Racing to Brice’s bedchamber, she grabbed a dirk from the mantel. She watched as a shadow fell across the entrance to Brice’s sitting chamber. The sound of footsteps ended.
With the blood pounding in her temples, Meredith crawled beneath the bed. She heard the sound of booted feet scuffling about the other room.
“Campbell is dead.”
“As I knew he would be. Did I not pierce him with my sword?” The sound of Gareth MacKenzie’s voice sent tremors racing along her spine.
“What of the woman?”
“Search every room.”
“We have already done so.”
“There was no sign of her?”
“Nay, my lord. All of the women and children were below.”
There was silence. Gareth swore. “The witch must have escaped into the forest during the battle. We must find her before she makes her way back to her people.”
“Surely you do not think that one lone female can survive the Highland forests?”
“We will see to it that she does not. Come. Let us fetch our dead and wounded and be done with this place.”
“What will we tell the MacAlpin clan? They trusted you to return their leader to them.”
Gareth paused, considering this new obstacle. “We will tell them that she has been spirited away by one of Campbell’s men. I will order them to remain in the safety of their homes until my men and I can rescue her.”
“But then you will not be able to blame her death on Brice Campbell.”
“Even if Campbell’s sword does not pierce her heart, I can still convince her people that it was his fault that their leader died. Was she not attempting to elude his grasp when she fled into the forest?”
One of the men nodded in agreement. “Will we burn the castle, my lord?”
Meredith’s heart stopped. She forgot to breathe.
“Aye.” Gareth’s chilling words rang through the hall. “We have killed their leader. Now we will destroy his stronghold and scatter his clan. But work quickly. Let us waste no time in finding the woman.”
Meredith heard the shuffle of feet and waited until she was certain they had gone. She lay under the bed and fought back the tears that threatened to choke her. She must do something. But what?
She pulled herself from her place of concealment and crawled to the other room where Brice lay. The tears that she had been fighting now spilled over, running in little rivers down her cheeks.
Brice. Her strong, angry, giant of a man was dead. She brought her hands to either side of his face and studied his proud, handsome features.
“How wrong I have been about you. You are not some cruel savage. You are a gentle giant, surprisingly fair with me, generous with your friends.”
The tears began anew, and she struggled to hold them back. “You were even right about Gareth. And I have been so wrong. Gareth is evil incarnate.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks and she made no move to check them. “What a fool I have been. If I had not been prevented by fateful circumstances from marrying Desmond MacKenzie,” she said, pressing her forehead to Brice’s, “I would already be dead, and my land and people would be in the clutches of the cruel Gareth.
“Oh, Brice. I see now that it was because of you that I have been given a chance to discover the awful truth about the MacKenzies.”
The tears came harder now, and she struggled to subdue her emotions.
She felt a tingling at her fingertips and studied Brice’s face, so handsome in repose. She thought she saw a flicker of pain cross his face. Impossible. Brice was dead. And then she felt the tingling again. A pulsebeat? She touched a finger to his lips and thought she felt a slight breath. With a last flicker of hope she pressed her fingers to his throat a second time. Aye. A pulsebeat. Feeble. Thready. But a pulse-beat all the same.
Alive. Brice was alive.
With a little cry she began to cut away the blood-soaked tunic. Tears sprang to her eyes and she quickly blinked them away. There was no time for tears now. There was work to be done. She would stem the flow of blood. She would warm him, with her own body if necessary. And she would keep him alive until he was strong enough to fight his wounds.
And then, together, they would fight Gareth MacKenzie, the brute who sought to subdue her people and steal her land.
Chapter Eleven
So great was Meredith’s determination to save Brice’s life, she forced herself to ignore the smell of smoke that crept up the staircase and invaded his chambers.
She added a log to the fire and placed a large kettle of water to heat. While it came to a boil she cut away Brice’s garments and examined his wounds.
