Chapter Thirteen
If she hadn’t been able to lay a solid oak board across the door, Grace would never have succumbed to the lure of the warm bath. But the mouselike maid had left, telling her to lower the bar to keep from being disturbed, even though Grace was ensconced in the lair of the Devil of Dunakin. The maid hadn’t said “lair,” but her wide eyes and pitying glances told Grace that “lair” was exactly what she was thinking. Did she know that her home was surrounded by rotting heads? It might explain her scurrying.
“Ballocks,” Grace whispered and raised her arms to scrub with the fragrant soap Peigi had brought. Keir was the only thing in this place that didn’t make her want to run away screaming. That was obviously the reason she wished to know where he was.
Grace looked about the sparsely furnished room that she’d explored before her bath. She felt Keir’s presence in the black plaids and folded, bleached shirts stacked in a wooden chest at the end of the bed. They held his essence when she inhaled near them. Not that she was sniffing his clothes. Well, yes, she was sniffing his clothes. A woman had to use all her senses to gather information, especially when waking in a castle surrounded by heads on spikes. Spikes. God’s teeth.
The only adornment in the room was a small portrait of a woman on the mantel who seemed to have Keir’s eyes. The bed was huge, sturdy, and draped in blankets and furs. It was the kind of bed a warrior like Keir would find comfortable. All these parts, combined with the maid’s pitying glances, reassured Grace that she was in the only safe room in Dunakin Castle. She held her breath, dunking way down to wash the soap from her scalp before leaving the now filthy water.
Grace squeezed her sopping hair and rose, wrapping up in one of two bath linens Peigi had left. She sat on a wooden stool before the built-up fire and ran fingers through the wet tresses. Good Lord, what had she gotten herself into? Ava would never believe the tale of wolves, thieves, the apothecary woman, and heads on spikes. And then there was Keir Mackinnon, a fierce warrior of mountainous strength with a conscience that kept him from slaughtering a family of wolves, killing a band of starving thieves, and stealing herbs from a frightened, old woman.
Grace let the heat from the flames prickle against her face and watched them dance. “What a horrible, bloody life you must live,” she whispered. She’d realized, when they’d arrived at Mallaig, that the Devil of Dunakin Castle was more than a boastful name. It was a position within the Mackinnon clan, a role Keir must play, building up the legend of the vicious warrior without compassion or mercy.
“And I should hate you.” Or at least attempt to escape, though she had no idea how to escape an island in winter and a castle surrounded by severed heads. She sighed and turned slowly before the flames, warming each part of her. Her hair dried in wavy curls as she spread the heavy tresses, her mind tumbling around plans that ranged from futile to ludicrous. The floorboards were freezing, and Grace hopped quickly over them to don the borrowed smock Peigi had left. Grace looked at the ratty, muddied gown she’d taken off. It was hopelessly ruined after days of surviving and traveling, and her small trunk was back in Kilchoan. She huffed and took her wool stockings to the bath to wash, hanging them over a chair before the fire. Opening Keir’s trunk, she pulled out one of his shirts, throwing it on over her smock. It reached below her knees.
“It will have to do for tonight.”
Bam! Bam! Bam! “Keir!”
Grace jumped, a hand pressed to her heart, spinning toward the door as a woman’s angry voice cut through the thick wood. She yelled several heated phrases in Gaelic, which Grace couldn’t understand, except for the curse words, Keir’s name, and possibly something about a broken nose. Whomever she was, she was as mad as a swatted hornet and felt she had instant access to Keir despite the lateness of the hour.
“He’s not here right now,” Grace called. She frowned, walking to stand a foot from the door.
There was a pause. “Who the bloody hell are ye?” the woman asked in English. “And where is Keir?”
“I am Grace Ellington, lately of Aros Castle on the Isle of Mull. And you are…?”
“Ye are a Sassenach,” she said, as if it were an accusation.
“Yes, I am English. And who are you?” Grace said, punctuating each word with her clipped tone.
“He doesn’t bring Mairi Maclean, but he brings a Sassenach. Mo chreach!”
