the more boisterous he became. Breena hoped that after consuming ale at the inn and more now, he'd pass out and close his mouth.

  She was astounded at how the people there favored their laird. The McNeil walked about the room, not sitting at the highboard, but instead settling next to his men while conversing.

  On the contrary, Robertson remained at the highboard, looking down at the other laird while calling out responses. She was embarrassed to be with him.

  "This is so different than my clan," Breena said to the women. "In my home laughter is rare. Most of the townsfolk stay away."

  Grisella nodded. "Aye, my childhood home as well was cold. I believe it depends on the laird. The McNeil is a fair and caring man. This is also a peaceful land. It is rare there are any problems between the neighboring clans. I am very fortunate to have caught Liam's attention."

  The woman looked to her husband, with a soft smile and Breena recognized love. "Aye, you are."

  Upon noticing her regard, Elsbeth leaned forward to take Breena's hand. "I am so sorry about your situation. I wish it were different for your sake."

  Breena did not want to dwell on her circumstances. "What of you, Elsbeth. Are you spoken for?"

  "Not yet." The young woman shrugged. "My da is always seeking someone, but my luck has been rather...lacking."

  Grisella laughed. "My daughter is quite a spitfire. It will be a very patient man who will take responsibility for her."

  "I will not marry a simpleton who drools over his ale," Elsbeth said and gasped realizing she'd just described Robertson.

  In spite of the blunder, which made Grisella give her daughter a stern look, Breena giggled. "Aye, I can understand that."

  The women laughed until the men looked to them.

  Later that evening, Ita informed her while helping her undress, "The laird is asleep. He's snoring like a boar." The maid did not measure her words and Breena could not find the energy to correct her.

  She slid between the bed coverings, her eyes already drooping from exhaustion. The McNeil women, although endearing, would not help her get away from Robertson. The man at the inn had not helped her, but he seemed to be concerned for her welfare.

  Why could she not be handfasted to someone like him? He was a handsome one. Tall with a fine physique. His burnished hair fell to his wide shoulders and those eyes, piercing. As if he could see straight into a person's soul.

  It had taken her a moment to realize the colors of his eyes did not match. One was a bright clear green, the other closer to amber. Somehow in those few brief moments, when he'd shielded her with his large body, protecting her from the advancing guards, she'd felt more secure than ever in her entire life. A man like him would not only protect his woman, but also ensure her well-being, putting her above others. Something Robertson would never do. The boar of a man cared only for himself. He was cruel to others, finding glee in the pain he caused.

  Before she lay with him, she'd either escape or kill herself.

  Chapter Three

  The loud booms on his door jerked Aiden awake. Two of his guardsmen stormed into the chamber. "Laird, the village is under attack." Their chests rose and lowered with their heavy breathing. "Four of our men have gone to see about helping. I believe the other laird's guards have been dispatched as well."

  Moraig has been dormant too long. Although he knew his neighbor's guards trained daily to remain in fighting form. Yet they'd become too comfortable. Peace could only last as long as they could defend themselves against attacks and ensure any marauders understood Moriag was not without protection.

  His steed's hooves pounded the ground as he and the two guardsmen rode hard toward the village. The eerie glow of the flames from burning buildings forced them faster.

  When they arrived, the guardsmen were busy putting fires out. There were no attackers anywhere. He went to where Declan Gordon stood talking to Ian.

  "What happened?"

  "They attacked and left. Almost as if they didn't want to be confronted. Four people are dead and many injured. They say it was a band of about five and twenty men."

  "We have more than that combined," Aiden responded. "Even without the McNeil and Campbell."

  Ian kicked at a stone and watched men carry an injured person across the courtyard to where the wounded were being cared for. "I say we rush after them and attack. Why do we stand here and do nothing."

  The McNeil neared. "Because we are smarter than that. We must convene together and plan."

  The Gordon nodded. "Let's split into two groups and go after them. They went north from what the villagers say."

  The Lairds split into groups of ten and twenty men and rode out, leaving a small group behind to keep the village safe. Aiden hated to admit the possibility of battle made the blood course through his veins faster, giving him energy he'd not felt in the years since he'd come to Moriag to oversee his inheritance.

  "Over there!" someone called out and they turned in the direction the man indicated. The attackers were prepared, no doubt heard them coming and rushed to them head on.

  Swords clashed, metal against metal. The mixture of human growls and horse whining filled the air. The intruders were battle ready, obviously the type that spent time in the battlefield and not just training daily like his men. They did not hold back, but struck with intent to kill.

  A loud whistle sounded and the attackers immediately pulled back. They turned away and fled into the darkness.

  They gave chase, but were forced to give up when called back by the other lairds. Aiden looked to the others. "I believe they are leaving our lands, not to return. Let us find our injured and go back."

  The Gordon held up his right hand to get their attention. "If you see one of theirs is not dead, take them as prisoners. Do not kill them." They did not find any injured attackers; those left behind had been killed.

  Soon they headed back to the McNeil keep, the largest and nearest. The injured guardsmen were setup in cots in the courtyard so a healer could care for them. The women and elderly in the keep rushed out to help. The dark haired beauty from the inn came down a stairway. She hesitated at the bottom, her eyes immediately locked to the entryway of the keep.

