Page 18 of The Highlander’s Hunted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #2)
18
L ying in the darkness, with a solitary strand of silver moonlight piercing through the shutters, showing nothing of the room, Hector might have been anywhere, the bed beneath him unfamiliar, the shadows so thick that they choked him.
“Katie?” he whispered into the darkness.
Soft breathing echoed back, but as his hand reached out, there was no one in the bed beside him. No warm and solid shape to hold close.
“I warned ye,” a voice whispered in the dark. “I told ye that ye’d have nay peace. All that bloodshed. What for?”
He sat bolt upright, squinting into the impermeable gloom, searching for the source of that voice. He couldn’t place it, the sound distorted, as if heard through water. At once feminine then masculine, then child-like, then raspy with old age. As if countless people had come together to speak in one voice, to punish him.
“Who’s there?” he snarled, getting out of bed.
“Nay one at all,” that strange voice replied. “I am ye, ye are me.”
He fumbled through the shadows, his arms outstretched, certain that he’d left his broadsword close by. His hand closed around a hilt, and relief swept through him. But as he raised the blade to strike whoever had dared to creep into the room, the shutters swung wide open.
Glaring light poured through the windows, brighter than any sun, blinding him for a moment. He shielded his eyes, looking in the direction the voice had come from.
“Who’s there?” a softer voice asked, prompting him to spin around.
There was a figure in the bed where there hadn’t been before. Shrouded in linen, eyes open and milky white, face as pale as death—he’d have recognized her anywhere.
“Lucy?” His heart stuttered.
A shapeless black blur shot from the corner of the room, snatching the broadsword from Hector’s hand. He lunged to grab it back, but his hand passed through the air. Yet, the figure walked onward, coming to the side of Lucy’s bed.
In the blink of an eye, it wasn’t Lucy lying there anymore, but the beautiful, curled-up figure of Katie, her strawberry-blonde hair cascading across the pillow, a look of such serenity on her face. She was asleep, oblivious to the danger she was in.
“Katie!” Hector roared, that blur of darkness lifting the broadsword.
The long blade glinted hungrily and came down, the sharp tip piercing Katie’s smooth, perfect skin.
As an agonized bellow left his chest, the room shifted, and he found himself stumbling through the chaos of a battlefield—dead men all around, the wounded crying out for mercy, and only him left standing with that same sword clutched in both hands.
A line of cavalry thundered across the churned-up earth, riding straight for him. His eyes widened at the sight, his grip on the hilt of his weapon loosening. He could fight like the best of them, but he couldn’t take on an entire army by himself.
His stomach lurched as he noticed that dark blur of a person leading the charge, sitting astride a horse larger than any should be, more devilish than Lucifer with red eyes that flashed with real fire. The otherworldly rider had no sword, but a longbow of darkest ebony, the string pure silver.
And though the rider had no face, Hector felt the entity smiling as it nocked an arrow, drew back the string, and let loose.
Hector didn’t see the arrow slice through the air toward him, but he felt the moment it pierced his chest, thudding right through his heart with faultless accuracy.
He heard himself cry out as his legs buckled, death swift and painful. His knees hit the ground, his body toppling forward, and as he lay there unmoving, the last of his life trickling out of him, he suddenly felt something nudge his side. The sound of his name on someone’s lips, calling from afar, sweet and beckoning, summoning him to a happier place.
“M’Laird?” That nudge again, sharper this time. “M’Laird, wake up.”
His eyes opened to the familiar rafters of the roadside inn, his body slick with sweat, his breathing ragged as if he’d run to Inverness and back. Bluish light snuck in through the shutters, letting him know that the night and the storm had passed.
A hand rested on his chest, right where that fatal arrow had pierced it.
“M’Laird?” Katie said softly, propped up on her elbow, gazing down at him with a worried frown. “Are ye well, M’Laird?”
He sat up sharply, and her hand slipped down to his stomach before she withdrew it. The pain had been real enough, though it hadn’t come from any arrow to the chest. It pulsed ferociously in his thigh, the stitched wound throbbing as if the healer had snuck a tiny heart into the raw flesh before he’d closed it up.
“Have ye a fever?” Katie asked, her hand coming up to touch his brow.
