The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Read online

  Removing his fur cloak, Ian laid it on the ground next to her, and he and Hew wrestled the woolen gray cloak away from her. Iain lifted her by the shoulders while Hew tugged the cloak away. Once her arms were free, Iain stood and lifted all of her, abandoning the cloak to the ground. She was small in his arms and shivered violently against him. He’d meant to set her down on his fur, but held her close for several moments instead, absorbing her tremors, some instinct telling him to hold her close to his own body heat.

  He stood like that for several long moments, clutching the lass to his chest, her bare feet dangling over his arm that Hew continued to chafe and warm them.

  “Coming down hard, getting deep out there,” Archie noted, turning his face away from the opening, glowering when he saw what Iain and Hew were about. “Aye now, you do naught but waste your own heat. Lass’ll be dead by morning.”

  “She will no’,” Hew insisted with a peculiar sense of resolve. “Already, her lips are no’ so blue.”

  “Aye,” Iain agreed, tipping his gaze down at her, her wimpled head drooped lifelessly against his shoulder. His eyes rested easily on the delicate features. Everything about her was soft; the line of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the weight and curves of her body, even her pale feet were soft, not angular and bony as her slimness might suggest.

  After a few more minutes, the twins had the fire blazing nicely and Duncan stood nearby, faithfully watching the path of the smoke to be assured it would indeed abandon the cave and not be contained within by the baying winds outside. Iain set the lass down on the fur he’d laid out. Hew hovered still, arranging several more furs over her until she appeared no more than a plump wolf in repose.

  With naught else to do, the men gathered round the flames, warming themselves. They doffed their own boots and lined them up around the fire, Iain noting with some interest that Duncan had indeed ringed the firepit with the lass’s curious collection of stones. Leaning against these, facing inward toward the heat and flames, Duncan had lined the entire ring with decent sized, flat pieces of slate. When they were heated, they would be utilized as drying frames for their hose and boots and gloves, as needed. Hew had already folded and stacked neatly the lass’s hose and gloves upon one of the slate rocks.

  They knew better than to drink melted snow without warming it, but their leather flasks made this a slow process, having to keep the flasks far enough away from the flames to cause no damage to the leather, which would shrink and crack, but close enough to draw in the heat.

  There would be no food, but not for want of trying. Their trek earlier to outrace the storm had been made with at least one eye toward their surroundings, looking for any potential prey, but they’d had no luck snaring even one pitiful hare or squirrel.

  The afternoon dwindled away. The evening came and so did more winds and more snow, that they began to understand they would travel no more this day.

  The lass barely moved. Her shivering had stopped, and Hew often checked in on her, lifting the fur and wrapping his youthful fingers around her narrow wrist, which advised him that she was warmer and yet maintained a pulse.

  Donal teased the attentive and dedicated Hew, “Aye, and you’ll be a fine mother one day, lad.”

  It wasn’t at all akin to a summer evening, making camp under the stars, where the moderate weather lent itself to late nights of jovial stories around the dancing flames. On this night, in this cold and well before midnight, they each found their own fur pallets and drifted off. Likely each man hoped and dreamed of better weather on the morrow. Save for the twins, who possibly dreamt of their last or their next service of Venus, for Iain was genuinely persuaded they thought of little else.

  Late into the evening, Hew had declared the lass’s hose dry and warm and there was more good-natured mocking from Donal and Daimh and even Archie as Hew insisted the lass would be warmer if these were returned to her feet.

  “Go on, then,” dared Archie.

  “Aye, now give him time, Arch,” chided Donal, “he’s trying to figure out which end is up.”

  As he was never one whose actions—or lack thereof—were dictated by the regular tormenting of the twins, or any other McEwen or Mackay, Hew ignored them all and did what he knew to be right. He returned the lass’s hose to her feet, though not without some stuttering of his hands and a full redness to his cheeks, as Donal and Daimh kept up a steady stream of raunchy encouragement.

  When he was done, Duncan shooed Hew aside, away from the lass, asserting age and ascendancy to claim the even ground there, forcing Hew to take up the unlevel and lumpier ground further around the fire.

