Sweet Revenge

  Straightening awkwardly, Morag glanced about to make sure all was ready, then nodded.

  Galen hesitated. The salve she had had him mix was going to hurt like sin. He knew that. He'd had similar concoctions poured on enough of his own wounds. The idea of inflicting that kind of pain on a woman was unthinkable to him. Unfortunately, it had to be done. Sighing resolutely, he took a deep breath, then poured the liquid along the length of the injury.

  He had expected hysterical screams. He had expected to have to hold her down to keep her from thrashing around, and he was not the only one. Tommy had positioned himself in such a way that he could help restrain her, as had the other men around the wagon. All of them stood, leaning over the sides of the cart, hands half outstretched, ready to lend aid. However, they were all wrong. His little English prize stiffened, her body going as hard and stiff as the blade that had wounded her, but other than a small whimper and the groan of leather beneath the pressure of her teeth, she made not a sound or movement.

  Galen would have preferred it otherwise. It was almost unbearable to watch such silent suffering. Screams and thrashing would have at least kept them all too busy to imagine the agony she must be enduring. Instead, all they could do was watch helplessly as the liquid soaked into her wound, burning out the infection.

  A bare half-second after Galen finished pouring the cleansing salve on, Tommy moved to administer the numbing one, but the old witch stopped him with an upraised hand. They all sat back, swallowing bile and waiting what seemed hours as the seemingly frail woman struggled with her pain. Her face blanched white, then gray, then almost blue as she suffered. Sweat beaded on and slid from her face. Her hands were clutched in the cloth beneath her, near rending it with the strength of her pain. It was an agony to watch. They all sighed in relief when Morag finally motioned for Tommy to go ahead.

  Leaning forward at once, he tipped the container of salve over the wound. Whatever the concoction was, it seemed a powerful medicine. A bare breath after Tommy poured it, Kyla sagged with relief, her face dropping back into the cloth, cushioning her head as a small sob escaped her. Her body was now as limp as a cloth doll's.

  "Here." Morag held out fresh wrappings to Galen and instructed him on binding her, then had him leave the girl lying on her stomach, a blanket pulled up to cover the bandages and torn dress she wore.

  "What about you?" he asked once he had done all he could for the girl.

  Morag appeared surprised by his solicitude, no matter that it had been offered in a gruff voice. Shrugging, she settled back in the wagon. "All I be needing is rest."

  He stared at her silently, then glanced toward the woman lying prone beside her. She looked to have fallen asleep. "How was she wounded?"

  "What are your intentions toward her?"

  Galen scowled at the question. "'Tis not yer place to be asking that."

  Morag merely shrugged and turned her head away, making it obvious that were he not to answer her question, neither would she answer his.

  He sighed impatiently. "She'll come to no harm. I mean to marry her."

  Eyes widening, Morag looked him over carefully. He was tall. Well-built. He had a fine form. His face held fine features that were strong and attractive. Of course, his hair was a mite too red for her to think him handsome. Morag did not like red hair. But, all in all, her little one could do worse. Especially if he was who that startling fiery hair made her think he was. "Are ye Galen the Red?"

  He stiffened at the question, then lifted his head arrogantly. "I am Galen MacDonald. Chief of the MacDonald clan."

  The old woman nodded her head slowly, concern playing about her lined face. "I presume, as laird of the MacDonalds, ye needn't steal another's bride to find a wife. That would mean ye chose Kyla for a reason?"

  Galen scowled briefly, then said coldly, "'Tis a marriage for revenge. The MacGregor caused my wife and child's death, so I shall steal his wife-to-be and bear my children by her. Children that should have been his."

  Morag sighed at that, Highlanders were known for their feuds, and it seemed Kyla had been dropped into the middle of one. Still, from what she had heard of the MacGregor and his cruelty, the girl was better off with the MacDonald.... So long as he didn't take his revenge out on the girl by being cruel to her. She would have to think of some way to ensure he didn't.

