Chapter Six
Drunken laughter, music, and light flooded out of the King’s Head Inn as Angus approached. He held an unconscious Lillianna close to him, his heart thudding hard with every step. How could he have not realized a fever had overcome her? Anger at himself nearly choked him. He’d been so busy trying to ignore his attraction for her, he had completely disregarded her in the process.
He prayed Simon Fraser still kept a room at the inn. His comrade, another Scot who feigned allegiance to King Edward in order to gain information of Edward’s plans, used this tavern to privately meet with his contacts who took his messages to their allies in Scotland.
Angus kicked open the door and stepped into the rowdy tavern. Smoke from the fireplaces filled the air, along with the pungent smell of ale. Everywhere he looked Englishmen and women stood, some dancing, some laughing and talking, and some engaged in flirting. These were not wellborn people. These were the commoners, the servants, the people who worked ’til they nearly broke to barely scrape by. King Edward ruled them with an iron fist, and he wanted to do the same to the Scots. These people probably despised Edward as much as Angus and most other Scots he knew, but they were too afraid to rise in rebellion, and rightly so. Edward had a reputation for killing any who dared to stand against him.
Angus curled his fingers more tightly around Lillianna, and the desire to protect her took a firm hold. If anyone realized who she was, they’d try to take her and carry her back to the castle in hope of gaining the favor of the king or some reward. Or if her uncle had sent other men after her, they could be here looking for her. All Englishmen knew that de Burgh was a close personal friend of the king and one of his favored advisors.
Curious gazes came their way from the men nearest to the door, but Angus narrowed his eyes and shifted Lillianna just enough that his grip on his sword was firm. He’d taken his plaid off her and stuffed it in the pouch tied to his horse. He did not want unnecessary trouble, and this was just the sort of place being a Scot would bring such drama.
A group of three men to his left—ruffians by the scruffy look of them—stopped talking and the biggest man took a step toward Angus. “Who’s the lovely lady?”
“My wife,” Angus said.
The man leered at Lillianna. “Wore her out, did you?” The man’s friends snickered, and fierce anger pounded through Angus. If he didn’t put these men in their places now, he knew he could expect trouble. Gripping Lillianna tightly, he hauled her up higher so he could kick out. His shoe connected with the man’s chest and sent him flying backward into his friends. One fell hard to the ground, and three, including the man who’d first approached Angus, remained standing. One of the strangers scuttled away and threw up his hands.
“I want no trouble,” the man said, backing away.
“Good decision,” Angus growled. “What of ye two?” he demanded, noting that the man who’d fallen was moving toward the other man. He focused on the man who’d approached him and the one still standing by his side. “Do ye wish for trouble?” He pinned the dark-headed man and the fair-haired one with his gaze.
The dark-headed man smirked at Angus. “I’m always in the mood for trouble. Especially when I’ve been kicked in the chest. You should take a care about whom you kick.”
As much as Angus wanted to beat respect into the men before him, if he could avoid a fight he would. But he was wise enough to be prepared in case he could not. Angus scanned the crowd. Most people had not even taken notice of the brewing fight, likely because brawls occurred here regularly. He needed somewhere to set Lillianna down, but he did not want her far from him. Everywhere he looked were men similar to the ones standing before him or wenches here to make some coin.
“I’ll watch her,” a man said from the shadows to his left.
Angus narrowed his eyes toward the darkness as a tall, lithe man came into the dim light of the tavern. Angus examined the man. Something about him was familiar, but there was no time to question him now. The man wore no plaid, but his Scot’s accent told Angus enough.
Angus tilted his head in thanks, unsure he would need the man’s aid. Lillianna groaned in his arms, and her eyelids fluttered open for a brief moment before closing once more. Lillianna needed immediate attention. “I’d rather nae fight this night, so if ye’ll go on yer way and dunnae give me problems—”
“You gained a problem the moment you kicked me,” the tall, dark-headed man said, withdrawing a dagger and drawing nearer to Angus. His two friends followed suit.
