To Love A Highlander (Highland Warriors Book 1) Read online

  She unwrapped the ties that bound the piece of folded leather and felt a twinge of sadness upon seeing her father’s precise handwriting. She missed her da and mum terribly, having lost them in a few months of each other. She had only her grandmother left and she wished with all her heart she could remain with her. This last year had been horrible, more horrible than she could have ever imagined. She wanted nothing more than to remain here and do what she loved… help heal people.

  The crudely made book was a treasure trove of knowledge that she read again and again and one she added to whenever possible, which was not as near as often as she would have liked. She particularly loved her father’s drawings of plants. He was meticulous in his detail so that there could be no mistake in the plant he was referring to and properties of the plant were specifically described.

  She had read over her da’s writings so much that she knew them by heart, but reading them again and again gave her insight to what else her father’s findings might be able to help.

  Her reading was disturbed by voices outside. Her grandmother could not have returned from a birth that fast. She listened and fear prickled her skin when she heard only male voices. She hurried to her feet and looked around for something to defend herself with when the door suddenly burst open.

  Her breath caught, the gasp that rose up in her throat lodging there unable to escape. She had forgotten how large Craven was or was it that he had gotten even larger, his chest broader and his muscles thicker, since last she had seen him? He turned slightly to the side to enter, his shoulders too wide to fit through the door and he bowed his head, too tall to clear the opening. He was much handsomer than she remembered, but then he had been filled with fury when she had last seen him and squeezing the life from her. With him devoid of a fiery rage, she could see why the beautiful, petite Aubrey had fallen in love with the handsome Chieftain of Clan MacCara.

  “Will Cyra return today?” he asked abruptly.

  Espy noticed his wrapped hand. “You suffered a wound.” Her instincts as a healer took over and she stepped forward. “I can see to it for you.”

  “You think I would let you touch me,” he spat.

  Espy kept her voice strong, refusing to show him any fear. “If it is a fresh wound you can wait for Cyra to return, though it may be a day or two since she is attending a birth. But if you suffered the wound a day or so ago, I would advise you to wait no longer to have it tended.”

  The wound did not look good to him or to Dylan when he had seen it on the practice field earlier this morning. Dylan had urged him to see the healer and while he thought to let it go and let death take him, his responsibility to his clan and all his ancestors before him who fought to keep their land had him make the wiser choice.

  “See to it,” he ordered, sticking out his wrapped hand. “But know this, if you kill me, as you did my wife, this time you will suffer endlessly for it.”

  “I am sorry—”

  “Do not waste your meaningless apology on me.”

  He stepped forward rapidly and was surprised she did not even flinch. “Never dare speak her name to me. Now see to my hand and be done with it before I use it to do what I should have done that day.”

  “Please sit,” she said, keeping the fear that lingered near the surface at bay. She would not let it take hold of her. Clear thought and her healing skills would see her through this. She placed the pages of her da’s crude book in the piece of leather and moved it to the bed. She then grabbed a bucket and went to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Craven demanded.

  “I need water from the rain barrel.”

  Craven stood and snatched the bucket from her hand. He opened the door and called out to the warrior. “Fill the bucket, Tass.”

  The young warrior hurried to obey Craven’s command.

  “You will not leave this place until I come to collect you,” Craven ordered.

  Espy nodded, having no trouble with his command since she had no place to go and besides, she was so very tired of running.

  Craven returned to his seat and Espy took the bucket from Tass and poured half the water into an empty bucket. She went to the narrow work table under the window to scoop up the lavender soap sitting in a broken piece of crockery and washed her hands in the one bucket, the lovely scent bringing back fond memories of time spent with her grandmother.

  After drying her hands, she reached out for Craven’s bandaged hand and he lifted it up to her. She was relieved to feel that his large hand was warm, but not heated, so there was no worry of fever being present. She tenderly unwrapped the cloth and almost winced when she saw the raw, red skin.

  “You burned yourself.”

  “What does that matter, tend it.”

  She rested his hand on the table and went to gather what herbs she needed. She quickly cut up some chickweed and coltsfoot, took some animal lard from the crock her grandmother kept it in and added it all to the cauldron in the fireplace. While it simmered, she returned to tend to his hand.

  Craven watched with interest as Espy worked. She appeared skillful in her task, not hesitating in any of her preparations and she remained focused like a warrior who went into battle with only one thing in mind… victory.

  He also noticed that the nightdress she wore hung like a sack on her and when she stood in front of the fireplace, the flames highlighted her naked body beneath. She might be slimmer than he recalled but she was shapely, her hips curving nicely and her full breasts sizeable enough to spill over in his hands.

  What the bloody hell was he thinking?

  He had not thought that way of a woman since he wed Aubrey. She had been the only woman he wanted. The only woman he loved. The only woman he wanted to make love to. He wanted no other woman and no woman wanted him. He was called the beast for a good reason and women ran from him in fright since Aubrey had died, and he did not care.

