“Laird?”
“Yes, the bigger of the two men. He’s laird—lord—to Clan Karrik.”
She wasn’t certain how she felt about that. She’d been avoiding him on purpose ever since she’d awoken in his lap. His hand had been holding her steady, just under her right breast. Immediately she had been aroused. This was hardly the time, the place, or the man for that.
“What’s wrong with your Gaelic?” Octavia asked.
“I can tell I don’t pronounce things just right. And some words I have no equivalent for.”
Damn it.
“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I guess it can’t hurt to try.”
Her words would prove to be some of the most inaccurate she’d ever spoken.
A few minutes later, as the five of them sat around the fire eating venison, crusty black bread, and cheese, Octavia waited for the laird to speak. Conspicuously palming the translation device, she raised the hand it was secreted away in to her forehead, feigning a headache. The feigning part didn’t last long. The laird had barely gotten out a full sentence when the pain of pains lanced through her skull. She cried out and, for the first time in her life, fainted dead away.
The last thing she saw before her eyes rolled back in her head was the giant standing over her, reaching out as if to pick her up. And then, perhaps mercifully, she was swept away into dark oblivion.
Chapter Five
Angus had had enough of the three Outlanders speaking in their foreign tongue. He’d exercised more patience in waiting to question Doctor than he’d managed to summon in all of his days. Enough was enough. “Doctor,” he said gruffly, “who are all of you and from where do you come? I—”
He was about to blister his ears with chastisements concerning the proper respect due him when the wench cried out. His dark eyes widened as she began falling toward the ground. ‘Twas only the laird’s quick reflexes that saved the wee lass from hitting her head and mayhap rolling into the fire.
“What is wrong with her?” Angus bit out. All these mysteries were giving his head the ache. He held her in his arms nigh unto reverently despite that sad fact. “Who is she and what in the saints has happened?”
“Mayhap she’s dead,” Colban offered.
Angus frowned. “I can see her breathing, dunce.” Oft times, his lifelong friend erred on the side of dire predictions. “Canna you see her chest rising and falling?”
“Oh. Aye.”
He rolled his eyes, said a silent prayer for patience, and looked to Doctor. “Well?”
“Her name is Lady Octavia Benatti,” Doctor said quickly. “She heralds from Rome.”
“She is not dressed as a lady. I dinna ken what she is dressed as. The thrice of you wear the same tunics and breeches. Why?”
“We were, uh, set upon by marauders and thieves. Lady Octavia insisted we wear these outfits so as not to be robbed of what little we had left.”
“You were travelling with them? You said in the dungeon you’d never seen them afore.”
“Did I?”
“Aye.”
“I’m an old man,” Doctor said a bit too feebly. “The vision. It, uh, comes and goes.”
“How many years have you seen?”
“Fifty-three.”
“Aye, ‘tis old, that.” Leastways, he would still have superior eyesight to the Karriks’ current healer, Old Maude. The last time a Karrik clanswoman had gone into labor, the seventy-year-old had tried to deliver the bairn a’tween the husband’s legs instead of the wife’s.
Angus held the wee lady tighter, studying her fine features. Doctor’s loyalties obviously lied with his lady, but he had to be speaking at least some of the truth about her. For starters, Lady Octavia was no serf. She was far too healthy for that. “Why did she leave Rome?”
“Why did she leave Rome?” Doctor half-heartedly repeated. “Yes, why did she leave…” He cleared his throat. “Her castle was under siege from a knight who thought to force marriage on her.” The more Doctor spoke, the more he seemed to warm to the topic. He nigh unto never shut up. “She had rebuffed his advances, you see, and so the knight sought to take her by force.”
