Page 2 of Highland Treasure (Highland Brides 9)

Straightening her shoulders, Elysande tried to move more quickly. It still seemed like forever before she reached the opening and then she was blinded by the light in the room. There were only two small candles there to chase away the night’s gloom, but after her time in the dark dungeon, those candles were like staring directly into the sun. Elysande had to close her eyes to protect them. Fortunately, Betty recognized the problem at once and took her arm to lead her across the room to her mother’s bed.

Much to her relief, Elysande had adjusted enough by then that she could at least see, though she was still squinting against the light when she dropped to her knees next to the bed. Her strained eyes slid over her mother’s frail form and swollen face and Elysande could have wept at the bruises covering every inch of Mairghread de Valance that wasn’t covered by the furs on the bed.

“Mother?” she breathed, clasping the hand closest to her and then quickly releasing it when she felt how swollen they were. Only then did she recall that they had been broken.

“Oh, Mama,” she moaned, resting her forehead on the bed with despair.

“Ellie.”

That broken whisper made her lift her head at once. “Yes, I am here.”

“The Buchanans,” she managed, her voice so faint Elysande wasn’t sure she’d heard her right.

“The Buchanans?” she asked with confusion. Elysande was tired and achy, her mind such a clutter with worry, pain and fear that she couldn’t imagine why her mother would bring up the clan.

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“The Buchanan healer is in England. You must go to him. He can take you to my sister.”

“Nay. I will not leave you,” Elysande said at once, and her mother’s eyes shot open full of fire and determination.

“You must,” her mother ordered, and then spoke quickly, telling her what to do.

Chapter 1

“Damn me, Buchanan,” Ralph FitzBaderon, Baron of Monmouth, said cheerfully as he reached for his ale. “I thought I was done for, but you worked a miracle and saved my life. I still cannot fathom it. Are you sure you are not part English?”

“Nay,” Rory answered distractedly, his gaze flying over the message his brother Alick had just handed him.

“Well,” the baron said with a shake of the head. “I think you must have some English in you somewhere.”

“Why is that?” Alick asked beside him, and Rory almost sighed to himself, knowing his brother wouldn’t like the answer any more than he had the hundred or so times he’d heard it over the last two weeks.

“Because Scots are ignorant heathens,” Baron Monmouth informed him. “Hardly capable of a mastery over healing such as your brother has. Nay. There must be English in your family history somewhere.”

“And yet, there is no’,” Rory said easily as he felt Alick stiffen beside him. Rerolling the message he’d finished reading, he tucked it inside his plaid and stood to leave the trestle table. “Time to go, Alick.”

“Aye,” the younger man growled, rising at once and falling into step beside him. “And thank God fer that.”

“Here now!” Baron Monmouth protested, scurrying to his feet to chase after them as Rory led Alick toward the large keep doors. “What of FitzAlan? I told you he had a complaint he wanted you to look at.”

“I had no agreement with FitzAlan,” Rory said with unconcern as he yanked the keep door open and strode out into the biting wind. It felt more like January or February than late November and he could smell the promise of snow in the air. It seemed winter was coming early this year.

“But I paid you a small fortune!” Baron Monmouth charged after him down the stairs. “The least you can do is see the man. He should be along soon. He—”

“Ye paid me to get ye well and I did that,” Rory pointed out mildly, drawing the top of his plaid around his shoulders as he crossed the bailey in long, quick strides. “Ye’re well, the deal is complete and we’re leaving.”

“Praise God,” Alick muttered beside him with a combination of relief and disgust that Rory understood fully. This had not been his first visit to England, but he was determined it would be his last. He hadn’t really wanted to come in the first place, but Monmouth had offered him a king’s ransom to travel down into this godforsaken land and heal him. However, two weeks in England was two weeks too many, and even the fortune he’d just made wasn’t worth putting up with the constant sneering insults to his homeland and countrymen that he, Alick and their men had been served.

Monmouth’s words just now had been kind in comparison to those of his soldiers over the last weeks. After two days of that nonsense, and the three fights it had caused between the English soldiers and the Scottish warriors who had accompanied them on this journey, Rory had told Alick to take their men and camp in the woods outside the walls of Monmouth. They’d been waiting patiently there for him to finish his work and leave.

“FitzAlan will pay you to tend him!” Monmouth cried. The man was still trailing behind them, but couldn’t keep up and was beginning to huff and puff for air as he fell behind.

“Go back inside, m’lord,” Rory said firmly without bothering to glance around. “Ye’re on the mend, but no’ yet strong enough to be running about, especially in this cold.”

“FitzAlan will pay you whatever you want,” Monmouth insisted, gasping for breath now.

Rory stopped.

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