Page 4 of Laird of Sighs (His Highland Heart #5)

CHAPTER 4

A ilsa got around the guards and their burden in the great hall and hurried into the herbal ahead of them. The Sinclair healer, Maighread, was working there when she arrived. “We’ve got an injured man,” Ailsa told her.

Maighread looked up at the sound of her voice, saw the men following her, and gestured for Ailsa to help her clear off one of her long trestle tables. “Who is he?”

“We dinna ken,” Ailsa told her as the men set him down on the tabletop. His lower legs and feet hung off one end. Maighread had them shove another table under them. “He showed up at the gate, then collapsed.” Ailsa swallowed. “Is he dead?”

Maighread bent to watch his chest and put a hand on his throat, feeling for a pulse. “He’s alive.” She waved away the guards who’d carried him in and lifted an eyebrow at Ailsa as she walked around the table, studying the man as she went. “Look at him,” she said once the other men left. “Banged up a wee, for certain. He took a nasty crack on his head. But he’s a bonnie lad. He didna say anything? Who he is? Where he’s from?”

“Nay. ’Twas odd, he didna seem to ken. Said he was bereft of answers.”

“Hmmm.” Maighread continued her inspection down his body, turned and moved back up to his face and head. She tutted over the blood, then said, “Coulda lost some or all of his memory with that head wound,” she muttered. “It could come back. Eventually.”

Ailsa crossed her arms and rubbed them, trying to soothe away her fear for what this man might have to go through. “Eventually?”

“Aye, or never. Hard to say. Naught on him but his léine, trews, and water-stained boots. Nay clan insignia. Nay plaid. Naught. Ye are a mystery, my lad.”

“Can ye help him?”

“Heal his hurts? Aye. Retrieve his memories? Nay. He’ll have to do that himself.”

Ailsa moved up from the man’s feet to join her, studying their mystery guest as she went. He was not only big, he was tall.

“Those muscles were honed in training and in battle,” Maighread said, pointing to the width of his shoulders and arms, the depth of his chest. “By the lines around his eyes, I’d say he’s in his early twenties. About the right age for a lass like ye, aye?”

Ailsa ignored Maighread’s comment. What else could she do? Admit that even in his present condition, he interested her? To Ailsa, the lines around his eyes spoke of fierce concentration, but more bracketing his mouth were evidence of frequent laughter. Would he be as charming as those laugh lines hinted? Or was his laughter cruel and given at the expense of someone else?

“Aye, he’s a bonnie lad, he is,” the healer remarked again. “Imagine what he’ll be like when he’s back on his feet.”

Ailsa’s pulse spiked. “When will that be?” He’d be formidable. Had she brought a danger to her people inside their walls? That worry would be with her until her father returned from the north. Her brother Boden would insist on moving this man to the dungeon, but she couldn’t allow that, not while he needed Maighread’s help.

“A few days, mayhap more,” Maighread told her as she began to pull the man’s léine from his trews. “Help me shift him. He may have injuries I canna see under these clothes.”

“I’ll call for the guards to come back,” Ailsa said, suddenly reluctant to approach their visitor.

“Nay,” the healer answered as she tried to roll the man to his side. “Well, aye, ye’d better. He’s a heavy one.”

Relieved, Ailsa left the healer and sent the first two men she encountered in the great hall back to help her.

Ailsa’s friend Siobhan waved her over to her table. “Have ye broken yer fast?”

“Nay, there wasna time. The guards summoned me?—”

“I heard they carried in a man. Who is he?”

While they ate, Ailsa told her the little they’d learned while he was still awake and talking. “’Twas strange. He’s injured. His clothes were still wet from the storm last night, and he canna recall his name.”

“Or he says he canna.”

Ailsa heaved out a breath, relieved to hear her friend give voice to her suspicion. “Or that. But Maighread looked him over and said his head wound might have affected his ability to remember anything, so I guess ’tis possible.”

