Maybe This Time, page 8
Duncan’s eyes shone bright. “Yes, my lady.”
Upset, Alyssa ignored his slip of the tongue.
KEVAN BUCHANNAN sat on the ground and leaned back against the trunk of a huge pine. He tied the leather strap back around his neck and cupped the crystal amulet hanging from it in his palm. Weary, he closed his eyes. The battle had been fierce, but it was over. The raiders, clearly defeated, would not return.
A twig snapped. He opened his eyes.
The Cameron warrior who’d protected his back and saved his life twice—that he knew of—walked within two feet of him without knowing he was there. He sat silent and watched.
The man was slight, small for a Scot. Hell, he was small for a man. His plaid slipped from where it draped his right shoulder, and he pushed it back up with a tiny hand. Stopping in the small clearing, he bent to his knees, then folded his hands and bowed his head.
Kevan had thought to acknowledge him, but realizing that the warrior was at prayer, he did not interrupt. Hadn’t he himself retreated to the wood for that same solitude and purpose?
Tugging a pine needle from the soft earth, he chewed on the tender blade, rolled it around his mouth with his tongue, and waited for the warrior to finish. He wanted to meet this man who had fought so ably for him, but not to intrude upon his communing with his Maker.
Intently watching the little warrior, it wasn’t until Kevan felt the sting of a blade in his shoulder that he realized there was danger. Brushing against the pine trunk, he struggled to his feet. His right arm was immobile, dangling uselessly at his side. Air rushed past his head, whizzing in his ear. Instinctively, Kevan ducked. Something sped past him, sunlight streaking on its shiny surface. When the raider behind him slid to the ground, Kevan realized the object was the dagger now protruding from the raider’s chest.
The little warrior stood beside him, looking up. “You are injured?”
Like his features, his voice was soft for a man’s. Kevan pulled the pine needle from his mouth and tossed it to the ground. “Aye, he caught my back.” Stepping around him, the warrior untied Kevan’s plaid and examined his wound. His shoulder burned like fire. The dagger was buried to the hilt. Kevan grimaced. “Pull it out.”
“Aye, Laird. Brace yourself.”
The soldier gripped the hilt. The dagger wiggled. Kevan gritted his teeth, stiffened, waiting for the torturous withdrawal.
The soldier whipped the blade out of him with the same urgency it had entered. He heard fabric ripping, then felt pressure against his wound. The man’s touch was gentle. Almost too gentle, and his fingertips were smooth on Kevan’s bare back. But, in short order, the wound was bandaged.
“That will hold until we get back to camp.” The soldier moved to face him. “It’s deep, Laird. You need stitching.”
The little warrior had torn his Cameron plaid for Kevan’s bandage. Knowing that no Scotsman would willingly deface his plaid, Kevan was deeply touched at the warrior’s show of respect and loyalty to his laird. But because he was the Cameron’s laird, Kevan wasn’t free to acknowledge the honor.
“We must hurry,” the warrior said. “The bandage is too loose to hold for long.”
Such delicate features. Such a soft voice. The little soldier’s lashes were silver-tipped. Kevan’s scalp tingled. What was wrong with him? He shouldn’t notice the color of a man’s lashes. And before now, he never had!
“Can you walk?”
He drew himself up. “I am the Buchannan.”
The little warrior frowned up at him. “Blast it, man. I know who you are. What I don’t know is if you can walk.”
No man ever had spoken to him in such an insolent tone. He’d have been dead before the words had passed his lips. But just now, Kevan had to concentrate on the pain, on mastering the fire burning in his back, to stay upright. Colorful spots were dancing before his eyes, he blinked hard.
“Lean on me,” the warrior said.
“Nay,” Kevan protested. The tree trunks surrounding them swam before his eyes. His stomach lurched. “You’re too small. If I fell, I would flatten you.”
“I was strong enough to save your hide thrice today. I am strong enough to hold you now.”
“Thrice?” Kevan swayed on his feet.
“At least thrice.”
Though it took a lot of effort, Kevan raised a brow. “You have a sharp tongue. By what name are you called?”
