Chapter Two
Keir Mackinnon, brother to the chief of the powerful Mackinnon clan of the Isle of Skye, sat atop his black charger, looking toward where the small village of Kilchoan should be. But instead he saw snow, mounds of it, gale winds full of it, undulating white and gray. It covered his fur wraps and melted on his face.
“It shrieks like a bloody banshee,” his best friend and cousin, Brodie Mackinnon, yelled across to him.
Ignoring what he could not change, Keir pointed forward. “Rab said the healer should be either at Kilchoan or on the Isle of Mull at Aros,” Keir said. “We will wait out the storm at Kilchoan.”
Brodie leaned toward him so he’d be more likely to hear. “Or we could return to that snug hunting cabin back a way.”
“If we find the healer in Kilchoan, we can return to Skye with her tomorrow.”
“Not in this damn snow,” Brodie said. “Your grandmother and Dara are taking care of little Lachlan. He may be well when we return.”
“Unlikely,” Keir said. Keir’s nephew, Lachlan, had been ill for two weeks, his seven-year-old body growing weaker by the day as he vomited his meals. So his father, Rab, had sent Keir off the Isle of Skye to find and return with the renowned Maclean healer to help his only son grow strong again.
Inhaling, Keir caught the tang of woodsmoke. Aye, the village was close. He pointed between the trees. “There. I saw a steeple.”
With the slightest of pressure, his horse, Cogadh, moved forward with Brodie on his left. Only a foot away, the snow obscured him. Aye, this was a blizzard, one of the worst he’d seen.
A sound in the wind made Keir turn in the saddle to look back the way they’d come through the woods. A scream? Or was it the shrieking wind? Again it came, a thin, high-pitched scream. “I hear something,” Keir said.
“What?” Brodie called.
Keir cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Go on. I’ll find ye in the village.” The reins gripped in his gloved hand, he turned Cogadh around. His war horse was used to discomfort, as was Keir, but he was glad he’d put the wool drape on Cogadh under his saddle. He guided them blindly through the white in the direction he’d heard the cry. His ears trained on the woods.
A shriek sliced through the wail of the wind, ahead to the right. “Siuthad!” he yelled, making Cogadh jump forward as Keir leaned low over the horse’s neck. His loyal beast churned the snow under his hooves, trusting Keir to guide him between the trees that appeared out of the white at the last second. They moved together, man and war horse, a single creature of power and perseverance.
Keir pulled back as they neared a stony cliff face. He and Brodie had ridden around it to avoid the caves cut underneath where animals likely slumbered. There, backed against a thick tree, was a cloaked woman. The cliff blocked some of the wind, and Keir could pick out three gray shapes in the snow, advancing toward her. Wolves. Hungry, no doubt.
He leaped down and drew his sword. The woman’s face jerked toward him, and she screamed again. “Shite,” she yelled through the scarf, covering her mouth.
Keir could see only wide, lash-framed eyes staring at him, full of panic. “Stay back!” he yelled and stepped between her and the wolves. He swung his blade through the frost-filled air, and it sang with the wind.
“Don’t kill them,” the woman called from behind. “They have a cave on the backside of this rock, with babies in it. Cubs, pups, whatever they’re called.”
Bloody hell. The woman had walked into a den of wolves protecting their pups. He sheathed his sword and threw his arms out wide. He frightened grown warriors; perhaps he could frighten hungry wolves. He growled, showed his teeth and stomped forward. One of the wolves immediately withdrew, dodging to disappear around the corner, but the other two snapped back, apparently not impressed. While one growled at him, the other began to circle behind him, realizing that the woman was the weakest and easily culled.
Cogadh snorted and reared up on his hind legs, helping with intimidation. The wolves didn’t seem to care, but the woman screamed again. She grabbed onto Keir’s back, pressing against him, and a weaker man would have ended up face down in the snow. Backing slowly, Keir kept the advancing beasts before him. “Ye’re going in the tree,” he said over the wind.
“What?” the woman asked, but there wasn’t time to explain. With a swift glance over his shoulder, he turned and lifted the woman onto a branch above his head. Snow tumbled off the branch, momentarily blinding him as she scrambled. Her boots kicked, and fighting the slippery branches, she stood to balance on the thick extension.
A growl broke through the shrill of the tempest, and fire bit into Keir’s thigh. “Mo chreach!” He swung his fist backward, making contact with the wolf’s snout. It released his leg, shaking its massive head. It hunched down to spring at him. “Don’t make me kill ye,” he said low and slipped his sword free. The familiar feel of it, heavy in his hand, overrode the deep ache from the bite.