Damnation. Angus had no doubt he could defeat these three men, but he feared the delay in tending to Lillianna. He’d have to be quick about it. He turned to ask the stranger to hold her, and the man was there, reaching out his hands. Angus frowned. He didn’t like how eager the man was to take Lillianna from him.
“If ye touch a hair on her head—”
“I ken, Angus.”
Angus’s frown deepened. The man knew him.
“I’ll keep her safe. I vow it.”
Angus would have to accept what the man told him. He leaned close to Lillianna, the heat coming off her body in waves. “Hold on, lass.”
Her eyes fluttered open, but they were cloudy and a crease appeared on her forehead. “Angus,” she croaked.
“Aye, I’m here, and I’ll nae be far.” He handed her to the stranger, who took her with a gentleness that both eased Angus’s fear for her and unreasonably stirred his jealousy. He reluctantly turned from her, took out his dagger, and bared his teeth. “Come on, then,” he snarled, motioning the men forward with his fingers. “I’ve nae all night to best ye.”
They launched at him at the same time. One man came from the right, another from the left, and the taller man straight on. Angus jerked his arm up and rammed his elbow into the nose of the man on the right. Bone crunched with the hit, and to be certain he put the man out of commission, Angus reared back his right arm again and sent his elbow into the man’s now-bloody nose once more. At the same time, he whipped up the dagger he clutched in his left hand, sprang forward, and made a clean sweep of the blade across the chest of the dark-headed Englishman who’d launched at him head-on.
With a cry from his right and a bellow from in front of him, both men fell, one on his back clutching his nose and the other to his knees. Angus turned to deal with the man who’d come at him from the left, but no one was there, and when he was grabbed from behind, he knew it was the third assailant.
“You Scots need to learn your place,” the man snarled in his ear as a dagger came to Angus’s throat.
Angus was just about to flip the man over when a voice came from behind him, but not directly. “Do ye think so?” a man asked slowly.
Angus could not see the speaker, but he knew it to be his countryman by his accent and by the tone of his voice. The man was supposed to be watching Lillianna! Alarmed, he cut his gaze to the left and found her sitting in a chair, her eyes barely open. A redheaded woman sat beside her, seeming to half hold Lillianna in her seat. Before he could even question what the devil was happening, the Scot behind him said, “Throw down yer dagger or I’ll slit yer throat.”
The music and most talking in the inn ceased. All attention appeared to be upon them. “Slit my throat?” the Englishman demanded. “I’ll kill your friend before you can even flinch.”
Angus grabbed the man’s wrist that held the dagger to his throat. He squeezed the nerve with his thumb and forefinger and felt the dagger tilt forward away from his skin as the man’s fingers likely went numb. With his right hand, Angus grabbed the man’s dagger as it started to drop, slid it open-palmed so that he was holding the edge close to the blade, and reared the hilt back into the man’s nose. Then he swiveled around and sent his forehead into his attacker forehead. The man’s eyes went wide and then dropped shut. As the Englishman’s body started to collapse, Angus caught him just enough to shove him out of the way.
He brought his dagger up to the heart of the Scot who was supposed to be watching Lillianna, just as that man brought his own dagger up to Angus’s chest. “Ye were to watch the lass,” Angus said, voice low and his anger barely contained.
The music in the inn started again, as well as the talking and singing. The men who had confronted him but moments before had all slunk off, except for the one Angus had just knocked unconscious, so he felt no compulsion to divide his concentration between the man in front of him and anyone else.
“Ye appeared to need my aid.”
“I did nae,” Angus assured him. “And just for future knowledge—” he lowered his dagger and strode toward the table where Lillianna was propped with the wench “—if I tell ye to guard this lass, ye will do just that. Her life comes before mine.” Without a word, he took Lillianna from the serving wench, then snagged a few coins from a pouch at his hip to give to her before waving her away. Her eyes alighted on the coin, and she scurried from him without question. Angus lifted Lillianna into his arms once more and turned toward the Scot.