  However, he did care that he had briefly felt a stirring for Espy as he had once felt for Aubrey, and anger bubbled inside him.

  “Hurry and be done,” he snapped.

  “The burn would have healed with a smear of honey if you had sought the healer as soon as you suffered the burn. Now it will take more than a bit of honey to heal it. I need to cleanse your hand and the ointment I make will need to cool before I can apply it. The task cannot be rushed if you wish the wound to heal,” Espy said.

  “Then since we have time… tell me why you killed my wife.”

  Chapter 4

  Espy felt his words strike her like an arrow to her heart. There was not a day that went by that she did not think of Aubrey and how she had failed to help her. No matter how many times she went over what had happened that day, it still made no sense to her. She was missing something, and she feared if she did not come to understand it, she would never be able to help another woman if it should ever happen again.

  “I take responsibility for your wife’s death, for I failed to help her, but I do not know what killed her and that troubles me.” She reached for his hand and he pulled it away from her.

  Craven hated that her voice was soft, thoughtful, and touched with sorrow, sounding as if she truly regretted what had happened to his wife. Then he remembered the physician’s words. “When the physician learned who your father was, he claimed that you followed his irrational practices. He also informed me that many pure physicians believed your father was insane.”

  Espy did not hesitate to defend her father. “If by insane you mean that my father embraced all knowledge, all possibilities, all thought whether foreign or senseless so that he could help heal those who suffered, those in need of healing, then indeed my father was insane. He was the wisest of insane men.”

  Craven’s temper flared. “So you did as your father did? Practiced your insane beliefs on my Aubrey?”

  “I treated your wife no differently than the many other births I tended.”

  Craven stood and brought his face so close to hers that it looked as if he was about to kiss her
. “So you have taken a knife to other women’s bellies as your father had done?”

  Espy could almost feel the intense hate and hurt wash over her that she saw in his eyes and no words of regret or sorrow she offered would make a difference. His hate for her ran far too deep. And with the way he loomed over her, his large body feeling as if it wrapped around her, ready to squeeze the life from her, put a rare fright in her more than she wanted to admit. She had learned to fight her fears and keep them at bay or she would have never survived this past year.

  “Perhaps you should wait for my grandmother to return to tend your hand,” she said, taking a step back, not that she got far. His arm snapped out, hooking her around her waist and yanking her against him. His body was taut with restraint even though he held her tight and though a twinge of fear rose up to poke at her, she kept it at bay. She held her tongue, knowing silence was best at times, but when she saw the sorrowful ache in his eyes, instinct as a healer had her laying her hand gently on his arm. “I meant no harm to your wife and I would have given my own life to have saved hers and your bairn.”

  Craven released her with a slight shove. “Such an apology is easy now since the deed is done.” He sat and stretched out his hand. “Hurry and be done with it.”

  Espy did as he said, it best that she finishes quickly. She kept her thoughts on her task, cleansing his hand. When she was done, she got busy preparing the salve.

  Craven stood. “I will wait outside. Fetch me when it is ready.”

  Espy nodded and when the door closed behind him, she released a heavy sigh. She had hoped—she shook her head. Hopes, dreams, wishes, she was never granted any. So why had she even dared to hope that Craven would look upon her with mercy? Nothing she said, no apology she offered, not even the truth made a difference to him. Her fate was sealed. He would see her dead.

  Craven took a deep breath and released it, trying to gain control of all he was feeling. Espy sounded as if she was filled with sorrow over Aubrey’s death, but then she would want it to seem that way. She would want him to believe she felt regret and had grieved for what had happened to Aubrey. It would make her seem less the monster that she was and perhaps save her from awful suffering and death.

  He had held a deep hatred for Espy this past year, thinking of how he should have drained the life out of her that day as she had done to his wife. When his sentinels had informed him of her return, he knew he had been given another chance to take his revenge.

  He could not recall how the physician had learned that Espy’s father was the physician William of Inuerwyc, but he had made it known what he thought of the man. He felt the man had no right to have the honored distinction of being called a physician. Many believed that William followed too many healing ways of his peasant wife and held far too many ridiculous, foreign opinions, and unsupported theories on how to treat illnesses.

  The physician’s rant on William of Inuerwyc had fueled Craven’s anger and desire for revenge. He should have never allowed Aubrey to befriend Espy let alone treat her. But Aubrey had believed in her skills and had been impressed with her knowledge and as usual she had talked him into getting her way, since it had been difficult to refuse her anything. Though, he had made it known that the physician would also be there if need be.

  He should have never allowed the physician to go hunting with him and Dylan that day, but Aubrey had insisted she was fine and the physician had even concurred that delivery was weeks away.

  Craven rubbed his brow, wishing for this nightmare to end. He turned and looked at the cottage. Once he got his revenge, Aubrey would be at peace, though he doubted he ever would be. He began to pace in front of the cottage, his disturbing thoughts churning his anger and pain.

  “Lord Craven!”

