Seventeen

Amber paced back and forth in the great hall, her hands clenched with worry by her side and her eyes burning with unshed tears. The rushes crunched beneath her feet, and the air was heavy with the smell of herbs, blood, and unwashed bodies.

She’d had five patients in the last thirty hours and had slept little. The first had been Father Lundie, his hands and inner wrists burned from a concentrated powder of dried monkshood, which had been sprinkled on the cover of the Bible he’d recovered from the chapel. The skin had reddened and blistered, and he’d become nauseated. Luckily, he’d rinsed them right away, and his symptoms weren’t as bad as they could have been.

He’d been very concerned about the holy book, the holy water, and the consecrated bread. Amber had wanted to burn them, as the poison was deadly if ingested, but the priest had refused and instead wiped down the book and wrapped up everything tight—until he could get guidance on what to do from his superiors.

Her next patient had been Gregor MacLeod, who’d been sliced open by an arrow along his right cheek in the exact same spot she’d been injured, which had pleased the idiot man. Except the arrow that struck Gregor had been poisoned too, and he’d also fallen ill.

Amber had taken a chance that the arrow was tainted with the same substance that had been on the Bible and had treated the wound accordingly. It worked, and Gregor had left his sickbed against her orders to rejoin the other lairds a few hours later. She hadn’t heard anything from him or Lachlan since.

She’d had other patients, unfortunately, including one of Kerr’s men, who’d been crushed by a pile of rocks in Machar Murray’s tunnel and was still in critical condition. Amber had treated several breaks in his limbs, a crushed hand, and tried her best to stitch a puncture in his bowel. There had also been further damage to his ribs and lungs that even she hadn’t been able to touch. She had little hope for his recovery. Her greatest worry for him was infection, especially in the belly wound.

The fourth patient had been gored by a wild boar that had been startled in the woods during the sweep. The warrior, one of Gavin’s men, had been lucky. The boar’s tusk had struck him to one side of the big artery in his groin, and Amber had been able to sew it up.

The last patient from just a few hours ago had been Adaira. Who had jumped off the stairs out of sheer boredom and fallen to the ground. Not only had she bashed her forehead and nose, but a twig from the floor had poked her in the eye. At least the injury and the pain draught had put the lass to sleep for a while.

Now, other than checking on patients, Amber had naught to do but pace anxiously. Being restricted to the great hall, she hadn’t been able to do more than change out of her bloody clothes. So again, she was a mess—dried blood in her hair and most likely on her face.

She glanced down at her hands, vaguely noting the crusty red in the creases, but all she could think about was Lachlan and Machar Murray. Had they caught him yet? Was Lachlan all right? Was he still sure he wanted to go through with the marriage? Especially if they caught Murray, and Amber was no longer in danger.

That question had been circling in her mind like a vulture over a kill for the last three hours.

Of course, she hadn’t slept and—

“Amber.”

Gasping, she spun around. Lachlan stood there, dark circles under his eyes, his face and hands scratched and bruised, his plaid dirty and ripped. She took three running steps toward him and threw herself into his arms. He squeezed her tight, head in the crook of her neck, breath heavy on her skin.

“You smell good,” he said.

She huffed out a laugh. “I smell of blood and other unspeakable things.”

“Nay, you smell like Amber.”

She pulled back and looked at him, loving the smile on his braw face, even though his words made as much sense as one of Father Odhran’s hateful rants.

“I doona know whether to be insulted or charmed,” she said.

“Be charmed. I meant it in a good way.”

“Then that’s how I’ll take it.”

She didn’t need to ask if they’d captured Murray; she could see the answer in Lachlan’s eyes and the grim line of his jaw. “Any sign of him?”

“Aye, the dogs tracked him several times, but they always lost him at the loch or the river. He’s smart, crafty, well-prepared. Hati and Skoll hadn’t picked up a fresh trail in the last eight hours. We came back to rest and rethink our approach.”

“So I’m still in danger?”

He sighed. “Aye.”

“And you’ll still marry me, then?”

His eyebrows jumped up. “Of course I’ll still marry you. Whether the blackheart is found or not. How could you ask such a thing?”

She shrugged, feeling vulnerable and weepy and not liking it at all. Maybe because she’d been so worried the past thirty hours, or because she was tired. Beyond tired.

Looking down, she rubbed her hands together. “I think Kerr’s man will die. I’ve done what I can, but ’tis likely infection will set in—more than I can fight with my herbs.”

He took her hand, laced his fingers through hers. “I’m sorry.”

“Aye, so am I. He’s barely twenty. Machar Murray as good as killed him yesterday, along with Father Odhran—not that I mourn the priest. ’Tis just…Murray seems unbeatable. With all of your, Gregor’s, and your foster brothers’ men, we still canna catch him.”