The man had a cocky grin on his face that seemed vaguely familiar. “I would have nae ever expected to hear the renowned, ferocious Laird Angus MacLorh say something that sounds like he cares for a lass,” the stranger said in a voice barely above a whisper. “From my memories of ye and my brother’s tales of ye, it used to be that ye did nae have use for the lasses unless they were lying on their backs with open arms and thighs.”
Angus got as close to the man as he could without allowing the stranger to so much as graze Lillianna. Yes, he cared for her, damn it, but only because he’d given his vow to see her to safety. “Who the devil are ye, and who is yer brother?”
The man smirked. “My brother is Simon Fraser,” the Scot said so quietly that Angus knew no one had heard but him.
Angus studied the man. He had an open, honest face but looks could be deceptive. He had brown hair, whereas Simon’s was red. Nor did they share the same eye color, though the shape was the same. And that smile, only half his lip curled up, was identical to Simon’s. Angus had a vague memory of a very young lad with blue eyes and brown hair coming to see Simon at the castle when Simon, Angus, Robert, and their other comrades had completed their warrior training.
“Turn yer wrist up,” he ordered. He knew before the man did so that he was who he claimed to be because a knowing smile lit the man’s eyes and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Still, the stranger turned his wrist, and Angus got the confirmation he’d been looking for. Grant Fraser, Simon’s younger brother, had long ago branded himself with the Renegade mark their small circle of Renegade comrades wore. Grant was no Renegade, though, and he believed his brother Simon a traitor, just as Simon had needed him to. And as Grant and Simon’s clan had turned their backs on Simon—and Grant hated the English—it made little sense why Grant was here in the heart of England.
“Satisfied?” Grant asked.
Angus scowled. “What brings ye into English territory?”
Grant gave him a look that indicated it should be obvious. “I’ve come looking for my brother.”
Angus was surprised to hear the news. It had to be of grave importance for Grant to come searching for the brother he had disowned. “What news do ye bring?”
His mouth twisted unpleasantly. “His wife has died, though I doubt he’ll care.”
That wasn’t true, but it was not Angus’s place to reveal secrets Fraser would rather keep to himself, so Angus just shrugged. “I kinnae say. Only yer brother could tell ye how he feels about that.”
Grant snorted. “I see ye lie as easily as ye always have, Angus MacLorh. I ken verra well that ye Renegades are closer than a band of brothers. Ye tell one another everything—things I’m certain the lot of ye dunnae share with yer blood relations.”
Grant’s tightly controlled tone revealed his long-held resentment that Angus knew was born of Fraser making Grant feel like an outsider of the Renegades and unwanted. But Fraser had done it to protect his brother, even if Angus had not agreed with the decision. It was not his to make.
Angus sighed and gripped Lillianna tighter. “I dunnae ken exactly where yer brother is.” At Grant’s dejected look Angus leaned in and whispered, “But he’s likely headed to Ettrick Forest, as am I.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed. “I heard rumor that ye and Bruce also turned traitor.” He shook his head. “I’m disappointed. I should have let those men kill ye.”
Angus glared at Grant. He did not have time to set him straight about him and Robbie. “If I see yer brother, I’ll tell him of his wife.” He started to brush past Grant, who grabbed his arm. Angus glanced at the hand on his forearm and then down at Lillianna, who had grown paler than he’d thought possible. He had to get her to a room and care for her. “Release me. I need to aid the lass.”
“I’ve a room,” Grant offered.
Angus’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was going to refute the offer, but the realization that he could help Lillianna a great deal quicker if he accepted Grant’s aid had him nodding. “Thank ye.”
Grant motioned to Angus, and Angus held Lillianna tightly as he followed the man.
