Page 3 of Laird of Sighs (His Highland Heart #5)
CHAPTER 3
T he route from Sutherland to MacKay was as familiar to Stellan as the area around Dunrobin, but he couldn’t help the shiver that ran down his spine as they crossed a burn not far from the Sutherland keep to the far side where more than a year ago Alber MacKay had ambushed him. If it hadn’t been for Stellan’s link with his twin, he might not have survived the day. He’d managed to kill Alber, eliminating his threat to Mariota forever, but Alber’s arrows in Stellan’s shoulder and arm, along with the blood he lost in the battle they fought, had nearly finished him, too. In the midst of the fight, thinking he might actually lose his life, he’d made a heartfelt appeal to his twin to take care of Mariota if he didn’t survive, and the emotion in that plea had been enough for Anders to sense something was very wrong. Stellan still thought it miraculous that Anders found him as quickly as he did. Despite the difficulties that link had caused at times during their lives, he would be forever grateful for it.
Enough time had passed since the day he fought Alber and nearly died for the blood that had soaked the ground to have washed away. Undergrowth had spread and thickened. Even the trees were a wee bit taller where they overhung the burn. But Stellan would know this spot till the day he died. Alber had almost succeeded in taking his life, the future he and Mariota had been about to embark upon, their son, the next Sutherland heir, and the bairn she carried now.
He hoped the bairn would be a lass with spirit like her mother’s, but he’d be overjoyed either way. Their wee family was growing, and God willing, that would continue. He hoped for the same for Anders. One day, his twin would find a lass who made him feel what Stellan felt for Mariota. Anders had sworn at Stellan’s wedding he would not settle for anything less. Stellan hoped he got the chance. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his twin. What must Anders have thought when he came upon Stellan lying near the burn, bloodied and half dead? Neither of them needed to go through anything like that again.
His friend Tormund gave him an assessing look, but didn’t comment as Stellan kicked his mount into a gallop. Tormund pulled up next to him and nodded. His friend understood. The sooner they got away from here, the better. His men followed, alert to any trouble.
Later that day, a sudden storm blew up and slowed their progress. The route between the hills could be easily traveled in fine weather, but this rain came down in sheets, making the track slippery and hiding details of the path ahead. They kept going, slowly and carefully, with spare plaids over their heads and tenting around them to keep them dry and warm. There was no shelter, so it made no sense to stop. Fortunately, the storm blew over after a few hours. They picked up their pace until the gloaming, then found a place to spend the night, though they couldn’t find enough dry wood to build a decent fire and dry some of their clothes. Exhausted, they slept without posting a guard. No one with any sense would be out in these hills after that storm.
Stellan woke with a start during the night. He lay awake, listening, wondering what had disturbed him, but heard nothing. None of the other men stirred. Relieved, he went back to sleep.
They were up and traveling early the next morning, but before long, Stellan called a halt and groaned at the view spread out before him and his companions. The pass that provided a shortcut through the mountains on the west side of Sutherland territory was blocked by a huge mudslide, still wet and glistening from the previous night’s storm. Fallen trees crisscrossed the path and continued to drip. Mud filled in between them, covered in some places by drifting leaves and remnants of broken and uprooted shrubs. “That storm we went through yesterday must’ve been even more fierce through these hills,” he muttered, more to himself than to the others. But Tormund heard him.
“I’d say so. That pass has never been closed in my lifetime, save in the depth of a cold winter.”
“We daren’t try it,” Gregor added. “We’d risk losing the horses in that muck. They’ll break legs for certain.”
Stellan nodded. “I ken it. We’ll go around. It’ll add a day to the trip and likely means Anders will beat us to MacKay, but we’ve nay choice.”
“Ye dinna think the storm affected the seas to the north?”
Stellan shook his head, though the Pentland Firth’s reputation for sinking ships was never far from his mind. “’Tis too far to ken.” But he’d had no strong sense of danger from his twin, so he had no reason to think Anders would be delayed. But at the same time, he felt that something wasn’t right. He hoped it was a problem Anders could solve without delay and not a problem in the Pentland Firth that would put his twin, their men, and the birlinn at risk.
A memory of waking during the night came back to him, but he dismissed it. Likely an owl hooting had disturbed his slumber. He hadn’t sensed anything then and wasn’t certain what he felt now.
He pressed his lips into a thin line and concentrated on reaching out to his twin. Where are ye, Brother? Pain lanced through his head and he squinted against it. His reward for trying so hard, he presumed. The link they had was too unreliable to depend on. Though it had helped save his life after Alber attacked him, the man who wanted Mariota for his own—or dead, it wasn’t helping him now. The vague, formless sense of something he could not even put a name to disquieted him, but he didn’t sense imminent danger facing his twin. Not yet.
