Page 22 of The Highlander’s Hellion Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #1)

22

A harsh, blood-curdling scream shattered the peaceful night, ripping Duncan from his dreams. He thrashed, scrambling to tear the blanket off him.

Pants filled the night, coming from directly beside him.

The first thing he noticed was the cold. At some point during the night, the fire that had been kindled to warm their rooms had gone out. A second later, he realized he could see the room around him.

The faint light of morning was filtering through the window, illuminating the horrific sight beside him.

Alison’s terrified eyes were open wide, and her skin was ashen as she turned her head to look at him. She was gasping, and tears were streaking down her face.

“Help,” she whispered, her breath rattling as it escaped her lips.

Duncan’s eyes moved down his wife’s body, coming to rest on the object that made her scream.

There was a dagger buried in her chest.

“Dinnae pull it out,” he barked.

But it was too late. Alison grabbed the hilt and pulled the dagger out of her chest. Blood poured from the wound, painting the fabric of her shift a bright, vibrant red.

Duncan whirled around, snatching a sheet from the bed and bundling it up.

“Duncan,” she murmured, her face rapidly losing color as she stared up at him.

“’Tis all right,” he assured her, pressing the sheet to her chest. “’Tis all right. I’m goin’ to help ye. There’s nothin’ to be afraid of.”

The familiar, somber words flew from his lips. How many times had he said the same thing to one of his men? How many times had he assured the dying that he would help them, only for them to draw their last breath while they lay at his feet?

That willnae happen again.

Alison cried out in pain as he applied pressure and continued trying to calm her.

“I have to stop the bleedin’,” he explained. “If I dinnae stop it, ye’ll die. Do ye understand me? And ye’re nae dyin’ today. I willnae allow it.”

Alison’s chest heaved with terror as she gasped for air. Her eyes, which were typically a soft, calm brown, were now wild with panic, but she managed to nod once.

Duncan pressed harder on the sheet. Sweat broke out on her forehead. He closed his eyes as his fear threatened to overwhelm him.

A vision of Lucy lifeless and lying in a pool of her blood on his bed flashed before his eyes. He shook his head fiercely to regain his focus and maintained pressure on the gaping wound in Alison’s chest.

Several agonizing seconds passed. When he checked his wife’s face once more, he noticed that it did not look as tortured as it had before. Although her skin was still incredibly pale, she did not appear to have gotten any worse.

I have to do it. I have to check.

Duncan sent up a quick prayer, asking God to save his wife as he peeled back the sodden sheet.

The entry wound was as clean as his dagger was sharp. It was quite deep, but the bleeding had slowed considerably. Whether it was due to a loss of blood or because the person who had stabbed her had not struck anything vital, Duncan did not know. Only a healer would know that.

A healer.

Malina had also stayed overnight in the village. She and Evander had both taken rooms at the inn.

A plan began to take shape in Duncan’s frantic mind.

“I am goin’ to get Malina,” he said in a hurried but authoritative voice. “But afore I leave, I need ye to do somethin’ for me, all right?”

“I dinnae ken,” Alison answered, wincing as though the effort of speaking was causing her additional pain.

“Ye must.” His tone was grave, and he held her gaze. “’Tis simple enough. Ye only need to keep pressin’ this sheet to yer wound as hard as ye can. That’s it. Can ye do that?”

Alison moved her hands to cover his. They were coated in blood, and as he pulled his hands away to allow her to apply pressure on the makeshift dressing, the backs of his hands came out stained with her blood.

Duncan’s vision narrowed down to the blood on his skin. Once again, the blood of his wife was on his hands.

Bile rose in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.

I’ve seen men with their stomachs outside their bodies. This is nothin’. It has to be nothin’, for Alison’s sake.

He repeated the thought like a mantra to calm himself before he spoke again.

