Suzanne Barclay - Kara's Gift

He tried to imagine Janet, who fainted at the sight of blood, speaking of a battle with such relish. “Well, my thanks for your timely arrival. And for tending me through the fever, but I am expected elsewhere and cannot tarry here wi—” He suddenly recalled the pouch with the gemstones. “Where are my things?” he cried, raising his head and glancing about.

“There.” She pointed to the far corner, where his sword did indeed lean against the rough stone wall. “We are not robbers.”

“That remains to be seen. There was a bag hanging from my belt. It contained my papers and a few coins.”

The girl smiled and ran across the room, returning with the leather pouch. “Here is it.”

“Loose my hands that I may see all is intact.”

She scowled and clutched the purse to her heart. The action pulled her ugly brown gown tight across surprisingly full breasts. “We would not steal from you.”

“Why? You’ve no compunction about tying me up.”

She sighed. “Only to save you from harming yourself.”

“I have been looking out for myself since I was ten, and I will be the judge of what is right for me.”

Tears filled her eyes, magnifying their color. “You have no family,” she whispered.

He didn’t want her pity. “I have a cousin.”

“Surely he—or she—took you in. We’ve orphans aplenty in Edin, thanks to the scurvy MacGorys, but we look after our own.”

“Cousin Niall gave me a home,” Duncan said stiffly.

“He was mean to you.” She scampered over to the bed and plopped down again, enveloping him in a cloud of heather and woman. “Dinna worry. You have us, now.” She stroked his cheek.

Duncan set his teeth against the sudden tightness in his chest. ’Twas loathing, he told himself. “I do not want you.”

“Oh.”

She sat back, pain and confusion chasing across her expressive features. Did the girl hold nothing back?

“This is not at all the way it is supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Before she could reply, the door opened and the ugliest man Duncan had ever beheld ducked into the low-ceiled chamber. His face was seamed with wrinkles, his nose mashed to one side. Worst of all was the long scar running from his forehead to his right ear. ’Twas a wonder he’d not lost his eye.

“Fergie.” The girl launched herself at the man, who enveloped her in a bear hug. “I missed you so.” She cupped his cheeks with her hands and gazed adoringly at the battered landscape of his ruined features.

How could she hold that smile? Hardened as he was to battle scars, Duncan could barely stand to look at the man.

“And I you, lass.” Fergie kissed the top of her head, then draped a mammoth arm over her shoulder and sauntered to the bed. “Eoin said as how you’d dragged in another stray,” he exclaimed, his voice harsh as gravel in a cup.

“He name is Duncan MacLellan. Duncan, this is my uncle Fergie, laird of Clan Gleanedin.”

“Why’s he trussed up?”

Duncan had had enough of lying about while others stared at him. “Because she’s a nasty, bossy little witch,” he snapped.

Fergie threw back his gray head and roared with laughter. “That she is.” He wiped tears from his eyes.

“I am not, and ’tis for his own good.”

“That’s what they all say when they want a man to do something he doesn’t want to.” Fergie winked.

Sensing an ally, Duncan focused his gaze on the man’s eyes, for looking at the scars was both impolite and unsettling. “She’s tied me up and forced noxious potions down my throat.”

“Mmm. Cured you, though, didn’t she?”

Duncan grunted.

“Sometimes it’s handy having a witch about the place,” the girl said airily.

Damn, was she truly a witch? “I’ve already thanked her for nursing me through the fever. But I really have to leave.”

“He’s an orphan, Fergie, with no place to go.”

Duncan noted she called her formidable uncle by his first name, an honor Cousin Niall had denied his unwanted burden. “My cousin is expecting me.” Another lie he’d have to confess. For a man who seldom sinned, he was amassing a large debt.

“His cousin resents him,” Kara said.

Duncan started. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“Well.” Fergie rubbed a gnarled hand over the scar on his forehead. “I’ll admit another fighting man would be welcome.”

“I won’t fight for you,” Duncan insisted.

“He will.” Kara touched her uncle’s hand. “He’s the one,” she murmured. “The one I saw in the Beltane fires.”

“Really?” Fergie’s eyes widened, raking Duncan from head to bare feet and back. “Are you sure, lass?”

Kara nodded. “He was wearing the metal shirt and carrying the long dirk.” She pointed to the sword in the corner.

“See here,” Duncan shouted. “I don’t know who you think I am, but—”

“You’re the one the gods have sent to save us,” Kara said.

Blasphemy. “The hell I am.” Duncan jerked on the ropes. “You people are all mad.” He tugged again, barely feeling the hemp cut into his flesh. “Mad. Let me go or I’ll—”

“Are you sure about this, lass?” Fergie asked again.

“Have my visions ever been wrong?”

Visions. Holy Mother, have mercy. Duncan’s heart was pounding so loudly he could scarcely hear. “Filthy pagans.”

“He doesn’t seem to like us much,” Fergie mused. “Hard to imagine him helping us.”

“He will.”

“I won’t.” Duncan seethed with rage and frustration.

“Leave it to me, Fergie.” Rising on tiptoe, she kissed his scarred cheek. “Was the hunting successful?”

“Aye. We took two roebuck. Dod and the others are skinning them in the courtyard. t should see they don’t make a hash of it, but if you need me to stay...”

“Nay. I’ll fetch his supper, then we’ll discuss things.” She gave her uncle a dazzling smile. “Men are always more reasonable on a full stomach.”

“Well...” Fergie scowled thoughtfully at Duncan, then shrugged. “You’ve never failed us yet.” He chucked her under the chin, then sauntered out.

Kara turned that brilliant smile on Duncan. “There’s fresh rabbit stew and boiled onions for supper. I’ll fetch you some.”

“I won’t stay...even if you ply me with roasted peacocks and almond paste.”

“I do not know what those things are, but you will stay.”

“You cannot make me stay,” Duncan snarled.

“I’ll wager I can,” said the little witch with a toss of her fiery curls. She walked from the room proud as a queen, her skirts swishing in time to the sway of her hips.

Despite his rage, the sight made an impression on the least discerning organ in Duncan’s body. Cursing it, and females in general, he went to work on the ropes. Imprisonment had been Cousin Niall’s favorite form of punishment, and Duncan had learned to rework knots at an early age.

He was determined he’d not be here when the witch returned.

Had she made a mistake? Was he not really the one?

Kara tapped a finger against her mouth.

He had not looked as large in her vision, nor as angry. In her vision, he’d smiled and laughed and looked on her with approval, not revulsion. But the clothes of silver metal and the long dirk were right. And the face...there was no way she could have mistaken it. Duncan had the rough-hewn features of a warrior and the eyes of a lonely child. Those troubled eyes called out to the healer in her. The rest of him, his big, muscular body, his ruggedly handsome face, awakened strong feelings of a different sort. Womanly feelings.

She’d never been drawn to a man before. Oh, she’d laughed and bantered with the men of the clan, and fluttered her lashes in fair imitation of her friend Brighde. But she’d never cared what any man thought of her.