Five

Amber surfaced slowly, still lost amidst a dream of fine silks and linens. The sounds around her were muted, the lights and colors blurry. She drifted in a sea of contentment that lulled her under again and again. This time, when she crested the cocooned warmth, she managed to open her heavy eyelids.

A man sat at the end of her bed, but he didn’t frighten her, didn’t make her feel like she had to protect herself. Nay, he made her feel safe. She stared at his profile—his head leaning against the stone wall, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling evenly. She blinked, losing focus, and had to drag herself back from the depths again so she could continue her perusal.

Her foot rested on his lap like it had with Niall; the snug pressure around her ankle would be a bandage, her sock pulled up to cover it. Her shoe wasn’t tied yet, and she wriggled her toes. His hand closed gently over them, stroked them.

Aye, that felt right too.

She drifted back under then opened her eyes a third time to gaze at his face—a strong jaw darkened with several days’ worth of stubble, his lips relaxed, the lower one soft and rounded, the top one slightly firmer, the small bump in his nose a testament to his willingness to fight.

His eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, hiding the gaze she wanted to see. She must have made a noise, a small sound of enquiry, for he turned his head and looked at her. They locked eyes. She stared to her heart’s content, drowning in the dark-blue color, fascinated by the laugh lines that fanned out from the corners. He’d pushed his hair behind his ears, and it framed the strong planes of his face.

When she saw his lips move, heard a whispered sound, she wanted to answer, wanted to say his name—Lachlan—but she couldn’t move her tongue to push the word past her teeth.

Her lids weighed down, and she gave in with a sigh, drifting under, hoping he’d still be there when she woke up. She wanted to touch him this time. Scratch her fingers through the rough growth on his face. Wanted to sit up and press her lips to the temptation of his.

Wanted a kiss.

Surely, she must be dreaming.

Moments later, or what felt like moments, she surfaced again to the sounds of yelling. Groaning, she opened gritty, heavy eyes. She must have slept several hours more, going by the slant of the shadows through the high, narrow windows and quality of the light.

The end of her bed was empty and her shoe tied tightly over her ankle. Her brow furrowed. Lachlan had been sitting there, holding her foot. Or had she dreamed that? The MacKay laird must have better things to do than watch her sleep. But she felt the weight of his hand holding her toes and the depth of his eyes as he gazed at her.

Aye, she must have dreamed it. All that nonsense talk from Niall about taking a husband, Lachlan MacKay in particular.

A screeching voice dragged her attention across the room, and she pushed herself up, dropping her feet to the floor. She winced as her foot nudged the bench. Her body ached, and her stomach felt like it gnawed on itself in hunger.

She recognized the man yelling by the long, tan-colored tunic he wore belted at the waist. A scowl creased her face. Rising from the bed, she intended to march over there, but the pain in her foot was even worse than before. All she could do was hobble.

“Get out! Get out!” he yelled, his back to Amber, his black hair clipped short. When the priest waved his arms and darted forward, she saw her friend Isla, heavily pregnant and looking distressed, retreating to the door, her hands pressed into the small of her back.

“Isla, wait!” she called out.

Relief flooded Isla’s face as she saw Amber over Father Odhran’s shoulder. He spun around, hatred darkening his countenance. He made the sign of the cross at the sight of her, and Amber’s hackles rose. God’s blood, she knew it was wrong to detest a priest, but this man was the worst of his kind—condemning and bigoted. And according to almost everyone, he’d been the first to run last night when the attack on the castle began.

“If you’re not here to provide comfort to the wounded, Father, leave.”

“Nay, I shall protect them from you, witch. Be gone from our laird’s castle.”

He actually made a flicking motion at her, as if to cast her out. She almost laughed, but she was too tired and sore and worried about Isla, who hovered in the background looking harassed and scared, her face pinched in discomfort.

“Which laird would that be? Your friend Machar Murray, who’s been forced out and will be hanged if he e’er shows his face here again? Or Laird MacKay, whose cousin and clansmen I’ve been healing all last night and this morning? Murray’s reign is over, Father, and I doona think Laird MacKay will be as willing to condemn good folk as you are.”

