CHAPTER TWENTY
Donella MacKenzie, Davy’s widowed mother, and still the lady of Kinfell until her son married, knew precisely what outlaws like Rabbie Bain and his cousin Duncan were capable of. When five MacLeod warriors had arrived at the door in the night, wounded and bloody and looking for the lass they’d been escorting, she’d feared the worst.
And when the battered MacLeods heard the tales of the thieves and murderers who’d been declared outlaws by both the Bains and the MacKenzies, Donella had been hard-pressed to keep the injured men from leaving again to search for their mistress. Davy had agreed to ride out with the one MacLeod still standing to search for any sign of the lass.
Now, with her eyes shaded against the morning sun, Donella stood on the wall of the keep and watched for the return of the search party. She expected the worst—dead and wounded men, beaten prisoners, and a raped and broken lass—if she was still alive at all.
It was a surprise to see that very lass—for it must be she—riding with her kinsman. She was wrapped in a MacLeod plaid with her copper hair flying behind her like a red flag on the morning breeze. She wore a remarkable gown that glowed pink and gold in the sun. Donella noted a blond stranger who wore no plaid at all riding behind the lass as she scanned the men, counted them. She gave thanks that her son and his MacKenzies were all accounted for and unhurt.
She turned to the maidservant who stood beside her. “The lass will need some privacy. Get a chamber ready, Florrie. Prepare a bath, get the hartshorn, and warm up some whisky.”
“No doubt she’ll have a terrible tale to tell,” Florrie said, staring down at the new arrivals for an instant more before turning to do her lady’s bidding.
Donella watched as Davy jostled with the other men to help the MacLeod lass off the back of the garron once they were safe inside the gates. She was a pretty thing, and her gown was a wonder Donella hadn’t seen the like of before. It made her look like a magical creature instead of a woman who’d faced robbers and possibly worse. She could see the marks on her face now, and she wondered if there were injuries the men couldn’t see. Donella hurried down to take charge, in no doubt at all that the lass would need a woman’s care, perhaps healing, and most certainly an understanding shoulder to cry on.
* * *
“Poor wee lamb,” Florrie crooned as she washed Gillian’s back. “It’s fortunate that ye weren’t hurt, or, or—” the middle-aged servant burst into tears that shook her girth.
The girl smiled at Donella. “Thank you for tending to my kinsmen’s injuries.”
“Ye—and they—are most welcome.” Gillian MacLeod was well mannered and as fair as a summer day, but then she’d expect nothing less from the daughter of a great man like Donal MacLeod. “I won’t be easy about the lad with the broken rib for a few days more,” she said. “And the man with the broken arm will need some weeks to heal. I wouldn’t suggest any of them ride now. Will ye be staying here with them?”
“Och, nay—her lads said she’s to be married in Edinburgh in scarcely a week. That’s where she was going when the Bains delayed her,” Florrie said. Florrie had a sharp nose for gossip and tittle-tattle.
“Oh.” Donella felt a rush of irritated disappointment. Gillian MacLeod might have made a perfect bride for Davy.
Florrie beamed. “How ye must love your betrothed if ye were willin’ to vanquish seven wicked men who’d have kept ye from him.”
“Seven?” Donella said. “My . . .” She watched the lass blush, color suffusing over her neck and her face like a sunrise. She began to speak, but Florrie interrupted again.
“Aye, mistress—and that was just the ones they found alive . . .” Florrie said, her eyes wide. “I heard that there were four men dead already when our lads got to the outlaw’s terrible lair. The surviving Bains were blubbering in terror, saying a fearsome lass had killed half their number, and they’d let her go for fear of their own lives.”
Gillian MacLeod was staring at the maidservant in stunned horror, Donella held up her hand. “I’m sure Mistress MacLeod would rather not talk about it, Florrie. Brave or not, it must have been a harrowing experience.” She gathered the linen drying sheet that was warming by the fire and brought it to the girl. “Once you’re dry and warm, ye can sleep for as long as ye like.”
“Och, that Callum MacLeod insists that she can bide here for only a single night before she travels on, or she’ll be late for her wedding,” Florrie said. She pointed to the door, which was shut and latched. “He’s on guard now, right outside,” she whispered, as if Callum might hear her through five inches of solid oak.
Donella watched as Gillian rose and wrapped herself in the sheet. “I was hoping to see my kinsmen. And my—” She blushed again.
“If ye wish. I daresay they’ll be very glad to see for themselves that you’re unharmed. It was hard to keep them abed when they heard ye’d arrived.” She watched as Florrie helped the lass dress in one of Donella’s own gowns. Though it was only fine wool, and not silk, it suited her slender figure well, and Donella sighed again.
She would have been a perfect wife for Davy.
* * *
The borrowed gown was the color of ripe wheat, with a green underskirt and a wide embroidered hem.
Her first thoughts as she dressed were for John, not her wounded kinsmen.
She’d washed the scent of John’s body from hers, reveled in the slight soreness she felt and the reason for it. Her cheeks burned when she remembered his kisses, his body on hers, the way his touch had set her on fire.
“Glad to be of service,” he’d said, his tone as light and sharp as a rapier, trying to push her away, to hide behind his rogue’s mask again. For an instant she’d wondered which was the real John, but she knew. Sheknew. She put a hand over her heart. She’d learned long ago how to read the truth in a person’s eyes, to see if advice was kindly meant or spoken out of frustration or disdain. John couldn’t hide his feelings from her, though he’d tried, was good at it. Almost too good . . . but he’d watched the men around her, and even if he stood apart, he’d been possessive, protective, gave orders the others obeyed. Then he’d stepped back, let Callum take her, while John became the outsider, the Sassenach, once again. When they reached Kinfell, she’d wanted him by her side, but the Mackenzies had crowded around her, borne her away . . .
She glanced at Donella and Florrie, and wondered if they could tell that she—and he—Nay. They were simply kind and solicitous. Lady Donella had asked a number of delicate questions about what might have happened to her among the outlaws and hardly seemed to believe Gillian had come to no harm save for a bruised cheek and a few scratches.
Callum grinned at her as Florrie opened the door. So did the three MacKenzie clansmen on guard duty beside him, all of them regarding her with undisguised admiration. Gillian glanced at Callum. “The MacKenzie insisted—these lads are to be your tail while you’re here.” He winked at her. “If he hadn’t assigned them, I think they’d have volunteered.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, blushing under their enthusiastic smiles. Donella led her to the sick room, and the men marched in step behind her.