Hector swatted it away, shooting her a glare she didn’t deserve. “Dinnae fuss over me, lass.” He saw her flinch at the bite in his tone. “Get up and dress yerself. We’re leavin’.”
Katie drew the blankets up to her collarbone, hiding herself from him, her beautiful eyes glittering with hurt.
A moment later, her expression frosted over, her gaze hardening. “If ye have a fever, M’Laird, ye shouldnae go anywhere. That wound in yer thigh could fester and kill ye. What ye need is a tonic from that healer in the village, to help ye. I can fetch it.”
“I dinnae have a fever,” he growled, getting out of bed, gritting his teeth as a hot poker of pain splintered up his thigh.
“Do ye have nightmares like that often, then? Here I was, assumin’ it was delirium,” she challenged, sly in her curiosity.
He refused to look at her as he walked across the room, digging his fingernails into his palms to defer the pain of every step, determined not to limp.
“If I have to tell ye to get dressed again, ye willnae like it,” he shot back, plucking his plaid off the stool where he’d left it.
The water was still in the bath, cold now, but calling to him regardless. If he could submerge himself for a moment, he was certain it would rid him of the lingering unease of the nightmare, cleansing the sweat from his skin and soothing the ache in his thigh.
Ignoring the temptation, he dressed himself and promptly marched out of the room to seek breakfast, snarling back over his shoulder, “If ye’re nae down there in ten minutes, I’ll drag ye out in whatever state of undress ye’re in. Ye’ll ride to Inverness bare if that’s yer choice.”
The moment the door closed, he hobbled a few steps down the staircase and pressed himself against the wall, struggling to regain control of his breathing. It wasn’t just the pain that held him there, but also a driving stab of remorse.
She didnae deserve any of that.
He knew it keenly, but he couldn’t go back into the room and apologize. If he did, he’d have to explain the true reason for his fractious mood—that he had just watched her die and hadn’t been able to do a thing to protect her. That it had literally killed him to watch, helpless to prevent it.
It concerned him all the more that she had quickly become someone he wanted to protect. After all, he knew how that ended.
Find yerself that husband, lass—someone whose sole purpose is to keep ye safe.
Last night, he hadn’t wanted any other man to have her. Now, he couldn’t suppress the need to search his ranks for the bravest, fiercest, most steadfast warrior, and have the man marry her as swiftly as possible. He would give the man secret orders to protect her with everything he possessed. With his life, if he had to.
What did I do?
Bristling with anger—at herself and Hector—Katie dressed as quickly as her shaky hands allowed. Indeed, it wasn’t just anger that thrummed through her, but also a dreadful undercurrent of hurt and regret.
“Stupid lass,” she muttered, fastening her belt around her waist. “Stupid, stupid lass.”
She should have known from the way Hector had ignored that beautiful maid, Rhona, that he wasn’t someone to be trusted with… intimate acts. In fact, it made her all the more certain that Rhona was, or had been, a lover of his. This was, presumably, just how he treated those he had lavished with the most life-altering pleasures.
What else had she expected? That they would wake up and embrace each other, that he would kiss her lovingly, that he would cast away any residual tiredness with the stroke of his fingertips and the tease of his tongue? She had risked her virtue willingly, and now she wished she hadn’t.
Either this is how he always behaves… or, worse, he regrets it.
She gasped at the awful possibility, hating the little sparks of shame that began to burst and fizzle within her, warming her skin into an agitated flush. A nettle rash of embarrassment that no dock leaf could cool.
Donning her still-damp cloak and wrapping it tight around her, she took a steadying breath and headed out of the room.
Part of her wanted to stay there until he was forced to come and drag her out, so she could confront him, but they still had hours ahead of them. Even if they headed back to Castle MacKimmon right away, she’d have to ride with him, having no horse of her own or anyone else for pleasanter company.
Best nae to provoke his moodiness any more than I already have…
Truthfully, she was more concerned that her pride wouldn’t be able to bear it if he told her what she dreaded to hear: that he wished it had never happened.
At the bottom of the narrow staircase, she paused, sucked in a breath for courage and fortitude, and stepped out into the empty parlor of the inn. Ready to spend the rest of the day in stony silence with the mannerless man, secretly hoping that his wretched thigh hurt as much as he’d hurt her.