“Cameron, Laird. Lord Cameron.”
Bleary-eyed, Kevan fought to focus and still couldn’t. The Cameron was much older than this lad, wasn’t he? And John had brown hair, not silver. Perhaps age had changed it. The black hood made it impossible to tell if the silver went beyond the man’s temples.
“Come, you are losing much blood.” The warrior looped a fragile arm around Kevan’s waist. “I must see to your wound.”
He heard concern but no panic in the little warrior’s voice. “You’re a healer, too?”
“I am whatever I have need to be.”
Not sure what to make of that statement, Kevan leaned heavily on the soldier, and stumbled his way through the swerving pines.
Alyssa frowned up at her laird. His color didn’t at all suit. The lines around the tender skin near his eyes were deep, and the gray cast to his skin worried her. She tried to hurry her steps, but the man was just too large for her to take any more of his weight. God’s truth, it was a miracle he was still upright. His blood was soaking his back, and her arm.
At the edge of the wood, she caught sight of one of her men. “Cameron!”
The soldier turned and recognizing him, Alyssa added, “Sewn, come quickly! The Buchannan has been injured!”
Several soldiers wearing Buchannan plaids rushed to her aid. By his limbs, they carried the chieftain back to his camp. For some odd reason, Alyssa couldn’t make herself let go. She held the Buchannan’s head steady, fearing that if she did release him, he would die before she could see him tended. She looked at the warrior near her side. “Find Duncan, Sewn. Have him bring my medicines from my satchel. Quickly.”
Near the campfire, Alyssa swept the stony dirt smooth with her hands, then lifted her torn plaid over her head and stretched it out on the ground. “Put him there. On his stomach.”
A warrior with a long scar slashing his cheek objected. “He’ll want to die on his own colors.”
Praying the laird hadn’t heard that awful comment, Alyssa glared up at the man. “Put him down.”
Respect lit the warrior’s eye, and the four men lowered the laird onto her plaid. “On his stomach,” he repeated her words to the others.
The warriors turned Kevan over. Before they had backed away, Alyssa dropped to her knees. As gently as possible, she shoved his plaid down to his trim waist, baring his broad back. She was worried at the amount of blood staining his skin. No wonder the man was as gray as ash.
She scrubbed her hands nearly raw in a bowl of water then took a wet cloth someone passed to her and began cleaning his back to better judge his wound. The man was as hard as rock. Her breath stuck in her throat, and the strangest quivers shook in her stomach. Trying to ignore them, she set about her work.
Duncan came with her medicines and fresh, heated water. With painstaking care, she cleaned her laird’s wound. It was worse than she’d first thought. His flesh was torn and jagged. He must have fallen against the pine, elsewise the stab wound would be clean. Pausing, she looked up at her second. “Duncan, I shall have to—”
“Yes, my lord,” he interrupted.
She whipped out her dagger. Solemn-faced, he took it and headed to the camp’s fire.
“Do we need to build a box, Cameron?”
Alyssa looked up, and squelched her surprise. Hundreds of warriors had gathered around, and more were coming. She frowned at the man. “No, you don’t need to build a box.” She prayed she was right, that the laird would survive. Surely hearing her say that he would live couldn’t hurt.
Pulling bottles of medicines from her satchel, she prepared a sleeping mixture, then forced her laird to drink it, rubbing her fingertips down his throat to urge him to swallow. The stubble of his beard taunted her.
Duncan returned with the blade; it glowed red with heat. Alyssa steeled herself for what she must do. She hated this particular duty of healing more so than any other, for no matter how drugged, the treated always screamed. Hearing such pain come from brave men, and knowing it was she who caused that pain, always tore at her heartstrings. Knowing that she had no choice—that if she didn’t do her duty, the patient would die—did not help. The screams that curdled blood would long be remembered by them both. Especially in sleep.
She checked his eyes. Finding them glazed, she took a deep breath and reached for the dagger. Her gaze locked with Duncan’s. He knew how much this hurt her; his concern shone in his eyes. She prayed for a steady hand, took the glowing dirk and, prepared to hear her laird’s screams till next summer in her sleep, she began her duties.