  Iain found his ease next to the lass, lying on his left to face her, while Duncan then flanked her backside as she had shifted once again to her side, curling her legs up into her chest.

  He stared at her for quite a while, wondering at her tale. Only the white of her wimple and her closed eyes and nose were available to his scrutiny, but he was no farther advanced in his understanding for his grand perusal, and eventually he, too, found slumber.

  MAGGIE BLINKED SEVERAL times until she was able to keep her eyes open.

  She recognized immediately a severe ache about her temples and understood she was lying down. She breathed in a deep gasp, but then clamped her lips tight, afraid to make any sound.

  A man was lying next to her.

  He was sleeping, or at least his eyes were closed.

  Dark and short cropped hair; stubbly growth over his cheeks and jaw; broad shoulders, standing twice as high as hers as he was on his side. Maggie shook her head back and forth, pinching her lips to keep from crying out. She had no idea who this man might be, or why she was lying next to him.

  With a swiftly growing panic, she moved only her eyes around, afraid any sound or movement might wake the man. Her alarm only increased, as did her breathing, forcing her to push out a frantic breath. She did not recognize her surroundings, seeing only rock all around her, which moved with dancing shadows, suggesting some fire nearby. Some of the swaying lights glistened on the wall, where dripping water had saturated much of the rock.

  Her anxious gaze returned to the man. He was huge beside her, lying on his side, facing her, one arm folded and cushioned under his head. He was so close she could feel his very even breathing against her cheeks. She could contain her breathing no more again, felt she would burst with her efforts to do so noiselessly, and let out a whimper with a surge of breath through her mouth.

  He didn’t move. Maggie began to pant.

  But where was she? And who was this man?

  Closing her eyes, she listened to sounds around her, easily understanding the slight crackle and hiss of the fire and an occasional drip and plop of water, and then, what sounded very much like heavy snoring. Opening her eyes, she stared at the man before her. He was not snoring.

  Sheer black fright swept through her, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted very much to sit up and discover more of her circumstance but was rendered motionless by her fear. Her gaze remained fixed on the man in front of her, watching for any movement. Nearly paralyzed, she closed her eyes again and courted calmness, willing herself to be brave, wondering what she should do, or could do.

  Of course, she must get away.

  Opening her eyes again showed the man still sleeping. Commanding more courage than she was sure she possessed, she pushed her hand against the ground and lifted her head. She glanced around to see several more men, just like this one, sleeping upon the hard ground, draped and huddled in furs, tucked close together. One was at her back, pressed close, his rump nearly touching hers.

  Her eyes lit on the wall at one end of this room, the one that was not made of rock. She stared, transfixed, until she realized what it was, the mouth and opening of the cave. A cave, yes! She’d stumbled upon this cave, she recalled. These men must have done the same, sought refuge within as she had. This offered her only slight ease, barely at all, surveying the bodies of all these men surrounding her.

 
; Rolling her lips inward, she knew she must leave. This appeared a very dangerous circumstance. Pushing herself further up from the ground showed a fur beneath her, and another, falling off her shoulder, and being dragged away from the closest man, as she appeared to be sharing it with him. She glanced down at herself and noted her missing cloak, and that the buttons of her topmost kirtle were undone. Oh, dear Lord! She touched her hand to her head, finding her wimple still intact, though askew.

  Her cloak was not seen, but she could use the fur if she dared to rise and flee. She kept her eyes on the man before her as she shifted her legs under her, intent on rising to her feet. Maggie gasped and pushed her foot out. She had no boots. Her foot showed only her hose, covering her foot, but not much more, bunched around her ankle as if—oh, my God!

  Chapter Four

  “IT’S NO’ SO BAD AS it seems.”

  Her gasp now was vocal. She jerked her face toward the man.

  His eyes were open.

  The pain in her chest just then, of shock and dread, gave some endorsement to the oft-heard expression, died of fright. Maggie was sure she was about to expire on the spot.