“He will condemn you when I tell him you’re a witch. Look at you, covered in the blood of your sacrifices, dressed to tempt a man, your hair chopped off and surely used in some spell—maybe given to the devil as payment.”

Amber’s eyes widened in disbelief. Did he really believe what he was saying? And how could anyone interpret her current state of disarray as tempting? “’Tis the blood of the wounded, you wee ablach. And I cut off my hair to escape Machar Murray. Surely even you would consider it a grievous act to—”

“There is no more grievous act than what you do to this woman.” The priest swung around to point a condemning finger at Isla, who shrank back against one of the empty beds. “’Tis Eve’s sin she pays for with every contraction in her belly, every tear in her womb. God condemned all women with the pain of childbirth. ’Tis the work of the devil to take that pain away with your potions and witch’s hands.”

He must be referring to the massage she performed on the pregnant women. She made a sound in the back of her throat—one of anger and disgust. She’d heard Father Odhran preach this shite before, knew that he visited the clan women to try to scare them away from coming to her for help, but thank the Lord he’d been seen as an outsider, brought on after Machar Murray had taken over, and they didn’t listen.

She searched around for something to shoo him off, to force him out of the keep, and spotted her cane. Nay, that might hurt him if things got out of control. Instead, she picked up a thin twig from the floor. She was about to wave it at him when he continued speaking: “And ’tis not for you to say what a man can or canna do. ’Tis God’s will for you to submit to men in all ways, to grow bairns in your belly and suffer in their passage. Eve gave Adam the apple. You will all pay for that sin!”

Eyes hot, chest and jaw tight with anger, she dropped the twig. Amber limped toward her cane, feeling as if steam must be pouring from her ears.

She’d just laid her hand on the weapon, for that’s what it had become, when the door squeaked open. Lachlan strode in, gaze falling first on the women before focusing on the priest. He stopped to whisper a few words to Isla and help her onto the bed before continuing forward.

Father Odhran turned around slowly and shrank before Lachlan. It’s not that the MacKay laird threatened him—or anyone—but he exuded such force and command, with an underlying edge of danger, no one would dare cross him.

Amber found herself unable to speak under the weight of his presence, and she could do naught but stare at him, noticing the way his hair, the color of a young doe, had fallen across his forehead, and his shoulders filled out his linen shirt—not to mention the wee muscle that twitched in his jaw, belying his calm.

“Father Odhran, I am Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay and Clan MacPherson. ’Tis good to have a man of God tending to the spiritual needs of the wounded and helping such a fine healer as Amber, but I would speak to you outside about Machar Murray. I’m sure you wouldnae want to disturb anyone here.”

She let out a squawk at that, and Lachlan lifted his gaze to hers, eyes narrow and direct. Then he looked down her arm, at her closed fist gripping the cane. “I’m glad you’re using the cane for support, Amber. I wouldnae want you to do any further damage to your ankle—or anything else. ’Twould make me happy if you ate something while I speak to the priest. ’Tis time to take care of yourself for a change.”

She was about to say, “I’m not hungry,” but just the mention of food caused her stomach to growl angrily.

The priest gasped and crossed himself again. “’Tis the demon inside her, Laird, wanting to get out. No one is safe as long as she’s here!”

“’Tis an empty stomach, Father, wanting to be filled. Amber has been too busy tending the wounded to eat.” He took the priest’s arm, not forcefully, but with the expectation of obedience, and led him to the exit. “Come now, before you wake my cousin.”

When the door closed with a soft thud behind them, Isla let out a heartfelt sigh. “Oh, Amber, did you see him? I swear if I weren’t already with bairn and in love with Alban, I’d be mooning over him like all the other young lasses in the bailey.” She struggled to get off the bed, and Amber hobbled to help her. “I canna believe Laird Murray is gone and Lachlan MacKay has taken o’er,” Isla continued as she clapped her hands together. “Can you imagine? I’ve heard stories of Gregor MacLeod’s foster sons, and now one of them is here. Callum too, I’m told, although I havenae seen him.”