“Who’s the lass?” Grant asked, pausing to look over his shoulder at Angus and Lillianna with interest.
An odd feeling of possessiveness overcame Angus. “My responsibility,” he replied.
Grant smiled suggestively. “Seems she’s more than an obligation by yer face and tone.” Grant turned on his heel and continued through the crowd that parted for him.
Angus feared Grant was right. Lillianna was becoming more than just a mission, and he had no notion how to stop it from happening.
The small room reeked of ale and sweat, and the single bed in the room was old, the wood chipped in many places, but the covering appeared clean. It would do as a place to see to Lillianna’s wounds. After Angus situated her on the bed, he scrubbed a hand over his face, contemplating what needed to be done. He had to figure out what was causing the fever.
He could feel Grant watching him silently from the corner, but Angus ignored him for the moment and sat on the bed by Lillianna. Her small, delicate body rolled toward him when his weight settled on the mattress. Her eyes did not flutter open, nor did she make a sound, and that worried him greatly.
He carefully unbandaged one of her hands and then the other to inspect the wounds. They were bad but not so much so to cause the sort of fever that was gripping her. The cuts were still swollen and would become infected if he did not properly cleanse them, though. He set down her hands beside her thighs and thought. She’d gotten the cuts on her hands by squeezing the reins so tightly for so long; if she was so tense there as to injure herself, where else on her body might she had tensed and caused injury? Hadn’t she mentioned her legs hurting? He carefully inched his gaze down her body until his attention landed at her thighs.
Christ’s teeth. He thought he knew where she might be injured.
And if that was the case… His chest tightened thinking on the tender flesh of a woman’s inner thighs and how sensitive she would be. He was a damn, unthinking fool for not considering her needs more. He remembered the herb pouches he carried with him, glad he’d replenished them before he’d come to England with Robbie. He’d have to make some Liquid Death to cleanse the wounds and battle the infection.
First he needed to ascertain if her inner thighs were indeed where she was injured, but he’d be damned if he was going to ruck up Lillianna’s skirts with Grant standing behind him gawking at her. Just the idea of Grant seeing Lillianna’s legs bared to her hips, let alone her legs spread, made Angus’s temples throb.
Slowly, he twisted toward Grant, not surprised to find the younger man studying him. Grant had always been curious, and smart as a whip, but Simon had denied Grant admission into the circle of Renegades because Simon said his younger brother was too rash and needed to learn to think things through carefully and critically.
“Could ye fetch me some water, a water basin, a rag, and some ale?” Angus asked.
Grant crossed his arms over his chest as a sardonic expression twisting his lips. “Why should I aid a traitor? I should kill ye,” he growled. “Each one of ye I leave alive is another treacherous Scot to help King Edward crush Scotland with an iron first. Ye all may have turned yer backs on Scotland, but I have nae.”
The man’s passion for Scotland was obvious in his burning, accusing glare. Angus understood why Fraser wanted to protect his brother from walking the same treacherous line of duplicity that Fraser himself was now walking as a spy, but Angus doubted the wisdom in continuing to allow Grant to think Fraser’s loyalty now lay with the King of England. Fraser had sacrificed a great deal to further the Scottish cause, and no one knew the steep price he had paid except the Renegades. Fraser had made his betrayal very believable, so much so in fact, that his clan had become divided into two factions: those who had been glad when Fraser had bent the knee to the Edward because it had saved the clan from being attacked by the English as many of the other Scottish clans had been, and those who had called for Fraser to no longer be laird of the clan because they felt betrayed by him. Grant was now acting laird of that faction.
Angus made a decision, and he prayed it was the right one. “I’m nae any more loyal to the King of England than ye are. These things ye’ve heard about Bruce and me are exactly what Bruce wished people to believe so that King Edward would believe it.”
Swift surprise flashed across Grant’s face, but it was gone so quickly that Angus would have missed any reaction at all if he hadn’t been staring at the man.
