Page 20 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

19

C alliope moved fast, fingers nimbly nocking her arrow, raising the bow, sighting her target, and letting her arrow fly. Time stood still as she watched the pheasant feathers on the end of her arrow flutter in the wind. At the same time, an English soldier's sword arced in the air toward Alistair's back.

His eyes widened as he met her gaze and saw her arrow. She could also see from the accusation in his gaze that he believed the intended target of her arrow was meant for him. Calliope shook her head, wanting him to know that wasn't the case. She wouldn't kill the man who'd saved her—the man she'd come to feel something deeper for… But the look of fury on his face was more than she could bear.

"Nay, Alistair," she whispered.

Less than a second later, her arrow hit the attacking soldier in the forehead, but not soon enough. The Englishman's blade cut into Alistair's shoulder even as he fell to his knees, dead.

Alistair's sharp gaze flew to his shoulder. No doubt, expecting to see her arrow sunk into his flesh, but then he looked back at her, surprise on his face as he slumped to his knees. No arrow there. For she would never have betrayed him.

And yet, she hadn't been fast enough. On his knees, Alistair's hand went to the blade and pushed, trying to remove it, but then he slumped all the way forward, an English sword sticking straight from his shoulder toward the darkened heavens.

"No!" she screamed out into the field.

The battle had mostly been over. His men having taken down the last of the enemy, her having shot the one going after him. They'd almost made it.

"Please," she whimpered to God, the fairies, whoever was willing to listen. "Don't take him."

Duncan and Broderick ran, bellowing, toward Alistair, and that was the last thing she saw of the outside as she whirled from the window and charged toward the door she'd barred from intruders. With the bow and quiver strapped to her back, she ripped the dagger from her boot, prepared to stab her way outside if anyone should get in her way. With the fury running through her blood, there wasn't anyone who would be able to keep her back from getting to him.

Calliope's heart was pounding, her breaths hard. She opened her mouth to scream at whoever might be on the other side of the door, but the corridor was eerily still and quiet. Dark.

Not a shadow moved as if the entire castle had been emptied, and only she remained. But she knew that couldn't be true. These men had not come all the way, besieged the castle, killed her father, and fought with the Sinclairs if they intended to simply abandon the holding when trouble showed its face.

Calliope didn't wait to see if she was alone or if any shadows decided to move. She took the stairs as fast as she could, lifting her skirts out of the way of her flying feet as she descended. Her heel caught the end of a stair just the wrong way, and she started to fall. She slapped her hand against the stone wall, trying to catch herself, dropping the dagger in the process. With a twist, she managed to land on her knee, afraid she would snap her bow in half. A cry of pain rose in her throat as the edge of the stone stair slammed into her kneecap.

My God, that hurt like the devil. But there was no time to waste on pain or falling down the stairs. Thankfully, her bow and quiver remained on her back. She felt along the stairs for her dagger, located it, and continued until she reached the bottom.

The great hall was also empty, furniture displaced as if the battle had first started here. And she knew it had. This was where her father had died, and in the ensuing day or two, the men had not cleaned up.

She drew in a deep breath, trying to rationalize how the last of the English soldiers had somehow vaporized the rest into thin air. But there was no time to contend with that. She shook herself and rushed toward the exit.

The front doors to the keep were heavy, but the pounding of her blood, the need to get outside, gave her an added strength. She tugged as hard as she could, ripping open the door, a whirl of night air rustling the hem of her skirt and flapping her hair into her face.

She shoved it aside so she could see. Knowing that she'd been too lucky on the inside. There would be men here she had to fight through, of that she was certain.

Three English soldiers stood at the portcullis, swords in hand, demanding the Scots who marched across the bridge to halt. Their backs were to her, and no one seemed to have yet noticed her presence.

Beyond the men who'd tried to take what belonged to her, Calliope caught sight of Duncan and Broderick carrying their laird's bleeding body over the drawbridge. Though Alistair was easily the largest man she'd ever seen, they did not appear to be struggling at all to carry him as they rushed forward.

Despite their hurried advance, the intensity of their glowers and barks to move, the Englishmen stood their ground.

That would not bloody well do.

Calliope dropped her dagger and notched three arrows into her bow, trained on the Englishmen, lifted her weapon, and bellowed, "Lower your bloody swords before I end your lives."

