Chapter Sixteen

Grudging.

Yes, that was the ideal word to describe Delilah’s mood as she trudged from the castle to the outlying village. Two massive warriors carefully held a large kettle of savory venison stew, followed by a wheeled cart laden with bread still hot from the oven. Beside them walked Rhona, the aged seer who carried a basket of herbs looped around her forearm.

Delilah hated being captive when she should have had the advantage. Her failure sat in her mind like a pebble in one’s shoe. The wind jerked her skirts against her until she felt as though the fine silk were beating her legs. Hair whipped into her face. She irritably shoved aside the offending tresses and pressed onward.

One and a half weeks.

Elizabeth would arrive at Edirdovar Castle in only one and a half weeks. Perhaps there might be a way to still succeed.

The rhythmic squeaking of the cart ceased, and Delilah realized the men had stopped in front of a simple thatched roof house. A small shadow in her peripheral vision darted behind a nearby building, but not before she caught the glimpse of the child’s blonde hair.

It was not Delilah who strode toward the door to rap upon its rough surface. Rhona knocked firmly with her gnarled fist and then stepped back, a smile drawn tight across her face.

The door did not open.

The rest of the party waited without complaint while the drag of time scraped over Delilah’s fraying patience. She almost suggested they move on when the latch was thrown on the other side and the door creaked open.

A woman stood in the doorway, propped against a makeshift crutch. Her face might have been comely once, but it was difficult to tell with the jagged pink scar running from her right brow to her chin and leaving the eye there milky and sightless. The remaining blue eye sparkled with recognition and she gave a gracious nod. “I wasna sure ye’d make it today with the storm coming in.”

“We’ve got venison today, Agnes,” Lachlan, the dark-haired warrior said. “Ye know I couldna let ye miss out on yer favorite.”

“Aye, ye wouldna.” She gave a reserved smile before moving back with an awkward hop. It was then Delilah realized only one shoe peeked out from beneath the woman’s homespun skirt.

The men and Rhona entered the house with a familiarity Delilah tried to mimic. Despite the air of confidence she attempted to portray, she felt very much the stranger in the confines of Agnes’s home. Truly it was little more than a room with a pallet by the fire and a simple table and chair at its center. The air within was thick with the smoke of peat.

Rhona swept toward Agnes and immediately pressed at the massive pink scar. “Have ye been putting on the poultice I gave ye?”

The woman winced. “I try, but it is difficult to breathe when I do.”

“Ye’re no’ supposed to put it over yer mouth and nose.” Rhona tucked her frizzy white hair behind her ear and regarded the scarred woman with chastisement.

A flush crept over Agnes’s face and she flicked an embarrassed glance toward Delilah. “I dinna do it like that.”

“Well, then.” Rhona pushed aside her bright purple cloak and took several herbs from her basket, setting them on the table beside the bowl of stew and bread. “If ye dinna like the scar, then ye need to use the herbs.” Her voice was sweet, but there was something beneath it that made Delilah want to stand protectively in front of Agnes.

“Agnes is still bonny, even with the scar.” Lachlan gave her a cheerful wink. “I gave ye an extra bit of venison, but dinna ye go telling the other lasses. I canna have them getting jealous.”

Agnes gave a good-natured laugh, and the harshness of the scar on her face lightened to reveal how young she truly was. “Thank ye for coming by today, and every day. I dinna know what I’d do without ye.”

Delilah made her way to the door, feeling like an awkward, useless appendage to the party. Agnes stopped her with the gentle grip of her arm.

“Bless ye, my lady.” The woman lowered her head with a reverence Delilah did not deserve. “I know ye’ve no’ anything to do with what happened, but we all appreciate ye helping us nonetheless.”

Surprise caught at Delilah’s tongue and held it in place. In the end, she nodded and squeezed Agnes’s hand before exiting the simple home after the others. A little blonde head peeped out from behind the cart.

Little Claire followed them through the course of the day while they delivered food to people in all states of debilitating injuries—from lost limbs to blindness to overall blatant pain. With each new person they visited, Delilah came to appreciate how Kaid insisted his men and Rhona go every day to aid those who were too injured to come to the castle for food.

Each person they visited was kind and grateful, and every one personally offered Delilah their thanks for her assistance.

It should have made her feel good—if she were Elizabeth, the woman they thought her to be. But she was a fraud who’d been asked to go rather than volunteering. The knowledge knotted like rough rope in her stomach as the day wore on. She did not deserve their gratitude.

In the end, she would have to turn in the man who fought so hard for their freedom and safety. She would leave these battered people vulnerable.

Something tight and uncomfortable squeezed around her chest at the very thought. When she looked up, she found Rhona’s gaze on her.