Grant unfolded his arms but kept his gaze steady on Angus. “What proof do ye have that ye and Bruce are nae traitors to the Scottish cause?”
“I’m on my way to warn Bruce’s men in Ettrick Forest that Edward is on the way to capture and kill them. That’s my proof. I rode away from the English castle in a priest’s frocks to disguise myself so I’d nae be followed.”
“Ye expect me to believe ye after my brother’s betrayal? He’s like yer own brother.”
“Aye,” Angus said slowly, losing patience. “He is. So if I still hold him in high regard…” He let the words fade, reminding himself it was not his secret to share, but the time for Fraser to reveal it was close at hand. Soon all the Renegades would throw off the cloak of deception and rise against King Edward.
Angus could see Grant’s jaw go rigid and then relax, and then repeat the movements, clearly struggling to control his reaction. “Are ye telling me my brother’s duplicity was a ruse so he could become close to Edward and gather information?”
Angus felt a shaft of pity for Grant. He could hear the hope in the man’s voice. “I’m nae telling ye anything. If ye wish to ken the truth, ye’ll have to get it from yer brother.”
“Where is my brother?” Grant demanded.
“On his way to Ettrick Forest with a host of King Edward’s men.”
“And ye say my brother is nae traitor,” Grant said, disgust in his voice.
Angus glanced toward Lillianna. Her face was flushed, and when he set a hand to her cheek, heat seared him. He had no more time to waste with words or diplomacy. He’d never been a man to tread lightly with words, and he certainly did not feel like starting now. “I did nae say that. What I said was that if ye wish to ken the truth, ye must ask yer brother.”
“I will,” Grant said evenly. “I’ll travel with ye to Ettrick. I assume ye intend to thwart King Edward from finding Bruce’s men.”
“Aye. I pray I reach them in time. I dunnae ken how long nursing Lillianna may take.”
“Leave her in the care of an inn wench, and ye and I can ride out this night.”
“Nay,” Angus said, feeling the finality of his decision down to his bones. Lillianna was his responsibility, and he’d not leave her behind. The lass deserved better than that. “If ye’ll fetch me the things I asked for—”
“Aye, I’ll go now,” Grant interrupted.
Angus nodded his thanks, then added, “When ye return, knock on the door before ye enter.”
“Why?” Grant asked. “Surely, ye dunnae intend to bed the—”
“Dunnae be a clot-heid,” Angus snapped. “Lillianna is a lady, and her injuries may be somewhere indiscreet. I’m going to have to examine her.”
Grant nodded. “I’ll knock.”
The minute the door closed behind Grant, Angus looked to Lillianna, letting his attention fall to her thighs again. As he reached for the edge of her gown, he paused and searched out her face. “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered, knowing she would likely be outraged when she learned he’d done this, but better outraged than dead. He pulled her gown up over slender ankles and long legs, holding his breath with worry as he slid the material to her thighs. He froze and then let out a ragged breath and swore.
“God’s teeth!” he muttered, staring down at the caked blood that had run down her legs to mar her creamy skin. With care, he parted her legs just a bit and hissed. Rage at himself poured over him, and he shook. “Christ, lass.”
A sweat broke out on his forehead. She was raw on the delicate skin of her inner thighs. The wound there already looked to be festering. He could not imagine how she had withstood the pain and remained on the horse without complaint. He’d known hardened warriors to complain about less. Admiration beat in time with his heart as he reached a hand to her forehead and gently swept her damp hair off her hot skin.
“I vow to ye to take better care of ye, Lillianna,” he whispered fiercely. She groaned suddenly, her eyes moving rapidly under her eyelids, and he suspected she was having a nightmare. “Shh, lass,” he cooed, surprised at himself. He’d never tried to soothe a woman in his life, other than his sisters. He had no notion where the feeling that he wanted and needed to comfort Lillianna was coming from, but it was there, lodged in his chest, and devil take it, his chest tightened.