Lachlan pulled her close again. “Nay, Amber. Doona think like that.”

“’Tis hard not to. He’s always one step ahead of us. A demon of a man if e’er there was one.”

“He’s well prepared. He spent five years planning for just this eventuality. But the good news is we’ve taken away many of his escape routes and hiding places—too many to count. And we know what to look for now, so we’re finding them more quickly, more easily. He’s under pressure, and he’s bound to make a mistake.”

“So he’ll act soon?”

“Nay, not too soon. I think, like us, he’ll need to rest and reassess. He’s a planner, and so far, we’ve thwarted those plans. He’ll be enraged by that, and Callum says his overwhelming need at this point will be to beat us.”

“He’s not used to losing.”

“Nay. I probably handed him his first defeat when I foiled his plans to take over my clan.”

“And now he canna seem to win.”

“Every moment he’s alive he’s winning, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Aye.”

He squeezed her hand and walked with her to sit in the chairs in front of the hearth. “How’s it been here otherwise?”

“Crowded, anxious, people stepping on one another’s toes. I had a few serious surgeries. One warrior will survive, the other is in God’s hands now. And Adaira hurt herself.”

His head shot up. “How?”

“She jumped off the stairs. Banged her face and got a twig in her eye. She’s had a pain draught and is sleeping.”

“Well, thank God for small mercies.”

She smiled and ran her fingers along his face, pressed gently against the bruise on his temple. “What happened here?”

“Falling rocks. One of Murray’s traps, but I crouched against the tunnel wall with my shield o’er my head. The lads dug me out. No harm done other than losing Murray again.”

“That’s how Kerr’s man was hurt too.”

“Aye, but farther on, near the opposite end of the tunnel Murray had dug out.”

She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, closed her eyes. “I’m glad you’re all right. I was worried.”

“Doona lose faith, Amber. Good will triumphant o’er evil.”

The outer door banged shut, and she heard the other lairds enter the great hall. Kerr and Gavin went directly to their wounded men, while Callum, Darach, and Gregor headed toward the hearth with the dogs—who flopped over immediately on the floor. Amber moved closer to one of them—Hati, she thought—so she could slip off her shoes and rub behind his ears with her toes. The dog thumped his tail weakly before he sighed and fell asleep.

“They’re verra well trained. Is that your doing?” she asked Darach.

“Nay,” both Darach and Lachlan said at once, then smiled, too tired and worried to do aught else.

“My wife, Caitlin, trained them. Beyond all my expectations. The dogs would listen to me but to no one else until Caitlin took them in hand. Everyone called them my demon dogs.”

“She sounds like a miracle worker,” Amber said.

Darach’s eyes filled with love. “She is.”

“She trained Darach too,” Lachlan added. “Had him doing her bidding just like his dogs. ’Twas a sight to behold, watching him fall in love.”

A funny feeling bloomed in Amber’s chest, and she dropped her eyes.

’Twas good to know Darach loved his wife. ’Twas the way it should be, of course, and she was glad for Caitlin, but she couldn’t help feeling a wee bit envious. She wondered what it would be like to have a man like Lachlan MacKay fall in love with her?

She wished they were alone so she could ask him if that was possible. And if not, why did he want to marry her? And why on earth would she agree to marry him? Although as Lachlan would say, she hadn’t agreed, he’d agreed.

So perhaps the question was whether or not she could fall in love with him.

Or had she already?

The feeling in her chest spread, and it felt like her heart might burst from her ribs. She pressed her fingers to her forehead and let her hair fall forward to hide her face. She felt ravaged by emotion, and not the good kind—fear, uncertainty, pain…love?

Is this what love felt like? Like she was being torn apart?

“Amber, dearling, are you all right?” Lachlan leaned forward and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

She sniffed and put a smile on her face. “Aye. I’m sorry, I’m just tired. And overwhelmed.”

“Worried about Murray, no doubt,” Gregor said.

“Aye, that’s part of it.”

Kerr came over looking crestfallen.

Amber caught his eye. “I’ll do what I can for your man, Kerr. Make him comfortable and help his body as much as possible to fight the infection. If the lung keeps collapsing, though, there’s little else I can do.”

Kerr nodded and sat down. “You’ve done more than can be expected. Thank you.”

Gavin was right behind him and stopped to squeeze her shoulder. “Aye, and thank you for my man’s life. ’Tis an injury I’ve seen before that I thought terminal, but Father Lundie said you saved him.”

“’Tis a dangerous spot to be cut, for sure, but luckily the artery wasn’t severed.”

Gavin sat down too, and quiet descended on them, full of frustration and heartache. Verily, ’twas a bleak moment.

She just stopped herself from giving in to hopelessness.

