Brenda Joyce - A Sword Upon the Rose

“No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.

“Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.

She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?

“And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”

“I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.

For a moment he stared.

“My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”

He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”

A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.

Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”

She again had no answer to make.

His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.

It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.

Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”

Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.

His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.

Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”

“Give her a blade,” he said to Dughall. To Alana, “Cut the leine off.”

She nodded, taking the knife Dughall handed her. And then he seized her wrist another time. Alana froze, meeting his hard gaze once again.

“Try anything untoward and ye will suffer my wrath,” he said.

She nodded. Did he truly think she might stab him now?

He released her. She quickly cut his leine down the front, to his belt, and pulled open the sides of his leine. She pretended not to notice the hard slabs of his chest, the dark hair there, or the small gold cross he wore. Then she uncovered his left shoulder completely.

The wound was bleeding again. Dughall handed her more linens, which she gratefully took and pressed to it. Iain inhaled in pain and their gazes collided.

“I am sorry.... I am trying not to hurt you.” She avoided his gaze now, acutely aware of him.

“You have no calluses,” he said.

She started, eyes wide, locking with his. What was he talking about?

“On yer hands.” He was final—triumphant.

She finally realized what he meant. If she were a farmer, her hands would be callused. Alana could only stare. She had been caught in her first deception.

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Who are ye, lady? Dinna tell me yer a farmer’s wife—falsehoods dinna sit well with me.”

“We were summoned to Nairn,” she managed to answer. “My grandmother carries healing potions.”

“An answer that is no answer,” he said.

She glanced at Dughall, her cheeks aflame. “Can you bring me warm water and soap?”

“Aye, my lady.” He slipped from the tent.

“The truth,” Iain said.

Alana felt mesmerized by his unwavering stare. “We do not know why we were summoned,” she lied, feeling desperate. “But we believe my grandmother’s potions are needed.”

His blue gaze moved over her face now, feature by feature.

Did he believe her, when she was so deliberately lying? When she hated doing so, when she was a poor liar by nature? And Duncan of Frendraught was his enemy—would such a lie even protect her? “You should not speak. You should rest.”

“Ye do not play these games well. Ye have no ready answers.” He had become thoughtful.

She checked to see if his wound had stopped bleeding, and was relieved that it had. “Saving a life is no game.”

He said, “Ye cannot or will not tell me who ye are. A spy would be prepared.”

“I am no spy, my lord,” Alana said tersely. He thought her a spy? She was horrified. “I am no one of any import.”

He smiled coldly at her. “Ye have import, lady, or ye would not hide from me. And—” he paused for emphasis “—I am intrigued.”

She was dismayed. She did not want his interest, not at all!

“A young woman, alone in the woods with her grandmother, not far from Nairn. A young woman who does not flee from a battle, but goes into it—and warns a stranger of treachery. How long do ye think it will take for me to learn yer name?”

If he wished to find out who she was, he would certainly be able to do so, quickly enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.

“And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”

“Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”

“Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.

“Are ye frightened?”

Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”

His gaze was on her face.

“Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.

“So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.

He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.

And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.

No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.

She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.

He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.

“Grandmother!” Alana hurried to her, relieved. “Are you cold? I am sorry I have been so long!” she cried, hugging her.