Everything In Its Time Page 8

  "Can he ride?"

  Ranald looked up from his ministrations. "Aye, with one of us."

  "Then we'll ride back as far as the wee burn. We can tend to his wound properly there and stay the night. On the morn we'll head back to Duncreag. Sorcha has a bit of the healing touch. She'll see to the lad."

  Ranald nodded as he tied a strip of linen around William's leg.

  The boy moaned and opened his eyes. " 'Tis my fault they saw us too soon." His voice was weak, but Iain heard it and saw the pain and remorse in his eyes. He reached over and covered William's hand with his own.

  "Nay, 'twas the bird that alarmed them. You've no cause to blame yourself. Besides, it looks as though we bested them." The boy gave Iain a weak smile and slid into unconsciousness.

  Ranald raised an eyebrow. Iain grimaced. " 'Twas but a small untruth, and one that may well help the lad in his healing."

  "How many down?"

  "Four—five if you count our own Andrew." Pain seared through him.

  "So that leaves two. Do you think they rode away then?"

  Roger joined the group. "Nay, they didn't ride. Their horses are all still here. So they're on foot, I'd say, or riding a cow."

  The men smiled with grim humor at the picture that made.

  Ranald stood. "Have you a thought as to who the reivers were?"

  Iain frowned. "Aye, by the looks of their plaids I'd say Macphersons. But I've no idea why they'd be wanting Mackintosh cattle. They've plenty o' their own. 'Tis odd."

  Ranald's eyes skimmed the gorge, taking in the full extent of the carnage. "Well, whoever they are, there are considerably less of them now, I'd say."

  "Aye." Iain watched Ranald absently run his hand over the tom and bloodied sleeve of his shirt. "Have you hurt your arm?"

  " 'Tis no more than a scratch. I've suffered far worse and lived to tell the tale."

  Iain smiled wearily at his cousin. "Aye, that you have."

  Iain mounted Sian and the other men lifted the boy into his outstretched arms. He settled the boy's weight against his chest and locked his arms around him. Ranald swung into the saddle, gathered the reins of the extra horses, and began the somber procession from the gorge. Roger followed, leading Andrew's horse, the red-and-black-wrapped mound over its midsection testimony to a battle fought and won, but not without cost.

  Chapter 6

  IAIN SAT ON a fallen tree branch, elbow on knee, chin in hand. He watched as Ranald checked William for fever. His wound, now washed and freshly bandaged, still seeped blood, but most of the flow had been successfully staunched. Iain clenched his fist reflexively, awaiting the verdict.

  Ranald covered the boy with a blanket and adjusted the folded plaid under his head. He sat back on his heels, releasing a sigh of exhaustion. His steady gaze found Iain's. "He's warmer than I would like, but 'tis no' yet the fire of fever, I'll wager. I canna say it willna come. But at least for now he rests."

  Iain nodded and stood, surveying the clearing. It was small, not much more than a grassy knoll set among a stand of young trees. The mountains surrounding it rose like ethereal gardians out of the fading light. Somewhere behind rocks and trees, a small bum bubbled merrily, its song joining the rustle of leaves in the wind. Small trails of the ever-present Highland mist curled in and out of the trees, creeping forward into the clearing, waiting, perhaps, for the last vestiges of sunlight to slip away.

  William moaned, twisting and turning restlessly. Iain knelt beside him and pressed a gentle hand to the boy's flushed face. He quieted almost at once. Iain rose again and began to pace back and forth across the small encampment. Roger sat a bit apart on a large rock, watching the edges of the clearing, searching for signs of intruders.

  "It wasn't your fault." Ranald's words were quiet, meant only for Iain.

  "Ach, I know. 'Tis only that I'm the Laird. Damn it, man, I should never have let William come. He's naught but a lad, and Andrew no' much more so." Iain ran his fingers through his hair in frustration.

  "You were no' to know we'd stumble upon reivers. And you remember as well as I do what we were doing at Andrew's age."

  Iain thought for a moment, a flash of humor making him smile. "Fighting Camerons."

  "Aye, and relishing each and every battle. Would you deny them the chance then to become men?"

  "If it meant Andrew would be alive and William whole? I might."