“We canna do more than we’re doing at this point,” Gregor said. “For the wounded or for catching Murray. We willna find him, I’m afraid, until he makes his next move. ’Tis out of our control.”

The other lairds nodded, and Amber sighed. Aye, ’twas a waiting game. The wounded would heal or die, and Machar Murray would kill or be caught.

“So, we’ll celebrate life while we can, aye? Do our duty as lairds and try to catch the bastard, but also do our duty as family and put on the best wedding this clan has e’er seen. We need something to cheer us up.”

Amber’s eyes widened, and her heart began to race. “Doona you think we should wait?”

“Nay, naught good e’er came of waiting. I will see my son and his betrothed married tomorrow!”

* * *

Amber stood in the middle of her room filled with sprigs of heather and pine, and pressed her hands to her stomach, trying to quell the storm inside. She was excited, aye, but anxiety had also twined its way into her guts and filled her with worry—and it wasn’t just from the uncertainty of marrying Lachlan and their upcoming wedding night, but also from the notion that Machar Murray might strike today and hurt someone else she loved.

Earlier, she’d bathed in lavender-scented water before the women had descended upon her—four of them in all, including Finola and Isla—to dress her in her wedding finery and twist bonnie ribbons in her hair. She hadn’t liked all of the attention, and she certainly didn’t need someone to help her dress, but Finola had shot her a stare that had quieted all of her grumblings.

And truly she had naught to complain about. Her arisaid was the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, and it fit her perfectly. Made of the softest wool, the material had been changed at the last minute to a dark blue, the same tone as Magda’s ribbon, which matched Amber’s eyes.

When they were done, the women had looked at her and sighed. “You’re a vision, lass,” Finola said, wiping away a tear.

“Aye, our laird willna be able to keep his hands off you,” Isla added with a wink. “You’ll be lucky to make it through the first Highland Reel before he carries you upstairs.” She saw the look that crossed Amber’s face and rolled her eyes. “You’ll love everything he does to you, Amber, I promise. Besides, it’s not like he’s ne’er touched you before. You’ll be as big as me before you know it.”

The others laughed, all except Finola, who gripped her hands. “Doona listen to her, Amber. You make our laird wait if that’s what’s best for you.” Then she whispered in her ear, “And remember to take your knives.”

When they left, Amber stood in the middle of the room, trying not to panic. Why had she ever agreed to this? Nay, she hadn’t agreed, Lachlan had agreed. But he knew she’d expected him to say “no.”

So, truly was his fault. And if not his fault, Niall’s for sure.

But none of that mattered now anyway. She could hear the villagers gathered in the bailey below, laughing and singing, and could smell the baking bread and roast goose for the wedding feast. ’Twas too late to back out now. And Gregor MacLeod was right.

Her clan needed this.

She put her hands to her head and gently felt the big curls the women had helped along with a hot iron. The ribbon wove through them and tied the front back from her face, and the color was a perfect foil to her orangey-gold hair.

When she lifted her skirt, she saw supple leather shoes and new silk stockings with the same ribbon tying them up at her knee. She could put a knife in there, for sure. Two knives, if she wanted.

She hesitated before hurrying to her medical bag and drawing out her knives. They were especially sharp and small, made to cut through a person’s skin. They had been her grandmother’s, and someday Amber would pass them on too—but to her own bairns or someone else’s?

Her eyes fell on a powder in a vial. She’d taken some yesterday and this morning. She did not consider it subverting God’s will, since God had created the plant the substance had come from in the first place. It would permit her to stay barren if she chose—and that’s if she allowed her husband to have intimate congress.

She looked at the knives again but then shut the bag. If Lachlan really wanted to take her in that way, she wouldn’t be able to stop him. And if she truly thought him capable of that, why was she marrying him?

Because he wasn’t that kind of man, and God’s truth, she wasn’t the kind of woman who could be coerced into things, especially when it came to a life decision like getting married. So she obviously wanted to marry Lachlan MacKay.

He made her feel something she’d never felt before. He made her laugh and made her sigh. He made her sharper and wittier, but at the same time, he made her addled. She wanted to rub herself all over him and sink into his skin.

He made her want him.

But she still didn’t know if she wanted bairns, and she definitely didn’t want him to force his way inside her body, and no matter what Isla said, she couldn’t ever imagine welcoming him in.

She sighed, feeling muddled and uncertain, and moved to the window to look out. ’Twas a beautiful summer day—the temperature ideal and the sky blue, with a few white clouds drifting past—marred only by the number of warriors manning the castle wall.

While Finola and the other women had prepared Amber for her nuptials, Lachlan and the other lairds had prepared for an attack. Machar Murray would be pleased to disrupt her wedding by turning it into a funeral.

The anxiety in her stomach tightened its grip.