“That’s good,” he encouraged. “Ye’re doin’ good. Just keep pressin’. I ken it hurts like hell, but ye have to keep pressin’ down, ye hear? I’ll be back with Malina, and we’ll get ye sewn right up. Do ye hear me?”

He said the words forcefully, as if doing so would make them true.

Alison grimaced but nodded, and Duncan wasted no more time before turning around and bolting out of the room.

“Malina!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the wooden walls. “Malina! Evander!”

His vocal cords strained, and his voice broke as he bellowed and rushed through the inn. Doors opened and guests stepped out, staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

Perhaps he had. The images of Alison and Lucy bleeding on the bed were beginning to coalesce. One became indistinguishable from the other as panic bloomed in his chest.

A frazzled-looking older man appeared at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at him in alarm.

“Me Laird?” he asked with obvious concern. “Is there somethin’ I can…”

The man’s face registered in a split second, and Duncan remembered he was the inn’s owner. He was upon him before he could finish speaking.

“The healer,” he barked. “Which room did ye give her last night? And Laird Kincaid?”

“I’m here, Me Laird,” a feminine voice announced from behind him, and he whirled around.

Malina was standing on the first landing, a dressing gown pulled tightly around her waist. Her eyes were filled with worry as she stared at him, and he surged forward.

“’Tis me wife,” he growled, grabbing hold of her arm and dragging her up the stairs. “She’s been stabbed.”

He heard Malina’s gasp but did not turn to look at her. Instead, he focused on pulling her up. He needed to get back to his room and his wife.

“How bad is it?” the healer asked.

But they had already reached the topmost landing, and Duncan did not want to waste time answering her.

He stepped aside, holding the wooden door open so she could go around him. The moment they stepped into the room, the coppery smell of blood assaulted his nostrils.

Duncan’s stomach turned as he thought of who that blood belonged to, and he swallowed hard.

Malina gasped and ran toward the bed. “Alison!” she cried, her face paling as she beheld her friend.

He did not miss the way her hands shook as she pulled away the sheet that Alison was still clutching to her chest. She gazed at the wound, nodded once, then turned to him.

“Me medical bag. ‘Tis in me room, next to the bed. Fetch it and hurry back.”

Normally, Duncan would never accept an order from anyone, but it was not the time to argue. As soon as she gave him her room number, he turned around and ran out of the room.

He moved as fast as he could in the cramped space and rapidly reached the room Malina had indicated. He threw open the door, not even pausing to knock.

He sprinted to the side of the bed. The medical bag was exactly where Malina had said it would be. He grabbed it, gripped it tightly, and ran back to his room.

When he entered, he was shocked by how much had changed in what had only felt like seconds. The innkeeper was now also in the room, shock written all over his face as he bent to assist Malina.

A bucket of fresh water and a sewing kit lay next to the bed. Evander stood just inside the door. His head turned to Duncan the moment he entered, but Duncan did not address him as he rushed forward. He held the bag out to Malina, clenching and unclenching his jaw as she took it. Helplessness overcame him as he watched her work.

“I’m goin’ to give her milk of the poppy,” Malina explained, rifling through the vials in her bag. “It will put her to sleep, so I can inspect her wound more closely.”

“Will she live?” Duncan barked the question like an order. On the inside, he was devasted and terrified.

Malina only looked at him for a second, but he saw her answer in her tense expression before she even spoke.

“I dinnae ken,” she said honestly, anguish obvious in her voice. “But I will do everythin’ in me power to help her. Do ye hear me?”

Duncan nodded, then turned and marched out of the room. He could not stay in there, staring at that bed and watching as the wound on his wife’s chest was poked and prodded.

I cannae watch as she dies. I cannae. I must find out how this happened.

Duncan hurried down the hall, spurred on by his need to find the person responsible for stabbing his wife. He descended the stairs two steps at a time, his legs working as quickly as they could to get to the front door and out into the street.

The early morning sun glared down at him as he burst out the door, and he squinted his eyes against the assault. He screwed up his face, staring around and looking for anyone who might have seen something.