  He wondered if she'd seize the opportunity of all the commotion to escape. But moments later, she lowered beside a man who writhed in pain. She took cloths and with swift precision tore them into strips. She then tied several around the man's upper arm and began to clean the injury to his lower arm. He noted she didn't cringe at the gruesome sight; instead she spoke in soft tones to the man who Aiden suspected would lose his arm.

  To a warrior, losing a sword arm was worse than death, and Aiden felt bad for the male. He neared to get a better look at the injury. The wounded man looked to him, searching his face as if hoping Aiden would bring good news.

  "I will help you keep still so she can tend to you wounds." He lowered and held the man's shoulders. Breena pulled his ravaged flesh together and the man began to shake, his breathing ragged. She looked up at Aiden and then back to the wound. "I am not sure I can stitch it closed, but I will try. First, I will have to bring the bone together. This will hurt."

  She dipped her fingers into the wound and the man cried out in pain. Her concerned filled eyes looked to his face. "I'm sorry. But we have to try to save your arm."

  The warrior nodded, beads of sweat pouring down his face. "Aye, go ahead."

  Aiden was astounded at how calm the woman remained as she set the bones and stitched the wound shut. Her fingers steady, all the while she spoke to the warrior in low tones, keeping his focus on her as much as possible. Once the wound was closed, she motioned for a maid to come and give him a strong dose of whiskey to
help dull the pain. "I believe you will heal, but it will take weeks." She picked up her skirts and moved to the next injured man, who had an angry gash to the side of his face.

  Aiden stood by as she cleansed the wound and began stitching it. "Where did you learn healing?"

  "We do not have peace in the lowland area where I come from." She did not look at him, but kept her focus on the wound. "My clan has battled most of my life. I learned young how to care for the injured." She gave her patient a swift slap on the hand, when he reached to his face. "Don't touch your face. Your hands are grubby and will infect it."

  The hapless man gave Aiden a defeated look and lowered his arm. "You are not gentle at all," he grumbled.

  "You are correct. I am not," she replied and continued her work.

  When she finished, he scanned the area for her guardsmen. It seemed curious that none were about. Neither was Robertson. The man probably still slept off the effects of too much ale. From what the McNeil told him, the man had drank himself into a stupor. He touched Breena's arm. "May I speak to you?"

  He followed her to a corner of the courtyard. She looked up at him, her façade strangely calm. Unlike the day before when she'd asked for his help in escaping, today she seemed like a totally different person. "Why did you ask for my assistance in escaping?"

  She studied him for a moment, seeming to deduce whether he was friend or foe. "I was upset. Homesick. Acting like a child. It is nothing. I realize it was silly of me to approach a total stranger." As she spoke, her gaze scanned the courtyard.

  "I don't believe you."

  Her eyes flew back to his face. "It is up to you, of course, to think as you see fit. But you do not know me, sir."

  "You are correct in that. But ‘tis easy to see the man with whom you travel mistreats you."

  She remained silent, so he took it as a queue that the woman would refuse his offer to help in that moment. "If you need anything, send word. I am Aiden Stuart. I live not too far from here to the south."

  "Breena McGalen," she replied and bowed her head. "I must go and see what else needs to be done. Please excuse me, Laird."

  So she already knew who he was. He'd not told her he was a laird. Aiden watched the soft sway of her hips as she made her way back to the center of the courtyard.

  "Not too many injuries for my men. What about you?" Declan Gordon placed a hand on his shoulder. Aiden searched for his guardsman Calum, who'd fallen off his horse and had to be carried back. He spotted the guardsman standing with a group. "It seems Calum was knocked on the head, but he's fine now."

  McNeil lost a man. They crossed themselves. "A young man who'd not much experience."

  "It is hard with lack of battle for so long for our men to take battle training seriously. Although this has been a tough lesson, it is a good one for them."

  "Aye, I agree." Declan motioned for him to follow. "Come, we must meet with the McNeil. Looks like the Campbell arrives. Word was sent to him to join us."

  The older man stopped at the courtyard entrance upon a great steed. Too many guardsmen to fit into the courtyard flanked him. His shrewd eyes took in the scene before him.

  He looked to him and the other two lairds. "I came to let you know you have my support and the use of my men. I will join you tomorrow. Send a messenger to let me know where and when."

  "We thank you," Liam McNeil bowed to the Campbell who nodded. "You are my neighbors, and my friends. Our clans have coexisted in peace for many years. Any attack on Moriag is an attack on Kilchurn."

  After the Campbell left, Aiden joined the other two lairds as they ascended the stairwell into the keep. It was time to plan for any upcoming attacks.

  Within moments of settling into a room just a bit smaller than the great room, Robertson deemed to make his appearance. He narrowed his eyes at seeing him and Gordon. "What is the reason for the joining of lairds?" He moved to a sideboard and motioned for a lass to pour him mead. "I imagine ‘tis something of importance."