“Aye, he’s here, although he’s betrothed to a lass who likes to throw daggers, so our lasses need not waste their time mooning over him.”

“Daggers! She sounds like you.”

Amber huffed. “I doona throw daggers! I stitch people up from thrown daggers.”

“The daggers you throw are with your eyes and mouth—and such bonnie eyes and mouth too—’tis why all the lads love you and our priest does not. But look at your poor hair. What happened to it?”

“Machar Murray, that’s what happened.”

Isla reached up and ran her fingers through the uneven tresses, eyes assessing. “Did he cut it off?”

“Nay, I did. Niall got me out of the castle, but I had to dress up like a lad. I rode straight into the MacKay ambush. The laird didn’t know I was a lass till after.”

Isla stared at her, eyes wide, mouth open as if to catch flies, then she burst out laughing.

Amber couldn’t help smiling back. “’Twas not a laughing matter at the time, I assure you.”

“Aye, I’m sure, ’tis just…you are the last of us to be mistaken for a lad, now, aren’t you? Doona we all wish we were as well-endowed as you and had as lovely a face. And you not caring a whit about it.” She played with Amber’s hair again, lifting parts, arranging it around her face. Isla had an eye for style. “What did you use to cut it? An axe?”

“Not as bad as that, but almost. ’Twas my own fault, though. I was in a rush.”

Isla rested her hands on Amber’s shoulders and squeezed. “Aye, and frightened, no doubt.”

She nodded and had to swallow to loosen her suddenly tight throat. “He locked me in his bedchamber while he spoke to his dogs, but Niall had a key. He took a great risk.”

Isla pulled her into a tight hug. “He loves you. We all do. I doona know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here for my pregnancy. What any of us would have done, if not for you.”

“Och, you’re speaking nonsense now. You would have been all right. All of you. Speaking of the bairn, how are you? I saw you holding your back?”

“Aye, ’tis a wee bit sore, but not that bad. I was checking on you, mostly. I would have come sooner, but Alban wouldnae allow it.”

“And he was right. A battlefield is no place for a pregnant woman.”

Isla gave her a sly grin. “Truth be told, I like it when he becomes all commanding.”

Amber laughed—an unexpected burst from deep in her chest. “Aye, I imagine you do.” Alban was short, shorter than his wife, and not one to throw his weight around, although no one would call him weak. Isla was lucky to have him and the bairn she would soon bring into this world—with Amber’s help, no matter what Father Odhran said.

An unwelcome pang of envy filled her heart, and her eyes widened in surprise. She’d ne’er wanted bairns before, ne’er even thought of them or of finding a lad to marry despite how many had come knocking. She’d always considered men’s interest in her to be more of a nuisance than a boon.

But now…now something else beat at her chest. Put there by Niall’s words, no doubt.

Not that there was anyone in the clan she wanted to marry. Still…her eyes drifted past Isla’s shoulder to the door through which Lachlan and Father Odhran had disappeared. That funny feeling in her chest grew, and she shook her head in exasperation.

’Twas hunger, naught else.

“I need to eat. I swear my stomach will turn inside out, it’s so empty.” On cue, her belly let out another loud growl. She turned and looked around the room, spotting some food by her bed. How had she missed it?

Using her cane, she hurried over as fast as she could, her mouth salivating when she saw the oats and berries with milk, the dried meat and a glass of mead. “Doona watch me eat, Isla. It willna be a bonnie sight.” She scooped up the oats first and lifted spoonful after spoonful into her mouth, almost desperate. The milk helped wash it down. She finished the meat and mead at a more leisurely pace.

Isla had wandered to the door and cracked it open to peek outside. “The laird’s talking to Father Odhran, and the father doesn’t look happy. Nay, he’s waving his arms about and pointing back this way.”

“What’s Lachlan doing?” Amber asked.

“He’s standing still, arms over his chest, looking…well, not stern, exactly, and not forbidding, but…implacable.”

“Implacable, that’s a good word.”