“If ye’re unwell, ye travel with a healer.” Rhona spoke in the same over-sweet tone she used with the villagers.

“I’m well, thank you,” Delilah answered. Never had she been more grateful for her knowledge of Gaelic. She’d used it exclusively since her capture. Poor Leasa did not speak any and spent most of her time with Donnan who could translate for her.

A thought occurred to Delilah while she was speaking with the healer.

“What do you know of valerian root?” Delilah asked suddenly.

Rhona’s eyes narrowed and seemed to disappear beneath the crinkle of her eyelids. “Why do ye ask?”

“My aunt,” Delilah said quickly, realizing Rhona must have given Kaid the vial in the first place. “She took it often and seemed almost plagued by it.”

“The English never know how to handle the stuff,” she said in a honeyed tone. The brittle smile returned to her face. “I’m a healer. Of course I know a great deal about it.”

Delilah had to squelch the temptation to roll her eyes at the woman’s condescending patience. “Can it cause nightmares?”

Wind caught at Rhona’s long white hair and pulled it in front of her face. She shoved it aside and took a while to see it freed before finally answering. “At times.” Rhona’s reply came with such restraint, Delilah knew the answer was more likely a definitive yes.

She nodded pensively. “Why then would she have been so eager to take it all the time?”

“Some herbs are like that. They make one reliant upon them. Especially among people who do not know how to properly use them.”

The insult grated down Delilah’s spine. The trail they were on was a long one, and seemed to curl away from the denser part of the village toward somewhere more remote. Though she did not enjoy speaking with Rhona, the woman was giving her good information—by everything she was not saying.

Delilah suddenly wished Percy were there instead. Percy probably knew more about herbs than the seer and would certainly be kinder.

“Why would my aunt take valerian in the first place?” Delilah asked with tethered patience.

Rhona gave a sage nod as she answered, “For pain.”

Delilah thought of Kaid. He had no wounds she had seen. Or touched, since she’d touched more of him than she saw. Warmth flushed over her chest. “But she wasn’t injured.”

Rhona stopped suddenly and Delilah did too. The men carrying the almost empty kettle continued ahead, along with Lachlan.

“No’ all pain is of the body, lass.” Rhona gave her an appraising look. “Sometimes it comes from in here.” She pointed a fleshy finger at Delilah’s breast. Toward her heart. “It keeps the sufferer awake all night with hurt they canna endure. The valerian draws them toward sleep, toward forgetting and unfeeling.”

The old woman began walking once more, her great purple cape whipping and snapping in the wind, leaving Delilah no choice but to follow.

Was that truly why Kaid took valerian?

Delilah recalled the nightmares, the pictures he’d drawn, the suffering bright in his beautiful blue eyes. And her heart ached for him.

A large stone building came into view, nestled between a trio of swollen hills. Several children played in the soft grass, their voices light and carefree. In front of the door to the building was the brown-haired woman who had apologized for Claire only the day before. And Kaid.

Something stung inside her to see them together, and for the first time, she wondered if he had a lover. If this woman might be his lover.

Before she could wind a maddening story in her mind for the couple in front of her, Kaid looked up and watched their group progress toward him. No, not their group—her.

Her cheeks went hot at the realization.

She shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t want his notice. But she did.

The understanding hit her like one of Sylvi’s blows.

Caring for him was foolish.

And loving him was—

She shook the thought from her mind and strode toward him, toward the man whose heart was both tender and broken.

• • •

Kaid could not keep from watching Delilah as she approached.

The impending storm swirled wild winds around her, catching at her hair and dress, and yet she walked with the straight-backed pride of a queen. The silk of her yellow gown rippled across her body like sunlight over a loch and gave him teasing impressions of her body beneath.

The little girl who had mistaken Delilah for her mother upon their arrival slipped from behind the large kettle and darted toward the building behind him. Delilah’s gaze fixed on the girl for a brief moment, and her lips lifted in a kind smile.

“I see our Claire is still enamored with Lady Elizabeth,” the woman beside him said.

He tore his gaze from Delilah and turned toward Aida.

She tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear and studied Delilah. “I confess, I’ve no’ seen the child so active—no’ since her ma died. The lady is special.”

Kaid agreed, but didn’t say as much.

Delilah came to a stop before them and looked up at the stone building. “What is this place?” she asked. Her yellow gown brought a sensual warmth to her rich brown eyes.

He indicated the children whose arms were outstretched as they turned circles on the velvety grass, their small bodies moving in play with the wind. “It’s the orphanage. This is Aida—she cares for the children.”

Aida dipped her head in greeting.

“The children can make their way to the keep for meals, of course,” Kaid said. “But with so many lads in their care, there’s always a hungry mouth ready to eat.”

