“We Crusaders are knights who take the cross...”
“What cross? Where do you take it?”
“’Tis a figure of speech,” he grumbled. “We lay our hand on the cross, pledge ourselves to the glory of God and go to drive the Infidels from the Holy Lands.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “You are a priest?”
“At least you’ve heard of Christianity.”
She straightened. “Despite your slurs, we are not pagans, We...we just happen to follow the old ways, too.”
“You cannot be both pagan and Christian.”
“Father Luthais doesn’t mind, so why should you?”
“There is a priest here.” Relief washed through Duncan. “Fetch him to me.”
“Nay, I—”
“Fine, I will go to him.” He tugged on the ropes.
“He does not dwell among us, but in the priory in Kindo. And cease struggling, you will chafe your poor wrists.”
“Do not refer to me as poor.” Duncan sucked in air as her fingers grazed his inner wrist, brushing him with fire. It leapt along his veins like lightning igniting a summer sky. Every nerve in his body sizzled, every muscle contracted. Especially those over which it seemed he had no control at all. Thank the heavens for the thick blankets, else she’d have known.
“Stubborn man. I want only to help you.”
“Then let me go,” he growled.
“And most ungrateful. Father Luthais says we should give thanks to those who do us good.”
Lessons in civility from a little pagan. “I am grateful to you for saving me from...” He wasn’t exactly certain what.
“MacGorys.” She grinned. “Eoin and the lads killed four of the fiends and sent the others fleeing into the hills.”
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—”