  The MacDonald's sudden impatient shifting told her that she had delayed as long as he would allow. Leaving for later the problem of how to get him to leave Kyla alone until they sorted out things, Morag plunged into the tale of her ward's bravery. "Kyla, her brother, and his new wife went for a picnic in the woods outside Forsythe. They were attacked. Johnny was run through, and Kyla received the wound ye saw and some bruises."

  "And the new wife?"

  "Completely untouched," Morag said dryly, then paused before adding. "Kyla may not have been injured either, but she ran to aid her brother when he was wounded. He had received a dangerous injury already, but still they were going to cut his head off. She threw herself across him. 'Twas how she received the injury to her back. They were both left to die. I think she would have died, too, but after she was struck down, she remained conscious long enough to see those evil vipers approach Catriona, Johnny's wife. She thanked them for their service and paid them off with a nice fat sack of coins."

  Galen and Tommy both cursed at that, but Duncan goggled from Kyla's unconscious form to the old woman. "The wife paid to see them both dead?!"

  "Nay." The answer was uncertain at first, then the old woman frowned and shook her head firmly. "Nay. Not both of them. Only Johnny. Kyla was not supposed to be with them that day. 'Twas Johnny who'd invited her along at the last moment. And 'tis lucky for him that he did. If he lives, 'twill be thanks to her."

  There were murmurs of agreement as all eyes turned to the woman on the floor of the wagon. Each one of them was recalling the sight of the now-covered wound on her back and imagining an unknown man's head rolling across a clearing.

  "She saved his life and no denying that," Robbie rumbled.

  "Aye. 'Tis amazing she survived, though," Angus muttered. "She's surely got spirit enough for ten men to manage it."

  "'Twas stubbornness," Morag repeated. "Her anger alone kept her alive when she realized Catriona had planned the entire thing."

  There was silence for a moment, then Galen asked, "And yer injuries?"

  Morag sighed. "Catriona rode for the castle once the deed was done and sent men back to collect the bodies. She was in her room picking out her mourning clothes when they returned. I had them both put into Kyla's room so that I could tend to them easier. We were all so rushed with tending them, that I didn't think to send someone to inform Lady Forsythe that her husband was still alive. When she finally asked where he had been put, she was just told that he was in Kyla's room. It came as quite a shock when she walked in and found they both still lived," she told them dryly. "Lady Forsythe despises surprises."

  "She beat ye." Duncan shook his head in disgust as he guessed that.

  "Nay. 'Twas no beating. She simply pushed me. But in her anger and frustration, she pushed me hard enough I crashed over a chair. Me bones are not as strong as they used to be. And I was not prepared for that reaction. Had I known that she'd been the one responsible, I would have known to watch her reaction, but I did not even suspect until Kyla told me on the way here."

  Galen was silent for a minute, then, "So, this Catriona arranged Kyla's marriage to MacGregor to keep the girl from telling anyone else what she had seen?" he surmised.

  Morag shook her head. Catriona doesn't ken that Kyla saw her pay off the attackers. She simply wanted her out of the way, injury or no injury. Whether she died on the way was not important. I suspect Catriona cares little either way. Besides, it will be easier for her to kill her husband without Kyla around."

  "And you allowed this?" Duncan blurted. "Ye'd see her just kill yer laird?"

  "I knew naught about it until the second night of the trip," Morag snapped. "Ky
la remained unconscious until then. By the time she regained her senses and could tell me, we were too far away to do anything. Catriona had sent her own men as escort, men she had brought with her to the marriage. They were loyal only to her. None of them would have listened to what Kyla had seen and heard, let alone have turned back to warn Lord Forsythe."

  "Is there someone you could send a message to who could help?" Galen asked quietly.

  Morag considered that briefly. "Lord Shropshire. He is a good friend and lives nearby. He could go and keep an eye on things if he were told. If 'tis not too late already."

  Galen nodded, then glanced down at his unconscious soon-to-be bride. "I will need something of hers that he will recognize."

  "What for?" Morag asked with a frown.

  "She's in no condition to write a message and while I have spoken to Shropshire a time or two at the English court, he has no reason to believe the claim without some proof at least that the message is truly from Lady Kyla. We shall have to send him some personal item to prove 'tis not some trick or trap."