From the courtyard below she heard the sound of men being summoned, of horses being readied for travel. The sound of Gareth’s voice calling out to his men set her teeth on edge. She forced herself to shut out all sound. For now there was only this room and this man. She would not leave his side, she vowed, until she was certain he would survive.
And what of the fire that threatened? One glance at the man on the floor told her that she could never drag him to safety. She would remain here and defy even the raging flames to save his life.
She stared down at his bloodied, battered body and felt a tremor of fear. If a giant of a man like Brice could be cut down, could anyone survive?
She thought briefly about the men below who had died in this bloody battle. And about the many more who still lay wounded. What of the women and children? Had Gareth and his men terrorized them, brutalized them? Or had they simply searched among them for the one they sought and then left them? She whispered a prayer for their safety, then bent to the task at hand.
There was no time to think about whether or not Brice would be caused further pain by her ministrations. For now, she would be forced to inflict some pain in order to properly care for him.
Tearing a strip of cloth, she dipped it into the rapidly heating water. With gentle strokes she sponged the blood that oozed from Brice’s shoulder. Though the wound was deep, it did not appear to be life threatening, and she breathed a sigh of relief. When the shoulder was cleansed, she tied a clean cloth around it to stem the flow of blood, then moved to the next wound.
Blood flowed freely from a gaping hole in Brice’s side. The tip of a sword had pierced cleanly through, then had been brutally withdrawn, tearing the flesh in jagged shreds.
Working quickly, Meredith washed the area, then pressed several thicknesses of clean cloth against the open wound and bound it tightly. It would be important to keep this wound clean. But for now, the most important thing was to stop the excessive bleeding.
She moved on to other, less serious wounds, where sword and dirk had pierced the flesh of Brice’s hand, arm and both legs. He was a mass of bloody flesh. Yet none of these wounds appeared mortal. Why was he so near death? Why the pallor, the feeble heartbeat? Something had sapped his strength. One of his wounds was carrying him to death’s door.
She heard a great cry from below and recognized the voices of Brice’s men and servants as they battled the fire that threatened to destroy Kinloch House. Black acrid smoke filled the air as buckets of water caused the flames to sputter and smolder.
As Meredith sponged, her hand paused in midair. She noted the dark stain that slowly spread across the fur throw beneath Brice’s body. For a moment she could only stare at it in dread. Then, struggling to roll him to one side, she discovered the small deadly knife still buried between his shoulders.
“God in heaven.”
She thought of her final words to him before the battle had begun and felt a shiver pass through her. “Do not turn your back on your attackers, my lord. Or you may find a MacAlpin dirk between your shoulders.”
Her gaze was riveted on the bloodstained hilt. It was little satisfaction to note that it was not a MacAlpin dirk that had gravely wounded him. It bore the mark of the MacKenzie clan.
The blade could not have pierced the heart or he would already have expired. But this wound was mortal.<
br />
There was no tenderness in her touch as she reached for the dirk. It must be removed, and the wound repaired quickly if she would save his life.
With both hands she pulled the knife cleanly from his back.
She looked up as the door to the sitting chamber was shoved roughly open. Smoke billowed inward and swirled like fog above a river. Wreathed in smoke, Angus Gordon, blood streaming from a wound to the head, stood framed in the doorway, leaning heavily upon the arm of Jamie MacDonald. Both of them were coated with soot from the raging fire they had been battling. Their hands were bloodied and raw from handling heavy buckets of water and beating out rapidly fanning flames. Their clothes were scorched. The pungent odor of burning wood clung to them.
Both of them stared at her, then at the bloody dirk in her hand.
Though he was obviously weak from loss of blood, Angus lifted his sword and faced her, his accusing eyes dark with fury, his lips a thin line of hatred.
“So. You would take your revenge even upon a dead man.”
Before she could respond, he shouted, “Step away from Brice’s body, my lady, or I will be forced to kill you where you stand.”
“You do not...”
With tears streaming down his face, Jamie rushed at her, knocking her to the floor. Once on top of her his grimy fingers locked about her throat. His young face was a twisted mask of fury.