Pushing away all thoughts that currently did not matter, he loosened her gown and slipped it over her head, leaving her in only her underclothes, which clung to her and momentarily drew his gaze to her curves. Lillianna was a stunning woman, but she was also a sick woman and one he had no right to stare at in her present state. He jerked his gaze to her face, silently begged her forgiveness for his momentary indiscretion, and then situated the coverlet over her in case Grant did not knock before he came into the room.
“Angus,” Grant called, knocking.
“Enter.” Angus got up off the bed and met Grant at the door. Grant was carrying a full washbasin and tucked under his arms was a rag and a jug of ale. “I’ll take those.” Angus grabbed them before Grant could agree or disagree. “Now ye can go.” He moved to the table by the bed and set the items down.
“Ye expect me to leave my own room?”
“Aye,” Angus replied, motioning toward Lillianna. “The lass’s injury is on the inner skin of her thighs. ’Tis bad enough that I’ll be where nae a man should be without a woman’s consent, but I’ll be damned if I allow ye to watch while I tend to her.”
“Ye sound jealous, Angus,” Grant said, eyeing him. “Does the lass mean something to ye?”
“Nay.” But the minute the denial left his lips, he knew it to be false. “I mean, aye,” he said, feeling the fool. “It’s my duty to get her safely to the MacLeod clan, so she matters to me. Now get out,” he barked, irritated with himself because he sensed in his gut that the explanation he’d just given was not quite right, either.
“Angus, if ye are trying to reach Ettrick before the English—”
“I ken,” Angus growled. They needed to depart. But he could not do that tonight and risk Lillianna’s life. “I’ll stay here until tomorrow. Then we’ll ride.” He had already accepted that Grant would be going with them.
“I’ll return in the morning,” Grant said.
Angus gave an absent nod before turning his attention to the herbs he needed to make the medicine for Lillianna. He quickly took a pinch of yarrow, myrrh, and saffron, and added it to the ale, then stirred the mixture. When he held up the golden Liquid Death, he felt a moment of hesitation at pouring it on Lillianna’s wounds. It would cure her, but it would pain her terribly, even in sleep. Yet, it could not be helped.
He crawled onto the bed, gently pushed her legs apart, and set his open palm against her left inner thigh. Her gasp had him jerking his gaze to her face. Her eyes were open but glassy, and she appeared to be staring at him but not seeing him.
“This will help ye,” he assured her, “but it will hurt.”
Understanding seemed to dawn on her face, and her fingers trailed across his shoulder, light as the touch of a butterfly.
“I want to be a MacLorh,” she mumbled.
He frowned, realizing she had no notion what she was saying, but if he distracted her, then maybe the pain would be more bearable.
“And why would ye wish to be a MacLorh?” he asked, angling the jug where he needed it exactly.
“You love your family, and I’m certain they love you,” she said, her words slurred. “I have no one.” Her voice grew fainter. “No one who cares for me. Only what I could—”
He tilted the jug so that the liquid poured onto her leg. Her words broke off, and fire lit the depths of her gaze. Her back arched up, and she started to scream. “Son of a devil! Satan’s spawn! You’re killing me!”
“Shh,” he said, quickly pouring the concoction over the other leg and praying she’d quit shrieking. The last thing they needed was attention drawn to them, but her yelling got louder than he’d imagined possible for such a delicate creature.
“My thighs! You have burned my thighs!” she screamed.
A pounding came on the door, and before Angus could answer, it banged open.
“For the love of Christ,” Grant said. “Get the lass to hush. Ye can hear her all the way down in the tavern. If she keeps it up, the English will return to give us trouble.”
Angus gripped her legs as she started to thrash and recalled that cooling the wound helped. So he did the only thing he could think to do: he blew steadily on her left thigh and then her right.