The Buchannan uttered not a sound.
Had he died? Until she was done, she dared not to look and see. Only when she’d waxed the thread and stitched his wound closed would she know.
The night air was cold, but sweat trickled down between her breasts. He must be dead. Her own shoulders throbbed, ached from being bent over so long, and her knees were stiff from their long contact with the hard ground.
He must be dead. She was done and he had not moved once. Not so much as a single muscle had flinched. She licked the salt from her lips, and bent to look at his face.
Sweat-drenched, the Buchannan looked straight at her, his eyes a clear, cool gray. Shocked, she gasped. Had she taken so long in her repairs that the effects of the sleeping drug wore off? Dear God, how had he borne the pain?
“You are done?” His voice was thready.
“Aye. I’m sorry, Laird. Your pain could not be avoided.”
He nodded once, and closed his eyes.
Tears blurred her own. Alyssa blinked, cursing them, and mixed the paste.
She applied it to his wound, taking care to be extra gentle, then bandaged him. “Duncan, I need—”
She looked up to see Duncan holding a warm, wet cloth. Smiling, she took it and began washing the dirt from her laird. “You’re always one step ahead of me.”
Duncan provided her with a steady stream of the warm, soaked cloths. Her hands trembled over the ridge of muscle at her laird’s abdomen, on his powerful thighs, and his thickly muscled arms.
Again, she felt the stirrings low in her belly, the tightness in her chest and throat. He was a magnificent giant—hard and lean and rich with texture. His skin had been tanned golden by the sun and sprinkled with small nicks and scars that didn’t diminish his perfection but enhanced it, speaking loudly of his battles and of his bravery.
Long after Duncan proclaimed him clean and sure to catch the fever if she didn’t halt the water, Alyssa washed him. He had suffered so much. Her heart bade her to soothe him. When she was certain he was sleeping, she stopped her ministrations and covered him with her plaid.
WHEN KEVAN next opened his eyes, the moon was high overhead. The little warrior slept curled to his side, pinning his chest to the ground by holding his good shoulder flat. Looking past the little bundle, his gaze met Duncan’s. “She is asleep?”
“Aye, she is asleep.”
The old warrior looked worried. And well he should. Someone had a lot of explaining to do. “Take her to bed, Duncan.”
The soldier frowned. “You won’t—”
“Take her to bed. And say nothing.”
“Aye, Laird. But—”
Kevan pinned Duncan with a warning glare. “And say nothing.”
Four
IT HAD BEEN a busy night.
Mindful of Alyssa’s womanhood, Duncan had ordered Cameron’s campsite set up well away from the other clans. He’d seen to it that the graves were prepared and the burial boxes built. And David, second-in-command to the Buchannan, had verified with the priest, Father Aldwyn, that the Cameron warriors would be buried on consecrated ground.
Had it been winter, Duncan knew his lady would have insisted that her dead return with the living to the Cameron holding for burial. But the ground had not yet frozen, even here in the Upper Highlands, so the dead must be buried quickly.
And he had another worry. He rubbed his hands briskly, but the fire’s heat didn’t warm the chill from his bones. Nor did the scent of the burning wood hold its usual post-battle, soothing appeal. His teeth were still set on edge. The Buchannan learning that Alyssa was a woman had Duncan damn near shaking in his boots. Not so much for himself, though he was in trouble plenty. But for her. Why had his laird ordered him to say nothing?
The fire crackled and hissed and embers seeped to the bottom of the flames. Glowing ash drifted up on the sharp, chill wind. That question had prompted endless speculation during the long night, but nary a single answer.
Sighing, Duncan scanned the sky. Streaks of pink and gold were quickly giving way to splashes of yellow sunlight. No doubt he would learn soon enough now. Dawn had risen. And Father Aldwyn was ready.
Lowering his gaze, Duncan looked to where his lady slept on the ground wrapped in her plaid. Poor lass. Her face was still streaked with dust and grime from the ride—and from the battle. With her knees curled to her chest, she looked like an innocent child. Unfortunately, the Buchannan wasn’t likely to see past his fury to notice that innocence. He’d see a traitor. No more, and no less.