  "Iain, you said it yourself. You're only the Laird, no' God Almighty."

  "Aye, no' God and right now no' much of a Laird, either." Iain tipped back his head and looked at the pink and orange staining the evening sky. "I think I'll go for a wash in the burn." He rose. "Tell Roger I'll be taking the watch when I return."

  Ranald raised a hand in acknowledgment and Iain strode off toward the sound of the bubbling stream, leaving his cousin sitting by himself on the knoll.

  *****

  Iain sat on a large rock and listened to the noises of the Highlands. He trailed a hand in the water absently. The little stream was cold and clear. He breathed deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs and wash through his soul. Somewhere in the distance a grouse's call rang out, "Go back, go back."

  Iain sighed. Go back where? He'd never really belonged anywhere. His growing years had been spent at Corybrough. The big castle had been home to the Macqueens. But even though his mother's blood gave him the right to the name, he had never felt that he truly belonged there. All he had been able to think of was returning to Duncreag. But his homecoming had been empty. Angus had been consumed with grief, unable to see the need in his own son. Iain had tried to stay. For four years he had fought to win his father's attention. But in the end, when his uncle Duncan had summoned him to Moy into service for Clan Chattan, he had jumped at the opportunity.

  The next six years had brimmed with danger and excitement, the stuff of a young man's dreams. He and Ranald had enjoyed the battles and skirmishes, fighting rival clans like the Camerons, as only the young and fearless can. They had lived in the minute, enjoying everything life had to offer. But always, somewhere deep inside, he had felt empty. Yearning for something, someone to fill the void.

  Now he was Laird of Duncreag. And what had he accomplished as Laird? Iain blew out his breath in disgust. He hadn't found suitable answers to the nagging questions about his father's death. He'd managed to get a man killed and another wounded. And he was wracked with longing for a woman who more than likely existed only in his head.

  He leaned back on the rock, supporting himself on his elbows and closing his eyes. Unbidden, his mind circled around the memory of golden curls and warm gray eyes, of sweet breath stealing his soul with the kiss of an angel. For one brief moment in time, the emptiness had dissolved, filled with soft touches and shivers of delight. He had felt free.

  He grimaced, shaking his head at his fancifulness. Free, indeed. He stood quickly, annoyed at his emotions, and crouched beside the swiftly flowing water. He dipped a hand into the cool depths and bent to drink his fill. And then, as if to wash away his thoughts, he plunged his head into the stream, letting the water rush around him.

  With a great spray of water, he threw back his head, droplets flying from his hair. Suddenly he jerked forward, nerves tingling with awareness. He froze, listening. The voices of the evening were still. He waited. The silence deepened. He scanned the area for the source of the change. His gaze went to the clearing on the opposite bank. It was empty.

  Or was it? There was a shimmer of movement on the bank across the water. As he watched, the shimmer darkened and solidified until a figure emerged. It was a woman. Iain crossed himself. She was dressed in a night shift of brilliant green and her unbound hair fell in golden waves around her shoulders.

  Their eyes met and his breath caught in his throat, recognition dawning. Her eyes were wide with emotion. Her lips moved frantically in some silent message even as she raised a hand and pointed repeatedly at something behind him, fear washing over her features. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He reacted ins
tinctively, reaching for his dirk and whirling around, throwing the little knife even before he had completed the turn. Still moving, he rolled to the ground and pulled up quickly to meet the unseen challenger.

  The clearing was quiet once more.

  Iain slowly raised from his crouch. A spot of color marked the place where the assailant had fallen. Cautiously Iain approached, circling around the body. The man was lying on his side and Iain could see his dirk sticking out of the man's plaid, a stain of brownish crimson spreading across the wool. There was no movement. Gingerly, using a foot, Iain turned the man onto his back. He recognized one of the reivers, the leader. With grim satisfaction, he marked five accounted for.

  As his blood-lust faded, he remembered the burn. He turned sharply, almost stumbling in his haste to reach the burnside. His gaze raked the opposite shore. The small patch of meadow was empty. Iain stared at the gently waving grass, his heart pounding. Where was she? She'd been right there, warning him. He could still see the fear in her eyes. Fear for him, mixed with another emotion, one that made his body grow warm.