Aida chuckled. “Aye, that’s the truth of it to be sure.”

But Delilah did not laugh. She surveyed the yard with a somber gaze. “There are many children here. I assume there are more inside as well.”

“There were many slain, and many children were left orphaned.” Kaid tried to keep his voice gentle. “There’s to be a storm soon. We should make our way back to the keep.”

“It isn’t so bad,” she protested.

A great gust swept over them with enough force to tug her hair free of its binding, sending tendrils of honey locks dancing freely.

“Perhaps it is,” she said with a laugh. But still she hesitated and peered behind Kaid, into the keep. “Claire made it inside, correct?”

Aida nodded. “But I’m sure she’ll be yer shadow again in the morn. I hope she isna a bother.”

“Of course she isn’t.” Delilah smiled. “I look forward to it.”

The large door to the orphanage slammed shut with a bang. Several children shrieked in fear, and Aida immediately turned to see to them.

Kaid touched Delilah’s arm to get her attention. “We need to go.”

She nodded and waved to Aida before allowing him to lead her back toward the castle where Rhona and the men were already heading.

Delilah did not cower against him from the wind or quicken her pace to escape its wrath. She strode with the same confident gait she always possessed. There was bravery in her that went beyond the pretense of playing someone else. It was genuine.

It made him wonder at what other parts of her were true Delilah, and not the faux Elizabeth.

Knowing Gaelic was a true part of Delilah. She spoke it as well as if she’d been born a Scot and lived as one her entire life. He also knew she allowed his people to know she spoke Gaelic. It was a great act of trust on her part to do so. Pretending to not understand or speak would have been an easy way to glean information. To share it meant she could communicate with his people.

It was the kindness of a considerate woman.

“You’re a clever man, Kaid MacLeod.” Delilah slid him a sly look.

“Am I?”

She smirked. “Never once did you ask me to abandon my goal to bring you to justice, or try to sway from my path. Instead, you put me to work helping the survivors. You knew they would be grateful, and you knew that would be hard to accept.”

“They are good people,” Kaid replied.

Her gaze returned to the road ahead, and she was silent for a moment. “They are. And you’re a good laird to them.”

His people were not all so pleased with him. They would not all agree he was a good laird.

The castle came into view in the distance. Dots of rain flecked from the sky and peppered their faces. “They want a war on MacKenzie,” he said.

“Which is why you are a good laird,” she replied. “They want to act on brutal impulse and yet you devised a plan to keep everyone safe while securing peace instead of offering blood for blood.”

He stopped and waited until she met his gaze. “And that plan has now been compromised.”

She gave a sad smile. “By me.”

Uncertainty showed for the first time in her expression.

The rain came then, in great fat plops against their heads and amid a chaos of violent winds. Kaid caught Delilah by the arms in a protective motion he knew she did not need.

“To the castle!” he shouted.

Delilah turned to him with a glint in her eye. “I’ll race you there.”

No sooner had he nodded than she was off like a spooked deer, graceful, powerful, and impossibly fast despite the heavy skirts billowing around her legs.

Together they ran down the path and over the large meadow behind the village. The wet, earthy scent of fresh rain spun through the air around them. The storm whipped and shoved at their hapless forms until their hair and clothing were sodden and clinging to them.

Kaid pushed hard enough to leave his muscles burning with the exertion, yet she still made it to the gates before him.

The guards eyed her with suspicion as she passed, but Kaid shook his head and did not slow until they were both within the castle. Heavy clouds had blotted out the sun and left the main room shrouded by the dark ferocity of the storm.

He closed the door behind them and inadvertently plunged the open stone room into a tomblike silence.

Delilah gave a breathless laugh, her cheeks rosy from the exertion. “I won.”

Her voice came out loud in the quiet. She smothered a hand over her mouth and grinned.

Kaid stepped closer to her. “So ye did.” He couldn’t keep the joy from his face any more than he could stop staring.

Her hair had slipped free of its pins, and the stylish court dress she wore had lost its rigid shape, so the skirts hung limp around her legs. Rainwater glistened against her flesh, beautifully highlighting the curve of her collarbones, her graceful neck, the generous swell of her breasts.

She looked wild and free and altogether too inviting.

“What do I win?” Her eyes searched his with a silent plea he wanted more than anything to answer.

“What is it ye want?” he asked.

She watched him with a playful expression, the same carefree way she’d looked at him when they were traveling. When they’d kissed. When they’d loved.

She may have won the race, but he knew right then and there what he wanted. To find out more about this woman who raced in the rain and didn’t fret over her disheveled appearance—who laughed and cared and loved with the most beautiful passion.

He wanted Delilah.