“Is he handsome?” Siobhan flirted with many of the lads in the clan, but to Ailsa’s knowledge, she’d never lain with one.

“Aye, even though he doesna look his best this day.” Maighread’s words came back to her in a rush. What would he be like when he was back on his feet? What if he was a good person who’d had some bad luck? Mayhap he was even a laird or heir from one of the clans to the south. She let herself dwell on that for a few moments while she finished her porritch, thankful that while she chewed, Siobhan wouldn’t expect her to divulge any more. It was more fun to suppose he could be someone special than a danger to the clan. Could he become special to her? Her father had been hinting at making a match for her. At twenty summers, she would soon be past prime marriageable age. Her mother kept telling him not to rush her, to let her choose her own mate, but they were surrounded by unfriendly clans, and she rarely saw any men she hadn’t grown up with. She couldn’t imagine marrying a Sinclair, and even years ago on a rare family trip to Kirkwall in Orkney, no one had caught her eye. How she was expected to find a suitable man was beyond her. Unless one just walked up and knocked on her gate.

Anders woke up with a throbbing head and sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. The urge to sneeze reassured him. He was where he could be cared for. He’d know a herbal anywhere by the smells of drying herbs, and from poultices and tisanes a healer prepared and used.

The image of an angel with hair that gleamed like a Highland sunrise filled his mind. Had he dreamt her?

He pressed his hands over his eyes and swore at the pain in his head and the sting in his palms. He’d hoped by the time he slept, some of his discomfort would have abated, but, wait. He stilled and let the sensations in his body come to the fore. It had. Somewhat. He kept his eyes closed as he took stock of a thirst that made his throat so dry, he thought it would choke the life from him. And pain in every other part of his body that revealed his injuries, but they seemed less troublesome than they had before he slept.

He opened his eyes, squinted against the dagger blade of brightness piercing them. “Damn,” he muttered, but opened them again, this time slowly, squinting until they adjusted and he could see. A small square window was open, letting in light and a cool breeze. Shelves filled one wall. Drying herbs tied into bundles hung from the rafters, adding to the scents filling the chamber and confirming what he’d sensed when he first woke up. That was an improvement over his situation last night on the beach. Or was it longer ago than that? He must have been given something for pain, and possibly a sleeping draught. He could only guess how long he’d lain here, unconscious and defenseless. Could he have been lucky enough to stumble onto a friendly clan? It seemed so.

At least it seemed some of his memory had come back. He remembered pulling himself up onto the beach and part of the trek to the castle he’d spotted on the cliff. And a name. Anders . Was it his? What about the rest of his name? Did he have a clan, or at least a small family? Where were they? Where was he? Was this home?

Frustrated, he forced himself to sitting, surprised to note that he’d been stripped out of his clothing. All of it. By the healer? That didn’t bother him. He was as proud of his body as any man. But his skin itched where salt dried on it. And he was cold. More than anything, he wanted answers. Next though, he wanted a hot bath and a pitcher of watered ale all his own to drink. Mayhap two. A lovely lass to bring it to him and to wash his back would not go amiss, either.

The linen sheeting covering him from toes to waist was itself covered by a thick plaid, and another pair, now crumpled on his lap, had kept his upper body warm. His palms were wrapped in a layer of linen that covered the scrapes he’d felt when he pressed them to his eyes. He flipped aside the lower cover and saw his leg wound had been bound up. Replacing that cover, he touched his head. The wound there was also covered with a bit of muslin and probably some concoction of the healer’s to hold it in place. Someone had tried to take care of him. He appreciated that. But where were his clothes? He wrapped the upper linen and plaid over his shoulders and around his upper body, grabbed the lower set, and stood, swaying and fighting for equilibrium with one hand on the table he’d arisen from, and the other clutching his temporary cover in front of his lower body. After a few moments, his breathing steadied and his head ceased spinning. He wrapped himself in the lower plaid, tucked and tied it as best he could and prayed it would not fall off him at an inopportune time. Barefoot on the cold stone floor, he wished for his boots, but they, too, were missing. Had everything been taken to be cleaned and repaired? Clearly whoever cared for him did not expect him to revive this soon.

