The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Page 3

Iain stared at the sky. Above their heads hovered thin hazy clouds whose only occupation seemed to be denying the sun. But north and beyond, and headed toward them with apparent ferociousness, black and white rolling clouds, forming a straight line to distinguish their storminess from the unexceptional clouds above.

  “We’ll no’ outrun it,” Duncan commented. That expanse of sky that was so ominous seemed to stretch into forever. Further ahead, far across the glen below, Duncan could well discern the falling snow, which seemed naught but a wall of white, though still several hours ahead of them, he assumed.

  “Nae. We can make use of the bothies up at Reay.”

  Duncan cursed quietly. He hated those old huts, tucked into the hills. They were often used in summer months by shepherds and their families while their livestock grazed the common land, but they were desolate and eerie in the winter. Having once found the decaying bodies of some poor stranded travelers in one of them a few winters back, he’d done whatever was necessary to avoid them since. He glanced again at the coming storm. Bluidy hell.

  Iain clicked his tongue and moved his mount forward, throwing a grin back at Duncan, his blue eyes dancing with delight at his uncle’s disquiet.

  Aye, there’d be mountains of fun at his expense this night, Duncan surmised, suddenly disgruntled.

  They moved with more speed than they had throughout the morning, and a good thing, too. The storm, when it came, thrust snow at them from every direction. The temperature dropped and the snow grew beneath the hooves of their mighty destriers. If not for the fact that they knew the region as well as the back of their hands, they’d likely have no idea in which direction to travel, since they could not even see the backs of their hands if held at arm’s length.

  ’Twas mostly Craig who led them. Simple the big oaf might be, though a bloody executioner with a double edged sword in hand, but aye, he knew every rock and tree and hill of the border of Caithness. Duncan squinted up ahead at Craig; the lad didn’t know enough to bend his face away from the pelting snow, but trudged on mindlessly, while they’d formed a tight line—stem to stern, his seafaring da’ would have said.

  Only a short-lived reprieve from the wind and blinding snow showed Duncan that they neared the bottom of the Isauld hills. The silver birch here were particularly plentiful, he recalled. He’d just tucked his face down into his neck, needing only to see the butt of Iain’s horse ahead of him to keep pace up the side of the hill, when he heard the short jip-jip call they regularly used to signify halt. Duncan tugged on the reins and waited.

  “Blood in the snow,” Iain said, maneuvering his mount around Craig and then Duncan.

  Duncan peered down and around him, noticing what Iain had, little droplets of blood, fresh, and dotting alongside a set of tracks. Turning in the saddle, Duncan followed the tracks, unwilling to move his horse lest they disrupt more of the footprints. The spots of bright red blood were very small and stark against the snow, indicative of a wound, but possibly not a grave one.

  The snow here was not more than ankle deep, he discerned from the impression.

  “Fresh,” he said to Iain. These hills wouldn’t have retained much of the snow from a fortnight ago, as the ground being presumably warmer than the winter air would have warmed and melted it by now. The winds and current snow had done their best to obliterate them, swiping sideways across each track, but they were still clear, and Duncan guessed, not more than an hour old.

  “Small. Child, mayhap,” Iain guessed. He pulled his long sword from its sheath at his hip and instructed Craig, “Lead on.”

  Each man, likewise, withdrew his blade, eyes scanning the entire area. Truth be told, they saw only white, or occasionally a tree or brush as they passed close. A person or many could be standing ten feet away, inside the swirling snow, and they’d not know it. If they were to be attacked, they’d not see it coming until it was possibly too late.

  They encountered no one, but found that the tracks, which they followed just to the left, continued up to the old huts, just as they did. There were three such huts on this side of the hill. The original builders had made fine use of the hard rock and occasional level spots to serve as at least one wall of the aged dwellings. The outer walls had been built with whatever was at hand, twigs and brush and clay, forming thick walls that would serve them well through the storm. The first one they came upon was the largest and tallest, and they dismounted, swords still drawn and poised, while Donal and Daimh gathered all the leads and dragged the horses within. There was no door, of course, naught but an opening, and they could only hope the daft animals were at least smart enough to stay inside.