“Aye. ’Tis one I use to describe my Alban, sometimes. Stubborn, yes, but also implacable.” She squealed softly. “Oh, that must be Callum! He’s there now too, and also braw! What did they feed those lads at Clan MacLeod? Although Callum’s not stoic at all. Nay, he’s frowning at Father Odhran…and he just looked at Lachlan and rolled his eyes. I like him.”

“Me too.” She finished her food and went to check on her patients. Five were still there, Adaira being the worst of them, so she crossed to the sleeping lass first. The girl was lucky not to have been wounded more seriously than she was. The sword had gone in clean, nothing but a nick to her bowels, and that not a puncture.

Amber had worked hard to sew up the damage both inside her body and out before dousing the wound with a salve to help the healing. The lass would have only clear broth and healing herbs to eat for a while, but as long as the injury didn’t become infected, she should heal.

After washing her hands, she pulled back the dressing and eyed the cut. ’Twas slightly red and swollen, but not overly so. And it wasn’t hot to the touch.

She applied more salve, redressed it, then moved to another patient, who’d broken his leg when he fell off the wall. Amber had set the bone, something she’d done numerous times over the years, and secured it tight, so the bone would knit back together in a straight line.

“How are you, John?” she asked, pressing her hand to his forehead.

“Tired. I canna keep my eyes open.”

“Aye, that’s to be expected. Your body is working hard to heal, and the herbs I gave you will make you sleepy. I’ll reduce the amount as the days go by.”

“Thank you, lass.”

She tucked the blanket around him again then moved on to her next patient, and the next. Finally, she was on the last one, Earc, who’d banged his head and inhaled water when he’d fallen into the river defending Adaira from the laird’s dogs.

“How do your lungs feel?” she asked him, pressing her ear to his chest to listen to him breathe.

“A wee bit heavy, but not too bad.”

She saw the puppy dog look in his eyes when she straightened, and she frowned at him, so there’d be no misinterpretation. “Doona get any ideas, Earc. Ask any MacPherson lad around, and they’ll tell you I am not interested in being anyone’s dearling.”

“Aye,” he said, “you’ll be wanting a better man than me.” But the look in his eyes didn’t go away.

Amber sighed, grabbed a candle and held it in front of his pupils to see how they reacted to the light. Normal.

“If you doona have any more headaches or dizziness, you can leave in the morning. But if you find yourself vomiting, unable to wake easily, or feverish, come back and see me.”

“Aye, lass, for sure I will.”

She’d just replaced the candle in its holder when Isla called out from the door. “They’re coming back!”

Amber jumped, suddenly self-conscious, and found herself tucking the jagged ends of her hair behind her ears.

“Why doona you treat yourself to a bath now, lass,” Niall called down to her from the top of the stairs. “There’s one ready in the upstairs room, along with a fresh arisaid and shift that used to belong to Laird MacPherson’s mother. I’ll have the laundress wash your dirty one—just put it outside the door in the hall. And doona worry about anything down here. Mary will be back to watch o’er your patients.”

She hesitated then hurried for the stairs before the men entered the keep. It wasn’t running away if she really did want to bathe. Not that she cared if Lachlan saw her like this—or Callum, for that matter.

At the top, she gave Niall a quick hug. “When is Finola returning? You shouldnae be up and down these steps so much.”

“She was here earlier when you slept. She’s helping Cook organize the supplies, so we have enough to feed everyone.”

“The MacKays brought their own supplies. I saw the wagons full at their camp. Adaira hid in one of them to get here.”

“Aye, but they’ll be here longer now until we know for sure Murray is caught. We doona want him sneaking back in.”

Her stomach clenched, and she thought back on the arrow whizzing past her head last night. “Nay, we doona. Do you think—”

The outside door squeaked open, causing Amber to jump into motion, her previous worry forgotten. The lairds entered the keep below as she limped down the narrow passageway and out of sight of the great hall. Candles in sconces lined the stone walls, as well as faded and worn hangings intended to keep out the cold on a winter’s night.

Uncertain which chamber Niall intended her to use, she tried several rooms, most of them cold, until she saw one halfway down the passageway with a roaring fire, fresh sheets and quilts on the bed, and a jug on the side table.