Cogadh, the smell of blood familiar to him, shrieked into the wind as he charged forward, his forelegs stomping down in force. The second wolf turned in time to gnash his teeth against the horse’s leg. Cogadh, a born warrior, raised his front legs, bringing them down on the wolf’s back end.
With a yelp, the animal rolled and sprung up, limping as he trotted in retreat around the corner of the cliff. Keir yelled and sliced the air with his sword before the remaining wolf’s face.
“Watch out,” the woman called and—
Crack! Something hit the back of Keir’s head. “Sard!” he cursed and looked down to see a dagger in the snow, a throbbing in his head now joining with the throbbing in his thigh. Luckily, the wolf was losing its courage as Keir’s horse continued to stamp and paw the ground next to him. With one last glance, the beast dodged out into the continuing blizzard, hopefully to burrow back into its cozy den.
Keir turned to the tree. The branch creaked overhead with the woman balanced on it, clinging to the trunk. “I’m sorry. I meant to hit the wolf.” Wind gusted against them, blowing the woman’s skirts about her legs as the branch swayed, creaking. “You were bit,” she yelled down. “I’m a healer.”
A healer? Was she from Kilchoan or Aros? He wouldn’t have left her stranded in a tree regardless, but if she could be of help to his nephew, he wasn’t going anywhere without her. Keir stood below. Perhaps good fortune had called him to her. “Sit on the branch and lower down.” The woman continued to cling to the tree. “Let go,” he said.
“I will. I am,” she said. “I’m just…I hate this. Cold, wolves, being up in a tree.”
“Sit, woman,” he said.
With painstakingly slow movements, she bent down, still gripping the thick trunk, until she sat on the limb. “I’m… I think I’ll fall,” she said as the limb shook and cracked in the wind.
He moved under her. “I’ll catch ye.”
A gust blew up over the rock wall, slicing down to hit the tree as the woman slid out farther away from the trunk, preparing to drop down. “Good Lord,” she yelled as the branch let out a snap and crack, breaking. Pain shattered the white scene before Keir as the heavy limb slammed the side of his head. His last thought of the woman with large, blue eyes was that good fortune had absolutely nothing to do with her. Then all went black.
…
Snow shot up Grace’s skirts, wetting her wool stockings, as she landed in a heap under the tree. Gasping, she pushed up off the man who’d come to her rescue. “Good God,” she yelled as she saw the blood trickling from his scalp. Yanking off her gloves, her freezing fingers dug against his collar to find the pulse in his neck. She dropped her head in relief at the heavy thudding she felt below his skin. Still alive.
Wind gusted against her, throwing her hair out like thin whips to sting her eyes, eyes that swam with tears. Pushing off his chest, her gaze swiveled around. Horse with blood dripping down a leg. A stranger unconscious and bleeding beneath her. Blizzard blowing like white death. Wolves not too far away. Good God, what was she going to do? “Shite, shite, shite,” she cursed as tears caught in her scarf, turning to salty ice against her skin. She pulled it from her mouth and chin to suck in gulps of cold air. Small pinpricks of light flashed in her periphery, and heavy sobs broke from her with the rushing of her shallow breaths flooding her ears. She blinked. Oh God. We will all die.
The horse neighed and walked over, holding its one leg up. His large body hovered close, over them as if shielding them from the frantic wind. Grace lifted her hand to touch its warm side. She’d always loved animals and had been a wonderful horsewoman in England. She glanced toward the direction the wolf had skulked off. It would smell the blood.
She had to do something, and passing out to die numbly was not an option. Grace shoved her glove back on. She inhaled, counting to four and exhaled counting out. The sgian dubh. Where was it? Grace churned through the feathery snow under the tree until she found her dagger. Running back to the man and horse, she used the knife to cut the bottom of her linen smock under her skirt, ripping it until a long strip came off. She dropped back next to the man’s leg. The wolf had bitten his thigh, so she jerked up his kilt, exposing his powerful legs and—
“Oh, good Lord,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm even though they were frozen. No time for polite sensibilities with him turning the snow red under his leg. She plucked the plaid from the puncture wounds that swelled with blood. She pressed clean snow on it until it turned into a macabre version of the snow cream dessert her mother used to make when she and Ava were children.