  Morag was still for a moment, her expression thoughtful, then she leaned down and pushed the girl's unbound hair out of the way so that she could remove a locket from about her neck. "He will recognize this. She has worn it near all her life. 'Twas her mother's. 'Tis precious to her, though, so it must return to her."

  "It shall return," Galen assured her quietly and the vow was backed by the murmurs of his men.

  "I'll take the message, me laird." Duncan faced him solemnly. "And ensure the necklace returns safely."

  Nodding, Galen handed the locket to him. He glanced briefly at the injured woman he would soon marry, then turned away and got out of the cart. "I shall prepare a message for you to take with it."

  Chapter Three

  "The old woman's wanting a word with ye."

  Galen frowned at Tommy's announcement and glanced back toward the wagon following them. It had been three days since they had taken the MacGregor's bride-to-be, and still they were not yet home. They had traveled far more slowly than normal to avoid jostling the women about. They had also stopped often to tend their wounds. In fact they had stopped a mere half-hour back for that purpose. Galen had hoped it would be the last stop. They were a mere twenty minutes from the coast and the ship that would take them to their island home. Certainly once he had her at his keep, the girl would mend.

  She had been out of her mind with fever for most of the trip. Galen had tended to her needs himself during that time, listening to her moans and feverish babblings as he did. Most of that time she had seemed to think he was her brother Johnny and she was reliving a memory. In the last three days she had swam in the river with him, bested her brother at a game of chess, and run a race with him on horseback...all without even regaining consciousness.

  Galen found himself charmed by her wit and spirit. As had most of his men, all of whom seemed to spend an extraordinary amount of time around the wagon, watching over their would-be mistress. He had overheard enough of their conversations to know that while they admired the fire and courage she had shown, they were also beginning to fash over her well-being like a bunch of old women.

  It was a distressing tendency he himself was not immune to. For instance, this very minute he was fretting. Her fevers had been up and down for the last three days, and up more than they were down. That was why Galen was relieved to note that they were so close to home. He had told the old witch that, as well. He felt his heart speed up. If Morag wished to see him now, it could only mean that her charge was worse.

  One glance down at Kyla when he reined in beside the cart was enough to tell him that he had been right.

  "'Tis the fever," Morag told him unnecessarily.

  "She looks like she's fair freezing," Angus muttered as he and the other men converged on the wagon. "Should ye no cover her up better?"

  "Nay. We needs must cool her down, not warm her more, and right away--else I fear, if she lives, she won't be quite right in the head." As the men began to mutter in dismay, she added wryly, "Not that she was all there to begin with."

  "What?" the MacDonald snapped, his eyes wide. Morag nearly smiled; this was the idea she had come up with for protecting her little one. What man would wish a madwomam to wife? Who would want to beget his heir by a lunatic? It seemed perfect. This way, the MacDonald would leave Kyla alone until she was well enough to decide what she wanted to do. Morag had no fear that the MacDonald or his men would treat the girl badly in the meantime. She had already come to realize that courage was prized by these men above all else, and they were already impressed with Kyla's bravery--both while facing them down and in saving her brother. Nay, this was the best way to deal with it. And if the girl decided later that she wished to marry the MacDonald, Morag could always clear the matter up then.

  "What do ye mean that she was not all there to begin with?" MacDonald asked sharply now. Morag put on an expression of feigned reluctance. "Well now, madness does run in her family. The father's side, of course. Weak English blood," she added. "Her grandmother went quite mad by the time she was thirty, but she showed signs long before that, even whilst as young as Kyla. I fear the girl has shown a sign or two of going that way herself. No doubt all of this has just rushed it along."

  "What of her brother?" Duncan asked suddenly. "Is he mad too?"

  Now Morag hesitated. Claiming Kyla mad was one thing, but calling John Forsythe, Morag's own lord that, was quite another. Shaking her head at last, she said, "Nay. 'Tis an affliction passed down only to the women."

  There was silence for a moment after that, until a moan from Kyla drew their gazes. Mouth tightening grimly, the MacDonald laird asked, "What do ye need to cool her?"