  Almost in a panic, he waded across the stream, hurrying up the opposite bank to the place where she had stood. He knelt in the grass, pushing it aside, looking for some sign of her physical presence. He stayed there, motionless, hands pressed to his thighs as he accepted the fact that there was nothing, no one, there. She was gone.

  "Iain. What's wrong with you, man? You look as if you've seen a ghost." Ranald called from the other side of the burn. He stood ready for battle, his sword drawn.

  Slowly Iain rose, turning from his futile search. He shook himself from his lethargy and once again crossed the burn.

  Ranald sheathed his sword. "Are you all right, then? I was coming to find you when I saw you kneeling in the grass there. Have you taken to prayer?"

  "Nay." Iain raised a weary arm and gestured toward the dead man.

  Ranald walked to the body, circling it as cautiously as Iain had.

  "He's dead." Iain came up beside his cousin and looked down at the body dispassionately. " 'Tis one of the reivers. The leader, I think. He was trying to sneak up from behind when I was washing in the burn."

  Ranald looked at Iain curiously. "So, tell me, how did you know he was there? Have you eyes in the back of your head, now?"

  Iain stared at his boot tips, silent for a time, then looked up at his cousin. "Nay. She was here, over there on the bank. She warned me. Ranald, I swear by all that is holy, she warned me."

  Ranald gaped at Iain, his astonishment plain to see. "She. You mean your fairy maid? She was there on the grass?" He looked across the burn to the empty bank.

  "Aye. I'll no' expect you to believe me. But she was there and had she no' been, I'd be dead. I owe her my life."

  Ranald gave Iain a look of tolerant disbelief. "Ah, well, if it's so, I only wish I had a fairy like that in love with me. But where did she go?"

  Iain grimaced. "I dinna know. When I turned back from the reiver's body she was gone. I canna explain it. But I did see her. I know I did."

  Ranald bent to the body, busying himself with freeing Iain's dirk. He wiped the blade on the dead man's shirt, then straightened and offered the knife to Iain with a flourish. "Your knife, my Laird."

  Iain winced at the title, but quietly took the dirk and replaced it in its sheath.

  All signs of teasing disappeared from Ranald's face. He reached over, placing a hand on Iain's shoulder. "Cousin, if you say you saw her, then I believe you." The two men stood in silence for a moment before Ranald turned to the body. "Do you know this man, then?"

  "Nay, save that he was there in the gorge. His colors are Macpherson."

  "The same as the others?"

  "Aye." Iain crouched down beside the man and deftly searched the body. Finding nothing save an empty sporran, he almost stood again but halted midway at the sound of Ranald's voice.

  "What's that?" Ranald asked. "There, by your foot."

  Iain looked down and saw something protruding from beneath the reiver. He moved the body and picked up the small object. He rose, holding it carefully balanced on the palm of his hand. The little dagger seemed to glow in the fading light.

  Ranald studied the dirk. "I've seen this before." He frowned, deep in thought. "I just canna say when."

  Iain stared at the knife, turning it slowly in his hand. " 'Tis my father's dirk."

  "Well, I guess that explains why I thought I recognized it. You and Fergus certainly painted a clear enough picture of it the other night." Ranald nodded at the body. "How do you suppose he came by it?"

  Iain narrowed his eyes. "I've no notion, but 'tis a question I'd well like an answer to. I'd venture to guess my father didna give it to him."

  Ranald bent to examine the dirk. "Is it possible, then, that the Macphersons killed your father?"

  "Aye, 'tis possible. But I canna fathom the reason. One thing is for certain—this man canna tell us anything."

  "I'd best be getting back to check on young William. And I imagine Roger will be ready for you to spell him."

  "Ach, I'd forgotten. Tell him I'll be along in a minute."

  Ranald nodded and began the short walk back to their campsite. Suddenly he looked over his shoulder, aqua eyes crinkling with mischief. "Watch out for the fairies." With that, he left Iain standing in the little clearing alone.

