Page 3 of Highlander's Caged Rose
It was at that moment that she screamed in agony, as though a bolt of excruciating pain shot up. She thrashed around in Niall’s arms till once more she passed out.
Niall ordered one of his men to ride ahead so that the healer would be ready to treat the young woman when they arrived, then he looked down at Moira’s leg and grimaced. The tourniquet had worked for a while, but it had loosened during Moira’s struggles and blood was now leaking from the injury. He could not risk going any faster because of the darkness, and the risk of making things worse, so he gritted his teeth and rode on.
When Moira opened her eyes again, she felt well-rested, and although her leg still hurt a little, it was nothing compared to the agony she had been in earlier. She looked around at her unfamiliar surroundings, confused for a moment, before her memory returned. She had a vague remembrance of coming through a huge set of metal gates, hearing the clatter of hoofbeats on flagstones and the rumble of men’s deep voices.
A young woman bent over her, smiling. “How are ye feelin’, hen?” she asked, as she put a hand on her forehead to judge her temperature.
“Better, thank you,” Moira answered hoarsely. She rubbed her eyes and blinked in the daylight which was streaming through the window. Where was she, she wondered?
“Ye dinnae have a fever, anyway. An’ your wound seems tae be healin’ well—there is nae infection.”
Moira sighed with relief. “I am so glad to hear that.” Infection was one of the many causes of an agonising death after an injury. “How long am I here?”
“Well, after I bound and cleaned your wound to stop the bleeding, I sedated ye. Ye fell into a deep sleep for two days.”
When Moira’s lower lip started quivering from panic, the woman quickly added, “Dinnae fret, hen! I spared no effort to assure that ye would make a full recovery.”
“Thank you, really.”
She was snuggled under cosy blankets and the healer came up to her and raised a glass of water to her lips, which Moira sipped greedily.
“What is your name, hen?” the healer asked curiously, with a slight smile.
“Moira.”
“I’m Sandie Aitken. I’m the healer in this Keep,” Sandie informed her. “Ye were in a terrible state, but the Captain saw to it that your leg was bandaged so ye didnae bleed tae death.”
Moira was stunned. “I had no idea it was so serious,” she breathed.
“Dinnae worry,” Sandie said soothingly. “Ye are fine now, hen.”
“Am I, though? I don’t even know where I am. Whose Keep is this?”
“We are in Baltyre Castle, home of the McPhee family.”
Moira felt a stab of fear, having heard that the Laird was a fearsome man. Even if his Captain saved her, and brought her here, did not mean the Laird had the best of intentions for her. A Captain must do his work, after all.
“Now ye must eat somethin’ tae help ye get your strength back, then ye can have a good long soak in the bath. How does that sound?”
“Wonderful.” Moira forced a smiled, and felt her face stretching in an uncomfortable way, as though she had not smiled for months. Sandie helped her sit up, then sent for some soup and bread, which Moira devoured greedily.
“It’s best no’ tae eat a big heavy meal at first, hen,” Sandie told her as she took her tray away. “Let us get ye washed now. When ye are clean, ye will feel like a new woman.”
Moira felt sated and comfortable in a way she had not felt for a long while, but she had no time to relax because at that moment the door opened and a man stepped into the room. She had a feeling that she had seen him before, but surely, she would have remembered someone like this?
Moira was transfixed. This was not just any man, but the biggest, most masculine man she had ever beheld. His light-brown hair, streaked with strands of blond, fell to his shoulders in waves, and his eyes, the most intense green she had ever seen, met hers and held her gaze. For a long moment, it seemed that only the two of them existed in the deep silence that settled around them.
“M’Laird,” Sandie greeted him, giving him a polite curtsey, which Niall acknowledged with a nod.
He closed the door behind him and walked over to stand beside Moira’s bed, then looked down at her, frowning for a few moments. At last, he asked, “What is your name?” His voice was a husky rumble, and sounded as though it came from somewhere deep inside his broad chest.
“I’m Moira.”
The Laird smirked, but he was not amused. “Your full name, lass.”
“Moira… Jamieson,” she replied without thinking.
She had somehow, by some miracle, plucked the surname out of thin air, and now she looked back at the big man, terrified. What was he going to do with her?