That gave him an opportunity to look around, if only out the herbal’s door, to see what he could learn before someone arrived to question him.

He padded to the door and opened it far enough to peer out, but all he could see was a wall on the opposite side of the corridor. There was no sound in reaction to the door moving, and no sign of a guard. The healer must have expected him to sleep longer. So he opened it wider.

Most keeps would have the herbal near the kitchen, and this one, judging by the scents wafting by that made his belly growl with hunger, was no exception. The kitchen lay in that direction, which meant the great hall lay in the other, but he couldn’t see it for the turn in the corridor. Which seemed wrong. It should be straight. Why did he think that?

He looked the other way. The kitchen would have at least one door to the outside, probably into a kitchen garden, and possibly near a postern gate to allow the cook’s helpers to get outside the castle’s walls to search for herbs as well as other things the healer needed, too. Just like at home.

But where was home? Not here. Of that he was certain. He struggled to recall, but the effort only made his head hurt worse. He had a sense of familiarity with the herbal, the kitchen, and where the great hall should be. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. If he needed a way out, the kitchen might provide an avenue of escape. But not without his clothes and boots, or something more substantial than the linen and woolen wrappings currently covering him. He gave an involuntary shiver and closed the door. He couldn’t explore further until he was dressed, even to beg something to eat from the kitchen.

He turned and spotted a small pot hanging from a hook, it’s metal bottom polished and bright. He moved to it, curious. Could he see his reflection in it? He could! He stared at the face before him, dark haired, with dark stubble, a straight nose, wide mouth, and strong chin. His eyes looked bruised and tired, but given what he’d been through, he wasn’t surprised. On the whole, his image pleased him, making him snort. Somehow, he knew his appearance had always made him attractive to lasses. He was certain he’d enjoyed that. Would it help him here? Perhaps it already had.

Instead of continuing his inspection, he turned to the window to see what its view might tell him before the healer returned.

A few hours later, Ailsa finished the chores she’d taken on while her parents were away and found she couldn’t delay any longer. Curiosity drove her to the herbal. The man lying there under the care of the Sinclair healer was a mystery. A stunningly handsome mystery. Was he as kind as he was handsome? He was built like a warrior who had fought many battles. Would that make him cruel? Dour? He hadn’t seemed to be when she spoke with him at the gate, but there, he was injured and desperate. Being polite could have been a tactic to gain him the help he needed. One never knew.

She nodded to the man stationed outside the herbal by the head guard, Raghnall. “I want to check on our guest.”

“Maighread just left to get something to eat. She said her patient is still asleep,” he told her.

She opened the door slowly, and peeked in. Their visitor lay on one of the cots the healer kept for the sick or injured she had to care for through the night. So, he’d been awake enough at some point for Maighread to move him from her table. He lay on his back, sprawled as only a big man could do, one leg straight, one bent, one arm over his head and the other off the edge of the cot so that broad fingers trailed on the stone floor. Two plaids covered him, but where they gapped, she saw taut skin over muscle. He shifted as she watched, and kicked the lower plaid off one long leg. He rolled to his side and the plaids slid off his shoulder and down his upper torso, revealing his chest. The ridges of muscle made her mouth water, as did the smattering of dark hair helping to define them. Was it as soft as it looked, or crisp and crinkly? Her fingers flexed with the need to find out. To touch him. To wake him and … do what?

She’d seen bare-chested men, lots of them, lots of times, on the practice field, during games that were part of the annual fair, even naked men coming out of the sea or standing from a bath in the stable after hours of working with horses. She knew what men were made of.

Why did this one entrance her? She’d barely spoken to him. She knew nothing about him. Sadly, he seemed to know nothing about himself. Perhaps it was because he was new to her. If he was a blank slate, she might enjoy writing on him.