“Was it not enough that the MacKenzies killed him?” he sobbed. “Did you have to stick your dirk in his back to make certain that he is dead?”
“Jamie, listen to me.”
With a cry of rage he closed his hands about her throat and squeezed. “I heard Brice say he had never meant to kidnap you. He vowed to see that no harm came to you. And this is how you repay him. How could you? How could you?”
Though the lad was young, he was bigger than Meredith. And surprisingly strong.
“Step away from her, Jamie.” Angus staggered across the room and bent a hand to the lad’s shoulder. “You’ve no stomach for killing. Least of all a woman. I’ll see to it.”
“You do not—understand.” As Jamie was pulled from her, Meredith gingerly touched a hand to her bruised throat and took in long, choking breaths. “Brice is not dead. I was cleansing his wounds when I discovered the dirk.”
“Oh, aye. And you thought you could bury it in his back rather than toss it away.” With his sword lifted, Angus hovered over her, prepared to aim for her heart.
Jamie glanced at the still form of Brice, hesitated, then turned back to her. His look of fury had turned to one of question.
“Could it be that she speaks the truth?”
“She would say anything to save her life.” Angus sneered. “Perhaps. But see for yourself if you do not believe me.”
As Angus brought his sword higher to strike, Jamie fell to his knees beside Brice. He ran a finger over the clean dressings at Brice’s shoulder and side. Surely no one but Meredith could have applied them. And then he saw the river of blood that gushed from the wound in Brice’s back. “She speaks the truth,” he whispered.
“What?” Lowering his sword Angus fell to his knees beside the still form of his friend. In a glance he took in the clean dressings, the kettle of water. “This cannot be. I heard Gareth MacKenzie tell his men that Brice Campbell was dead.”
“Aye. He thought so. As did I.” Meredith sighed. “But there is a pulse. Feeble, but a sign that life still flows within him.”
Angus brought his fingers to Brice’s throat and held them there for several seconds. Then he turned back to Meredith, who still knelt where he had left her. In her hand was the bloody knife she had pulled from Brice’s back.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Angus sputtered. “I thought...”
“It matters not,” Meredith interrupted. “We must stem the flow of blood at once, or it will be as Gareth MacKenzie has said. Brice Campbell will be dead.”
“Tell me what to do.”
Angus offered a hand to her and helped her to her feet.
She shot him a look of gratitude. “Fetch some servants. I learned from my mother how to prepare potions for healing. But we must work quickly.”
“Aye.”
“You’re not strong enough, Angus,” Jamie said. “I’ll go.”
The lad seemed relieved to be able to be of some use. While Angus dropped to his knees beside Meredith and stared helplessly at his old friend, Jamie rushed from the room.
Within minutes he was back, followed by several smoke-darkened figures.
Though she had not allowed herself to dwell upon the fate of the others, Meredith was so relieved to see Cara and Mistress Snow alive, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She blinked them away.
“Were the women and children harmed?”
“Nay, my lady,” Cara said softly. Soot smudged her face and hands. “Gareth MacKenzie flew into a rage when you were not found among us. He seemed intent upon finding you. He and his men were more than happy to be done with us so that they could scour the forests for a sign of you. But what of my lord Campbell?” The young serving girl glanced across the room and fell silent at the sight of Brice’s still form.
“Jamie has explained what has happened here. Tell me what you desire,” Mistress Snow said gravely. “And it will be yours.”
Meredith noted the charred hem of the woman’s gown and the raw, blistered flesh where she had battled the flames. “Has the fire been contained?”
“Aye, my lady.”
Meredith gave a sigh of relief, then spoke quickly, listing tubers, spices and fermented malt. After that she ordered Cara to fetch more clean linens.
“Should we not move him to his bed?” Angus asked.
“I fear it would only cause his wounds to bleed more freely. For now he will have to sleep here, before the fire. Bring me a pallet and several furs,” she ordered Jamie.