Anders came to with the slap of a wave in his face, still clinging to the oar with cramped fingers. He managed to loose his hold and dragged himself further up onto the pebble-strewn sand of the beach, where he collapsed onto his back. How had he managed to get himself as far out of the water as he had? How long had he been out? Stars gleamed overhead, providing enough of a glow to confirm he’d reached shore, and not some distant sandbar. The sand further up the beach transitioned to a thin strip of pebbles that softly glowed in the reflected starlight. Beyond it, the ground was covered with grasses, low and high. Shrubs and trees made a wall that marked the limits of his vision, at least until the sun came up.
His head hurt like he’d indulged in the worst drunk he’d ever inflicted on himself, pounding with every heartbeat. As painful as it was, it was also reassuring. Even after his swim, his pulse was strong and steady.
What was he doing in the cold ocean in the middle of the night? The question haunted him. Was he close to home? Where was home? That thought led to a terrifying realization. He didn’t know. Nor did he know who he was. His couldn’t recall his name. Damn his aching head. How long had he been in the water? Long enough, it seemed, to freeze every thought, every memory he’d ever had.
He heaved himself up onto hands and knees. If he could stand, he would see further, and might be able to tell where he was. That might tell him who he was. But as soon as he tried to push up onto his feet, one leg gave out and he collapsed back onto the sand. He lay there, panting, unable to move for the searing pain behind his eyes, the sudden nausea that brought salty brine up from the depths of his belly. Determined not to drown on dry land, he rolled to his side and spit up as much as he could before his strength gave out completely and shivers began to rack his body.
He needed to find some shelter, somewhere he could get dry and warm or he’d die where he lay. He knew that, but could he act on it? He collapsed onto his back, dispirited.
The sky out over the water had taken on the pearly luminescence of the hour just before dawn. So that was east. He was somewhere on Scotland’s eastern coast. But where? Off to the north, the sky remained dark. Storm clouds? He needed to find shelter, and soon.
He took his head in his trembling hands and turned it first one way, then the other, pressing down as he did so, trying to hold the pain at bay and keep his belly from rebelling against the movement. It didn’t work, but he did see the thing that might save his life—or be the end of it.
The curve in the beach to his north told him he was on a bay. A castle stood high on a bluff above it, torches blazing at the corners of its walls. If he could find a way up to it, Highland hospitality would oblige the inhabitants to help him. If they subscribed to that notion. If he was in the Highlands. If he could get to the castle. So many unknowns. He had to try. Making the effort was better than lying here, waiting for cold and the agony in his head to kill him.
He rolled again to his side, then forced himself up. His belly rebelled at the movement, bending him double while he fought to expel more seawater, all the while trying to keep his head from bursting. When the spasms passed, he straightened and looked around, hoping to see a path, or a route up to the castle. It was still too dark to make out anything at ground level.
He took a careful step, praying that his leg would support his weight. Pain shot from his shin to his hip, but he stayed upright. Not broken, but injured. Was he bleeding? He was too wet and cold to be able to tell. Determined, he limped forward until he reached the border of shrubs and trees. There, he found a broken branch long enough to use as a walking stick. Hadn’t he had an oar? How could he have left it behind?
From that point on, he was able to move more easily and with a little less pain. But the climb to the castle was almost more than he could manage. The ground was damp and slippery in places, making his footing as uncertain as his head. Wet leaves and grasses added to the moisture in his clothes. Had it rained, too? He thought he was soaked through by the sea, but perhaps it had been rain all along. Nay, he’d cast up salty water. He’d been in the ocean.
He stopped several times, bent double to calm his racing heart and suck in lungfuls of air. As the morning light increased, he took stock of his injuries. His leg was gashed, his breeches torn, his hands scraped raw in places where he had either fought to avoid submerged rocks, or abused them dragging himself up onto the beach. His head still pounded, but his belly had emptied itself to the point that it calmed. Small mercies.
The low, thin trees around him provided something he could hold onto and helped him stay on his feet and keep moving. By the time the sun was fully above the eastern horizon, he was on the approach to the castle gate, but he’d used his last reserves of strength. His head was still pounding, and he was dizzy and so weak, even the smallest step took as much effort as fighting a battle.
He reached the studded oaken gate and pounded on it with a closed fist. With his strength ebbing with each blow, he feared no one would hear him.
Eventually, voices above him told him someone had heard or seen him coming. He stepped back from the door and looked up, grimacing as the pain spiked in his head. Two guards looked down at him, distrust written in their raised eyebrows.
“Who are ye? What do ye want?”
“I’m injured. I need help,” he managed to croak out, surprised that he had any voice at all.
“Go away,” one of the guards demanded, but the other pulled his fellow back and spoke sharply to him. The first guard disappeared.