  Archie and Iain followed the blood trail and footsteps, which circumvented this first hut, as if the owner of the footprints had not noticed the closest shelter.

  The next hut was the deepest, being more of a cave, a depression in the rock serving as three sides and a roof of the shelter, with only one wall of wattle and daub supplying the barrier against the weather. At one time, it would have been Duncan’s favorite one, as it was deep enough to allow for a fire if the winds were agreeable, without smoking out the whole of the interior, but that was before they’d stumbled upon those corpses. They’d been a mother and child, he’d known—he’d never be convinced otherwise—the image of those embracing little figures, decayed beyond stench even, haunting him since.

  And damn if that wasn’t exactly where these prints led.

  The opening to this shelter thankfully faced the opposite direction from which the winds came. Craig and Archie posed like sentinels just outside, while Iain ducked and entered, Duncan fast on his heels. Pitch black was all that greeted them, not any wild animal or frightened and injured child. There was no noise within, save for the occasional drip of some water somewhere deeper inside.

  Iain and Duncan stood, swords raised to strike blows if need be, while they waited for the brothers, who would bear the packs and supplies from the horses.

  “Light a torch,” Duncan said when he heard the sounds of the twins entering. “Or a char cloth, at least.” Aside from the bare and occasional glint of his own blade, he could see very little.

  It was another full minute while the brothers rooted through the worn leather bags to find the necessary implements—flint and stone and cloth—before a bright light burst into the cave before settling down to a smaller golden glow.

  They were shown instantly the uneven rock of the inner cave, gray and black and glistening with patches of ice. Iain stepped forward. Duncan noticed the remnants of an old fire, possibly their own from years past, and kicked out a thick piece of wood back toward the twins. In another minute, the char cloth had been set to the stick and another flame glowed.

  Donal moved around Duncan, providing light for Iain in the lead.

  Iain stopped, not more than ten feet in front of Duncan, having just come to the part of the cave where the ceiling was higher and the need to hunch over was not required, when Duncan noticed the prone form on the ground before them.

  “Och, no’ another one,” he groused, determined to proceed no further. He hadn’t any intention of inviting more hauntings. He squatted where he was, let the lad and the boys pursue the pitiful, doomed creature. He’d have no part of it. “Only begging nightmares, you get any closer,” he warned them.

  Chapter Three

  IAIN THREW A GLANCE back at his uncle. Amazing, he thought, the man didn’t blink an eye when cleaving a man in half upon the battlefield but was disturbed to near hysterics by a frozen corpse.

  And yet that blood had been fresh.

  Moving closer still, Iain saw that the person was curled nearly into a ball, legs drawn in and head tucked down. It lie on its side, facing away from them. He approached slowly and prodded its back with the tip of its sword. The blade met with cushioned softness, suggesting many layers.

  It didn’t move.

  “Ho there,” he called and nudged again.

  Nothing. Likely dead, he supposed, sheathing his sword and stepping c
loser. They would have to move it out, to the third hut further up the hill, as Duncan would have fits if he were forced to take shelter with a corpse.

  And then it moaned.

  Iain startled, nearly jumped back himself.

  “Jesus bluidy Christ,” he heard his uncle blaspheme behind him.

  ’Twas a decidedly weak and feeble moan. Not dead, but very near, it sounded.

  Circling the body, he approached it from the front, guided by the light as Donal followed him. He pulled out his short blade and went down on his haunches within a foot of the moaning body, prepared for a surprise attack, though truly expecting none.

  He tugged and pulled at the thick woolen cloak, trying to find where it might open. He pushed his hand into the folds and met with cold, but not frozen flesh. A hand. Iain circled his fingers around the smaller, colder ones and withdrew a hand from the shelter of the cloak. The hand was covered with part of a glove, as the fingers were protected by the non-descript brown wool only to the second knuckle, leaving the tips bare.

  The body made another noise, less a groan, more of sound of acknowledgment of their presence.