A standing wood screen inlaid with colorful shells was set up on the far side of the bed, and Amber peeked around the corner to see a tub filled with steaming water. A bar of soap pressed with rose petals and a large, soft-looking bath linen and facecloth lay on a table beside it.

Amber dipped her hand into the water and groaned. ’Twas the perfect temperature. God bless Niall. She quickly stripped out of her clothes and put them in a pile outside the door as he’d asked, then shut it but didn’t lock it in case he or Finola wanted to get in.

Limping back to the tub, her cane left on the bed, she carefully eased herself into the water, keeping her sore foot elevated on the rim. She sank backward with a sigh, blissfully relaxed against the wooden sides worn smooth from years of use.

The water covered her to the tops of her shoulders, and her breasts bobbed to the surface. Wetting the soap and facecloth, she washed off all the sweat, blood, and dirt she’d accumulated over the last two difficult days. She tipped her head back and rinsed her hair too, amazed at how it felt in the water now that it was short. Lathering up the soap in her hands, she scrubbed them into her hair several times to get out the grime.

When she saw a few wood chips and a twig floating in the water, she laughed—although, really ’twas no laughing matter. The wood chips had lodged in her hair after the arrow had hit the barrel she’d hidden behind last night, and the twigs could have been from either her fall from the wall or her horse. Or being dragged through the scrub brush. Aye, that was probably it. All thanks to Lachlan MacKay.

No wonder Father Odhran had disparaged her appearance. She scooped out the offending debris and dropped it on the table to throw in the fire later.

Settling back again, she closed her eyes and let herself drift. The clan’s worries certainly weren’t over—at least not until Machar Murray was caught and justice served—but certainly everyone felt safer now that Lachlan had declared himself laird of Clan MacPherson. People had hope again, and brighter futures. Something none of them—certainly not Amber—had thought about for a while.

Her hands rested on her breasts, and she gently squeezed the mounds. Maybe a bairn would suckle there one day. Her fingers drifted lower, over the sensitive skin surrounding her nipples, which had hardened into pointed nubs.

Or a man.

She leaned her head back, eyes closed, and imagined Lachlan, his hair loose around his face, his eyes hot on hers. The water lapped at his bare shoulders as he sat in the tub across from her, the muscles in his chest heavy and defined, covered in a sprinkling of dark hair.

She strummed her thumbs over her nipples as he watched her, rubbing back and forth, then circling the tips and squeezing them just hard enough to make her breath whoosh from her lungs.

Leaning forward, he lowered his head, his breath a tease on her wet skin. Digging her hands into his hair, she held on as his hot and needy mouth closed over a breast and sucked. First one, then the other, rolling her nipples across his tongue. His hand slid down her body and between her spread legs to rub over and inside her swollen folds with heavy, rhythmic strokes. Up and down…up and down as he continued to nuzzle her breasts.

She thrust her hips to meet his fingers, and water splashed over the edge of the tub. The sound brought her back to the present to find the chamber empty and quiet except for her own stifled moans and the crackling of the fire. She sighed. She might be a virgin, but she was no stranger to self-pleasure.

Unfortunately, now wasn’t the time. Poor Niall or Finola could walk in on her at any moment, and if Niall keeled over from the shock of finding her stroking her own body, she’d never forgive herself.

A wry smile tilted her lips as frustration mixed with embarrassment simmered through her. She’d never felt so good so quickly before. Or lost herself in that kind of fantasy—a man watching her, touching her.

No, not just a man. Her laird, which somehow made it hotter, caused a renewal of the pulsing in her thighs, a heaviness in her core that begged for release.

Her hands slid down her body and she hugged herself, squeezing with all her might to relieve the ache. The emptiness.

And tried not to think about Lachlan MacKay as she lay wet and wanting in the tub.

* * *

Lachlan climbed the stairs with heavy legs and gritty eyes, barely able to contain a yawn. He’d been awake now for what seemed like days. He’d only stolen small amounts of sleep in the week leading up to the attack, and had none last night. He’d managed to rest for a short time while Amber slept in the great hall, taking Niall’s place at the end of her makeshift bed in order to keep her foot raised, but he hadn’t actually drifted off. He’d been too attuned to her, listening for her breath or any wee sigh, aware of any movement.