Losing most of his covers to the cold room must have roused him. Suddenly, his eyes opened and he pushed up to sitting, dragging the lower plaid along with him so that nothing else was revealed.

She knocked softly on the door, pushed it open, ignoring the guard’s quick, “Lass,” in objection. To reassure him, she left the door open.

“Ah, ye are awake. Is the healer about?” She hoped her knock would convince him an earlier one had awakened him, not that the door had already been open to her curious gaze.

He wrapped the spare plaid around his shoulders and scrubbed his fingers over his face. Upright, his shoulders and chest looked even broader than when he lay sleeping, and the dusting of dark hair continued down his taut belly to be covered by the lower plaid.

Ailsa needed a distraction. “Does yer head still pain ye?”

“A wee, but ’tis better than before,” he said, his voice stronger and deeper than it had been while he begged entrance to Sinclair’s keep. He lifted his gaze and looked at her.

She couldn’t mistake the surprise in his widened eyes.

“Ye were on the wall.”

“I was.”

“Ye refused to let me enter.”

“Yet, ye are here.” She waved a hand to encompass the chamber around them.

He studied her, his gaze moving boldly from her face down her body and back up again. It lingered on her shoulder. Nay, on her hair. He’d mentioned it before. She tossed her braid behind her and gave him a look that dared him to speak.

So, of course, he did. “I’ve never seen hair that color. Like honey with strawberries mixed in, but only a wee.”

“Ye can thank my Norse ancestors.”

“I will, as soon as I meet them.” His attempt at a chuckle turned into a cough. “Not too soon, I hope,” he added when he could again speak.

“My da will see about that,” she told him. “But in the meantime, where are yer clothes?”

“I dinna ken. Perhaps the healer gave them to a seamstress to repair them.”

“And clean them, too, I hope.” She’d have to ask Siobhan.

“Aye, as do I. Speaking of cleaning, a hot bath wouldna go amiss. And aught to drink. I’m dry,”

Ailsa clenched her hands behind her back. She couldn’t let him know how the image that his words brought to mind affected her. This man, without those plaids and sheets, soaking in a tub of steaming water while she washed his shoulders, his back, his chest. There was an image she would dream on tonight. But not now. Now, he appeared to think it was his place to give her orders. That, she wouldn’t tolerate. Still, he deserved an answer. “Nay until the healer gives ye leave. Yer injuries?—”

“Aye, those.” He shrugged, lifted a hand to his head, making muscles in his shoulder and arms flex, and huffed out a breath.

“Have ye recalled anything? Yer name?”

This time he took a deeper breath, making his chest expand and Ailsa’s mouth water. But he looked away rather than answer her question. She swallowed and crossed her arms, trying to appear nonchalant as she waited for him to decide how much to reveal. She was certain he had to have begun to remember, perhaps not all, but something. In his place, she’d be cautious, too. He didn’t know where he was, or who she was.

Perhaps she’d start there. “I’m Ailsa Sinclair,” she told him and noted with satisfaction how his eyes widened ever so slightly at her name, then narrowed again. If she’d looked away, she would have missed the tiny change in his expression. He didn’t want her to see him react. Interesting. “My da is Laird Sinclair,” she added, but this time, he only nodded. “Yer turn,” she prompted.

He pursed his lips. “Though ’tis impolite of me, I canna give ye mine. It has yet to come back to me.”

“Nay? Yet ye seem to recognize my clan’s name.”

“Anyone would,” he said, smoothly. “Sinclair is a proud and well-known name.”

“And well-regarded?”

“Of course.” He paused for a moment. “I suppose.”

“So, ye dinna recall more than that?”

“It pains me to deny ye, lovely Ailsa.”

Not half as much as her father would pain him when he returned. She expected she’d be in trouble for bringing this man into the keep, but her visitor would be even more at risk. Her father had little patience with mysteries.