Sweet Revenge

  "Aye. Bonnie. But wee." The man who said that seemed to be the leader. She had noticed that the others had deferred to him as he led the way to stand before her. He was the red-haired man, the same one who had stood on the back of the wagon, then called her a harpie and ordered her to keep her head down. He was one of the tallest of them. He also seemed to be one of the brawniest, though the man directly beside him, the one who had originally called her "bonnie" was a good deal larger. Good grief, that man could be mistaken for a small building from a distance, she thought, frowning briefly at him before turning her attention back to the leader. She realized that the men were agreeing with him and not very flatteringly.

  "Aye. Puny."

  "Pulin'."

  "All bones."

  "Frail-lookin'."

  "Pale as death, too and swaying on her feet. I be thinkin' she won't survive the trip home, let alone our harsh winters."

  The leader nodded at that observation and they all eyed her gloomily. A dark-haired man behind the leader brightened. "Mayhap 'tis not her. Mayhap we attacked the wrong party."

  Those words brought a round of hopeful looks from the other men, but the leader shook his head. "Nay, Duncan. 'Twas the MacGregors we fought with the Sassenach. I recognized at least two of them."

  Kyla's sigh of disappointment joined that of the men. For a moment she had glimpsed freedom; surely if they had erred, they would have let her go. Alive? But, aye, it was the MacGregors that had been escorting their party. Twenty of them had met them at the border. It had been an added precaution, though Kyla had thought it unnecessary at the time, since forty of Catriona's men had already been escorting her. Now she saw how wrong she had been; the English men-at-arms had been slow and awkward in their mail. They had fallen quickly against these savages, leaving the MacGregor men alone to protect her. She supposed she was who these men were looking for, though she could not for the life of her figure out why. Unless the entire betrothal had been a ruse to get her away from the castle and assassinate her. That was a possibility. And not beyond her sister-in-law's nefarious mind.

  "Well, we'd best be collecting her and moving on," the leader commented finally, drawing her attention back from her thoughts. He did not seem eager to accomplish the deed. In fact the only move he made was to shift his feet as he eyed her. Still, even that was enough to make Kyla stiffen warily. She would not go down without a fight.

  "Careful of that blade of hers. 'Tis verra sharp. She gave me a fair nasty scratch with it."

  Her gaze turned at once to the speaker, the man she had noted could be mistaken for a building. Shock covered her face now as she took in his features rather than his bulk; he was the one she had stabbed, then knocked out. The man was now standing tall and strong, no discomfort on his face and little to show that she had hurt him except for the blood on his shirt and plaid. And there was not very much of that either, she noted now with disgust.

  Mouth tightening, Kyla braced her feet farther apart and bent her knees slightly in the manner she had seen her brother take during hand-to-hand combat.

  Tipping his head to the side, the leader eyed her briefly, then suggested in English, "Ye'd best be dropping the blade, lassie, ere ye hurt yerself."

  Kyla's only response was to lift her chin grimly. When the leader moved calmly forward, she was ready for him. Or so she thought.

  He took two steps in a slow, meandering pace, then suddenly lunged. Grabbing her wrist in one hand, he forced it into the air, snatched the knife from her fingers with embarrassing ease, then tossed it to the man she had stabbed.

  Screaming in frustration, Kyla kicked at his legs. She screeched even more furiously as she found herself picked up and slung over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.

  "Calm yerself!" The stern order was accompanied by a slap on the behind that shocked her into silence. "We'll not hurt ye or the old witch."

  Cursing roundly, Kyla thumped her fists ineffectively against his wide back, then paused to watch anxiously as one of the other men stooped to survey Morag. She nearly sobbed with relief when the fellow seemed to realize the woman's fragile condition and took care to lift her gently before following the man carrying herself.

  When the barbarian transporting her suddenly paused, Kyla knew instinctively that they had reached the wagon and that he would most likely drop her into it. She tried to brace herself for what was to come, but no amount of preparation on earth could have readied her for her landing in the back of the cart. 'Twas not that he was unduly rough. Simply that he knew not of her injury and set her flat on her back in the bottom of the wagon with a small bump. It had the same effect as if she had been dropped on a wide board with nails poking out of it. The pain took her breath away, leaving not even a small gasp for her to cry out with. Lights danced briefly before her eyes before everything went black.

