Chapter Fourteen
Alec took in the sight of Mairi like a long haul off a cold ale after hours of hard swordplay. She was still here on Kisimul. Hadn’t stolen Kenneth’s boat or persuaded Cinnia and Weylyn to build her a raft to ferry her over to Barra. The tight coil of tension slowly relaxed across his shoulders as he saw she looked clean, warm, and healthy.
Every day he’d been gone, following her kin to South Uist, he’d tried to convince himself that if she had left Kisimul he would not follow her. That he had no right to seek revenge on the MacInnes if he couldn’t prove Fergus MacInnes killed Joyce. That she might be better off not living on Kisimul, feeling trapped or tied to a curse. But as he’d docked the ferry, asking Kenneth about Mairi’s whereabouts, waiting for the answer that would bring familiar pain or hope, he’d known his arguments with himself were for naught. Whether she was still on Kisimul or had fled, the two of them were not done.
“Ye have the key?” Tor asked slowly and glanced toward Alec. “Ye’re a bloody terrible jailor to give your captive the key to her cell.”
“He gave me his singh dubh, too,” she said, slipping the black-handled dagger out from a strap under her blue skirt.
“How generous,” Cullen mumbled with obvious mockery, and Alec considered slashing his other leg as well.
“Open the door, Mairi,” Tor said.
“First, tell me what happened,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Why do ye all look like hell?” Her gaze slid along them, resting on Alec.
Alec braced his feet like he stood on the deck of a swaying ship, arms crossed. “Your brother and…friend responded poorly when I told them I had ye here on Kisimul.”
“I would have been here sooner, Mairi,” Tor said, his face pressed to the bars. “But the bastard needed to learn that he can’t steal away innocent lasses.”
“It looks like he might have taught ye and Cullen a few lessons, too,” Mairi said, crossing her arms. “I think that cut needs to be stitched.” She pointed to Tor’s forehead.
“I told him that,” Alec said.
“Pòg mo thòin,” Tor said without looking at him.
“His man, Ian, is worse,” Cullen said.
Mairi’s eyes rounded. “Where is he?”
Alec glanced up the ramp. “The hall. He could use your help.”
Mairi thrust the key through the bars. “Let me do it,” she said as Tor tried to take it. Bending her wrist, she pushed it into the lock and turned. The door flew open. “All of ye need to be looked over. Taint could set in, and then where will ye be? Feverish, weak on the floor, and dead, that’s where. Foolish boys, always looking to fight.”
“It’s what we’re trained to do from the moment we can stand,” Tor said defensively.
“Ye’re also taught to use your mind and words.”
Tor narrowed his eyes at Alec. “It feels better to slam a fist against a bastard’s face than to have a chat.”
“We’ll see if it feels better when I stitch your face with needle and thread.” She strode past them toward the ramp. “Come along.”
“Not even a ‘thank ye for coming to save me,’” Cullen murmured as he followed Tor Maclean up the ramp, Alec bringing up the rear.
Alec’s gaze moved about the great hall as he walked in. Something was different. He looked up to see the chandelier brushed clear of cobwebs and new candles in the holders. The hearth was swept, as was the floor. An arrangement of candles and flowers sat in the middle of the long table. Had Bessy Cameron done all this?
Ian lay on a blanket by the hearth, his leg swollen and purple. “’Tis broken,” Mairi said, touching the leg gingerly. Ian’s face was pale, but he kept his complaints to himself. “It will need to be set.” She glared at Ian. “What did ye do to break your leg?”
“He fell off his horse,” Tor said.
“He was pushed off his horse,” Alec said. “Fell wrong.” He looked to his oarsman, Daniel. “Go to Adam at the smithy. Ask him for those iron braces he made when my da broke his leg. Chances are he’s kept them. And then bring back Millie. Tell her we need her cures.”
The man took off without question, and Alec met Mairi’s gaze. “Millie can help ye, and she’ll bring medicines in case the wounds become tainted.”
Mairi surveyed the dozen men in the room, assessing their condition. They were dirty, but most were unharmed since Maclean and Duffie had been traveling with only a small party.