Grace’s hands fisted in the loose fabric of Keir’s shirt, her face growing red. “Well, it is obvious you are a loud muck-spout, but what the bloody damn hell is your name?”
“Open this goddamned door!” the woman yelled.
Grace crossed her arms over her chest. The woman could swear that Maclean warriors from Aros were surging over the moor to rescue her, and Grace still wouldn’t open the door. “No.”
“Ye are a coward,” the woman said.
“Firstly, you haven’t told me who you are. Secondly, it’s the middle of the night, and lastly, this castle of horrors is surrounded by decaying heads on spikes. You see cowardice. I see bloody common sense.”
“I cut off one of those heads,” the woman said, her voice full of pride.
“A fourth reason I’m not opening this door.” The woman was either a murderer or a female warrior. A warrior? “Are you Dara Mackinnon, Keir’s sister?” Grace asked, laying her palms on the thick barrier.
Heavy footfalls neared the room, and the woman switched back to Gaelic as she yelled at someone. Grace pressed her ear against the door when a man answered. “Keir?” she whispered.
“He deserved it, Dara,” Keir said. “Ye should not wed him.”
“’Tis none of your bloody business. He’s a mighty warrior,” she answered.
“So he says,” Keir replied. “But he didn’t anticipate my punch, and he seemed entirely too interested in Mairi Maclean to be faithful to ye.”
Dara answered in Gaelic and traipsed off down the corridor. “Grace?” Keir called.
Without hesitation, Grace lifted the bar, letting it fall slowly to the ground to lean against the wall. She pulled the curved iron handle, swinging the door inward. Keir filled the doorframe, darkness behind him, broken by a splash of light from a candle he held. It illuminated his face, his beard trimmed neatly, hair damp. He wore a clean shirt, and she was close enough to him to smell pine soap. “You bathed,” was all Grace could think to say.
His gaze slid along her hair and down her form. “As did ye.” He reached in to catch one of the curls that twisted over her shoulder. He dropped the lock and studied her. “Are ye well?”
Oh, right. The fainting. She swallowed. “Why are there heads on spikes around Dunakin?”
“’Tis complicated.” Keir glanced behind her, reminding Grace that this was his room, after all. She moved aside and motioned for him to come in. They’d slept in the same cabin alone for days, so ushering him into his own room seemed no more scandalous. And if she wanted to figure out a plan for escape she should gather as much information as she could.
“Your sister seems…confident,” Grace said, watching Keir walk to the fire to add more peat, stirring it with an iron poker. Captured within four walls, he seemed too large, like a wild animal that should have the moors over which to run free.
“She’s…unhappy.” He stood, turning toward her, which made Grace’s heart skip a bit faster. “She would rather be a warrior than a wife but feels trapped in doing her duty. It has made her choose foolishly.”
Grace suddenly felt pity for the groom. She nodded, clasping her hands before her. “You broke someone’s nose?”
“Ye are wearing one of my shirts?”
Grace looked down, forgetting her question. “Yes.” She met his gaze, feeling her cheeks warm. “Peigi left a fresh smock, but my gown is in tatters.” She indicated the once lovely traveling costume. “I was cold, so I put this on. I will need a new costume in the morning.” She tipped up her chin. “Or do you keep your prisoners barely clothed?”
“While at Dunakin, ye are free to roam, but it would be safest for ye to stay on castle grounds, and in my room. No one would dare to enter my room.” His head tipped slightly to the side as he studied her. “And I think ye look quite bonny in my shirt.”
Keir’s gaze pulled at Grace. The tone of his voice plucked forward the memories of their brief evening together. And here they were, alone in his room, half clothed and clean from their baths. Heat trickled through her, making her skin feel extra sensitive where the linen feathered across her naked form. Freshly washed, she wondered how good his skin would taste. Had he thought about their intimate time together at all? God’s teeth. It didn’t matter. There would be nothing between them now. She needed to gain control over her wanton thoughts and flying pulse.
A door closed farther down the corridor, giving Grace the mental shake she needed. He is not to be trusted. She pursed her lips. “How is your nephew?”