  Chapter Two

  "The old woman is in a bad way."

  Galen raised his eyebrows at the man who had ridden up beside him, Tommy MacDonald. His First, as well as his cousin. "What makes ye think that?"

  "I took a good look at her ere I carried her to the cart. She's nursing a broken arm and a cracked rib or two."

  Galen frowned over that. "Ye'd be telling me this for a reason?"

  His cousin nodded slowly, expression thoughtful as he surveyed the trees they were passing. "'Tis normal for a servant to ride in a wagon. But titled ladies are usually mounted. Unless they be ailing or injured."

  When his laird's expression darkened, but he did not respond, Tommy added, "The old woman had the smell of weeds about her. Some sort of medicinal herb I would warrant. I was wondering if the lass did as well."

  Galen stiffened at that in some surprise. "Aye. She did."

  He nodded. "She be sleeping now. Has been since ye set her in the cart."

  "And?"

  "I be thinking 'tis an odd reaction for a lass who has just been captured and her soldiers defeated. Especially when she showed such spirit earlier."

  "Spirit?" His eyebrows rose in surprise at the word.

  "Aye. It takes a great deal of spirit and courage to confront thirty warriors alone with little but a blade," Tommy pointed out.

  "Aye, that's true." The MacDonald chief perked up slightly at that. He had only noticed how puny she was, not that, puny or not, she was standing her ground and trying to defend the old woman. "She has spirit," he said, realizing it was the first sign of hope he had known since seeing his would-be bride. 'Twas a relief to be sure. Especially since he had spent the last few hours berating himself for this escapade.

  It had made sense when he had planned it out. His wife and the wee bairn she had been carrying at the time had been killed by the MacGregor some nine months earlier. Galen's soul had cried out for vengeance, as had his men, but he had bided his time. Then the news had come of MacGregor's coming remarriage--to an Englishwoman of all things. Galen shouldn't have been so surprised. The MacGregor was half-English himself.

  Still, English or no, Galen could not justify simply attacking the party and killing the woman. What had happened to his wife and child had nothing to do with her. She was as much an innocent as his own wife had been. Yet he still sought vengeance. So, to satisfy his need for retribution, along with his sense of fairness, he had decided on stealing and marrying the wench himself. He had even managed to convince himself that he would be doing her a favor. Everyone knew the MacGregor was rough with women. There was even some question as to why his first wife had died. Had it been from childbirth, or from the beating that had brought on the early labor during which she died?

  Stealing MacGregor's bride had seemed the perfect solution to Galen at the time. He would get a wife, heirs soon enough, and his revenge on MacGregor in one tidy little raid.

  Aye, except for her being English it had seemed the perfect solution...right up until he had seen how puny and frail she appeared. Then he had begun to think he may have made a grave error. Tommy's pointing out that she had shown some spirit back there brought him we
lcome relief from the barrage of self-reproach he had been indulging in. Small she may be, but if she had spirit...Well, at times, spirit could go a long way toward making up for a lack of size and physical strength.

  "Ye ken, me laird. I think he be right."

  With a start, Galen glanced at the man who had been riding on his other side all afternoon. He had forgotten all about Duncan's presence.

  "Aye," the second man agreed now. "She has spirit." He, too, was cheering visibly and that only served to show Galen how deep they had all been in worry. Who he married would affect all his people.

  "Who has spirit?" Angus urged his horse up to Duncan's side, his expression curious as he caught the words.

  "The Sassenach." When the other man looked doubtful, Duncan pointed out what Tommy had noted. "She thought to take us all on with naught but a wee knife back there. She stood her ground to defend the old witch. And she stabbed Giant Robbie."

  "'Twas naught but a scratch," Robbie rumbled, urging his horse forward so that they rode five abreast. Several of the other men crowded their horses closer to hear the discussion as well.

  "It bled," Duncan pointed out, undaunted. "She had blood all over her hand. Ye even have some on yer shirt."

  Robbie glanced down at himself with a start and cursed. "Aelfread will be fair froth over that. She'll work herself up something fierce before I can assure her 'tis naught."