“Bloody hell, oh God.” She continued to curse in whispers, occasionally passing the sign of the cross before her when unholy words about God’s ballocks issued forth in her near panic. Wiping the snow off the Highlander’s muscular thigh, she wrapped his leg tightly and tied it off. Moving up to his head, she ran her fingers through his thick hair and felt the stickiness of blood where the limb had hit him. Scalp wounds always bled profusely. She cleaned it with the heaping snow and cut off more of her smock to bind it.
Rising and whirling around, she saw the poor horse standing with bowed head. “Your turn,” she said. Wipe, wash, cut smock, and bind. She ran her hands along the noble creature to his head. With a flick of the billets on each side of the saddle, she loosened the girth and guided the saddle off the horse’s back, dropping it into the snow. There was a blanket under the saddle, which she pulled forward to cover more of the horse’s head.
Breathing heavily, Grace focused on each task at hand while the white swirled around them. Lost, alone, and injured, if she allowed herself to think further than the circle of need around the three of them, she’d lose her mind to hysterics. Warriors were trained to prepare for disaster, not gentle ladies from English drawing rooms. Although, how could anyone prepare for this day? If she wasn’t certain they were all going to die out in this freezing Hell, she’d have laughed. She’d wanted adventure, and by God she’d found one. And damnation, it was going to kill her.
Grabbing another blanket tied to the saddle, she lowered it over the man. Recalling the advice Thomas had given her, she trudged to an evergreen, its limbs heavy with snow. Using her sgian dubh, she sawed at several bushy evergreen boughs. Panting, her arms shaking with the effort, she dragged them back and jumped away as the horse lowered to the ground next to him.
“Oh, no, no,” she said, leaping up to fix the blanket back over the animal. Stepping back around, she squatted at the man’s side and pushed against him, trying to roll his heavy frame toward the horse. “I…have…to…get…these under you,” she said, her teeth gritted as her heels dug in behind her. “Sard it all!” she yelled, using the flame of anger to give her something besides fear to hold onto.
Grace shoved the pine boughs up against the man’s side and laid two over the horse’s back. She cut a few more, dragged them back, and laid them over the man, who was now completely covered with the blanket, snow, and evergreens. Yes! She’d done what Thomas had explained, well, most of it. And the horse would help keep the man warm. Hands on her hips, she turned in a tight circle and let her arms drop back down. Now what?
She had absolutely no idea which way to go. She’d wandered through the storm for nearly an hour before trying to duck into the cave where she’d come face-to-face with an immature wolf. Adorable in its youth, its parents were anything but. Now, as she struggled against the buffeting wind and snow that stung her eyes, she realized that her efforts for rescuing anyone were at an end. There was nothing else she could do. Gloved hands pressed to the side of her head, Grace looked down at the lumps of man and horse. At least she’d be warmer up against them, under the boughs and blanket and accumulating snow.
She looked out at the white where she could hardly see to the evergreen. There was no choice. Grace dropped to her knees, digging in the snow to find the edge of the wool blanket. Shaking flakes from her clothes, she lifted it and crawled underneath. The horse lay against one side of the stranger, a massive boulder of warm flesh. It was either lay half in the cold or on top of the man, so she wiggled her way across him, fixing the edge of the wool blanket to block the wind. Body heat filled the space, and the wool and boughs muted the bite of the gale. Grace worked the scarf away from her face for easier breathing, arching her back where she pressed over the massive body under her. In the dimness of the crude tent, she stared at the stranger, studying him for the first time.
Dark lashes lay against his skin that she guessed would be tanned from the sun. The shadow of a beard coated a strong, square jaw. His lips were the perfect shape, adding to the overall ruggedly handsome look. The strength and courage he’d shown in saving her, the compassion for not slaughtering the wolves and thus dooming the wolf pups, combined with his handsome face and thick, dark hair that fell in waves to his broad shoulders… “Good God,” she whispered. “I’m in love with you already.” She huffed at her ridiculous declaration. The cold was numbing her mind.
His chest filled with an inhale, lifting her under the shelter, and she braced her legs over his to stop from rolling off. Grace watched, unmoving, as the man’s eyes blinked open.
“Oh,” she whispered and inhaled past the fear tightening her throat. “Hello.” He stared up at her, a crease forming between his brows.
“I am dead,” he said. “Finally.”
Finally? Did he wish to die?
His lips rubbed together, and she felt him shift, his gaze connected to hers. Before she could utter anything, his hand came up to cup her cheek. “And ye are my reward.”