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Suddenly, the laird flung her away, and Eilidh landed hard on the ground. She struggled to gather the shards of her clothes around her exposed body. She heard swords being drawn from their scabbards. Caelan had wrested MacAdam's sword from him in two swift movements, and his weapon was now pressed against the man's neck.

“Ye have nae shame,” Caelan spat. He shoved the Laird back and MacAdam staggered into the wall still shouting threats. Caelan dropped to Eilidh and asked, “Can ye walk?”

She nodded feebly.Her hip ached where the Laird had thrown her. Caelan extended his hand. “Let me take ye to the healer.” Eilidh wanted to object. Her mother had warned her not to do anything that would draw attention to them. They were less than guests in the keep.

“Ye dinnae have to worry about payment. The clan healer will treat ye,” he added softly. Eilidh took his hand, and he helped her up. She swayed on her feet, but he caught her before she could fall. His eyes creased with concern.

“I… Can I carry ye?” he stammered.

Eilidh, confused by his kindness, took the first step. An involuntary whimper escaped her. Caelan muttered a curse and lifted her into his arms.

“Ye will pay for this, lad!” MacAdam yelled before slumping away.

Caelan led her from the guest wing, past the kitchens, and out into the courtyard. Her head had begun to throb, and she could no longer keep her eyes open. She gave into the dark, still mistrustful of the stranger that had saved her.

CHAPTERTWO

Caelan stayed by the girl’s side till the day broke. Her face had been marred by large, purple bruises that hadn’t been there when he had seen her the evening of the feast. Once more, he fought the desire to pay a violent visit to Laird MacAdam at his keep. His urge was abated only by the fact that his father and brothers had been swift in their justice.

By daylight, MacAdam had been forced out of his chambers. His protests had driven their clansmen out into the courtyard, and they all watched as Caelan’s brothers resisted MacAdam’s men and banned him from the clan’s lands. His father forbade the Laird from ever returning.

When inquiries had been made about who the girl was, one of the kitchen maids identified another woman as her mother. However, the mother had disappeared before the brothers could get to her, leaving the girl all on her own. The healer had administered a sleeping potion to her and had advised Caelan to let her rest.

He admired the girl—he was intrigued by her. She had held off the Laird, fighting with all her might. He had not failed to notice the blood on MacAdam’s face from where she must have struck him. She was brave, beyond words.

He thanked God for prompting him to patrol the halls of the eastern wing before he had turned in for the night.

By midday, the girl had yet to wake, so Caelan left her side to tend to his duties. His brothers spoke endlessly about the depraved Laird MacAdam—especially Arran, who had argued that MacAdam should have been castrated. The Graham clan had taken it as a personal slight that one of their women had been mistreated so badly under their roof.

It was all the assurance Caelan had needed. With his brothers’ backing, MacAdam wouldn’t dare return. It took a special kind of brute to take advantage of a young girl.

When he had completed the last of his tasks that morning, he returned to his chambers. He had never taken care of the sick, unless horses counted, and he was almost certain they didn’t. He imagined the girl wouldn’t appreciate having an apple dangled in front of her nose.

It didn’t help that she was aprettygirl, either. Girls liked to giggle when he passed, and he always managed to stumble on his own feet when they did. Aside from his mother, he had never been friends with a woman; he was clueless as to what they liked.

Caelan breathed out a curse and briefly considered letting the healer keep her company until she was well enough to leave. After all, he was Laird Graham’s son. It wasn’t his place to worry about such things. He had already saved her, and that should have been enough. But something kept nagging at him.

He could see the dark, lonely sadness in her eyes. The total lack of trust. He couldn’t abandon her.His gaze was drawn to the shelf beside his bed. He had a collection of books, some of which were storybooks. Everyone enjoyed those. Except for Arran, who thought sitting around, being forced to read a book was the most painful punishment of all.

Caelan gathered three tomes and walked out of his room, darting into the courtyard. His cloak billowed behind him as he quickened his steps against the biting air. The healer opened the door to the infirmary with a welcoming smile.

“The lass is awake,” he said

“Thank ye, Oliver. Ye’ve done well.”

“Fed her too, sire. Some stew with the best turnip an’ lamb.”

“Splendid.”

“Sire… is she… is she your betrothed?”

Caelan raised a brow at him. The healer paused at the threshold to the room and regarded him with his curious eyes.

“Ye see, sire, ye faither made an enemy out of MacAdam by banishing him. I only wondered if the lass is o’ noble blood, or yer betrothed, at the very least. The people are wondering if this will affect the clan in any way. Pardon my asking, sire, but they are fearful that she was nae worth the trouble.”

Caelan’s brows drew together. “Are ye saying she should have been left to Laird MacAdam?”

The healer cleared his throat and stumbled back. “It is nae… that is nae what I meant.”


Tags: Fiona Faris Historical