  “Aye now, we mean no harm.”

  The hand fell limp as he released it to further open the cloak. His fingers moved the stiff, icy fabric of the hood aside, revealing a cotton gauze wimple of nearly white and a smooth forehead, and then closed eyes, too milky crescents fanned by a thick fringe of dark lashes, and lower still to produce a nose, slim and straight, and finally lips, wide and full, though presently quite blue.

  Iain stared, rather transfixed, realizing this was no hearty but wounded shepherd, nor a child who well might have perished in the storm. This was a woman, and a bonny one at that.

  And then she opened her eyes and rather amazingly, fastened two gloriously green orbs with unexpected clarity upon Iain. The eyes were large and round and glassy, too large for her tiny face, too...perfect to be real.

  “Jesu,” he breathed, believing he’d found a fae creature, come from some fairy realm, tiny and blue veined and deathly pale, save for those bright eyes.

  The men had gathered, drew closer, Donal lowering the torch, which pointed out a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose. The light also showed a bruise across her cheek, several days old perhaps, shades of red and purple, extending to under her eye. This was not fresh and not the source of the blood.

  “It’s a lass,” mused Craig as her eyelids drifted closed again.

  “Aye, canna get nothing by him,” noted Donal, with some humorous disdain.

  “Bound to die, I’d say,” observed Archie, seeming put out for the possible inconvenience this might cause him.

  “The whole bottom half of her is soaked through,” young Hew said, frowning and placing his hands about the cloak, not familiarly but objectively. “Up to her hips, nearly.”

  Iain shifted on his haunches to consider Duncan, still hovering near the entrance. “Aye, come on now, ‘tis no corpse. Dare we make a fire?”

  Daimh bent low and placed his entire hand over one side of her face, his paw huge and colored with life compared to her pallor. “Bonny, she is.”

  “If you favor the look of death,” Donal said with a grimace.

  Duncan had ambled closer, peered over the shoulders of the men on their knees. “Get the wet stuff off, might be helpful. Fire should no’ be a nuisance. ‘Tis large enough within, air flow should move the smoke outside.” He moved his hands in a motion that swept low to the ground with an inward direction and circled round higher, heading back toward the entrance. “Cold air moves in low; warm air—and smoke—should move out from above.” He shrugged then. “Or we build two fires, use only the embers deep inside.”

  “Let’s start with one, further inside,” Iain decided and nodded to the twins. “Any kindling in with the horses?”

  Daimh lifted his shoulders and let them drop. “Dinna see any.” He pulled the axe from his belt, inside the heavy fur cloak. “But we’ll get the fire bits.”

  “From where comes the blood?” Hew asked of Iain, when only the two of them remained hunched over the lass.

  Duncan was investigating the interior of the cave; Archie had sat his rump on a boulder, which sat closer to the entrance; and Craig was tracing his fingers over something on the jagged wall of the cave, lifting the torch Donal had left with him to better identify whatever it was that had drawn his silent interest.

  “Bring the torch,” Iain said with some impatience to Craig.

  Returning his attention to the near comatose woman, he rolled her onto her back and pulled the cloak wide open. He and Hew examined the front of her, saw no tears or blood on the thick woolen kirtle. Something about the bulk of the kirtle caused Iain to squint down at her. He pulled the wimple out from where it was tucked into the neckline and began to unfasten the buttons down the front of the gown. If Hew thought this odd, he said nothing, but worked at removing the lass’s boots.

  It had not gone unnoticed by Iain that while the lass was very small and slender, she seemed to be possessed of a very ample bosom. When he’d pulled the wimple away, he’d been greeted by mounds of creamy white flesh, spilling over the neckline of the gown. Under the brown kirtle, Iain discovered another thick woolen gown, this one of blue, and wondered about the intentions of a lass, who’d purposefully donned many layers of clothing, lost in a snow storm. He left off, leaving the blue kirtle intact, finding no injury that was bleeding.

  “Toes are wet,” Hew commented, lifting a slim foot to show only that she wore a cream colored linen hose.

