Page 10 of The Highlander Who Loved Me

“Two men took four others away?” the laird asked incredulously.

James shook his head and stared across the chamber. He had no answers to give, no explanations that made sense. “What did Davina tell ye?”

The laird shot him a sidelong look. “She cannae speak of the incident without becoming hysterical.”

James cursed. “The last thing I remember was an explosion of pain inside my head.”

The captain of the guard nodded. “Ye’ve got a fine, swelling bruise on the back of yer skull. Ye must have been struck from behind.”

James lifted his arm and ran his fingers over the growing lump behind his right ear. At the touch, he felt a ferocious, nearly blinding pain so strong that it turned his stomach. He bowed his head and fought the sickness, not wanting to disgrace himself further in front of these men.

They were still scrutinizing him, some openly, some covertly, but all with grave suspicion. James saw the looks that passed between them. They spoke among themselves, their voices deliberately low, so he could not hear the conversation. ’Twas a stark reminder that he was not a member of the clan, but rather an outsider. No matter that he was a McKenna, the son of a powerful and respected chieftain. He had lost their trust when he failed to protect Davina.

God, he needed to see her. But he feared he could not leave this bed without aid and he was too proud to show further weakness in front of these warriors.

The discussion continued, with frequent glances in his direction. The chamber was soon brimming with tension, yet James found that he didn’t really care. He rubbed a hand over his brow, trying to ease the pounding in his forehead. His eyelids grew heavy and slowly closed. He struggled to reopen them, succeeding, but within seconds they closed a second time.

He had the sensation of someone drawing closer to his bed, speaking to him, but the words made no sense. There were waves of pain crashing through his head. But even worse, over and over the image of Davina falling prey to those brigands flashed before his eyes.

And then suddenly, mercifully, there was only darkness. And silence.

Chapter Three

When James next awoke it was pitch dark. Disoriented in the inky blackness that surrounded him, he pulled at his clouded mind, trying to orient himself. He let out an angry huff as his memory returned, along with the shame of failure.

Davina!James’s breath caught. The need to see her consumed him. Grunting loudly, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Stars spun before his eyes at the tortured pain that seared every part of his body and he nearly fell back. ’Twas only by sheer force of will he remained upright.

James waited a few moments, his breath coming in deep bellows, before reaching for the tunic that lay at the foot of the bed. It took three attempts before he was able to pull it over his head and four more before he was able to put his good arm through the left sleeve. He let the other arm dangle; the thick bandage on his shoulder prevented him from putting his arm through the other sleeve.

Exhausted from the effort, James waited again, then pushed to a standing position. He felt himself start to sway, pitching toward the floor. He thrust his good arm forward. Thankfully, the bed was near enough to cushion the fall. He sprawled facedown on the mattress, his pulse thumping rapidly. Disgusted, James closed his eyes, yet refused to allow weakness to claim him.

He lay there for a long time, with only the sound of his deep, even breaths for company. Feeling himself starting to drift off to sleep, James slammed his fist against the wooden headboard, letting the rage inside him wash away his weariness. As the rage grew, it fed his need and bolstered his strength. Clenching his fists, James pushed himself upright. Awkwardly, he pulled his brais over his bandaged legs, then thrust his feet into a pair of leather half boots. Searching in the darkness, he found his dirk and slipped that inside his footwear.

On unsteady feet, James made his way through a darkened hallway. He saw no servants scurrying about, no men-at-arms or members of the household strolling the corridors, making him realize that the hour must be late and all in the castle were sleeping.

His first week in residence, James had learned which bedchamber Davina occupied. Since there were but a few private chambers in the castle, it was simple to find it now, even in his weakened condition. He was momentarily annoyed to see there was no guard placed at her door, then chided himself for such foolishness.

The danger was now past. She was safe within the walls of the Armstrong holding. James lifted his hand to knock, hesitated, then fearing he might be denied entrance, he turned the latch and slowly pushed at the door. It groaned open.

The bedchamber was shrouded in darkness, with only a single candle illuminating the room. James stepped inside. The cool breeze fluttering through the room hit him square in the face, jolting his senses. Limping painfully, he approached the bed that was positioned at the far side of the chamber.

The elderly maid sitting at Davina’s bedside jumped at the sound of his uneven footsteps. She leapt guilty out of her chair, then pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle her scream.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, ye scared the life out of me, sir. ’Tis the middle of the night. I expected no one at this hour.”

“Beg pardon. I’ve come to see Davina.”

“She’s sleeping, poor lamb.”

“I’ll not disturb her.” Not waiting for permission, James carefully approached. There were dark shadows dancing about the room near the bed, but if he squinted, he could detect the shape of her body beneath the blanket. “Bring the candle.”

The maid hesitated. He glowered at her, a near perfect imitation of his father. The maid seemed startled, but followed his order with no further protest.

Yet when James gazed down at his dearest Davina, he almost wished the older woman had defied him. Everything inside him tightened with a sickening anger when he saw the condition of his beloved.

She lay on her back, with a blanket covering her to the waist, her limp arms resting at her sides. Her face was ashen, the delicate skin bruised and swollen on one side. Scratches and cuts marred her cheeks, looking angry against the paleness of her flesh. A deep purple bruise, edged in red, ringed her neck, indicating that one of the brigands had tried to choke the life from her.

Thank God he had not succeeded.

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