Page 33 of Her Highlander’s Darkest Temptation (Highlanders of Cadney #14)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T he air was cold and damp, the ground around him slick with moisture and stinking of mold and decay and filth.

He shivered and burned, too weak to do anything when the guards came around.

When he tried to move, the heavy chains weighting his limbs down held him back.

He could scarcely even try to drag himself upright.

“Look at the little traitor an’ kinslayer, trying tae move. Did ye want tae stand? Sit up? Let me help ye with that.” Coarse laughter followed the statement.

He knew what was coming, and he tried to pull himself into a defensive position, tried to protect himself. But it was too late. A heavy boot hammered into his gut, shoving him backward into the stone wall. His stomach rebelled, sending him into uncontrolled retching.

A kick to his face. “Dinnae get yer filth on me boots. If even one fleck o’ spit or bile lands on me clothing, ye’ll taste the whip fer it.”

But of course he couldn’t help himself. His body wouldn’t obey him.

The guards knew that, and the man before him - cruel and cold commander of the third watch - was only waiting for an excuse to inflict further torment on him.

Soon enough, another blow came, and another, and he coughed blood and bile onto the edge of the man’s trews.

Donall groaned, already knowing what was to come next.

But then something intruded, unfamiliar and gentle. A phantom hand across his forehead, brushing across his cheek, and a whispered voice that quietly and insistently worked to silence the cruel laughter and harsh words.

“It is all right. Do not fear. You are safe. You are safe. No one will harm you now. Rest easy. You are safe, and there is no danger. Leave the dark dreams behind, my laird. You are safe at home, and surrounded by those that care for you.”

“Calm yourself, my laird. Be at ease.”

Very slowly, the walls of the dungeon faded away. The heat and cold did not diminish, but the chains and the cruel guards vanished into the mists. He was aware of a hand on his forehead, a kind touch that smoothed his hair and caressed his cheek.

A woman. There was a woman beside him, speaking to him with soft, sweet, kind words.

The voice was familiar as well.

Maither? Nay, the sound is all wrong. Isnae Alayne either.

Lydia. ‘Tis… Lydia…

For some reason, knowing the name seemed terribly important. Something about Lydia was important… she was important to him…

Donall tried to grasp at the thoughts, but his mind and his limbs refused to work with him, and everything felt heavy and shrouded in fog. The more he struggled, the more the darkness seemed to press around him, until finally it dragged him under once again.

Lydia… she’s important… is she the woman… I love…?

Then thoughts faded away, and even that last awareness drained from him into warmth and darkness, until all that remained was the lingering sensation of a hand on his face, and a sense of peace.

“Nay, please… please, dinnae… nae again.” The broken, pleading words tore at Lydia’s heart, all the worse because there was so little she could offer to quell the nightmares that plagued him.

Carefully, she dipped a cloth into cool water and used it to wipe his brow, his face, his hands and as much of his chest as could be reached around the bandages. Laird Ranald moaned and twisted restlessly on the bed, his face flushed as the fever clung to him.

She wondered what his nightmares contained. Memories of being imprisoned? His father’s death? Either would be horrible enough. From his words, she feared they were memories of his imprisonment, and of gaolers who had not been kind to him.

Another moan, and she touched his jaw, stroked her hand through his sweat-dampened hair, and laid a hand comfortingly on his bare shoulder. “It is all right. Be at ease. It is safe. You are safe.”

To her surprise, the green eyes cracked open, blinking at her. There was no sign of awareness, no sign of recognition, but his eyes were still focused on her face.

“Do not fret. You are safe. I will not hurt you.” She offered him a smile.

Laird Ranald blinked again. “Ye… I ken ye…”

“Yes. You do. And I promise, I will do you no harm.” She slid a hand behind his head and used the other to press a cup of watered down cordial to his lips. “Drink, and rest.”

To her surprise, he frowned at her. “Ye… Lydia…”

She wondered why her name seemed so important to him, then dismissed it. He had often wondered about her name, it was no surprise his uncertainty and curiosity would linger even in his fevered, delirious state.