“First,” she said. “Ye will all get clean and changed. Then those who have any wounds will report back to this hall to be patched up. Are any of ye bleeding right now?”
No one said anything. “Broken limbs, like Ian?”
Heads shook. “Good.” Mairi flapped her hands, and the men filed out as if she were already the lady of Kisimul. Mairi peered past Alec. “Bessy, can ye heat fresh water in the kitchen? We will need it.”
Bessy ran toward the well room while Mairi grumbled about the foolishness of men. Kenneth brought a cup of whisky to Ian and helped him sit up to drink. “Ye’ll be needing some of this to help the setting,” Kenneth said. He looked at Alec. “Looks like I missed all the fun.”
Mairi pointed at her brother. “Go wash,” Mairi said. “Broc.” She nodded to Cullen’s man. “Ye, too. I’m sure the MacNeils won’t slit ye open here.”
“I can handle myself just fine,” Broc said with a grin, as if he didn’t have a slash through his linen shirt and bruises along one side of his jaw.
Cullen snorted and waved Broc to follow him and Tor to the bailey. When Tor passed Alec, his brows were drawn as if puzzled. He glanced between him and Mairi and then stepped out into the late-day shadows.
Mairi’s slippers whispered across the floor as she strode up to Alec. With a glance at Ian, who lay with his eyes closed, she tugged Alec to the alcove behind the stairs. In the flicker of a lit wall sconce, he watched the stern features of her face soften to concern. The pads of her fingers were cool as she touched his swollen eye. “Which one did this?” she asked, her voice soft.
“Your brother. I should have expected it.”
He knew the white of his eye was bloody and the socket purple, yet she stared directly into it without flinching. “Ye told him I was here.” She shook her head slightly. “Brought him back to Kisimul. Why?”
Alec looked up at the darkness hovering under the rafters. “Ye were right. Before. If Cinnia were taken, I’d tear this world apart to find her. Weylyn, too.” He leveled his gaze back to hers. “Even believing that Fergus MacInnes killed Joyce, it was dishonorable to steal ye away. Ye had nothing to do with the crime.” He paused. “Did ye send a letter to your mother?”
She nodded, breaking their gaze to look at her slippers. “But I didn’t tell her where I was.”
“Why not?”
She huffed. “I didn’t want a horde of Macleans swarming to Kisimul with Cinnia, Weylyn, and Daisy in here. I just let her know I was safe and would write again soon.”
The side of his mouth rose. “Ye aren’t much of a prisoner.”
Her lips tipped up at the corners. “We’re bloody awful at this.”
She grew serious as her gaze dropped to run along his arms and chest. Chill bumps spread across him as if her gaze were a caress, the memories of her touch along his skin still fresh. “Are ye hurt anywhere else?” she asked.
“Here and there, bruises, a few lucky slashes before I knocked the sword from your brother’s hand.”
“Where? Let me see how deep they are.”
He pulled his shirt out of the waist of his kilt, lifting it to expose the worst of the cuts. Two purple bruises colored his ribs.
“Ballocks,” she whispered, touching the six-inch scabbed slash across his middle. “It doesn’t feel hot.”
“I washed and bandaged it the first night.”
“Maybe Millie has a poultice to keep it free of taint.” She met his gaze. “Where else?”
Her eyes were beautiful, even in the shadows. Shaped perfectly and spiked with long lashes. And the arch of her brows communicated as much as her smiles and frowns. They lowered at his silence. “I asked—”
“I missed ye,” he said, cutting her off. “And that stung more than any of my paltry cuts.” The words were rough, coming from somewhere deep within him, and he frowned darkly at the weapon he’d just handed her.
Her lips closed and then opened. She stared up into his face. “I…I can mend that, too,” she whispered and took a step toward him.
The closeness of her was like heat washing over icy skin. His arms came up around her, tugging her effortlessly into his embrace. Her soft form fit against him as if she’d been fashioned to match his hard frame.