  Craven stopped, his hand going to the hilt of his sword upon hearing Tass shout at him.

  “The woman has called to you thrice now,” Tass said with a nod toward the cottage door.

  Craven turned to see Espy’s head peeking around the wood door.

  He had been so lost in his thoughts he had not heard her and that annoyed him. He took hasty steps to the cottage.

  Espy was at the table when he entered and once again he caught the silhouette of her body beneath the oversized garment. He was caught off guard when his loins tightened, something that had eluded him since Aubrey’s death.

  Espy remained still, seeing how his eyes roamed intimately over her and she never felt so exposed while clothed. It was as if he saw her naked and she felt a sudden need to cover herself, though she was already covered. She was relieved when he quickly averted his glance and sat on the chair.

  Craven held his hand out to her, keeping his head turned away from her. It did not help. Her touch was so soft and gentle, like a feather brushing across his palm as she applied the salve, and it only served to arouse him more. He forced his thoughts on his hatred for her, but with each tender stroke of her fingers across his palm his hate seemed to lessen, almost fade away as fast as the morning mist did.

  “Hurry and be done,” he said, turning a snarl on her. She jumped and though her fingers worked faster, her touch was still so tender, so tempting, that his body betrayed him and his manhood sparked to his surprise and annoyance.

  Her fingers suddenly left him and instead of being relieved, a strange ache settled over him and he found himself wishing for her gentle touch to return, which annoyed him all the more. Her hand returned and a rush of pleasure hit his manhood with such sudden force he hardened and continued to do so as she took great care in wrapping his hand in a clean cloth.

  “The cloth must be changed daily and fresh salve applied if you are to heal, and do not get it wet or take your sword in hand unless necessary until it is well healed,” Espy explained, concentrating on her words. She could not help but think of the strength in his hand and how he had lifted her clear off the ground that fateful day and had proceeded to squeeze the life from her. His immense strength trembled her insides. “My grandmother can see to it for you.”

  Do not take your sword in your hand unless necessary. Her words resonated in his head, for he had not been the least tempted to do so until now… until Espy had touched him.

  He stood as soon as she finished tying the bandage at the back of his hand. He needed to get out of there, get control of himself.

  “Have her come to the keep tomorrow to tend it,” Craven ordered and walked to the door.

  “Lord Craven.”

  He turned to see that her chin had gone up and there was a sharpness to her soft blue eyes he had not taken note of before.

  “My father was a far more knowledgeable physician than the one you brought to look after your wife.”

  Craven looked ready to spew several oaths at her, but he remained silent and walked out of the cottage. Espy quivered as the door closed behind him, perhaps she had been wrong about returning home. She shook her head. Here there might be a slim chance to save herself. Where she had come from there had been no chance. Death would have been her only escape.

  When Craven returned to the keep, he handed his horse off to the lad he usually paid no heed to. This time, however, he stopped and gave the lad a look when he took the reins from him. He was thin, his garments worn beyond repair and covered with far too much grime.

  “Have you eaten today, lad?” Craven asked.

  The lad paled as he shook his head.

  “Go to the kitchen and tell the cook I said to feed you,” Craven ordered.

  The lad’s head dropped a notch as he nodded.

  “What is wrong, lad?” Craven demanded.

  He lifted his head and his voice quivered as he spoke. “The cook takes a strong hand to anyone who comes begging for food.”

  “Why should anyone beg food from him? There is plenty to be had for all.” Craven asked, then realized that he was asking the young lad to tell him something he should know himself.

  Had he been that removed from the daily happenings of the clan that he knew so little of
what was going on around him? But then Aubrey had seen to the old cook, Alfen, who she had adored, and his wife had also been familiar with all that went on around them, often telling him what needed his attention. Dylan had warned him this past year that he was not leading the clan as he should, reminding him frequently that he had not given his people time to hear their complaints and requests, his main focus having been keeping his warriors’ skills sharp. Or had the strenuous activity been more to help him keep memories at bay?

  “The cook demands more than his share of the crops,” the lad said.

  “His share of crops? He is assigned sufficient crops. Why is he demanding more?” Craven shook his head. He should not be asking this lad such questions. He should be aware of this problem, but then if he had not neglected his duties the problem would have never existed. “What is your name lad?”

  “Leith, my lord.”

  “Come with me, Leith,” Craven ordered.

  “Your horse, my lord,” Leith reminded.

  Craven was impressed that the lad thought of his task before seeing to his own hunger. He summoned one of his warriors standing nearby and ordered him to tend the horse. Leith followed beside him, his scrawny legs pumping hard to keep up with Craven’s mighty strides. Raised voices greeted Craven as he rounded the corner of the keep to where the kitchen sat. Everyone there stilled immediately upon seeing him.

  Craven had not expected to see Dylan’s wife Britt there or to see her arguing with a man, average in height and slim in form and wearing a filthy apron. A young lad stood off to the side, his cheek swollen red.