  His hand touched hers, wrapped firmly around her wrist.

  Maggie swallowed hard and breathed rapidly through her nose.

  Very calmly, his voice low, he explained to her, “We happened upon you in the cave, seeking relief from the storm, same as you. We only did what was needed to get you warm, nothing more.”

  She could only stare at him, at his piercing but calm dark eyes. She thought that he made some attempt to appear non-threatening, keeping his features relaxed. No frown marred his forehead; no menace colored his expression; no dastardly light shone in his gaze.

  She nodded, letting him know she understood even as she was quite sure she did not.

  “But I must—”

  “Aye, you’ll no’ be going anywhere until the storm quits its raging.” Even his interruption was calm, even-toned. “None of us will.”

  She couldn’t seem to control her breathing, seemed capable of naught but those short raspy breaths.

  In the same level and mild tone, he said, “Lie down now. We mean no harm. We’re no’ in the habit of fixing up a person only to bring harm to them.” He stared steadily at her. “Lie down. Ask what questions you might, if it’ll make you feel better. You’re in no danger.”

  Her voice quaking, she asked, “But have you—am I a hostage?”

  He smiled. Maggie drew in a sharp breath. The smile was neither insincere nor ominous. It was...simply beautiful. Full-mouthed, crinkly-eyed, and meant to reassure, which it inexplicably did.

  “You are no’ a hostage. I promise you’ll come to no harm in our company.”

  “What time is it?”

  Another smile greeted her query, this one slightly lopsided. “That will be your most pressing concern?”

  Maggie expelled a nervous laugh of her own. “I only wondered how long I—we’ve—been here.”

  “We came in after midday and guessed you hadn’t arrived much sooner than that. Well after midnight now. The storm hasn’t let up much, no’ enough to venture out yet.”

  She liked his voice, a nighttime whisper voice, one that might tell secrets in the dark. It was deep and smooth, and whether intentional or not, it did imbue her with a certain sense of calm.

  He pulled his hand away from her wrist. Maggie glance down, having forgotten that he’d held her still. She watched the large hand move away from her, removing the last hint of any threat, she imagined. Lifting her own hand, she considered the linen wrapped around it, took note of the part of it between her thumb and forefinger that was coated with blood.

  “You had a knife in your hand,” the man said. “Must have cut yourself.”

  She recalled this, withdrawing the knife from the belt at her hip. Something had scared her, some noise that had seemed to her to be not of land or wind or critter, that she felt at least less defenseless for having the weapon in her hand. Whatever the noise had been, it had chased her out of the trees and further into Mackay land, she recalled thinking. But it had been auspicious as well, for when the noise had quieted, when her fright had waned, she’d found herself at the bottom of the hill on which sat this cave. She hadn’t noticed the cave at first, had thought only to reach the higher ground and attempt to get her bearings, or any indication of direction. The trek up the hill had been treacherous and lengthy that when she did spy the curious outer wall of the cave, she’d happily changed course, and had given up on reaching the summit, or defining her position, to seek shelter and warmth instead.

  “It’s there, beside you still,” he offered, “if that might settle your nerves.”

  Maggie glanced around her, saw the bloodied knife on the ground near where her head had lain. She did not reach for it. She didn’t know if she were in danger presently, yet she was quite sure her tiny blade would be but a nuisance to a man such as this, twice her size perhaps and with that gaze that said he missed not much.

  It was impossible to steady her erratic pulse, but she did lie down. A lean bough of logic insisted that if these men had any nefarious intent, they likely would have undertaken any wickedness while she’d slept, while she’d been nearly comatose with the cold. And too, he’d likely not have suggested she was free to arm herself with her own knife if his plans were dreadful.

  “You had a curious basket with you, filled with stones.”

  “From the river,” was all she said, so much whirring through her mind. She was still, staring into his eyes, trying to make sense of this situation, and of this man. “I like the feel of the smooth stones,” she expounded further, after a quiet moment in which she decided his eyes might be blue, not exactly black as they nearly appeared in the dim but glowing light. “I like the colors and the lines and the patterns.” She didn’t know why she told him this, didn’t know what prompted her to add, “They make me happy.”