The three Englishmen turned, clearly surprised to see her standing there. She trained her eyes on them, willing Duncan and Broderick to make haste, not pause. She would kill these bastards the moment they tried to intervene.

Two looked at her fearfully, as if just now realizing they'd been infiltrated from the inside and that she had been the one to fell at least a dozen of their men. The one in the middle, however, sneered and even laughed at the sight of her.

He would be the first to die.

"Do you actually think to let those fly, little imp? You actually think you might hit something?" He laughed even louder, and Calliope gritted her teeth.

Patience, she told herself. Doing anything hasty might mean missing her mark, and this was not the time to miss.

"Take a look at the arrows in the field," she coldly advised. "And then ask yourself the same question. I do not miss."

Footsteps on the bridge continued. Duncan and Broderick had decided they cared nothing for the men standing in their way. And she couldn't be happier that they cared nothing for the English threat. They would bring their chief into the castle to treat his wound, whether the English soldiers liked it. Still, she kept her eyes on her targets.

"I'm losing my patience," Calliope warned. And given that I'm a woman, my fingers are getting weak. Perhaps you'd like to test my skills?" Her sarcasm was lost on the men standing before her. The man in the middle simply scoffed, disbelieving that he might be bested by a female.

However, the soldier on the left appeared to have half a brain. He put down his sword, shook his head, stepped out of target range, and knelt. "I do not wish to die today, my lady."

The one in the middle said something to himself under his breath that sounded a lot like "Traitor."

She supposed there was always one who would be stubborn to the end. Not that she had any experience with men on the battlefield, but she recalled the men on the fields of the tournament, and there always seemed to be the one who refused to surrender, the one who came away with the most injuries and was defeated anyway.

Calliope was exhausted. And her fingers really were getting weak now. She'd been training her whole life, but never once had she had to put her skills to use. And today, she'd killed thirteen men, twelve with her arrows and one she pushed off the wall. Thirteen. By God, she would need quite the penance to gain forgiveness for this.

Though it wasn't murder exactly, for how could it be in battle, ending a man's life was still something she needed to pray about and ask forgiveness for. Sins she needed to repent for having caused. This, however, this was saving lives. Defending lives. Saving herself.

"I'm going to count to three," she said, "and then you might as well meet your maker. One. Two?—"

"Wait." The man on the right also dropped his sword and dropped to his knees beside the other man who'd surrendered, leaving only the one in the center standing defiant.

Her fingers might be tired, but she couldn't let two arrows fly haphazardly. With a subtle shift, all three arrows were now trained on the man in the center. His eyes widened, perhaps realizing now that she wasn't just a woman with a bow and arrows. But a skilled and trained archer.

"Thr—" She'd just barely got half the word out when he dropped his sword and raised his hands into the air. "On your knees," she ordered.

The man grimaced but did as he was told. Thank goodness. Calliope was tired of the killing and felt drained. More than anything, she wanted to tend to Alistair. Calliope blew out a breath and lowered her arrows.

"Good choice, sir," Calliope said.

Duncan and Broderick bypassed the soldiers rushing toward her, the stairs to the keep. Several Sinclairs came in behind them, snatching the three men who'd surrendered. They'd be questioned, no doubt. Held as bargaining chips in the dungeon. But that wasn't her concern now, anyway. Right now, she needed to?—

"Help us, lass," Duncan said, eyes pleading.

Calliope didn't hesitate, she nodded, rushing to open the doors to the keep and beckoning them to follow her into the great hall. She shoved the bowls and mugs off the trestle table, remnants of an English feast. Shoved the knocked over chairs out of the way. Duncan and Broderick carefully laid their laird out on the table.

Alistair's face had gone deathly white. Even his lips were drained of color. The white of his linen shirt was soaked red with blood. He didn't move. Even the rising and falling of his chest was weak. But still, it was moving. He was breathing. Not dead yet. And from that knowledge, she could take hope, even as her heart clenched painfully behind her ribs.

"I'll need linens and boiling water. Whisky. A sewing kit, my herbs."

She instructed them on where to find everything, and when they'd rushed off, she looked down into Alistair's face and said to his closed eyes, "Do not die on me, Chief Sinclair, I won't allow it."

She tugged a dagger from the brace on his arm and started to cut away his shirt, revealing the muscled, bronzed skin of his abdomen and his chest. She peeled away the fabric slowly, gently, not wanting to hurt him more than he already was, until she reached his shoulder. Calliope blanched at the gaping wound in his shoulder, which appeared to be right on top of another injury?