  They all smiled slightly at that comment, finding it amusing that a man so large could find a five-foot female's temper worrisome. But his wife was a fiery one.

  "Ye may be right," Angus murmured thoughtfully now, disregarding the larger man's complaint. "It may be spirit the English was showing. I thought 'twas jest plain stupid, but mayhap 'twas spirit."

  "Well," Duncan said uncertainly after a silent moment, "mayhap 'twas stupid, but 'twas brave, too."

  At their murmurs of general, if unenthusiastic, agreement to that, Duncan rallied. "Aye, 'twas brave. 'Twas brave of her to try to escape in the cart, too. From what I hear, most English ladies would have sat about crying 'woe is me.'"

  When the agreement to that was a bit more enthusiastic, he added excitedly, "Aye, she be a spirited lassie. In fact, from all I have seen, 'tis sure I am that at any minute now, the wench'll try to escape again. She may be doing so even as we speak."

  At that, every last one of the men brought their horses to a halt and turned to peer back toward the approaching wagon expectantly. Even Galen.

  Expression curious, the man driving the cart slowed it, bringing it to a halt as he reached them. When they immediately circled the wagon to peer down into it, he craned around on the bench to look as well, bewilderment on his young face at the disappointment obvious all around as they took in the two sleeping figures.

  "Well. Mayhap all her bravery earlier wore her out," Duncan murmured after a moment, wincing at the disgusted looks tossed his way at that. Then, Tommy suddenly leaned down into the wagon and pressed a hand to the woman's forehead with concern. It was only then that Galen noticed the flush to her cheeks.

  "Fever?" he asked worriedly, recalling Tommy's hinting earlier that she may be injured.

  "Aye." The other man straightened on his horse, then swung his leg over the edge and dropped into the wagon. The old woman awoke at once. Her eyes widened as she noted all the faces peering down into the wagon, then her gaze slid to her charge. Dismay crossed her features as she noted the man bent over the girl.

  "Leave her be, ye filthy wretch!" she snapped, struggling to rise despite the pain it caused her.

  "Don't fash yourself, old woman. I mean no harm." Tommy didn't even bother to glance at the servant, his concern taken up with examining her mistress. The girl's face was as red as an English rose and felt afire. She was in the throes of a fever and a bad one at that. "She's ailing."

  Wincing as she gained a sitting position, Morag felt the girl's forehead herself. "Get me my bag of medicinals."

  "Where is it?" Galen asked, dismounting to join them in the open cart.

  "In the corner there."

  Tommy was closer to the bags stacked in the upper corner of the wagon. As he turned to begin searching through them, Galen knelt beside the girl and felt her forehead for himself, frowning over the heat pouring off her. "What ails her?"

  The witch's answer was forestalled when the girl opened her eyes and peered up at him through glazed, feverish eyes. "Johnny? Johnny. It hurts so much. It burns. Make it stop."

  Galen stared into those tormented eyes for a moment, then turned angrily on the old woman. "Who the hell is Johnny?"

  "The salve's worn off," Morag murmured worriedly, cursing herself for not thinking of it before when they were both awake. "Turn her on her stomach."

  Galen hesitated, then did as instructed, leaving his questions for later.

  "Have ye found the damn thing?" she snapped as Tommy opened the last bag to peer in.

  "Aye."

  "Open her dress," she ordered, reaching for the bag.

  The two men exchanged a glance, then with a shrug, Galen pulled a small knife from his boot. Hands quick and sure, he slit the back of the gown open, eyebrows rising when he saw the thick bandages he had revealed.

  "The bandages," Morag muttered, digging through her bag as Kyla groaned.

  Moving more carefully, Galen cut away more of the dress, then turned his attention to the bandages. They covered the whole of her back, running all the way around her body. The only way to remove them without lifting her to a sitting position was to cut them away as he had the dress. He did so without hesitation when the girl beneath his hands groaned again, then he sat back with a horrified curse at the wound that was revealed to him. He was vaguely aware that the men about the wagon were exclaiming in dismay as well, most of them dismounting to move to stand against the wagon to get a better look, but his attention was mostly taken up with the injury he had revealed.