  "A bath. Water as cold as ye can find."

  Head raising, he glanced at the land surrounding them. He could smell the ocean, they were so close. While it would take twenty minutes to reach it at the speed they had been traveling, it was only five minutes on a fast horse. His gaze moved to Tommy as the other man suddenly dropped from his mount into the cart to feel Kyla's forehead.

  "She's burning up," he verified grimly.

  "Hand her up to me," Galen ordered at once.

  Nodding, the man lifted her carefully up to his laird's waiting arms. Galen wheeled his horse around at once, fear coloring his expression as he felt her heat radiating through her clothing. "I shall meet ye at the coast," he called, spurring his mount to a run and leaving the others to follow as quickly as they could.

  It was only a matter of moments before he reached the shoreline. Holding her close, he leapt to the ground and strode quickly into the cold, salty surf of the calm bay. The chill liquid lapped at his feet, his calves, his knees. The first slap of it against his thighs made him gasp and grit his teeth. Pausing there, Galen glanced down at Kyla's flushed face, silently offered an apology for what he was about to do, then gritted his teeth, bent his knees, and lowered them both into the frigid water.

  She was instantly awake. Her eyes shot open and she cried out, shuddering and clutching instinctively at him. Grunting, Galen peered down into the vast green depths of her eyes with surprise. He had not noticed their color before, nor how large they were, or the fact that they were framed with long, dark lashes. They were glazed with fever just now and filled with dismay as the cold water enveloped her--but lovely just the same.

  "Whyst, sweetling," he soothed as she struggled against his hold. "'Tis unpleasant cold I ken, but we needs must get the fever down."

  "C-cold," she murmured faintly, her teeth clattering together.

  "I ken. 'Tis--arrgh!" she cried out as she suddenly caught at his ears with both hands and pulled on them hard, using them as handles as she tried to pull herself out of the water. It was then he realized, eyes open or not, she knew not what she was about. In fact, he began to suspect her so feverish she thought herself a cat as she dug her toes into the flesh of his thighs and, pulling on his ears, tried to climb atop his head to escape the frigid water.

/>   "Sweetling," he muttered, catching at her hands, then cried out again as she dug one foot into his groin to lever herself upward.

  Cursing, Galen pulled her back down into the water with him, then stumbled and slid onto his behind, the liquid reaching his neck and covering her up to her lips. Kyla began to struggle in earnest then. He fought to hold her still, but it was an impossible feat with her thrashing about as she was. Afraid she would tear out her stitches, he caught her close, wrapping his arms tight around her.

  "'Tis too c-cold, Johnny," she cried, twisting against him in the water.

  Sighing at this further proof that she was not really aware, Galen held her fast and assured her. "'Twill warm up in a bit, sweetling. Don't fash so."

  They grappled silently for another few minutes, then she twisted in her struggles and cried out in pain. Realizing she was doing damage to her injury, he gave her a shake and snapped, "Ye must stop this thrashing!"

  It did not have the desired effect. Rather than calm her, his sharp order simply set her to thrashing harder, a shrill wail streaming from her throat and piercing his ears. Within seconds the sound seemed to be scratching its way inside his brain and tearing away at his nerves.

  Galen was at a loss as to what to do and had about reached the end of his patience when a hand suddenly stretched in front of his face and popped a rolled up piece of cloth into her mouth, choking the sound off at once. Glancing up with a start, he gaped at his Second. "Gavin! How did ye ken I was--"

  "The men were watching for ye. We recognized ye soon as ye reached shore and headed over to see what was about. Is this her?" He gestured to Kyla who seemed to have dropped back into unconsciousness in his arms.

  Frowning at her sudden pallor, Galen was just wondering if she hadn't choked to death on the gag Gavin had placed in her mouth, when the bit of cloth fell out and began to sink in the water. "Aye," he admitted with a sigh.

  "Well." Reaching up, the other man scratched at the skin behind his ear, perplexity on his face. "I ken her screaming was fair annoying, but I thought the plan was to marry the lass, not drown her."