My goodness, but the man had been fighting with his shoulder already stitched up. Was he mad? And how many times had he pulled her onto his lap? Saints, but it had to have pained him each and every time, yet he never winced, moaned, or complained. Alistair's stoicism was almost inhuman.

"Even strong men fall sometimes," she whispered against his ear. "But you will stand up again. 'Tis just a minor wound on your shoulder."

Only it wasn't minor. It was massive. Part of her worried he would lose the arm. The cut was deep, and linens from a previous wound were pressed deep into the tissue. It was going to take her an age to remove them and clean the wound without doing more damage.

With all the supplies assembled, she worked to remove the old wrappings and the old thread from stitches that didn't look to have been there very long. Freshly healed tissue was severed all over again.

Alistair moaned on the table, thrashing, pushing.

"I need you to hold him down," Calliope instructed.

Duncan and Broderick were quick to do her bidding. One at his head, holding down his arms, and the other near his feet. She poured whisky on the wound to clean it, and as he roared his pain, Duncan poured whisky down Alistair's throat to settle him.

"You're no good to anyone like this," she murmured to Alistair. "Be the leader they need. Lay still so I can get you off this table in no time."

Her voice seemed to calm him, and he listened. Either that, or he lost consciousness due to the pain. The latter was probably more likely the answer and a blessing, but she liked to believe she had something to do with his sudden ease.

It took several hours for her to work on the wound, cleaning, sewing, and wrapping. Making sure that it would heal properly and that he didn't bleed out on the table. That he wouldn't have an infection. The man was damned lucky not to have the arm wholly severed off.

"Thank ye, my lady," Duncan said.

"Aye, my lady, we owe ye our allegiance." Broderick nodded.

"I believe there was already an alliance between the Ramseys and the Sinclairs before," Calliope said.

"Aye," the men said in unison.

"Then I shall let it stand."

They narrowed their eyes on her. "Ye shall?" Duncan asked.

Calliope let out a heavy sigh. "Aye. I am Chieftain of the Ramsey clan."

Both men looked taken aback, Broderick even stumbled a step. "What?"

"My father was murdered by one of the men you fought today. Or at least I think it could have been one of them. He was English, there's no doubt about that."

"And then ye came to find us."

"Aye."

Broderick bowed his head and then elbowed Duncan to do the same.

"I suppose we should have known that," Duncan said.

"Lady Ramsey, we are in your debt." Broderick pressed his hand to his heart.

"Nay, it is you and Laird Sinclair," she glanced at Alistair, "your men outside. Your allies. I am grateful to all of you. The castle is once again in the right hands." Though it should have been her father standing here. An ache in her chest threatened to take hold, but she brushed it aside, willing herself to remain strong in front of them.

"Scottish hands," Duncan said with a nod. "Though… ye're pretty English sounding."

Calliope smiled through the tiredness of her eyes. "Aye, I am. But I am my father's daughter."

"And she killed like him, too," Alistair mumbled from the table.

The three of them turned to look at Sinclair to see if he would speak again, but he'd lapsed back into sleep.

"Ye should know, lass," Broderick said, "That our laird doesna let any healers work on him."

Duncan shook his head. "'Tis true. But I think he would have allowed ye to do so."

"Why not?" she asked.

"No' our story to tell, my lady."

Calliope stared at Alistair, wondering what the story was. Why he wouldn't allow a healer to work on him. It also explained the crude stitches she'd removed. They looked to have been done in the field of battle between sword swings rather than by someone skilled with a needle. When he was better, she was going to ask him to explain.

"Now that he's taken care of," Calliope said, "I suppose we should see if there are any more injuries from your men I can tend to."

Despite her exhaustion, she tended to more of the Sinclairs while the able-bodied buried the English soldiers they'd vanquished and worked to reinforce the castle. A messenger was sent to find the Ramsey people who'd fled so Calliope could address them.

While she waited, she rested her head in her hands on the table beside Alistair, and then she fell asleep. When she opened her eyes sometime later, it was to the sound of her name being whispered on Alistair's lips.

The great hall was dimly lit, nighttime having fallen. Before the hearth, his two dozen men were all laid out, wrapped in their plaids. They made no sound as they slept, which she found interesting given that on her journey here, Sir Edgar had snored as if he hoped to wake the dead. In fact, it had been so bad that his men kept nudging him, afraid the noise would attract outlaws who might attack.