Her screaming stopped, and she settled, going from panting to murmuring. “Candles,” she muttered, her head moving restlessly on her pillow. “A man who wanted my heart would know I loved candles. Tons of them to make a room glow and chase away the nightmares. And, and—” her eyelids fluttered closed “—flower petals. They make a room smell so lovely. God,” she bellowed, making him twitch in surprise, “I need a bath. I love to soak in a bath, which is sinful, I know.” Her breathing grew deep, and she fell silent.
Angus heaved a sigh of relief, and beside him, Grant said, “I do believe the grip of fever is making her confess her innermost thoughts.”
Angus nodded, thinking about what she had said. A man who wanted her heart would know she wanted candles, flower petals, and baths. Too many baths would make the lass sick, but he’d not be the one to tell her.
“I think,” Grant said, “she must trust ye on some instinctual level.”
Angus drank in Lillianna’s appearance. Her skirts were still rucked up her legs but not so far as to show her injury, only the enticing curves of her calves. Her mead-colored hair was in wild disarray, hanging loosely about her shoulders and over her chest, and the outline of her full breasts was visible through the thin, damp cotton of her underclothing. She was the picture of alluring, irresistible innocence. And she wanted to be a MacLorh? Her confession tugged at him in a way nothing ever had, though he knew she never would have said such a thing if she had been thinking clearly.
He tried to recall why he should keep a wall between them, but he could not. Instead, he found he wanted to help her heal some of the wounds on her heart. The best way he knew to do that was to show her she had worth. Thankfully, he could do that without becoming entangled with the lass.
Lillianna could not cool off. She kicked at the blankets that suffocated her, but each time she did, the heavy covers settled on top of her again. It filled her with such irritation and anger that she struggled with all her will to open her eyes. They felt nailed shut, but finally she got them to open. She blinked to clear her vision. Two men stood before her, one she didn’t recognize, so she immediately shifted her blurry gaze from him to the taller, bigger man standing beside him.
Dark eyebrows rose, and the man’s gray eyes seemed to bore into her. A look of relief swept across his face and a satisfied smile turned up his lips. This man she knew. Her brow furrowed, and she swallowed against the scraping dryness of her throat. “You,” she said, trying and failing to raise her heavy hand and point an accusing finger at him. “You did this to me!” Her words were like a horn in her ears, they seemed so loud. He winced, and there was a part of her mind that whispered that she was wrong, but her body was on fire, and she was certain it was because of him. “You are killing me, you big clot-heid,” she shouted, thinking of a time she’d heard her mother call her father such a thing. “Do not cover me again or I’ll bloody kill you.”
She was panting with the effort it took to speak. A sweat had broken out at the base of her skull, and on her lip and her forehead. He seemed to be leaning toward her in slow motion, the room around him spinning. Concern lay heavy in his gaze.
“Ye’re nae decent, lass,” he said, his lips so close to her earlobe that the skin tingled there. Then again, it tingled everywhere. She’d gone from devilishly hot to bitingly cold. Her teeth began to chatter, so when the heavy coverlet dropped over her body once more and Angus’s hands molded it around her, tucking all of her in but her arms, she did not protest.
“I’m decent,” she grumbled, feeling as if she wanted to say something else, make some other point, but her thoughts would not cooperate with her mouth. Her father’s voice was suddenly in her head. She saw herself lying on a bed, hair matted, face ashen, and leeches on her skin.
She shuddered. She was dying. She was dying, and the only reason that she was not dead yet was because her uncle had written that he was now searching for the brooch and would be coming for Lillianna.
The fever was burning her from the inside out, and hot tears trickled down her face. Her mother had died not long before, and now Lillianna would be joining her.
“Let her die,” her father had said to the healer about her mother, and he had said the same of her.
Her father stared down at her, his face twisted. “You’re worthless. My brother is a fool to think he can find the brooch. Does he not think I have tried for years?”
She was too sick to answer her father, yet she feared the repercussions if she did not try. Her mother was gone now, so her father would likely hit her. She tried to shake her head in response, but the room spun.