When Mistress Snow had dispatched servants to find everything Meredith had requested, she returned. Though she struggled to keep her gaze averted from the man who knelt beside Meredith, she could not resist a quick glance at Angus’s drawn features.
They had all been through hell this day. Yet they had survived. That alone was a bond that would not soon be broken.
“Is there anything else I can do, my lady?”
Meredith turned to glance at the housekeeper, then at Angus, kneeling beside her. His eyes, dull with pain, were set in an ashen face.
“Aye. You can. Take this man to his bed and see to his wounds.”
Though the servant’s face betrayed her pleasure, Angus seemed surprised. “My wounds are nothing, my lady. I cannot leave the side of my friend.”
“You have been so concerned about Brice, you do not even know that you have been wounded.” Meredith touched a hand to his shoulder in a gesture of kinship. “Brice will not mind that you have left him. He is in another world now. And it will be a long time before he decides whether to join his ancestors or return to us.”
“Will you send for me the minute he awakens?”
If he ever awakens, Meredith thought sadly. Please, God, grant him the strength to fight this weakness. Then, brushing aside such emotional thoughts she nodded. “The very moment he is alert, you will be told.”
With the help of Mistress Snow, Angus got slowly to his feet. He hesitated a moment, staring down at the woman who knelt beside Brice’s still form, the woman who had been captive and was now healer.
“Forgive me, my lady, for doubting you.”
“You had every right to think what you did, Angus.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “I trust Brice Campbell is worthy of the love and devotion you have exhibited.”
“Aye, my lady. He has more than earned my loyalty. And the loyalty of all who proclaim Brice Campbell their leader.”
Meredith studied the man who would surely sacrifice his life for the one on the pallet.
“Rest now, Angus,” Meredith said, as he leaned heavily on Mistress Snow’s shoulder.
“If there is anything I
can do, you must tell me.”
She touched a hand to Brice’s throat and felt the pulse that, though thin and halting, continued to beat.
“You can pray.”
Meredith spread the poultice over the festering wound before covering it with fresh dressings. Then she pulled up the bed linens and sat back on her heels, studying the quiet figure on the pallet.
He was so still. So very still. As though his life was slipping away, breath by breath.
He had not moved since she had first found him. Nor had he moaned or cried out, despite the depth of pain he must be suffering.
The servants drifted into the room whenever they found time, as did all Brice’s men who were able to walk. They would stay for a few minutes, studying his pale face, watching the woman who worked tirelessly beside him. On each face Meredith saw the love, the concern, for this man. It was evident in the way they studied him, with a kind of reverence, and the way they spoke in hushed tones usually reserved for the clergy.
The light through the windows had long since faded into darkness. The only illumination in the room was the fire in the fireplace and a single candle beside a basin on a small table.
The sounds of activity in the castle had ceased. The dead had been removed to the burned-out shell of the storehouse until proper graves could be dug and the grieving families could see to their burial. The wounded had been ministered to and carried to beds and pallets.
Meredith continued mopping the sweat that beaded Brice’s forehead. Her shoulders drooped in exhaustion. Her eyes blurred and she wiped a hand across them, blinking away the desire to shut them tightly.
Meredith looked up at the sound of the door being opened. Jamie crossed the room and knelt beside her. His gaze fastened hungrily upon the still form of Brice.
“You should be asleep,” Meredith whispered.
“I cannot sleep.”
She saw the fear lurking in his eyes. With great tenderness she brought her arm about his shoulder and drew him close. “When Brice awakens he will have you scurrying about fetching so many things you will have no time to rest. Then you will yearn for the luxury of sleep.”
“Do you believe that, my lady?”
“I must,” she whispered. “And so must you.”
She felt the lad tremble. And then, in a burst of anguish, he cried, “I am so afraid, my lady. If I dare to fall asleep, I’m afraid Brice will slip away. And I will never have the chance to tell him how much I love him.”