  The McNeil looked to his guest. "Our village was attacked in the wee hours of the morning. I consider an attack to be important, yes." He looked to the other lairds. "This is Creag Robertson, my guest."

  Curt nods were given, everyone more focused on dealing with the attackers than the obnoxious man who settled into a chair and watched them with interest.

  "Now, to the matter at hand," Liam McNeil got everyone's attention. “We must join forces in order to ensure the peace to our region is regained."

  When the lairds departed to go inside, Breena kneeled next to the man whose arm she'd already bandaged. He seemed to be well enough to move and she motioned for men to come forward and carry him to one of the tents where he could sleep and recover.

  "You should wash up and get some rest," Gisella told her, her brows drawn together. "I assure you this is a rarity. Our region has lived in peace for a very long time."

  "Do not worry yourself with me. I am fine. I will go rest momentarily."

  "Thank ye for helping with the men. You are a good healer." The woman patted her shoulder and moved away when someone called for her.

  Breena picked up a wooden bucket and went toward the courtyard's entryway. She moved to a well and began pulling at the rope all the while looking across to the top of the high walls. Men patrolled scanning the area below. To her left and right, men congregated in small groups; anxiety floated in the air.

  She walked to the side of the keep and continued close to the wall with her still empty bucket in hand. Trembling she fought to keep from making any noise. Breathing became hard, her chest heaving from the effort. If Robertson learned of her attempt to escape, she shuddered to think how he'd respond.

  No one followed, thankfully a few steps further, there were low growing bushes, which would keep the men from above the keep from seeing her clearly. If she were discovered, she'd claim to be gathering healing herbs. Just to make her story believable, Breena bent and nipped some sprigs of a plant known for pain and put the greenery into her bucket. Her feet sunk into the soft grass and the overwhelming desire to collapse came over her. What had her life become?

  She was raised in the best of circumstances. Both her parents were titled. Growing up with her sister and brothers, she'd never wanted for anything. They'd been pampered, but she rarely was shown any type of affection by her parents. Her father's attention was exclusively for his sons, her mothers for her younger sister. Upon reaching adolescence, her mother sent her off to live with an aunt and uncle for several years, claiming not to be strong enough to deal with her unruly ways. It was true. She had been rebellious, a desperate attempt to get her parents’ notice.

  Her restlessness gave fruition to finding a purpose. Satisfaction at helping fulfilled her when she focused on learning the art of healing. For the last few years, she'd dedicated her time to learning to care for the wounded. Her clan was constantly involved in clan border fights.

  Out with the wounded, she was appreciated and treated with respect once her intuition for healing was realized.

  In the distance she heard a guard whistle and she bent again and picked at a plain grass. She took some and put it in the bucket. No one came after her. The man must have been getting another one's attention for something else.

  She admired the men who gave their life to protect the laird and his family, always had a high regard for guards. At ten and six, she'd fallen in love with a warrior, they'd been lovers for a while. But he could not stand up for her before her father. Any acknowledgement of their involvement would result in his lashing or worse, so they'd kept it secret. Then one day he was gone. Later she learned one of her brothers had discovered their relationship and had sent him away.

  How she hated the power men had over her. How she detested her cruel family's ways.

  Just a year earlier, she'd overheard her parents argue. It seemed her mother had a lover before they'd married and she'd been the result. Understanding dawned that day and it also made it clear why neither of them ever cared for her. Upon Robe
rtson's request for her hand in marriage both had quickly agreed. The farther away she lived, the easier it would be to forget she existed.

  An hour later she heaved a breath of relief. She'd done it. Gotten away. The woods she rushed through grew thicker and darker and she fought to keep her skirts from snagging on low branches. Thankfully, she'd changed into a serviceable frock to help with the injured, so the dark color as well as the narrow skirting helped.

  With everything that happened at the keep, as well as the meeting of the lairds, she hoped it would be late before Robertson sent for her. If Ita noticed her missing first, she was sure the maid would announce it to the ladies of the house first.

  The McNeil's wife and daughter seemed kind. Both gave the impression of being content. But she doubted they'd hold Robertson back from punishing her. Although they seemed to have a different life. Totally different than what she faced with Robertson.

  She'd noticed warm looks between Grisella and the McNeil. If not love, they cared for one another a great deal. Perhaps the woman would wait before reporting to Robertson of her disappearance. Then again with the attacks, they'd no doubt send out men to search for her immediately.

  Breena moved faster, she needed to be as far as possible, find a place to hide before the guardsmen came searching.

  At the sounds of horses, Breena gasped, dove into the vegetation, and lay stomach down onto the rich peat covered ground. She peered through the thickness. A large group of men on horseback appeared on a thin trail. They rode in flanks of two, about twenty men in all. They spoke in low grunts, their attention forward. "We strike and flee toward the west today. Have to keep them guessing where we make our camp." A large man with long hair spoke. "Don't leave any injured behind. If you canna ride, you die."

  They did not spot her as they rode past, their attention seeming to be on getting to their destination.

  Breena let out a breath at the site of their retreating backs. Interesting, she could have sworn two of the men were Robertson's guardsmen. Could it be possible he was behind the attacks? But why would he bring destruction to Moriag?