Her father leaned close to her and took hold of her chin, her skin so tender from the fever that she moaned. “Your mother was worthless to me, and you are no better. Without the brooch, you might as well be dead.” With that, he’d pulled the coverlet over her face as if she were already gone from this world and strode out of the room. She heard the clack of his shoes on the floor and the door slam.
“I’ve worth,” she mumbled as heat once again swept across her skin, scorching her from head to toe. She kicked with all her might, feeling tangled and panicked, worried the healer would let her die. Or was it Angus who would let her die? Suddenly, she was confused about who was caring for her or where she was. Was anyone caring for her? She began to cry, and more memories invaded her.
“I got you a gift for your birthday,” her father said.
She blinked in surprise. Her father had never gotten her a present before. “What is it?” she asked hesitantly, taking the pouch he handed to her.
His eyes were alight with eagerness as he motioned to the pouch. “Open it.”
She did. Then she took out the thin chain with a brooch on the end of it.
Fear tightened her belly as she raised the brooch, but she exhaled with relief when she realized it was not the Brooch of Lagothmier. She knew what it looked like from her mother’s description.
“My man brought this to me. He’s sure it’s Lagothmier’s brooch. Put it on.”
“But Father—”
“Put it on!” he roared.
She flinched but quickly slipped the brooch on. Her father immediately grasped her hands. “Tell me my future. I’m riding this eve to take Drumlan’s castle. Will I win?”
She knew it would cost her greatly, but she shrugged, for if she lied, her father’s anger would be worse. “This is not the brooch, Father.”
His answer was a swift hit that sent her reeling off her chair. The great hall fell to immediate silence, and a bench scraped against the floor as one of the servant wenches stood and moved to aid Lillianna.
“Leave her!” her father bellowed. “She is not worth picking up off the floor. Leave her to fend for herself.”
Humiliation heated her from her scalp to her feet, but she got first to her knees, and then pushed up to a stand. She walked with her head as high as she could hold it as she exited the great hall, but no one looked at her and no one spoke. She knew it was out of fear of her father, but even knowing this, she felt insignificant and invisible, and she vowed to show her worth to her father.
A hand brushed her forehead and jerked her to the present for one brief moment. Angus swam in and out of her vision, and the memories she hated to recall swirled around her and encircled her with dark fingers to pull her into the depths of guilt and misery.
Her father shoved her through the bedchamber door of her mother’s room. When her mother turned, her eyes lit for a moment, but then fear skittered across her face. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said to Lillianna’s father, “but I’m so glad you brought Lillianna to see me.”
“Your daughter defied me,” her father roared, shoving Lillianna forward so that she fell to her knees. “She snuck into the stables and attempted to ride my new stallion, and in the process, she got the stallion killed.”
Her mother gasped as her gaze moved to Lillianna.
Lillianna’s heart thundered in her chest. No one had been able to tame her father’s new horse, and she had thought if she could, that maybe, just maybe, he would think she had worth, maybe even be proud of her.
“Tell her!” Father roared.
“The horse would not listen and raced across a ravine. He fell and broke a leg, and they had to put him down.” Tears coursed down Lillianna’s cheeks, and her father stalked toward her mother. Lillianna started screaming, knowing what he would do, how her mother would be punished for Lillianna’s actions. He slapped Mother once, so hard that she lurched sideways and tripped. Lillianna began to race to her mother, but a guard grabbed her from behind and dragged her out of the room at her father’s orders. The man held her there, just outside the door, and she could hear every hit, every cry from her mother, until she heard no more.
“Let her in,” her father bellowed.
Lillianna was released and ran back into the bedchamber. Her mother was on the floor, unmoving. Lillianna ran to her and took her in her arms, sobbing at the blood on her face. “What have you done?” she screamed at her father. “What have you done?”
“Me?” he said from above her, his voice indifferent. “I did not do it, Lillianna. You did.”