“Let me in. I canna harm any of ye. Look at me.” His torn clothes had yet to dry, blood streaked the leg of his trews, and when he realized whatever still dripped onto the side of his face was warm, he discovered the site of the wound making his head pound and the morning sunlight feel like daggers plunging into his eyes.
He put a hand on the gate to hold himself up while he waited for them to decide what to do. He hoped they’d hurry.
He thought he must be imagining hearing a woman’s voice on the wall walk, but in minutes he caught a glimpse of a lass peering over the wall at him. She ducked back out of sight.
Why was she up there?
He heard her voice again and looked up. She was back. The first thing he noticed before he squeezed his eyes shut against the light was her hair, hanging in a thick braid over one shoulder. Not blonde, not red, something in between. She was nearly as tall as the guards flanking her. And her face—how to describe an angel? Would she be an angel, take pity on him, and make the guards open the gate to him? He prayed so.
Ailsa Sinclair cursed her father as she looked down on the bedraggled man leaning heavily on the oaken door below her. She added a softer curse for her mother, too. Why had they gone to Orkney without her? Couldn’t one of them have stayed at home? And why had her brother Boden chosen today to go hunting? Though he was three years younger than Ailsa, he was the heir, which meant he was responsible for Sinclair. If he was here, she would not be faced with this conundrum. She wouldn’t be in charge. She wouldn’t be the one to risk Sinclair castle. If this went wrong, if anything happened to anyone within its walls, she would be blamed for the decision she made.
She could always deny the man entry. But he seemed exhausted. He was injured and likely unable to leave Sinclair land under his own power. There was no stray horse in view. He was wet. Had it rained overnight? Aye, it had. A storm. She recalled the noise and the bright flashes of lightning that penetrated between the slats of the shutters over her window. So, he’d been out in the storm, and now that she looked more closely, perhaps he’d slipped and fallen on wet ground. Several times. She could see blood on his face and clothes.
Or had he fought someone? Was he dangerous?
Silly question. All men were dangerous.
But the more she studied him, the more she wondered. He stood with his back to the door now, resting his head against the wood, eyes closed. Despite his battered condition, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Tall, muscular, broad-shouldered and long of leg, his dark hair was plastered to his head by rain or blood, exhaustion making his lips thin and pale. But his jaw was strong, his nose straight, and his hands wide and powerful.
A shiver of—what?—ran down her ribs. Fear? Nay. Desire? Surely not.
He didn’t seem threatening. But her mother had told her again and again that all men were dangerous. And this was most definitely a man.
“Have ye looked yer fill, lass?”
How dare he! How did he know? His eyes were closed. Besides, it was her job to look. To weigh what she saw and decide. Did he want her to deny him entry?
“Why are ye here?”
“I dinna ken where else to go.” He lifted his head from the door, opened his eyes, winced, and looked up at her.
“Who are ye?”
“I dinna ken that, either.” He lifted a hand to his head and shrugged. “Sorry. I’m bereft of answers at the moment. If I could come in, get dry, have yer healer tend to me, perhaps some answers might come back to me.”
Was he deliberately refusing to answer her questions? Bargaining for entry and for care? And taunting her, too? She opened her mouth to tell him to go away, but hesitated. What if that was not what he meant? He looked, well, gorgeous, but also exhausted and beaten. How far could he go on his own? Sinclairs were not inhospitable. Her mother was one of the kindest people she knew. Her mother would let him in. She would argue with the laird, Ailsa’s father, if need be.
What would the laird do?
So many questions and conditions ran through her mind, she feared she’d been staring at the man far longer than was proper, especially when he stared back.
“I dinna think I’ve ever seen hair the color of yers,” he said suddenly, “and I ken many lasses. ’Tis beautiful.”
He looked ready to collapse, and yet he complimented her hair?
He was trying to flatter her into letting him inside Sinclair’s gates. That decided her. “Ye’d best be on yer way,” she told him with a frown.
On her clan’s bible, she would have sworn she saw tears glint as his expression fell to hopelessness. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the ground, loose-limbed. He’d made no effort to catch himself. He must have passed out. Or had he? Dear God, what if he’d just died? “Go get him and take him to the healer,” she commanded the nearby watchmen.
“But Lady Ailsa?—”
“Dinna argue. Fetch him to the healer. Now!” What if her indecision had killed him? Her heart broke, guilt swamping her. Dear God, had she killed the man? Her mother would never forgive her. Depending on who he was, or where he came from, her father might not, either. Surely someone would come looking for him.
She picked up her skirts and made her way to the stair down to the bailey in time to see the stranger carried in under the iron spikes of the portcullis. It took four of her men to move him. They continued toward the keep as she ran down the steps, then followed them inside to the Sinclair herbal.