“Lachlan is still alive, though even weaker from what my brother says. If I find ye a robe, could ye come see him now?”
“Certainly,” Grace said, rushing toward the small table where she’d dumped out her meager pile of possessions to find her comb. The herbs were wrapped in a cloth there.
Keir disappeared, returning within minutes. “This was my mother’s. It is old but warm.”
“Thank you,” Grace said as he held it open for her. She frowned. One didn’t thank a captor. Keir’s hands slid along her waist as he wrapped the tie around front. Turning, she realized he still stood close. She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to the hollow of his throat, her heart beating wildly as if they were lovers. She stepped back and sniffed. “Whatever may have started between us in the cabin ended the moment you threw me over your shoulder.” There, the words were out. Ice water on the smoldering that continued to plague her. “I just want to make that clear.”
“As ye wish,” he answered, piquing her irritation.
“I didn’t say that was what I wished,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she lifted them. “You did. If there was anything at all, you ruined it when you lied and showed that you have no integrity by abducting an innocent woman.” She turned to stride to the fire as if she wore a court gown instead of an old robe over a man’s shirt. Luckily, he couldn’t see her shaky knees. For everything about Keir Mackinnon drew her in when he was like this. Gentle. Agreeable. Too handsome for her to keep her wits about her.
His stare was intense, snaring her as solidly as a serpent catching a bird with its gaze. “My actions are not always my own, Grace,” he said. “I’ve explained that.”
“Of course they are,” she said, throwing one arm out. “You can choose to not follow an order.”
“But I will not choose to let my young nephew die without trying to save him.” His voice was low. The fire crackled in the grate next to her as they stared at each other.
Wouldn’t she do the same to save little Hazel, her niece? She inhaled deeply and released it. “Before I help, I want to know why we are surrounded by the dead and decaying.”
He picked up the candle that he’d set on a small table by his bed. “They are defeated enemies. Their presence deters others from attacking Dunakin.”
“You have enemies who must be frightened with such horror?”
He grabbed up her herbs in the cloth. “Skye is divided between three powerful clans, any of which would benefit from ruling the entire isle. We have an uneasy peace, which was broken a month ago by the clan meeting us at the shore. Those are MacDonald heads, which may be reclaimed by their clan if they have the courage to come and take them. So far, they have not.”
“It’s barbaric,” Grace said, following him to the door.
Keir looked down at her. “Have ye been to London, lass?”
Grace’s lips pinched tight. “I know, King Henry displays heads of traitors on London Bridge. That doesn’t make it any less barbaric.”
Keir walked out the door. “Aye, but it’s effective. Come. Lachlan’s room is on the second floor, near my brother’s.”
Grace kept close to Keir as they made their way along the shadow-filled corridor and down the stairs. All seemed quiet, Dara having retreated to wherever banshees withdraw when they aren’t screaming. “Your sister said she cut off one of those heads.” Grace slid her hand along the rough wall to help her balance on the narrow steps.
“She did. ’Twas the raging son of a MacDonald chief who thought she’d be an easy target, since she was a woman. She’s quite proud of the kill.”
Grace stared at Keir’s back, silently shaking her head. Lord, she’d come very far from Somerset Estate in York. “She’s like no woman I’ve ever known or even heard of.”
Keir turned to her as they walked down the second-floor corridor. “Have ye heard of Jeanne d’Arc?” He said the woman warrior’s name in a perfect French accent.
In the candlelight, Grace watched Keir’s eyebrow rise slightly, giving him an almost teasing appearance. She frowned. “You are annoyingly educated.”
He exhaled long as they stopped outside a door. Pressing the handle, he pushed into the door, releasing a wafting of stagnant, hot air. Grace coughed into her fist. “What is that stench?”
“The boy lost his bowels,” a woman said from the other side of the bed where a small form in the middle looked merely like a wrinkle in the blanket. “I had to change everything.”
“Seanmhair,” Keir said. “This is Grace. She’s a healer. Grace, this is Fiona Mackinnon, my grandmother.”