Grimacing, Duncan shook his head. How had he let this happen? He must have been crazed. She shouldn’t have been here. Though lacking in humility—and sorely lacking in modesty—she was a lady. Oh, she’d accounted for herself well enough on the battlefield. And, truth be known, he couldn’t help but feel a wee bit of pride for his part in that. From all he’d heard, if she had remained safe on Cameron lands, the Buchannan himself, by God, would lay among the dead this morn.
But even if the Buchannan acknowledged that she’d spared his neck, he’d not forgive her for deceiving him.
Shuddering, Duncan jostled her shoulder. “My lady, ‘tis time for the funeral.”
“Not yet,” she mumbled. Forcing one eye open, she snuggled deeper into her plaid. “I ache like the dead.”
Duncan’s brows shot up. “Do you suppose the dead ache, my lady?”
His words niggled at something in her memory. Smelling the fire, Alyssa twitched her nose. “Nay, Duncan. The dead do not ache.”
He straightened. “How do you know?”
How did she know? A strange feeling swirled in her stomach. She frowned up at him. “I’m not sure. But the dead do not ache, and that’s the truth of it.”
WEARING HER BLACK battledress, Alyssa stood beside Duncan, her hooded head bowed against the sting of the icy wind.
The priest, a short and portly man, walked to the center of the line of Cameron graves. Dressed in the funeral requiem vestments of black with purple trim, he said the words to commit her men’s souls to their Maker.
When he was done, Alyssa nodded to thank him, then moved to the first grave and knelt down in the dirt. Burying her clansmen was so hard. A flood of tears burned the backs of her eyes and clogged her throat. She swallowed often to keep them from falling. With trembling fingers, she lifted her dead warrior’s hand and pressed it to her chilled lips, then gently lowered it back to the box. Covering her heart with her hand, she whispered a final goodbye to her warrior, a goodbye so poignant and tender and fierce in her heart that only the committed soul could hear it.
Even the wind calmed to a whisper at her demonstration of respect.
Somber and silent, Alyssa moved to the second of her dead and repeated her salute. She did the same at the burial box of the third, then on down the line, until the seventeenth warrior who had died in her service had received her salute of honor, her praise and gratitude for his service, and for his life.
Wounded and raw, she stepped back to Duncan’s side and gave him the nod to lower the burial boxes into the ground.
Before he could see to it, the Buchannan stepped forward to the first box. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he heaved the box then lowered it into the waiting grave. His expression grim, he then moved to the next and, one by one, he lowered each of the burial boxes himself.
Misty-eyed, Alyssa worried. Would he rip the threads from his wounded shoulder? His coloring grew more and more gray with each successive box. She wanted to scold him, but the honor he was bestowing on her men, laying them to eternal rest himself, held her speechless.
When he stood at the far end of the line of graves, the Buchannan covered his heart with his hand and, bending to one knee, bowed his head. From the movement of his lips, she knew he was praising her men for their service.
Hot tears burned her eyes. She knew the observing warriors’ minds were racing with questions about why the chieftain had bestowed this honor upon her men and none of the others. The Cameron warriors had done their duty to their laird. No more, and no less.
But Alyssa understood his reasoning. This honor to her men was his repayment to her for saving his life. In duty, the men had sacrificed their lives at his call. But she had not been duty-bound to fight. She had battled and spared his life out of devotion and respect for her laird.
He walked around the line of graves and stopped at her side without speaking. She looked up at him, wanting him to see in her eyes how much she treasured the gift he had bestowed upon her men.
The Buchannan frowned. His eyes flashed confusion, then shock.
Dread settled in her stomach like sludge. What happened? What had he seen in her eyes? She licked her lips and tasted—salt? Fearful, she lifted a hand to her face. Her fingers grew wet. Tears? Dear God, she cried!
Fear of his wrath and disgust pumped through her veins. His vassal-lord in tears would mortify the Buchannan! In her years alone with her father, there had been many times she’d wanted to cry, but not since the death of her mother, had Alyssa Cameron wept.