In the bailey, a man played a rousing tune on the bagpipes, and her eyes drifted downward from the sight of the warriors on the wall to the sight of her clan bursting into an impromptu dance. Lads and lasses shouted, played, and ran about while their mothers chased after them. Everyone wore their best, and the excitement was palpable—she could feel it even up here in her bedchamber.

Aye, this was exactly what her clan needed. Maybe what she needed too.

A knock sounded at the door, and Amber spun toward it, her heart suddenly racing. She crossed hurriedly and leaned against the wood. “Niall?”

“Aye, it’s me, lass. Open the door.”

She placed her hand on the bar to lift it, then stopped, her stomach still turning and her head spinning with doubts.

After a few seconds, he said, “Amber?”

“I’m thinking,” she said, drumming the pads of her fingers on the door.

“About what?”

“About…marriage.”

“In general? Or your marriage in particular?”

“Both.”

“And?”

She scrunched up her brow. “Well, marriage is about property, and I have no real property to give Laird MacKay.”

“You gave him Clan MacPherson and all of our lands.”

“Oh, aye… Well, marriage is also about bairns, and…I may be barren.”

“Are you?”

She bit down on her nail. “I am right now.”

“Ah, well that’s probably wise. I’m sure Laird MacKay would appreciate having you all to himself in the beginning of your marriage. ’Tis many men I’ve known who doona get to enjoy their wives for long before their bairns arrive.”

“I doona know if I’ll e’er want bairns.”

“You may not. I ne’er did.”

“But you ne’er married.”

“True.”

She sighed and leaned back against the door. “You’re no help.”

Silence ensued, and then he said, “Marriage is about more than property and bairns, Amber. A good marriage is also about love. Tell me. Do you think you can give Lachlan that?”

Her throat tightened, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth, closing her eyes to hold back those traitorous tears. How had she been reduced to this? “Aye, I think I can.” She blew out a breath from between her lips.

“As I suspected. Amber?”

“Aye?”

“Open the door, lass. It’s time to marry the man you love.”

Her eyes dropped to the bar, and she placed hesitant fingers on it. Then she lifted it quickly, opened the door, and stared at Niall, looking quite dapper in his clean and pressed plaid and cap.

He beamed at her. “As lovely as your mother and your grandmother put together, you truly are the pride of Clan MacPherson.”

The sound of footfalls startled her, and she looked toward the stairs. Lachlan walked down the hall, so handsome and braw in what must be a new plaid and shirt and jacket, that he took her breath away.

“The pride of Clan MacKay too,” he said, his eyes devouring her, almost a physical presence on her body.

Niall hurried ahead of them as Lachlan took her hand in a sure grip and led her back to the stairs. She followed him without thinking, her eyes on his face, her breath moving quickly through her lungs.

About halfway down, she came to a halt. “Lachlan, wait. Doona you think—”

He wrapped one hand around her nape, his thumb caressing below her ear, and captured her lips with his—slow, soft, with just a slight sweep of his tongue.

She shivered, and he pulled away, continuing with her to the bottom of the stairs. In a daze, she followed him, then stopped again about halfway through the great hall. It had been cleared of any sign of her hospital, the two wounded men having been moved upstairs into their own rooms, and Kerr’s warrior still holding on to life.

“You canna just kiss me, this is a lifetime commitment,” she said, voice rising. “Shouldnae we talk—”

He wrapped both hands around her head this time, his fingers kneading the base of her skull. “Aye, I can just kiss you, and nay, we shouldnae talk. Because there’s naught to talk about but this.” He kissed her again, nibbling across her cheek and down the side of her neck to bite at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.

She moaned and dropped her head to the side. Lachlan wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked her to the door. Bright sunlight poured in when he opened it, and she blinked. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the bailey filled with her clan, their happy, excited faces beaming up at her.

Niall stood one step down from the top with his arm crooked, waiting for her. Gregor and Lachlan’s foster brothers stood on the first five steps from the bottom, all in their best clothes, waiting for him. Father Lundie stood in the bailey beneath a raised trellis—decorated with ivy and white roses—dressed in a pristine white robe, a purple stole around his neck, and the holy book in his hands, waiting for both of them.

Quiet descended over the crowd as Lachlan took her hand, his eyes now looking a little wild. He dropped to one knee in front of her for all her clan and his family to see. “I ne’er asked you before. Please, Amber, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She stared down at him, forgetting about all her worries, about all the people who waited breathless for her reply. All she saw, all she heard was him. All she felt was that bond that had somehow been forged between them.

She nodded, feeling like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

“Say aye, sweetling. Please, tell me you agree,” he said.

She pulled on his hand, and he rose to stand before her. Then she slid her palm up his chest and laid it over his racing heart. Finally, she smiled. “Aye. Lachlan, I’ll marry you.”