His eyes darted back and forth, quickly landing on a small crowd that had gathered across the well-trodden dirt road. They were staring at the inn, and he realized that his calls for the healer must have been loud enough to carry outside.

How dare they watch. How dare they stand there and stare as if Alison’s pain is a spectacle? How dare they…

He could not finish the thought, and he stormed toward them.

“Ye!” he bellowed, pointing to the small crowd.

Their eyes widened with shock once they realized who was stomping in their direction, fear instantly replacing their curiosity. One of the men stepped forward, putting himself between the Laird and the women in the group.

“Me Laird,” he greeted. Although he bowed his head in a gesture of respect, his voice was cold. “What’s goin’ on at the inn?”

Duncan narrowed his eyes at the man, his cheeks reddening with ire at having been questioned in such a manner.

“I should ask ye the same,” he hissed. “What did ye see?”

“See, Me Laird?” the man asked.

“Aye. Did ye see anythin’? Did ye see anyone leavin’ the inn?” Duncan’s voice rose with each question he hurled at the man. He was now bellowing, and everyone who stood behind the man had begun to cower. “Did ye see where they went? Who it was? Did ye see?—”

“Duncan!” a loud, familiar voice shouted commandingly from behind him.

He bristled as he turned around, readying himself for a fight, when he saw Evander storming across the street toward him, his countenance calm and cold. Arthur was not far behind him, his green eye flashing as they rushed toward him.

At the sight of his friends, Duncan realized that he had lost control of himself.

On some level, he was aware that he should not be berating his clansfolk. More than likely, the people who stood before him had not witnessed a thing and had only been alerted to the situation when he had begun yelling, but he refused to accept that possibility without hearing it from them and confirming that it was true.

“Leave me be,” he growled once his friends were close enough to hear, but they did not slow their approach.

Arthur’s good eye narrowed on him, while Evander turned him around, a scowl creasing his face.

“Aye, leave ye to do what? To accost yer people?” Evander peered over Duncan’s shoulder, his face softening as his eyes landed on the people behind him. “Lady Marsden has been hurt,” he explained. “Severely, I’m afraid. Did ye see anythin’? Hear anythin’?”

Duncan turned back, watching as the village folk glanced between the three Lairds standing before them. He worked to control his expression and school his features into a mask of calm but failed miserably.

The man he had just been berating turned to address Evander.

“I was in me house,” he explained. “Wakin’ up and gettin’ ready when I heard the shoutin’. Didnae see anythin’ until the Laird ran out of the inn.”

“Will Lady Marsden be all right?” a feminine voice asked from the back of the small group.

Duncan craned his neck to see her. She noticed him searching for her and pushed her way through the crowd. They parted for her, allowing her to reach the front of the small group.

Duncan vaguely recognized her from the previous night and recalled that she and Alison had been sitting together and talking for quite some time.

“I dinnae ken,” he answered honestly, the pain of that statement washing over him anew. “The healer is with her now.”

The woman nodded solemnly as whispers broke out around her. He was unable to make out their overlapping words, which blended into a cacophonous thrum in his ears.

His fists clenched at his sides as he wrestled with the urge to yell at the yammering gaggle of onlookers. He wanted to rage, scream, and pummel them until they told him everything they knew or saw.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, causing him to whirl. Evander was standing beside him, regarding him impassively. His eyes flicked over Evander’s shoulder and landed on Arthur, who was speaking in a low, hushed tone to the villagers.

While Arthur was focused on them, Evander was focused entirely on Duncan.

“Stop now,” he hissed. “It will do ye nay good to go on scarin’ these gentle folks.”

Duncan clenched his jaw, pausing just long enough to force down the helpless anger roiling inside of him.

“I cannae do this again, Ev,” he said gruffly, the rage roiling within him threatening to overwhelm him once more.