Keir’s grandmother nodded, her face tired and bleak. “I hope ye be skillful, lass.” She shook her head, a long gray braid hanging down the back. “The lad’s taken a turn toward death.”
Grace tried to inhale through only her mouth and walked across the small room to the shuttered windows. “We need some fresh air, first of all. I’ve found that excessive heat doesn’t help the ill.” Nor did the overwhelming stink of dung.
“Ye seem too young to be an adequate healer,” Fiona said, following behind Grace.
Grace cracked the shutters, letting in a tendril of cool outside air, but Fiona slapped it shut. Grace turned to the old woman, remembering that Keir had said Fiona had been a warrior and knew very little of medicine. Grace kept her smile neutral. “And you seem too old not to be an adequate healer.”
Fiona frowned at her. “I was a warrior.”
Grace raised one eyebrow, her temper worn as thin as wet parchment. “Which does nothing right now for your great-grandson.” Still meeting the woman’s fierce stare, Grace pushed the shutter back open. “Keir, open the second window an inch to allow adequate circulation. Then bank the fire to keep the room warm enough.”
Keir moved without hesitation, making his grandmother’s frown turn his way, but she remained silent.
“I would like to see Lachlan,” Grace said, waiting for Fiona’s permission. After a pause, she nodded, leading Grace over. “More light, please.”
Keir moved around the room, lighting five oil lamps, bringing them to sit on tables near the bed. The room was small with scattered furnishings: a trunk, wardrobe press, privacy screen, and several small tables. A few books splayed knocked over on the hearth mantel, and a stick horse leaned against the wall with a wooden sword. Curtains around the bed were tied to four posters.
Grace sat in a chair on the boy’s right side, leaning over him. If she didn’t see the slight rise of his chest, she would have guessed he was dead. Good Lord in Heaven, guide me to help this child. She wished her sister, Ava, were here, or Joan, Ava’s mother-in-law. Both were truly gifted healers. Grace inhaled slowly. She was this child’s only hope.
She touched his head, stroking up gently through his hair. Some of the light-colored strands came away, covering her fingers like spider webs. “He’s losing his hair?”
“It started today,” Fiona said, sitting on the other side. “But no fever.”
“But he’s wet, damp,” Grace said.
She nodded. “He sweats. I can’t keep enough fluid in the boy. He sweats it out or vomits it up.”
Keir stood braced at the foot of the bed like a sentinel ready to slay whatever demon Grace found to be killing the boy.
“You’ve been trying to give him food?” she asked. “Has he eaten anything?”
“Mostly broth. Dara brings it up from the kitchens three times a day and sits with the lad while I rest and check on my livestock,” she said.
“The two of you have done well to keep him alive,” Grace said. She took the boy’s limp hand from under the blanket. It was thin, skeletal. She flipped it over and stared at the skin on his palm. “Has he always had these freckles or flecks?” She held his hand to the light to show where small dark circles spotted all over his skin.
Fiona picked up his other hand, turning it this way and that in the light. “Nay. This is new.” She met Grace’s gaze, her eyes large. Worry and guilt mingled there, as if she condemned herself for him getting worse under her watch. “I will ask Dara if she noticed them this afternoon or morning.” Fiona hurried out the door.
Keir sat opposite Grace in a chair and studied his nephew’s hand. Lachlan’s little hand looked like a thin piece of linen in Keir’s large palm. “Ye know what this is?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she said, not wanting to cause more alarm. She leaned over the boy, his small face closed in heavy sleep. She pinched his lips gently, making his mouth pucker, and inhaled his breath. A garlicky smell wafted out on a shallow exhale. “Check his feet for the same spots,” she said.
Keir yanked up the tucked blanket. “Aye, not as many, but there are spots here, too.”
Grace checked Lachlan’s nearly lifeless body, where more brown spots marked him. She took his hand again, inspecting his fingernails. “White ridges across the nails, spots on hands and feet, hair loss, diarrhea, sweating…”
“Ye’ve seen this disease before?” Keir asked.
Grace met his gaze. “He’s not infected with disease, Keir.” She shook her head. “He’s being poisoned.”