Which he found…confusing.

He’d just met the lass, so why did he feel this way? She was bonnie, aye, but he’d known many bonnie lasses in his day. Although none quite as lovely as she. Which said a lot, considering he had yet to see her face clean—or even showing a smile.

God forbid she did that, or he may end up like all the other besotted men in her clan—and now his and Callum’s—following her around like puppies.

But this feeling, this urge, wasn’t about lust, although he certainly felt that—had felt it even when he’d thought her a lad, which had confounded him to no end and would set him up for much teasing if his foster brothers ever found out. Nay, the urge that confused him was the need to protect her. To care for her.

And not in the general sense that he cared for others. This was something very specifically Amber.

Maybe the need existed because he’d fought with her, hurt her when he had to restrain her. Or maybe because she’d been in danger for so long and still was, if the arrow attack last night was any indication. Or because he’d seen how she took care of everyone else and had no one to take care of her.

Machar Murray may have been the MacPherson’s laird, but she was their leader.

She was also unusual in that most of the unmarried young lasses he knew tried to catch his eye—either by enticing him or being agreeable. Amber, on the other hand, did neither. She argued with him, ordered him and everyone else about, and often cursed up a storm. She had no agenda other than doing what was best for her clan—and if that meant blackmailing him, she’d do that too.

What would it feel like to be on the receiving end of such care and loyalty from a woman?

His mother had never provided it. She’d been distant at best, manipulative and controlling at worst. And he had no sisters, aunts, or grandmothers to provide it. No close female friends other than Darach’s wife, Caitlin.

Women had always been on the periphery.

Until he couldn’t stop thinking about a disagreeable, redheaded witch.

As he walked down the hall toward the chamber Niall had assigned him, he wondered about Amber. She’d taken this same path not long ago. Was she in the bath now in her own room, or had she fallen straight into bed? No matter how tired he was, his cock rose beneath his plaid at the picture in his mind—her naked and wet in the water, hair slicked back, skin glowing.

His toe caught on a pile of clothes on the floor outside his door as he entered his chamber, and he nudged them out of the way. Left there by Niall, no doubt, perhaps for the laundress.

The room was warm and welcoming, a fire crackling in the hearth and a jug that likely held mead on the stand beside the bed. An upright screen that presumably hid a tub full of water stood on the opposite side of a bed covered in soft-looking quilts and pillows.

He walked to the bed, sat down, and pulled off his boots, letting them fall to the floor with a thunk. Leaning back, he closed his eyes just as his fingers touched something smooth and hard in the folds of the quilt. His eyes opened and he looked over.

His body reacted before his mind could put the pieces together—his heart racing, his fatigue dissipating, even more blood engorging his already stiff cock. Wrapping his hand around a wooden rod, he pulled out Amber’s cane. He stared at it, then slowly looked to the door, remembering the dirty clothes on the floor outside his chamber.

The breath left his lungs in a whoosh just as water splashed from behind the screen and he heard a soft yawn.

He rose from the bed and found himself rooted to the spot as sounds of someone getting out of the tub reached him. He should leave. Now. But he couldn’t make his feet move, and he couldn’t work up enough moisture in his mouth to speak.

Footsteps padded across the floor before Amber—her skin glistening with moisture, wet hair hanging past her chin in curls, sleepy eyes glowing at him from her flushed face—stepped into view from behind the screen. She held the towel before her, partially concealing her naked body as she rubbed her hair dry. One breast, full and high with a rosy tip and pert nipple, swayed enticingly as her arms moved. One long, muscled leg stretched down from a narrow hip and tucked-in waist.

When her gaze fell on him, she stopped, eyes wide and disbelieving, jaw falling open, and he knew she hadn’t tried to trick him. To seduce him as had happened with other women before.

He raised his hands, palms up. “Doona scream, Amber. You’re in my chamber. I’m not here for anything.”