  He made a face, one of discomfort, his mouth moving a bit before he admitted, “We may have used a few to contain the fire.” He lifted a thick brow, seeming to wait her reaction, and then went on, more regret oozing into his tone, “Mayhap more than a few.”

  Maggie knew just then that she was safe. No person, intent on or guilty of nefarious deeds, would show such contrition for having made such excellent use of her silly stones.

  Her lips curved a bit as she tucked her hands under her head. “A small price, I should imagine, for the aid you’ve given me.”

  “But what were you about in the storm, lass? Would you no rather collect your stones in fair weather?”

  “Naturally, if this region saw any such thing,” she said, keeping her voice as quiet as his. She shrugged, which may have not translated well from her position. “Cold doesn’t bother me—not the normal cold. The sky was clear when I left the keep.”

  “Aye, which begs the question, from which keep? Only so many near Reay.”

  Maggie chewed her lip, recalling that she’d trespassed onto Mackay land, not recollecting in her attempt to find shelter that she had somehow moved herself back onto Sutherland land.

  “The home of Adam Gordon,” she said weakly, hoping to God this man was not one of those extreme Mackays, who might make sport with any Sutherland—which she essentially was, or was bound to be—merely as a means to harass his enemy. She knew such men existed. Even in her rather unspectacular home near Torish, more than a day’s ride away, she’d heard the tales of the feud, and all the brutal crimes committed in its name. When he said nothing, she asked quietly, “Are you a Mackay?” She needed to know if she should allow her panic to soar again.

  He nodded, his expression shuttered. And then he said, his tone as level as it had been, “McEwen, actually. But a Mackay by blood. And that’s it? You were out collecting stones and became lost in the storm?”

  Besieged by inspiration, or more aptly, by desperation, she recalled her plans to flee and passed it on to him. “Are you familiar with St. Edmund Abbey? Yes, well, I am bound
for the good convent there. The blessed Abbess Joan expects me anon, as I am meant to take my vows,” she said, unaware how her voice quickened with her lies.

  The man considered this, his brow lowering fractionally. His gaze moved to her lips and then back to her eyes before he asked, with seeming disbelief, “You want to become a nun, cloistered away for the rest of your life?”

  Maggie was quick to assure him—or convince him—with more lies, “I have burned with a zeal since my earliest childhood to be converted. In fact, my poor dear mam grew tired of my constant pleas of, Mother, please make me a nun. It is my dream that God may not leave unrewarded so fervent a desire to enter religion.”

  Possibly, she’d overstated it. His frown deepened, but when he said naught to gainsay her fiction, Maggie pressed on with her tale, “So it was, I’d bid goodbye to my dear friends, the Gordons, and was off to St. Edmund Abbey when the storm caught me by surprise.”

  “They did no’ provide you a cart, nor least of all an old nag to see you safely there?”

  “Oh, but of course, they tried,” she lied, devising, “but I could not accept such a gift. Not even as a loan, as I feared the responsibility of a thing that was not my own.”

  “Is that so? So, you planned to go by foot, walk for three days or more over hill and mountain and crag?”

  Maggie nodded, wondering at the exact depth of his skepticism. “But I’d done as much already. I walk hours every day.” She might have added more but opted to arrive at the purpose of her fraudulence. “Might you and...your friends be able to direct me proper toward St. Edmund Abbey when the snows clear?”

  He hesitated, considering her, his gaze sharp and assessing, even as she eagerly wished that it was not. “We might, at that,” was all he said.

  “Oh, thank you, sir. You have my gratitude,” she said, and thought to add, “and the Lord’s blessing, I’m sure.”

  “Aye, I’m sure.”

  IAIN WASN’T SURE WHY the lass lied to him, but he recognized truth telling—and its counterpart—when he heard it. Nae, this one was no’ bound for any convent. The good Lord hadn’t made those lips for mumbling prayers or chanting choruses.