Then again, Edgar was no warrior, and she supposed if a warrior snored, he'd alert the enemy to their presence. Was it a skill they mastered early in life, or just luck of the draw?

"Calliope…" Alistair murmured, his head turning from side to side as if trying to find her.

"I'm here," she whispered, bringing a cool compress to his forehead to wipe away a few drops of sweat. His skin was hot, a fever maybe, as his body tried to heal itself. Though he might have a slight fever, his skin did not burn yet in a way that worried her. Still, she poured a bit of a tincture she'd made to stave off fever into his mouth.

After he swallowed, he blinked open his eyes, staring at her. "Ye shot me." His voice was a harsh croak.

Calliope was shocked. Did he not remember that it was a sword that had felled him? "I did not shoot you. I shot the man behind you."

Alistair paused, blinking slowly, then nodded. "He was… His sword."

"Aye. Shh… You need to heal. You'll be well in the morning. Sleep." She tried to soothe him, knowing that whatever was running through his fevered brain wouldn't last.

Alistair shook his head, eyes locking on hers, red even in the dim light.

"They'll come back. I must protect ye." Alistair reached for her, fingers curling around her forearm. Despite his injury, despite his fever, he managed to yank hard enough to pull her down so her breasts crushed to his chest, her face an inch away from his. Lips merely a breath away.

She allowed herself to lay there if only for a moment, to savor the closeness of his body against hers. To allow herself a moment to dream. They were so much alike. And it was Fate that had brought them back together. This man she'd given her favor to. This man who seemed to know her and didn't judge her. This man who seemed entertained by her stubbornness rather than irritated. Calliope could see behind his bluster.

"They can't come back. They are dead. And the survivors in our dungeon." Calliope tried to push away from him, but he held onto her tight. "Now, unhand me."

"I dinna want to let go," he whispered. Despite the fever in his eyes, she was captivated by the intensity of his stare. He was truly a beautiful man.

Alistair slid his hand up her arm, sending goose flesh to rise. She was grateful for the fabric of her sleeve so he wouldn't know how his touch had affected her. Part of her knew she should back away, somehow manage to pull out of his hold, but another part of her didn't want to. That part of her wanted to stay here all day. To see what it would be like if his lips pressed against hers.

"I want to kiss ye." The words were low, barely a whisper dancing over the flesh of her lips, as if he'd read her mind.

As if she'd said her wish aloud.

Calliope didn't move. Kissing Alistair would go against her self-imposed morals as a healer. Healers didn't kiss their patients. But when were patients so handsome? When were they so enticing? When were they the man who had the power to change her future?

Never in her experience. And so, she did nothing. She lay very still over him, her feet practically on tiptoe, hips pressed to the edge of the table. And she waited.

Alistair didn't leave her waiting long. He slid his fingers over the back of her neck, brushing her hair aside in feather-light tickles. Then he nudged gently, closing the distance between them as he pulled her head toward him. Calliope's heart skipped a beat as his lips tenderly brushed hers.

She'd never been kissed before. Never even wanted to until she'd met Alistair. Now, here she was doing the one thing she shouldn't. Kissing a man in a fevered state who likely wouldn't remember. Then again, wasn't that a plus? He wouldn't remember this come morning, so why not enjoy the decadent sensations whirling inside her.

Alistair's lips were firm yet somehow soft at the same time. She leaned into the kiss, her heart beating fast against his chest. Could he feel it? Were the same sparks of pleasure that coursed through her from her lips to her belly doing the same to him? Could a man in a fevered state feel?

"Och, lass, your lips," he groaned against her. "Ye taste like heaven. Ye feel like sin."

Calliope typically might have thought saying such a thing was wicked, that any man of the cloth might punish Alistair for saying such, except she wanted to hear him say it again. Wanted him to tell her more wicked things. My goodness… was a kiss supposed to undo her like this? Supposed to make her rethink everything she knew about the world? About herself?

But just as she was thinking it, Alistair gripped the sides of her face, ending the kiss as he looked deep into her eyes. The fever that had swirled there before seemed to have diminished. Somehow, with her heated body and misty eyes, she felt as if the fever had transferred to her.

"Lady Ramsey, ye take advantage," Alistair said with a wicked grin, then his eyes rolled back, and he promptly passed into unconsciousness once more.