  Iain nodded at Hew, and considered the fine linen, suggesting she was a woman of some means. “Take them off.” He recalled a Mackay soldier, once lost to a storm, years ago. He’d somehow made his way back to Caithness, half-dead on the back of a cart. Most of his fingers and toes had frozen and were black as tar as those extremities had died off. His father had ordered the man’s fingers and toes be hacked off, to save the arms and legs. Iain had always thought it had been fortunate that the man had died before the directive had been carried out.

  Iain joined Hew near her feet and removed the other boot, noticing that Hew had gone completely still, having set the lass’s leg onto the ground again. Iain stared at him.

  “I canna...undress her.”

  Rolling his eyes, Iain yanked off the boot and reached his hand up, over her ankle and calf, expecting to find her garters before the knee. He did not. Frowning, he moved his hand higher, over her slim leg, finding the garters circled around the middle of her thigh. He ignored the offense he gave, touching the girl so intimately, ignored too the smooth softness of her skin beyond the hose while he employed some practicality to untie the garters and yank the hose down and off her leg and foot.

  Her naked foot was slim and pale, light in his hand, while her toes were bright red and noticeably swollen. Immediately, he cupped his hands around her toes, holding them tight for a moment before chafing his hands and fingers back and forth over them. He nodded to her other leg and instructed Hew, “Get that one warm.”

  Hew gulped down a strangled bit of discomfort and did as his laird had, reached up under the lass’s skirts to find the garters. His boyish face, all pinkened cheeks and nary a sign of any whiskers, scrunched up with his distress. He grimaced and closed his eyes and fumbled under her skirts.

  “Bloody hell, Hew,” Iain growled, “get the hose off.”

  The lad nodded awkwardly and sent his hand further up her leg, pulling a face the whole time until several long moments later, he had successfully removed her garter and hose as well. He watched Iain’s hands for a moment before imitating the same maneuvers, chafing her toes and feet to warm them.

  Donal and Daimh returned then and Duncan directed them about the location of the fire, having found several pieces of slate that he’d stacked to be used for warming hands and feet as needed.

  “First time young Hew touches a lass,” Donal called out cheerfully, “and here she is, numb and near
to death. Aye, but that’s a bollock’s luck, aye, Hew?”

  “The only way he’ll ever be allowed to get near one, I’m thinking,” Daimh chimed in, causing more than one person to wonder if either of the twins ever knew an emotion that was not sprightly. But then, they were rarely chastised for their good humors, nor Archie for his bad ones. They’d seen too much, too much bloody war and grisly deaths and senseless violence; they were all allowed their own methods to get on with life as if they hadn’t.

  Ignoring Daimh’s quip, as he normally did, Hew wondered to Iain, “But where’s the blood coming from?”

  “I dinna ken. But we can no’ undress all of her.”

  “Her finger,” Duncan commented, coming to stand beside the lass while Iain and Hew remained near her feet. Duncan squatted and pointed to the hand Iain had not touched, almost completely covered by the cloak he’d flung open.

  Duncan lifted the hand, showed it clamped tight around a small, well-crafted but inexpensive knife. Blood rivulets ran over her fingers and covered much of her glove. Most of the blood was dried or frozen, being tiny hard bits stuck to the wool of the glove. “Clamped so tight, she cut herself,” Duncan surmised. “Hand so cold, she dinna feel it.” Carefully, he unfolded her fingers, away from the knife, and set the implement aside and then removed the glove from her hand. Iain tossed him the lass’s hose which he’d discarded, and Duncan cut away a dry strip from the top. He wrapped the wound with some expertise, the strip circling between her thumb and forefinger several times before he secured it around her wrist. Next he frowned at and then peeked inside the woven basket that had been at the lass’s side.

  He held up a smooth river rock for the inspection of Iain and Hew. It was about the size of Duncan’s palm. “The basket is half-filled with them.”

  “Nice ring for the fire,” Iain commented absently, giving no thought to what purpose the rocks might serve to the lass, nor why she’d not abandoned them when the storm mayhap chased her away from the river and up the hill.