“I ken.” Evander’s voice was low and earnest. “I ken. But Malina is up there with her, and if what I’ve learned of the woman is true, then she’s a damned good healer. Yer wife is in the best hands there is right now. But ye arenae doin’ her any good by comin’ out here and yellin’ at folks.”

Duncan blinked at him, focusing on slowly pulling air into his lungs as he fought to regain control. Evander immediately recognized what he was doing—a breathing exercise that they did on the battlefield to check their emotions.

Over the years, Duncan had gotten good at it. He’d found a way to harness that rage and turn it into something even more lethal.

Determination.

When he had himself firmly back in control, he gave

Evander a quick nod before walking the few paces back to the villagers.

Arthur was still talking to them, paying a little more attention to one of the gentlemen who had previously been standing at the back of the group. Their heads were bent low, and only the people on the edges of the group glanced Duncan’s way as he approached again.

“I’m sorry I yelled at ye,” he began the moment he was within earshot of the man he’d yelled at moments ago.

The man waved a hand in the air in a clear dismissal.

Duncan opened his mouth to continue, but his words were cut off by a familiar, high-pitched voice yelling from across the square.

“Faither!”

He turned to see Rosie running down the street toward him. The Tomlinsons walked a few steps behind.

“Faither! Someone came to the house and said that Maither was hurt. Is it true?”

She stopped just shy of where he stood, questioning him with her sky-blue eyes. The early morning sun made her bouncing, red curls glisten. Duncan wished more than anything that he did not have to utter the next word to her.

“Aye.”

He crouched down, placing himself at eye level with the child. Rosie sucked in her bottom lip, her eyes welling with tears as she stared at him.

“’Tis true,” he began. “Yer maither did get hurt. But Malina is there with her now. Ye ken Malina, right?”

Rosie nodded, but the worry remained in her eyes.

“Well,” Duncan continued, doing his best to keep his voice calm and even for his daughter’s sake, “she’ll fix yer maither right up, ye hear me? And I ken ‘tis scary, but she’ll be just fine. I promise ye.”

She nodded hesitantly, still looking apprehensive.

Duncan reached out, wrapped his arms around her slight shoulders, and pulled her in for a hug.

It was the first time he embraced her since he had returned from the war, and he felt her freeze in his arms. She became as stiff as a board, her arms locked in place down the length of her body as he held her. After a long, awkward moment, she slowly began to relax, and he felt her small hands pat him on the back.

“She’ll be all right,” Duncan whispered in her ear before he stood back up.

Evander and Arthur were still lingering just behind him, and he turned to face them. He stared at his two friends, weighing his options, before his gaze finally landed on Evander.

“I need ye to take Rosie and get back to the castle,” he instructed. “Tell me men to protect her and then come back here. The moment me wife can travel, take her home as well.”

Evander narrowed his eyes at Duncan, gauging his mood, but Duncan did not have time to explain his plan to his friend in detail.

He glanced down at Rosie. “He’ll protect ye,” he promised, praying that his daughter, young though she might be, would understand what he was about to do. “And then I’m goin’ to protect ye. I will always protect ye and yer maither, I promise.”

Silent tears ran down Rosie’s cheeks, and Duncan could tell that she was terrified, but she stared back at him bravely before giving him a final nod.

He watched as she walked away, her small hand extended toward Evander, who took it without hesitation.

The moment Duncan felt confident that his daughter, at least, was in good hands, he turned back to the villagers.

“Thank ye,” he murmured, “for yer time and everythin’ ye did for us last night. I will make sure that nay harm comes to anyone else.”

He did not wait for their answers. Instead, he turned to Arthur.

“I need ye to come with me.”

For what it was worth, Arthur did not question him. Instead, as Duncan turned back to the inn, Arthur simply fell into step beside him.

Duncan was grateful for it, knowing that whatever was to come next, he would be happy to have his most unshakeable friend at his side. But before he could do anything, he must go see his wife first.

He had to find out if she was dead or alive.