Alec inhaled her sweet scent and bent to kiss her lush mouth. She slanted immediately to deepen the kiss. Warmth flamed into molten desire as her hands whisked down his shoulders and back to his arse. She squeezed it through his kilt. His cod responded, growing between them, begging for attention. With two steps, Alec backed her against the wall and explored the curves he’d dreamed about these past nights, sleeping under the stars. He raked fingers through her loose, wavy hair, the silk of it spreading about her shoulders. Breaking the kiss, he nuzzled his face in it, breathing hard.
“I will take ye right here in the hall if we keep this up,” he whispered against her ear and reveled in the fact that she was panting as much as he.
“It seems ye are already quite up,” she teased breathlessly.
He pulled the edge of her ear lobe into his mouth and felt her shiver. “And I would wager ye are drenched and open for me,” he said, his voice husky. Bloody hell, he wanted her.
Her exhale seemed to tremble, and she clung to him. “We should talk,” she said. “About the other night.”
“Alec?” Kenneth called from the great hall. “Where are ye?”
The other night? Which part of it? The hot, carnal part, the part where he asked her to marry him, or the part where Angus had ruined everything?
“Damnation,” Mairi whispered.
Alec couldn’t agree more. He stepped back, leaving her to lean against the wall. He ran a hand over his erection, adjusting it as best he could. Her gaze lay heavy on it.
“Alec?” Kenneth called again.
“What?” Alec yelled, stepping around the wall.
“Millie began preparing to come to Kisimul when she saw the horses ride by. She and Father Lassiter are rowing over now,” Kenneth said. His gaze dropped to Alec’s kilt, and his eyebrows rose. He glanced behind Alec, but Mairi remained hidden in the alcove. “Did I interrupt something?”
Cinnia and Weylyn ran down the steps with Bessy chasing them. Daisy barked, running around him in tight circles. “Da,” Cinnia called. “Millie is rowing over. We saw her from the walkway.”
The sight of his children was like a frigid dip to his lust, helping immensely. “Aye, she’s come to help heal the injured.”
“Are ye injured?” Weylyn asked, his eyes wide.
“Not badly,” Alec said. “Come, let us meet them at the dock.” He caught Cinnia’s arm and hugged her shoulders. She hugged back, and Weylyn smiled, running ahead. His chest contracted. Aye, he’d tear the world apart to find them. How could he blame Tor Maclean for caring as much for his sister?
“Is Mairi still in the dungeon?” Cinnia asked, frowning.
“Nay,” Alec said.
“I think she might be fixing herself in the alcove there,” Kenneth called as he dodged out through the doorway. Ian chuckled, his eyes still closed where he lay on the pallet by the hearth.
“Ballocks,” Mairi cursed. She stomped out. “I’m coming.”
…
Father Lassiter had thick brown hair with only a bit of gray at the temples. He walked with spry purpose through the arched gate in Kisimul’s wall, heading toward Mairi. “Ye are Mairi Maclean?”
“Aye, Father.” He’d apparently heard about her.
“Where are the badly injured?” he asked, wielding a rosary with a large cross dangling from the end. “I would give them last rites.”
“I don’t think there are any near death, Father,” Mairi said. “Did Alec say there were?” She looked to the side where the soldiers’ quarters ran the length of the interior wall.
“He wouldn’t know for certain,” the priest said, waving off her question. “Warriors often hide their injuries.”
“Aye, they do,” she said, though at least Tor, Cullen, and Alec seemed hearty. At the gate, Alec escorted Millie inside. Mairi smiled to her, nodding back in welcome.
The elderly woman held up a leather satchel. “Wonderful,” Mairi said and beckoned her toward the great hall. “Alec,” she threw over her shoulder. “Ye need to bathe, too. Then come see us. And send in the ironsmith when he arrives with Ian’s splints.”
They walked into the hall where Bessy stood, hand to her mouth over wide eyes as she stared at the spectacle before the hearth. Ian still lay on the pallet, but his eyes were open, arm straight in the air. His hand clenched around Father Lassiter’s throat. “I’m not dying, ye idiot.”