She answered him, keeping her voice as soft as soothing as she could. “I am, my laird.”

His brow furrowed, a troubled expression appearing, then fading as weariness washed away his strength for it. “Ye… Lydia… ye’re…”

“Your maid, my laird, and…”

“Ye… I love…” His voice faded as his eyes slid shut, but Lydia could only stare at him, feeling as if she’d been struck by lightning.

Was that… a confession? Or a question? Or perhaps a revelation of someone else he might care for?

It couldn’t be possible. He couldn’t have said something like that. Lairds did not fall in love with serving maids. And even if they did, she could not possibly return his feelings, not when she was deceiving him and hiding in his household.

Even so, the words stirred her heart, and made her stomach clench with longing. Longing, and an ache that mirrored the tone of his voice all too well.

I must leave soon.

And yet… and yet… I do not wish to leave.

The realization was like cold water across Lydia’s face. She had tried so hard not to care for anyone at Ranald Keep, tried not to make any friends, or come to have any feelings for those she interacted with. And yet, despite her best efforts, she had failed.

Maisie was certainly a friend, as was Evelyn, who was also her mentor, a woman she felt great respect for. And Ewan. And Laird MacEwen - they were kind and friendly, and in their current roles, there was little else they could be, but in another situation, she would have considered them friends.

And Laird Ranald… as little as she wished to admit it, even to herself, he had been fast claiming a place in her heart. She had persuaded herself to ignore her feelings, certain they could never be reciprocated.

But then she’d seen the dress - a dress no laird would ever have bought for a serving lass, and though she’d been distracted by Maisie’s discovery of the truth, she could not deny that a part of her had hoped that perhaps he felt something for her…

Even then, she’d known nothing could come of it. But there were also the late night and early morning conversations they’d shared. And now, those muttered, feverish words.

He’s delirious. He will likely not remember a thing he said to me when he regains awareness.

She repeated the thoughts to herself like a mantra, but no matter how she tried to blot them out, two thoughts still remained, circling her mind as she slipped into a light, exhausted slumber.

I do not want to leave. Not Ranald Keep, not the friends I have found here, and most of all, I do not want to leave… him.

Eventually sleep carried her away, leaving her caught between troubling dreams where Laird Ranald looked down on her with angry, disappointed eyes and spoke harshly, and warm, gentle dreams where he touched her hair and stroked her cheek and whispered those words again, this time so she knew them for a truth, directed solely at her.

She woke with dawn light coming through the sky, and a voice saying her name. “Lydia?”

Lydia sat up. From his place on the cot, Laird Ranald blinked at her. His eyes were still hazed with sleep and the lingering effects of the medicines she and Evelyn had given him throughout the night, but there was no question he was aware of his surroundings, and of her.

Lydia swallowed hard, then rose from her seat. Her body ached from being stuck in one position for so long, but she ignored it as she bent to press a hand to his forehead. “Fair morn, my laird. How do ye feel?”

“Weak as a newborn colt. Me chest hurts.” He scowled and tried to move. Lydia forestalled his attempt with a hand on his shoulder.

“You lost much blood, my laird. And the wound was serious enough it needed a hot iron to seal it.” She checked his forehead again, testing the feel of his skin in comparison to her own.

There was no fever, and he was clearly lucid. Awake, aware, and with no sign of the delirium that had plagued him through so much of the night, save for the shadows under his eyes. “It appears you are doing well.”

“Were ye… were ye here, all night?” Laird Ranald frowned. “I ken… there was a voice, it sounded like yers…”

“’Twas nothing, my laird. I only did as Evelyn said was needful.” She checked his wound, then stepped back. “I will tell her you are awake, so that she may come tend to you.”

“Lydia… wait… did I…”

She could hear the questions in his voice, questions she knew she could not answer. Unable to face him, overwhelmed by the thoughts and feelings that had haunted her throughout the night, and terrified of giving herself away, Lydia did the only thing she could think of to do.

She fled, calling for Evelyn as she hurried away from the sickbed, and Donall Ranald’s inquisitive eyes.