  A long, deep, angry-looking gash ran from her left shoulder down to the right side of her lower waist. It was obviously a sword wound. And one that should have killed the sliver of a girl lying before him, he thought a bit faintly as his gaze slowly slid over it, taking in the countless stitches of thread through her porcelain-white skin. The wound looked to be a couple of weeks old. Some healing had begun, but not enough for her to be traveling about. She certainly should not have been rushing around, dagger in hand, trying to defend an old lady. It was amazing to him that none of the stitches had burst.

  "It must have hurt like a bugger."

  Galen glanced at his First at those words, then at the men still gathered about the wagon. They were all nodding in a sort of awed agreement.

  "Well. Now we ken why she isn't trying to escape again," Duncan murmured with a sigh.

  "Aye." Angus nodded. "'Tis a wonder she had the strength to try the first time."

  "It wasn't strength. 'Twas stubbornness," Morag informed them shortly, struggling to open a small leather pouch she had retrieved from her bag. "'Tis the same thing that kept her alive when she was struck down. Sheer stubbornness, God bless her. She got it from her mother. A Ferguson," she added proudly.

  "She's no' English?" Tommy took the bag the old woman was struggling with and opened it for her before handing it back.

  "Half. Her mother was a Ferguson. As am I. Lord Forsythe was English."

  Galen's eyes widened in surprise at the injured girl. So, she was not wholly English, but half Scot. A lowlander Scot, but Scot just the same. That was a plus. It was better to be half lowlander than wholly English. His gaze slid over her flushed face again and it suddenly occurred to him that he did not even know her name. He had attacked her party and basically kidnapped her, all with the intention of making her his wife, and he really knew not a thing about her, not even her name. All he had known was that she was an Englishwoman on her way to marry MacGregor. And even that wasn't wholly true. She was only half English. "What's her name?"

  "Kyla. Here."

  Turning, he stared blankly at the leath
er pouch she held out to him.

  "Mix a bit of this with some water, then pour it on the wound."

  Galen took the bag and peered inside, his nose wrinkling at the smell that wafted out to him. "What is it?"

  "Salve. It'll clean the wound. 'Tis infected. I warned that this might happen," she added grimly almost to herself. "You can clean and bandage a wound up much as ye like, but it does little good doing so when you're camping in three feet of mud. But that English viper wouldn't listen. She cares little if my little one lives or dies, she just wanted her out of the way."

  "Who wanted her out of the way?" Duncan leaned further over the edge of the cart, handing his water jug to his laird to mix the salve. All the men were dismounted now and jockeying to get closer to the wagon and a better look at the wound.

  "Lord Forsythe's new wife."

  "Kyla's stepmother?"

  "Nay. Both her parents are dead. Johnny, her brother, is lord now. So long as he lives," she added grimly. "If the viper has her way, that won't be long."

  "Johnny?" Kyla's eyes opened, a moan slipping from her lips as she turned her head at the sound of her brother's name. "Johnny?"

  "Nay, lass. Sleep. He isn't here." The old woman reached out a hand to soothe the girl, but she would not be soothed.

  "We must help Johnny, Morag. Catriona will smother him in his sick bed ere he can heal," she fretted weakly.

  "There is naught ye can do for him just now. Rest. We're going to clean your wound." Her gaze moved to Galen who was holding both the salve and the water, but had done nothing with them. Retrieving a small wooden mixing bowl from her bag, she shoved it at him and ordered, "Get to it, boy. The wound needs cleaning." She waited until he had started to do as instructed before digging in her bag for a second pouch and bowl which she handed to Tommy. "Mix that with some water as well. 'Twill numb the pain once the cleaning's done."

  "Shouldn't ye numb her ere ye clean the wound?" One of the men asked a bit anxiously. "'Twill sore hurt."

  "Nay. Clean the wound, then numb her back," she said firmly, then pulled a strip of thick leather out of the bag and eased closer to her charge's mouth. "Kyla, child. We have to clean your wound again."

  The girl's eyes opened slowly, confusion in them until she recognized the strip of leather Morag was trying to press into her mouth. Realization dawned then, with fear, before resignation entered her face and she opened her mouth for the leather to be inserted.