  The sun dipped at last behind the horizon. Iain looked again to the grassy spot beyond the burn. She was close. He felt it deep inside, even if he did not truly understand it. He turned, suddenly anxious for morning, anxious to get home. He told himself his urgency was based only on the events of the day, on the Macphersons and his need to avenge his father. But he knew, also, that his haste was at least in part to gain the privacy of his chamber, to sit again through an endless night, waiting for a love his practical mind told him did not exist.

  Chapter 7

  KATHERINE STOOD BY a stream in a small clearing. The evening sunlight glittered off the beginning tendrils of mist, lending an ethereal quality to the surroundings. The stream gurgled melodiously and the trees waved dreamily in the gentle breeze.

  Sensing movement, Katherine looked toward a small group of trees. A man emerged from their shadow and stepped into the light. She caught her breath watching him walk across the meadow grass toward her. He moved with the lithe grace of an athlete, his dark hair swinging with each step, brushing his massive shoulders. His legs, free of covering save knee-high boots and a length of woolen cloth fastened around his waist, moved with leashed power. He was beautiful. Her heart cried out to his, recognizing, even before her eyes did that he was Iain.

  He drew closer, and her breath felt trapped in her throat. His face was twisted with anguish. He looked tired and unkempt. Katherine longed to reach out and soothe his brow, but knew that as with the other times she could not. She clenched a fist, feeling his pain deep within her.

  She watched as he sat on a large rock, his powerful hand caressing the water of the stream. Her body ached with need. She wanted more than anything to feel his hands caressing her body. He shifted, leaning his head back, eyes closed, lost in thought. She stood helpless, wanting to go to him, knowing she could not.

  Iain knelt by the stream and drank deeply. Then with one swift movement he dipped his head into the rushing water. She marveled again at his strength and beauty. Her pulse quickened as she saw another face, behind Iain, a face mottled with rage. His lank red hair was matted around his head and shoulders. His mouth was twisted into an angry snarl. His large arm was raised, and he held a knife of some kind. Katherine could see it glitter in his hand as he moved.

  She tried to scream but no sound emerged. Her heart pounding now, she stared at Iain, willing him to look at her, to see her. Iain swung his head out of the stream, shaking the water from his hair. Just as quickly he tensed and looked up, his entire body alert. Their eyes met, his widening in surprise. The red-haired stranger was drawing closer.

  Again she tried to warn him, frantically point
ing at the threat behind him. She saw the recognition dawn in his eyes even as he struggled to understand her. Her entire body began to shake as she watched the red-haired man inch forward. She opened her mouth to scream out a warning but found no breath for sound, so deep was her terror.

  But Iain moved faster than his enemy, turning and throwing something, almost in one motion. She watched as gleaming metal arced through the air, unerringly finding its target. The burly man fell. Iain approached the man with practiced caution and she watched as he nudged the body with his foot. He appeared dead. She sighed with relief, feeling as though she herself had fought the battle.

  She hurried to cross the stream, but already the little meadow was beginning to fade away, like so many times before. She struggled to hold on to the image, to reach for him, but as the gray mist surrounded her, she woke into the night.

  *****

  The room was black, the night air heavy with rain. She tried to calm herself by breathing slowly, in and out, in and out. Unbidden, the tears came. She reached with shaking hands to wipe them away. A profound sense of loss swept through her, as though a little of her soul had been left behind in the dream with him.

  The dreams were getting stronger somehow, more powerful. This time Iain had seen her. For a moment, at least, their eyes had met. She was sure of it. He had recognized her. She shuddered, thinking of what might have happened if Iain hadn't understood her warning. But the other man was dead. Iain was safe. But safe where? In some counterworld? A world that was barred to her except through her dreams?

  She pushed sweat-soaked hair off her face and neck, absently braiding it out of the way. She reached for the light by the bed, knowing that sleep was now impossible.

  The lamplight's soft glow illuminated the room, casting long shadows into its corners. She slowly blew out the breath she had been holding and drew her knees up under her chin. She surveyed the room, its odd mixture of centuries evident in the furniture and architecture. The earlier shape of the window and its little seat were hidden now by plasterboard and cotton, but with a little imagination it was not hard to envision the stonework under the printed fabric and the arch under the plaster. Of course in truth it was easy for her to imagine it. After all, she'd been there. Hadn't she?